Tag Archives: Relationships

A Home is a Safe Haven … or Should Be #Promotion #Families #Sisters

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A home is a safe haven, a place we live with our families. A place to build memories as well as a basis to build a future. A place where we can just be ourselves.

But what if it’s not?

What happens when there is a family disaster and one member of that family is seen to be at fault? Tension inevitably builds, judgements are made. Whether it’s a total catastrophe or an avoidable misfortune, if the finger is pointed, estrangement can follow.

Some of these rifts develop over long periods of time, following a series of mistakes and carelessness, whilst others are brought about by a sudden, unexpected tragedy. Often, when it’s the latter, when it’s something so dreadful, so unforgivable, that the hurt within the family is too great, there seems to be no choice but to expel that member off, to disown them. They are denied a voice, become vilified.The estrangement widens and over the years layers of resentful memories build up.

The misery is more palpable when the alienation is between children. Sibling relationships can be one of the most enduring connections we have in our lives. Usually they are the first people we bond with, after our parents. When that bond is forcibly broken it can lead to unimagineable heartbreak.

Families can be complicated. That’s an obvious statement. And where there are families, there are quarrels, and there are often estrangements. And there are stories. And these are the stories that are threaded through all my books.

None more so than in Sisters, a story built around one of the most devastating tragedies a family can endure.

Sisters is on promotion at 99p ” A moving study of the deep feelings – jealousy, love, anger, and revenge – that can break a family apart”

Readers have asked what was the inspiration for Sisters. I can only answer that it was an incident that I witnessed as a child. An event that tore in two a family that lived nearby. It’s something I’ve never forgotten.

I’ve had some wonderful reviews for Sisters. This is one of my favourite

Review: http://tinyurl.com/3yjkz7ku

I’m going to borrow some words I used when I reviewed The Memory – “absolutely compelling, a story superbly told, and an entirely unforgettable emotional experience”. I used the word “stunning” a few times too – and although this is a very different book, the words seem equally appropriate. With this book, the author has produced another that packs a considerable emotional punch, coupled with an original story that had me pinned to the seat as I read it from cover to cover in one sitting.

A short prologue hints at what is to come, but the book opens in 1970 – with a family who will be torn apart by a tragic accident, where the blame settles with young Mandy, and its consequences are devastating. Sent to live with her uncle and aunt in Wales, they uncover the truth about what happened – that she was unable to share with her parents – and show her the love she needs to move on, to build a new life as Lisa, and to rebuild her relationship with her mother. Meanwhile her older sister Angie, wracked with guilt after setting up an alibi to escape any consequences for her own actions, flees her home and her life follows a difficult path that will prove hard to escape. The narrative resumes in 1983 – when Lisa returns for her mother’s funeral, she finds that her estranged sister’s earlier actions and later life choices have trapped her in a marriage fraught with abuse, both physical and emotional, with no means of escape. Angie’s husband has an agenda all of his own – and, along with a friend from their shared past, the sisters need to work together to bring down a man capable of appalling acts and cruelty who has become a most unlikely pillar of the community.

My goodness, the author’s telling is so much better than that – but this book is far more than its story. Mandy’s voice – that of a confused child, torn between her own grief, her sense of right and wrong, and her love for her family – tears at your heart. We hear Angie’s voice too – the way she deals with her own guilt and justifies her actions – and any sympathy is, at first, difficult to find. The father who rejects his own child, and the mother who condones it – that’s even more complex. But when Mandy – now Lisa – achieves some redemption, we see Angie’s life heading in a different direction. And while there might be some possibility that she reaps what she deserves, the reader’s compassion builds when we see what a mess she’s made of her life. Her husband is the truly evil one, who will stop at nothing to get what he wants – but the strength of character that Lisa has developed, and that really emerges through the writing, means that there might just be some possibility of him being stopped in his tracks.

And I’m back telling the story again – and I really don’t mean to. The character development is tremendously strong – but so is the story’s backdrop, the community that closed ranks against a small child bullied mercilessly and driven from her home, and the differences once thirteen years have passed. And there are the small background details that capture the context and era for both the past and present story – so subtle you barely notice, and really cleverly done. But the most unforgettable thing about this book is the way it makes you feel, by skilfully telling a story that can’t fail to engage the full range of your emotions. And it never feels like manipulation – these are real people who you grow to care deeply for through the course of their experiences. The book’s conclusion is satisfying in every possible way – and this is the point when I really won’t tell you the story, because that would be entirely unforgivable.

A family drama, perhaps a thriller in parts – perfectly structured and beautifully written, tender and gritty, this is a book that defies placing within one genre, and is all the better for it. All I can say is that I entirely loved it – one of my books of the year, and I couldn’t recommend it more highly.

Sample:

Part Four June 1981

Chapter Forty-Three

I’m holding the rail at the top of the steps of the bus and peering through the window. It doesn’t help that it’s dirty and smeared with rain. But I can see Micklethwaite is run-down. Shabby.

Though the doors squeal open I can’t make my legs move. I don’t look at him, but I can sense the driver’s impatience and curiosity, and worry for a moment that he’s recognised me. He’s older, but I know he’s the man who used to be the school caretaker. Can’t remember his name but I wait for him to speak. The old familiar fear prickles my skin, I gulp against the sudden tears thick in my throat.

But all he says is, ’On or off, miss?’

I don’t look round at him when I go down the steps clutching my only luggage, my small, blue suitcase. I’m not intending to stay in Micklethwaite long. Standing on the edge of the flagged square, I look around at what used to be the new shops and flats. It’s depressing, exactly as Mum described it last time she was in Ponthallen. She’d said it had deteriorated beyond recognition and she was right. Most of the shop fronts are boarded up, the windows of the flats above covered in yellowed net curtains or wrecked blinds hanging lopsided. Empty crisp packets and torn greasy chip cartons wrap themselves around the iron railings once fixed to protect the young saplings, now fragmented twigs.

Except for a group of hooded youths slouched in front of an off-licence, the windows plastered in red and orange posters to entice customers in with offers of knocked down beer and wine prices, there’s no one around. What had been there before?

I can’t remember. Then it comes to me; it was the hairdressers, Mavis’s Waves and Curls. Mum used to come out of there once a month with the same tight perm that all the other women had. And each time, red-faced with an embedded line from a hairnet across her forehead, Mum swore she’d find a different hairdresser. Each time it had taken until the evening for that line to fade.

 Angie and I used to tease Mum about it.

The thought makes me feel wretched, broken. Broken was how I felt the last time I was in Micklethwaite, carrying a burden that would be with me all my life. I didn’t think of it in that way then; after all I was just a kid. But I do know no one wanted me here at the time. The sideways glances of hatred and recrimination drove away that feeling of belonging. It’s odd; I haven’t thought of it as home for a long time. I belong in Ponthallen now.

And as for Angie ‒ Angela, I’m not sure how I’ll feel when I see her. It’ll be the first time in over eleven years. The first time I’ll speak to her after my life altered completely because of her.

Links:

Amazon UK: http://tinyurl.com/2r2bu3z4

Amazon.com: http://tinyurl.com/7cw4ss8b

Amazon.com aus: http://tinyurl.com/4rh35v6d

Social Media links:

https://judithbarrowblog.com/


https://twitter.com/judithbarrow77


https://www.facebook.com/judith.barrow.3


https://www.honno.co.uk/authors/judith-barrow

https://www.bookbub.com/profile/judith-barrow

Walking the Samaria Gorge – White Mountains National Park #memories #holidays #photographs #MondayBlogs

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Twenty years ago we went to Crete. Enticed by the write up in brochure in a cafe we decided to walk the Samaria Gorge. The entrance to the Gorge is from Xyloscalo, near the village of Omalos, leads past the old village of Samaria and (sixteen kilometres, that’s ten miles in old money) later eventually ends at Agia Rouméli, a small pretty coastal village with glorious views of the Mediterranean Sea. And tavernas under canopies of eucalyptus and cypress trees. I have to say it was the thought of this last description that persuaded me.

Last week, much to his excitement, husband (the photographer) found some of his photographs taken with one of his old cameras. These reminded me that this was the very first long walk that we actually did together.

Shades of things to come!

When I say “together” I actually mean that, if I didn’t keep an eye on what he was doing, I’d often be walking for ages before realising I’d been talking to myself and he was nowhere in sight. Since then I’ve learned to take a notebook and pen on these excursions so I can sit and write while he takes dozens of different photographs of the same scene, but from different angles, with different lenses, and all that technical stuff.

Armed with strong hiking boots, sunhats, sun cream, bottles of water and snacks we caught the bus at Chania to take us to Xiloskalo at five in the morning. By the end of the hike I was glad we’d started so early; it was sweltering. But I must admit that, at first, I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as the photographer to be getting up at that time on holiday.

How wrong I was. This is one hike I will never forget.

Declared a National Park in 1962, mainly to protect the endangered Cretan goats (Kri-Kri) which live in the area, the gorge has a rich history dating back to ancient times. Inhabited by people who worshipped the goddess Samaria. It also served as a refuge for Cretan rebels and freedom fighters during various periods of oppression and occupation by foreign powers such as the Turks, the Germans, and the British.

It also is home to the most exquisite plant life…

The Cretan ebony is found only in Crete, with purple flowers that adorn the Cretan mountains. Other endemic Cretan plant species are the Cretan crocus, the beautiful Cretan bell several aromatic herbs that thrive on the island. ( N.B. This is not one of husband’s photographs but courtesy of CRETA MARIS. I couldn’t resist showing this gorgeous plant, which wasn’t flowering at the time we went – otherwise you would definitely be seeing various angles and shots of it courtesy of husband)

The above is the narrowest and most famous section of the gorge – called Portes or The Iron Gates. It’s thirteen foot wide and one thousand six hundred and forty foot high. This was the most rocky part to walk – though as far as I remember we did much clambering over and around boulders all the way. I was very glad of the stout boots.

It took us six hours before we reached Agia Roumeli and relaxed outside a taverna with a cold glass of water and a dakos ( a hard barley rusk soaked in olive oil with coriander seeds, chopped tomatoes, oregano and cheese). I asked how this was made but I’ve never quite managed to achieve that special flavour we tasted that day)

The gorge is only open from May to October; in the first and last few weeks of that period it may close if there’s a danger of flash floods.

And I was glad that I wasn’t told before we set off that the gorge is home to four different snakes, the Balkan whip snake, the dice snake, the cat snake and the leopard snake. Although not dangerous I’m relieved i didn’t see one.

Now husband has discovered photographs from his old camera I’m hoping he can find more from other walks we’ve done over the years. They’ve brought back many memories.

Trust and Secrets: The two things in families that make or break the familial bond. #TuesdayBookBlog #Families #BookGiveaway

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Trust is the one thing that families should be able to take for granted. Trust born from love, from the belief that each member knows the other because they have lived together, seen the weakness and strength of each other. Having faith in each other means there is trust in theirselves, in their judgements, in the confidence that they are implicitly correct in that conclusion. But of course trusting can be the automatic option, the unquestionable. It also avoids any confrontation between siblings, parents, relatives. It means that every one can get on with their lives, not having to think too hard about the actions of everyone else in the family. It’s taken for granted that each believes whatever they are told. Don’t question. In turn it’s accepted that each can also reveal whatever they want to disclose about themselves, their thoughts, their actions. And take for granted that they are believed.

 There is only one problem with that premise. Everyone is on their own in their heads. No one (whatever anyone believes to the opposite) can read minds. What we present to the world, the façade we choose to show is our decision.

 And that is where the secrecy comes in. Although it’s undeniable that every family has its secrets, it’s the substance of them that count. Of course secrets can also be trivial, small, kept in a loving way (a celebratory surprise, a present) or as a kindness, hiding something that is better kept under wraps if the person keeping it believes that.

On the other hand, harrowing, life-changing secrets can damage an entire family for some time. Even forever. Those kinds of secrets break that instinctive trust, that belief that those closest to us, who we love and respect, are truthful. Are not lying.

Families can be complicated. That’s an obvious statement. And where there are families with secrets, there are stories. And these are the stories that are at the root of all my books.

None more so than in The Memory.   A story built around one of the biggest secrets a family can have.                                                                       

               ****

Runner up in the Wales Book of the Year 2021: The Rhys Davies Trust Fiction Award.

Many readers have asked what was the inspiration for The Memory and my answer is always memories: memories of being a carer for two of my aunts who lived with us for a long time, memories of a friend dying in my childhood; a friend who, although at the time I didn’t realise, was a Downs’ Syndrome child. But why I actually started to write the story, I can’t remember. Because it was something I’d begun years ago and was based around the journal I’d kept during that decade of looking after my relatives so we could talk about what we’d done during the day – revive the memories of that day. But years afterwards I discovered something I’d not known – a secret kept from me by one aunt.

I’ve had some wonderful reviews for The Memory. This is one of my favourite

Review:

“The Memory is quite possibly Judith Barrow’s masterpiece. The dual timeline structure is ideally suited to bring us to that critical moment in the past. What exactly did Irene see? She’s an unreliable narrator, a child trying to understand a single memory that redefines her life in one timeline, while in the other timeline she’s a woman who has lost everything she ever loved except for the memory of the sister who haunts her.

The writing is spare and elegant, with just enough detail to create a picture of Irene’s world. Told in the first person, we see Irene as she grows from a bewildered child determined to care for her ‘special’ little sister to a woman who sacrifices her own hopes and dreams to care for her family. Those who’ve been caretakers to parents suffering from alzheimer’s and dementia will also recognize the sheer exhaustion and thankless effort demanded.

But the other thing I enjoyed in what could have been a desperately dark tale was that Irene knew love along the way. She remembered her childhood days with loving parents, she cherished the love of her grandmother, and she accepted the bedrock certainty of her husband Sam’s love. Most of all, she had the memory of loving little Rose…”

SAMPLE: THE MEMORY

Chapter One 2002 Irene 

There’s a chink of light from the street lamp coming through the vertical blinds. It spreads across the duvet on my mother’s bed and onto the pillow next to her head. I reach up and pull the curtains closer together. The faint line of light is still there, but blurred around the edges.

 Which is how I feel. Blurred around the edges. Except, for me, there is no light.

I move around the bed, straightening the corners, making the inner softness of the duvet match the shape of the outer material; trying to make the cover lie flat but of course I can’t. The small round lump in the middle is my mother. However heavily her head lies on the pillow, however precisely her arms are down by her sides, her feet are never still. The cover twitches until centimetre by centimetre it slides to one side towards the floor like the pink, satin eiderdown used to do on my bed as a child.

In the end I yank her feet up and tuck the duvet underneath. Tonight I want her to look tidy. I want everything to be right.

She doesn’t like that and opens her eyes, giving up the pretence of being asleep. Lying face upwards, the skin falling back on her cheekbones, her flesh is extraordinarily smooth, pale. Translucent almost. Her eyes are vague under the thick lines of white brows drawn together.

I ignore her; I’m bone weary. That was one of my father’s phrases; he’d come in from working in the bank in the village and say it.

‘I’m bone weary, Lil.’ He’d rub at the lines on his forehead. ‘We had to stay behind for half an hour all because that silly woman’s till didn’t add up.’ Or ‘… because old Watkins insisted I show the new lad twice how I leave my books at night; just so he knows, as though I might not go in tomorrow.’ Old Watkins was the manager, a job my father said he could do standing on his head but never got the chance.

And then, one day, he didn’t go into the bank. Or the day after that. Or ever again.

I wait by the bed. I move into her line of vision and it’s as though we’re watching one another, my mother and me; two women – trapped.

‘I can’t go on, Mum.’ I lift my arms from my side, let them drop; my hands too substantial, too solid to hold up. They’re strong – dependable, Sam, my husband, always says. I just think they’re like shovels and I’ve always been resentful that I didn’t inherit my mother’s slender fingers. After all I got her fat arse and thick thighs, why not the nice bits?

I’ve been awake for over a day. I glance at the clock with the extra large numbers, bought when she could still tell the time. Now it’s just something else for her to stare at, to puzzle over. It’s actually twenty-seven hours since I slept, and for a lot of them I’ve been on my feet. Not that this is out of the ordinary. This has been going on for the last year; long days, longer nights.

‘Just another phase she’s going through,’ the Irish doctor says, patting me on the shoulder as she leaves. ‘You’re doing a grand job.’ While all the time I know she’s wondering why – why I didn’t give up the first time she suggested that I should; why, by now, I’ve not admitted it’s all too much and ‘please, please take her away, just for a week, a day, a night. An hour.’

But I don’t. Because I have no choice. Mum told me years ago she’d sorted it out with her solicitor; there was no way she’d agree to our selling this house; as a joint owner with Sam and me she would block any attempt we made. There’s no way we could afford to put her into care; over the years, we’ve ploughed most of Sam’s earnings into the renovation and upkeep of the place. So here I am. Here we are.

But there is another reason; a more precious reason that means I can’t – won’t leave this house. Rose, is here. It’s over thirty years since she left us. But I still sense her next to me, hear her voice sometimes, feel her trying to comfort me. I won’t leave her on her own again. I did it once before–I won’t do it a second time. Not like that anyway.

So, ‘I can’t go on, Mum,’ I repeat. My head swims with tiredness and I’m so cold inside.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to do most of the time; I’ve learned to interpret the noises; the tones of each wail, yell and cry. Even the sniffs. She was always good on the sniffs. She had a whole language of sniffs: contempt, short and sharp, lips pursed: utter displeasure, long drawn out, lip corners pulled in tight: anger, almost silent, nostrils flaring. And then there was her pleased sniff (not used very often) a long spluttering drawing in of breath accompanied by a rare smile.

She watches me. Or is that my imagination? Because as I move, her eyes don’t; unfocussed, they’re settled on the photograph of the three of us on the beach at Morecambe. I was six, in the picture I’m sitting on Dad’s lap. The time it was taken as distant as the vague shoreline behind us. The grey sea as misty and as unattainable, as far away, as yesterday’s thoughts. At least to her.

Or is she seeing something else? A memory? That memory?  I’m hoping that of all the recollections that linger, if any do linger in that blankness that has been her mind for so long, of all the memories, it’s that one. The one that makes hate battle with pity and reluctant love. If nothing else I hope she remembers that.

I feel quite calm. I don’t speak; it’s all been said.

And now her eyes move from my face, past me. It’s as though she knows. I’m so close I see the crisscross of fine red lines across the whites, the tiny yellow blobs of sleep in the inner corners, the slight stutter of a nerve on the eyelid that moves the sparse lashes.

And then she speaks. ‘Rose?’ she says. Clearly. ‘Rose’. Just like that.

1963 Irene age eight

When I was eight I came home from school to find Rose had been born. I was surprised and pleased to see Nanna in the kitchen waiting for me. She didn’t visit often; her and Mum didn’t get on that well, even though they were mother and daughter. And, even better, she’d made jam tarts and had brought a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock with her.

 ‘Calm down, wash your hands and finish this lot first.’ She put the plate and glass in front of me, her hand lingering on top of my head.

I grinned up at her, jigging about in my chair so much that the pop went up my nose and I spluttered crumbs everywhere. I laughed and so did she, but there was something about her eyes that made me hesitate.

 ‘You okay, Nanna?’

‘I’m fine love.’

Later, when I look back into that moment, I see her hands trembling, hear the catch in her voice but right then I was too excited.

 I raced upstairs to their room, calling, ‘Mum, I’m home.’ Even though she’d become so grumpy lately I’d still have a hug and a kiss from her when I got back from school. But not that day.

Mum was in bed, hunched under the clothes. She didn’t move. Or speak. Perhaps she was tired; she’d been tired a lot lately. I patted the bedclothes where I thought her shoulders were and went round the other side of the bed.

 The baby was in the old blue carrycot that had been mine and stored in the attic. I’d helped Dad to clean it up ages ago. 

‘What’s she called?’ Mum didn’t answer. When I glanced at her she’d come out of the covers and was looking away from me, staring towards the window. Her fingers plucked at the cotton pillowcase. ‘Is she okay?’ I asked. The baby was so small; even though I could only see her head I could tell she was really little. I leaned over the carrycot. ‘Can I hold her?’

‘No,’ Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder, warm, gentle. ‘She’s too tiny.’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘And she’s not well, I’m afraid.’

That frightened me. I studied my sister carefully; tiny flat nose between long eyes that sloped upwards at the outer corners.  A small crooked mouth pursed as though she was a bit cross about something. I could see the tip of her tongue between her lips. ‘She doesn’t look poorly.’ I tilted my head one way and another, studying her from different angles. Nope, except for the little twist in her top lip, which was cute, she looked fine. ‘What’s she called?’ I asked again, watching her little face tighten and then relax as she yawned, then sighed.

Turning on her back, Mum slid down under the eiderdown. ‘Take it away,’ she mumbled.

At first I thought she was she talking about me. Had I done something to upset her or the baby? But then I thought perhaps having a baby made you cross so I decided to forgive her. In the silent moment that followed I heard the raucous cry of a crow as it landed, thump, on the flat roof of the kitchen outside the bedroom window.

‘What’s she called?’ I whispered to Dad, determined one of them would tell me. When there was still no reply I looked up at him and then back at my sister. ‘I’m going to call her Rose, ’cos that’s what her mouth looks like; a little rosebud, like my dolly’s.’

Dad gathered both handles of the carrycot and lifted it from the stand. ‘I’ll take her,’ he said, and cocked his head at me to follow.

‘Do what you want.’ Mum’s voice was harsh.  ‘I don’t want that thing near me.’

 Then I knew she meant the baby; my baby sister. I was scared again. Something was happening I didn’t understand. But I knew it was wrong to call your baby ‘it’. It made me feel sick inside.

‘That’s mean,’ I whispered.

Mum held her hand above the covers. ‘Irene, you can stay. Tell me what you’ve been doing in school today.’ She pointed to the hairbrush on the dressing table, pushing herself up in the bed. ‘Fetch the brush; I’ll do your hair.’

The words were familiar; it was something she said every day. But her voice was different. It was as though she was trying to persuade me to do it. Like in school when one of your friends had fallen out with another girl and she was trying to get you on her side. It didn’t seem right; it didn’t seem like the mum I knew.

 ‘No, I’ll go with Dad.’ Suddenly I couldn’t bear to be anywhere near my mother. I held the end of the carrycot, willing Rose to wake up. And then she opened her eyes. And, even though I know now it would have been impossible, I would have sworn at that moment she looked right at me and her little mouth puckered into a smile.

 That was the first time I understood you could fall in love with a stranger, even though that stranger is a baby who can’t yet talk.

And that you could hate somebody even though you were supposed to love them.

© Judithbarrow 2024

Links:

Amazon UK: http://tinyurl.com/2k9k46hx

Amazon.com: http://tinyurl.com/498bmxtr

Amazon.com aus: http://tinyurl.com/44pd8zm9

Social Media links

https://judithbarrowblog.com/


https://twitter.com/judithbarrow77


https://www.facebook.com/judith.barrow.3


https://www.honno.co.uk/authors/judith-barrow

https://www.bookbub.com/profile/judith-barrow

My Review of By the Book by Thorne Moore: the Last of the Salvage Trilogy #ScienceFiction #WeekendRead

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I gave By the Book 5 *

Book Description:

Welcome to the Outer Circles beyond Jupiter, where enterprise is free, law non-existent and mega-corporation Ragnox Inc. rules—or did. Director Jordan Pascal has lost his power base on Triton, but Commandant DeWitter intends to take it back, and more. Much more. First, however, he needs to deal with the man he replaced, Commandant Smith, who is dead… or is he?
Former Commandant Smith has other plans for Ragnox. Plans that involve wiping the corporation off the map and returning the Outer Circles to those for whom it is home. But before Arkadia can be restored, the monstrous war machine that DeWitter is creating must be neutralized. Force will never be enough to defeat overwhelming military might. It requires something more powerful: words.

My Review:

By the Book is the last of the Salvage trilogy and is gripping science fiction by Thorne Moore. One aspect about all this author’s stories, whatever genre she writes in, is that they are all character led. Characters who all, to quote a well-worn cliché (though nevertheless so true here) come to life on the page. The reader follows them from the first book of the series, Inside Out (my review here: https://tinyurl.com/59k74arp), along their chosen path, a journey which takes them into a into an unknown harsh environment. A place they endure. And where some adapt and triumph more than others.

 This setting, far beyond the world we know, is the background to the series, and described with such detail that it’s possible to believe such places exist. And that such places have their own codes of behaviour, their own social systems. Especially their own lawlessness. All based on the flaws, the weaknesses, and the strengths of human nature.

 The plots in each novel are intricate and fascinating: tales of good versus evil throughout, a true refection of humanity that is portrayed so realistically that I was engrossed from the start and was often surprised by the twists and turns in every story. I reviewed the second book, Making Waves here: https://tinyurl.com/375f9ccs. By the Book, successfully rounds of the whole story of this world and these characters – they’ve come a long way… well, most of them anyway.

With themes of justice and corruption, love and hatred, courage and cowardness, triumph and failure, humour and tragedy threaded throughout, By the Book brings this trilogy to a magnificent end. I have admired all of Thorne Moore’s books, and this is no exception. I have no hesitation in recommending it to any reader who enjoys a brilliant story narrated in a wonderfully distinctive style. And with totally believable characters!

Links to buy:

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/yc2e3w6y

Amazon.com: https://tinyurl.com/9kn9yemf

About the Author:

Thorne was born in Luton and graduated from Aberystwyth University (history) and from the Open University (Law). She set up a restaurant with her sister and made miniature furniture for collectors. She lives in Pembrokeshire, which forms a background for much of her writing, as does Luton.

She writes psychological mysteries, or “domestic noir,” exploring the reason for crimes and their consequences, rather than the details of the crimes themselves. and her first novel, “A Time For Silence,” was published by Honno in 2012, with its prequel, “The Covenant,” published in 2020. “Motherlove” and “The Unravelling” were also published by Honno. “Shadows,” published by Lume, is set in an old mansion in Pembrokeshire and is paired with “Long Shadows,” also published by Lume, which explains the history and mysteries of the same old house. She’s a member of Crime Cymru. Her latest crime novel, “Fatal Collision is published by Diamond Crime (2022)

She also writes Science Fiction, including “Inside Out” (2021) and “Making Waves” (2022) And now “By the Book” 2023

Links to Thorne:

Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/2s48xwcb

Honno: https://www.honno.co.uk/authors/thorne-moore

FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/thorne.moore.7

Twitter/X: https://www.facebook.com/thorne.moore.7

Where We Walked – @VictoriaCave @YorkshireDales #Walks #Photographs @Yorkshire Dales #MondayBlog

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Remember me saying in the last post about our visit to Catrigg Force – a small but impressive waterfall just east of the village of Stainforth? And that the first time we found it we’d actually planned to call to see it as the first part of a massively, more strenuous, longer walk – a longer walk, planned by the photographer? One where we could take in the landscape from the Victoria Cave in Ribblesdale? And I said, more to come on that another time? Well, this is it. The above is the last (nearly last) part of the track up to the cave

Another of my photographs when I stopped to take a breath on the path (path?!!) on the way up to the cave. The photographer was already there. Give him his due, he did come back to help me to the top.

And here it it, the limestone Victoria Cave, located east of Langcliffe in Ribblesdale and discovered by chance in 1837, the year of Queen Victoria’s coronation.

Until then the cave was unknown. Tinsmith Michael Horner (1813-1878) struggled through a small hole between rocks,searching for his dog and found the cave. Inside tound bones, coins and various metal objects on the sediment floor. Later, on the 28th June 1838, Joseph Jackson, a keen amateur archaeologist, investigated further. The Victorians were fascinated by ‘bone caves’ where there might be a possibility of finding evidence for the earliest humans and extinct animals. Some animal bones were actually found here. It’s thought that hyenas used the cave as a den and dragged bones that had been scavenged into it, including hippos, narrow-nosed rhino, elephants and spotted hyenas bones. After the last Ice Age the cave was used by hibernating brown bears. In amongst the animal bones of reindeer was an 11,000 year old antler harpoon point, the first evidence for people in the Yorkshire Dales. Some items from the cave are held at the Craven Museum in Skipton.

The roof of the cave has become increasingly unstable over the years and roof falls are possible. We didn’t go in!

This is another one of my photos (yes I do know it’s less inspiring than the photographer’s). But I spotted this from up high, from outside the cave – and thought it was a large teddy bear, or the skeleton of a teddy bear!! Of course, when we got closer… it was just a pile of rocks. Note to self – contact optician

Just before we set off on the downward trail, and with an eye on the clouds bubbling up in the distance, a photograph of the next five miles we needed to go.

And it’s here I will reveal a moment of a basic and elementary photographer’s mistake.

” One last photo before the rain sets in,” he says, scanning the vista. “I didn’t realise it had become so dark so quickly.”

I waited, didn’t say a word while he huffed and puffed, and glared at the sky. For quite a while Then I stated the obvious. ” Your lens cap is still on.”

Good job he has a brilliant sense of humour!!

We followed the trail past the rugged terrain of the Warrendale Knotts before descending the hillside on the way back to Settle.

Where we had a well- earned cup of tea and a scone.

My Review of The Luck by Kathy Biggs #TuesdayBookBlog #ADayLate

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Book Description:

Epic generational saga set in America’s rural west.
In 1930s Midwest America iron-willed Beattie and Irish-born Darragh give all they have to their farm, The Luck. Despite its tragic history, and the dark lakeat its heart, they pour love into the land. When their only son Conrad flies the nest, Beattie is heartbroken until her two spirited granddaughters Rose and Olive arrive, breathing new life into the farm. Olive grows into a savvy entrepreneur, but life doesn’t work out as well for Rose who mysteriously goes missing…
An intricately woven tale of joy, heartbreak, betrayal and murder in this epic family saga with a gripping mystery at its heart.

My Review:

When I say this is an easy book to read I don’t mean it’s light reading. I mean it’s a story that absorbs from the first page, and takes the reader on a ride through four generations of a family who instantly come to life against a background of Midwest America in the era of the earlier twentieth century.

 The Luck is not only a family saga – it is a tale that interweaves the characters and their relationships with each other over decades. And, threaded throughout, is a secret.

The characters are fully rounded; they grow and change as life and circumstances alter them. Sometime the timeline leaps forward and the reader is presented with one of the main characters as an older individual. It’s strange  (a little like meeting someone in real life after years have passed), and yet it works; it’s understandable. Because, reading what has happened to some of the other characters, how life has affected them, has also changed the the main character in that section of the plot. It makes sense. Hmm… does that make sense? Perhaps it’s just simpler to say that I accepted how the author presents them, because it works.

 It’s quite a while since I have been totally engrossed in a book that I read: holding it in one hand while flicking a duster around – and missing the furniture, making the bed – not easy with one hand, and necessitating the odd sitting on the bed to ‘just read the next bit’, cooking – definitely not easy, or safe!

I never give spoilers in my reviews. And usually I dissect the writing to point out the strengths and weakness of the narrative (from a subjective point of view – mine!). But, with The Luck, this feels unnecessary. The makeup of the characters, and the many layers of each that are gradually revealed, the descriptions of the settings, – giving a brilliant sense of place, the dialogue, which without fail, differentiates between every character, all added a wonderful depth to the plot and make this a fascinating read.

 Not to mention the ending – ah, a tantalising hint there! There’s nothing for it, you’ll need to read this debut book from Kathy Biggs for yourself.

 Yes, I am recommending The Luck. I’m recommending it to any reader who enjoys a cracking story written at a steady pace, and with a writing style that takes the phrase “ suspension of disbelief” to a whole new level.  A brilliant read.

About the Author:

Kathy Biggs is originally from Yorkshire, where she trained to be a nurse. She took a summer job in Mid Wales with her husband in 1985 – and never left. They bought a derelict cottage and lived ‘off grid’ for 14 years. During this time she started a family, trained to be a homeopath and took up Samba drumming. She has lived in her current location for the last 23 years: working and raising her family. She is a keen gardener and leads a local samba band. After being made redundant in 2017 she completed several Creative Writing courses provided by Aberystwyth University and discovered a passion for writing. The Luck is her first novel.

Where We Walked @Catrigg Force @YorkshireDales @England #walks #photographs #memories

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This was a walk we did twice when we were in the Yorkshire Dales. The second time we were here was by accident. We got lost – surprise, surprise – and came over a hill to find us again at …

Catrigg Force … a small but impressive waterfall just east of the village of Stainforth. The first time we found it we’d actually planned to call to see it as the first part of a longer walk (more to come on that another time!)

After a snack in the local pub (called the The Craven Heifer in Stainforth – spot a theme in these posts?!!), we headed up a bridleway called Goat Lane. (not sure why it’s called that, we only saw sheep and lambs – definitely no cows… well not at this point anyway!). The track, between parallel stone walls, is a small section of the Pennine Bridleway

We meandered along the upward track for about a mile, past several derelict farm buildings, and stopping to admire the view. In the distance on the moorland, are the Winskill Stones, pedestals of limestone and topped with slate, left behind by ice-age glaciers. Finally we reached the signpost for Catrigg Foss on the left of the track.

No stile this time, a kissing gate, leading to a steep, rocky, narrow, path, down to the stream, Catrigg Beck, which flows from the hills and feeds the waterfall.

The poor quality and lack of any particular viewpoint/perspective in this photograph is because it was taken by me, on my mobile phone, while balancing on the edge of the waterfall and hanging onto a branch of a nearby tree. All without the knowledge of the photographer, who’d wandered off to find the the base of the waterfall.

I followed. Leaving the stream, I made my way down another narrow path alongside a sheer wall of limestone rock and a tree-lined drop to a deep, hidden gully that holds the waterfall and the shallow river, the continuation of Catrigg Beck. There were two separate, quite magical falls, well over six metres in height in the long wooded copse. The sprays of water, a sparkling shower of colours in the sunshine that flickered through the leaves, landed all around us. The only sounds were the waterfalls and the calls of birds. Perfect peace …

Ah well… as I said, this was only the start of a massively, more strenuous, longer walk – a longer walk, planned by the photographer, to take in the landscape from the Victoria Cave in Ribblesdale (discovered by chance in 1837, the year of Queen Victoria’s coronation). This second time we were here was purely by coincidence, and at the end of a quite sedate walk … for us! We ambled through fields, back to where we were staying in a tiny cottage in Langcliffe.

By the way…

Apparently Catrigg Force was a favourite haunt of composer Edward Elgar. He visited the waterfalls and, during his visits to the Yorkshire Dales, was inspired to compose Pomp and Circumstance and the Enigma Variations, his most famous works.

Three fun facts about Elgar – Not only was he a composer, but he was also an amateur chemist. In his spare time, he would tinker with experiments. He was the first composer to fully embrace recording music. And he loved cycling. He had a Royal Sunbeam bicycle that he nicknamed ‘Mr. Phoebus. ‘

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And so, with Changing Patterns the Story of the Haworth Trilogy continues: Sequel to Pattern of Shadows and the book before Living in the Shadows. #Excerpt #weekendRead #Promotion #Novelines #Honno

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Although all three of the books in the Haworth trilogy are based on the same family, they are also stand alone. And yet, to be completely honest, I do need to add this from one of the reviewers…

“This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you that each of these wonderful books can be read alone. But no, don’t do that. In fact, if you haven’t read any of them, you’re luckier than I am, because you can start with the prequel and read in chronological order. I chose to review these books as a set, and I believe that’s how they should be read.
Every now and then, I come across books so beautifully written that their characters follow me around, demanding I understand their lives, their mistakes, their loves, and in this case, their families. Taken together, the Howarth Family stories are an achievement worth every one of the five stars I’d give them.“

Changing Patterns – a bargain!

Book Description:

May 1950, Britain is struggling with the hardships of rationing and the aftermath of the Second World War. Peter Schormann, a German ex-prisoner of war, has left his home country to be with Mary Howarth, matron of a small hospital in Wales. The two met when Mary was a nurse at the POW camp hospital. They intend to marry, but the memory of Frank Shuttleworth, an ex-boyfriend of Mary’s, continues to haunt them and there are many obstacles in the way of their happiness, not the least of which is Mary’s troubled family.
When tragedy strikes, Mary hopes it will unite her siblings, but it is only when a child disappears that the whole family pulls together to save one of their own from a common enemy.

Excerpt:

16th June 1950

Sometimes Mary couldn’t believe he was there. Sleepless, she would reach out and touch Peter just to reassure herself that after five years apart they were together again. He’d given up a lot to be with her.

‘You are happy?’ He slung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

The breeze ruffled their hair. The tide was on the turn and Mary watched the waves collide and dissolve. High above, gulls hung motionless their cries lost in the air currents

‘Mm.’ Mary rested against him. The smell of the mown lawn on his skin mingled with the salty tang of spray blown off the sea and the faint smell of pipe tobacco. ‘You?’

‘Of course.’

She turned her head to look at him, brushed a few blades of grass from his cheek. In the four months since he’d found her he’d lost the gaunt pallor, the weariness, and gained a quiet contentment.

‘It is good, the two of us sitting here, alone,’ he said.

‘Tom won’t be long though, he’ll be back from Gwyneth’s soon; he said he was only just digging her vegetable plot over for planting tomorrow.’

‘I do not mean Tom. He is family.’

Mary allowed a beat to pass. ‘I know you didn’t, love. And I know what you really mean. But it’s not our problem. If people don’t like our being together that’s their lookout.’ She kissed him. His mouth was warm.

Smiling she drew back. ‘Tom?’ she murmured, her voice rueful.

They sat peacefully on the doorstep of the cottage, each savouring the other’s closeness.

Gradually the sun disappeared behind the cliffs. The trees became shifting silhouettes and the wind slapped the surface of the sea into rolling metallic arcs and carried the spray towards the cottage. Mary licked her lips, tasted the salt

‘It’s getting chilly.’ She shivered.

Peter stood, reached down and lifted her to her feet, holding her to him. ‘Ich liebe dich, my Mary.’

‘And I love you.’

A few moments passed before she forced herself to stand back and, giving him a quick kiss, take in a long breath. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’m late sorting tea out. If you put those things away, I’ll go and give that batter a whisk. I’m making Spam fritters to go with that mash from last night.’

She stood on the top step watching him walk down the gravel path to where he’d left the lawnmower and then glanced towards the cottage next door. Although it was only just dusk the window in Gwyneth Griffith’s parlour suddenly lit up and the oblong pattern spilled across the garden. Tom emerged out of the shadows swinging a spade in his hand and turned onto the lane. Mary waved to him and he waggled the spade in acknowledgement. ‘Tom’s coming now,’ she called out to Peter. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on. He’ll want a brew before he eats.’

The van came from nowhere, a flash of white. Mary saw it veer to the right towards Tom. Hurtling close to the side of the lane it drove along the grass verge, smashing against the overhanging branches of the blackthorn. Caught in the beam of the headlights her brother had no time and nowhere to go. Frozen, Mary watched as he was flung into the air, heard the squeal of the engine and the heavy thud of his body on the bonnet of the van. The spade clattered along the tarmac. Peter threw open the gate and was running before she could move.

‘Tom,’ she heard him yell. Somewhere, someone was screaming. She was screaming.

Links to buy:

Amazon.co.uk: https://tinyurl.com/4wj2jedc

Amazon.com: https://tinyurl.com/nj87jz6k

My Review of Vulcana by Rebecca, F. John #TuesdayBookBlog #Honno

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Book Description:

On a winter’s night in 1892, Kate Williams, the daughter of a Baptist Minister, leaves Abergavenny and sets out for London with a wild plan: she is going to become a strongwoman.

But it is not only her ambition she is chasing. William Roberts, the leader of a music hall troupe, has captured her imagination and her heart. In London, William reinvents Kate as ‘Vulcana – Most Beautiful Woman on Earth’, and himself ‘Atlas’. Soon they are performing in Britain, France, Australia and Algiers.

But as Vulcana’s star rises, Altas’ fades, and Kate finds herself holding together a troupe of performers and a family. Kate is a woman driven by love – for William, her children, performing and for life. Can she find a way to be a voice for women and true to herself?

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An inspirational fictional telling of Welsh Victorian Strongwoman Kate Williams
Vulcana is a fictional telling of the real story of Victorian ‘strongwoman’ Kate Williams (born 1874), starting when she runs away from home at 16 to travel with the love her life, William Roberts. They perform in music halls as Atlas and Vulcana – the climax of their act is that Kate can lift William over her head. She and William present themselves to the public as brother and sister as they travel the world because William is already married, and William’s wife brings up Kate’s children with her own. Kate is driven by for William, for her children, for performing, and for life, and Rebecca’s gorgeous, immersive writing fits perfectly this brave, unconventional woman and her amazing story.

My Review:

Vulcana is a story that is fiction built on fact – at least some facts: In 1892, at the age of eighteen, Kate Williams did leave her religious family home in Abergavenny, Wales, to travel to London with the ambition of becoming a strongwoman, she was infatuated by William Roberts, the leader of a music hall troupe whose act she’d seen. And, although he was already married to Anne, and the father of several children, William and Kate did become lovers. They did form an act together as Atlas and Vulcana, and did perform in music halls all over the world.

The factual background revealed by Rebecca F John is fascinating; it is obvious, from the intricate and atmospheric details, that the author has researched both the era and the life within music halls at the time. This is one of her great strengths of writing, the ability to create a realistic and believable world that the characters move around in.
The main characters, multi layered and strengthened by the dialogue, come to life on the page. (Yes I do know that’s a cliché, but when it’s true…. ) And this is so well shown, that, for me, the traits, the strength and weaknesses of both Kate and William, leave them open to subjective judgement.

Kate is a strong woman, courageous in the face of adversity, mostly indifferent to the expectations of society at that time. Her love for William and her children, though all embracing, is balanced by her determination to live her life exactly as she wishes. Sometimes, the way she is portrayed, made me hesitate in my admiration for her. I suppose, like all driven and ambitious people, the feelings of those around them, of those who like and admire – even love them – are maybe not seen, or acknowledged. This is revealed in her ability to leave her family, with barely a glance over her shoulder, and is partly revealed when the rise of Vulcan’s celebrity is to the detriment of her and William’s relationship. Though the love is still always threaded throughout, even until her death, Kate’s career always comes first. The author’s ability to equally layer the themes of love, dreams, single-mindedness, determination, is brilliant. The way each is merged is so skilful.
I needed to remind myself that, though the premise of the narrative relates the life of a woman who actually lived, the story is mostly fictional.

So, is Vulcana a book I would recommend? Definitely. Though long, and a story that needs maximum concentration, it’s a great read. And will be for any reader who enjoys well written historical fiction, touched with a background of biographical writing.

About Rebecca F. John


Rebecca F. John was born in 1986 and grew up on the south Wales coast. Her short stories have been broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and BBC Radio 4Extra. In 2015, her short story ‘The Glove Maker’s Numbers’ was shortlisted for the Sunday Times EFG Short Story Award. She is the winner of the PEN International New Voices Award 2015. Her debut novel, The Haunting of Henry Twist, was shortlisted for the Costa First Novel Award. She lives in Swansea.

Where We Walked – Oxenber & Wharfe Woods #Walks #Photographs @Yorkshire Dales @England #MondayBlogs #Holidays #memories #PathsandStiles

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I was promised an easy walk on one of the days. This is it; the Oxenber and Wharf Wood and Feizor walk from Austwick. It should have taken around two hours… we didn’t allow for the stiles.

We left Austwick by the Pennine Bridleway and walked over the Flascoe footbridge heading up the path towards Oxenber Wood.

We met the obligatory cow – who followed us along her side of the wall in the next field. In fact, by the time we reached the end of this path, there were six of them jostling for a view of us.

And the first of the stiles. This one was stone, sturdy, easy to climb over. We’ve got this sussed, I thought; easy walk, conventional stiles. The photographer couldn’t resist taking in the view of Austwick and the miles of glorious scenery around Ingleborough and Fountains Fell. Then he casually strode halfway over the stile – and was abruptly stopped when his rucksack decided to stay on the other side. We manhandled it over the wall, and carried on, ignoring the snorts from the cows…

And saw this…

Bluebells! Stretching seemingly for miles. And, miles away on the horizon … Pen y Ghent, the destination of one of our … hmm!… shall I say … more strenuous walks in that week: https://tinyurl.com/3e48vc7a

Hundreds of years ago, this area of woodland and pasture was part of the village quarry, and is still rough underfoot with hollows and dips under the grass. We were told it’s a site of special scientific interest and an area of conservation. The trees (as stated on the information board at the beginning of the walk) are mainly Ash, Hazel and Hawthorn.

As we clambered over the limestone rocks to enter the woods, a young man came puffing up behind us. He was a teacher, supposed to be on a day out with a colleague and their class from his school, but had overslept and was now in pursuit. We stopped to let him pass, pretending we didn’t need the break to get our breath back. That hill was steeper than we thought… or looks.

From the loud cheer that rang out a few minutes later, the teacher had obviously found the children.

In the woodland there were areas of slabs of limestone paving with various wild flowers and plants.

Wood Sorrel

Hart’s Tongue Fern.

Dog’s Mercury

There was quite a lot of the Dog’s Mercury (as stated on the Information Board) We were told, by a man in the pub where we were having a meal that evening – (we did seem to meet the local naturalist, whichever pub we went in) – that it is a poisonous coloniser of ancient woodland. But, if thoroughly dried, apparently (I’m stressing the “apparently” here), the plant loses its poisonous quality. The juice of the plant is emetic, ophthalmic and purgative, and can be used externally to treat ear and eye problems, warts, and sores. And other ailments!

As a writer I couldn’t help thinking about using this last plant in a story … to kill off a character … maybe?!!

We left the woods, through a wooden gate and onto a path which at first gently rose and then zig-zagged down through a jumble of exposed limestone towards the hamlet of Feizor. Where we stopped at a tea room for a cuppa.

Leaving the tea room we climbed over the first of five high stiles in a stone wall, and along a public footpath through four sloping fields.

You may have noticed that I have no photographs of the fields, nor of the stiles here. We were either too anxiously gazing across the fields, knowing we’d have difficulty both going back to the tea room lane or forwards to continue our walk. This was because of the stiles. There was the stile where the first stone step was three foot high in the wall (“You need to get your leg higher,” I encouraged the photographer), having only been able to reach it myself by taking a running jump at the thing. Then there was the one where the middle stone was broken off revealing only a sharp corner that protruded only enough for the toe of our boots (That one resulted in scraped shins). The two wooden stiles had seesaw wobbles enough to cause seasickness, and the next seemed fine until we found that the space in the wall for us to get through was the width off one boot only. (One narrow ladies’ walking boot – which isn’t mine) Which meant a dare-devil leap forward to the next field was the only way to ‘dismount’!)

At this point I said I was never going over another stile again. Before I saw the next one! We were only glad there was no one nearby who could see us struggling, or worse still, waiting for their turn to climb over any of them.

Finally we triumphed over the last stile (more a small hole in the wall, thankfully), and back onto the tarmac lane… when we realised that, if we’d only walked a few metres further along the lane after leaving the cafe, we would have met the main road that eventually led to the tarmac lane.

And on to the first path … where the cows were waiting for us.

And so into Austwick again.

‘Easier today wasn’t it? Rested now?’ He said later. ‘Try for a longer walk tomorrow?’

My Review of The Rat In The Python: Book 1 The Home by Alex Craigie #nostalgia #humour #Memories #TuesdayBookBlog

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Book Description:

If you haven’t heard of a liberty bodice, believe that half-a-crown is something to do with impoverished royalty and never had the experience of slapping a television to stop the grainy black and white picture from rolling, then this series might not be for you. Please give it a go, though – I suspect that most of it will still resonate no matter where you were brought up!

The Rat in the Python is about Baby Boomers who, in the stability following the Second World War, formed a statistical bulge in the population python. It is a personal snapshot of a time that is as mystifying to my children as the Jurassic Era – and just as unrecognisable.

My intention is to nudge some long-forgotten memories to the surface, test your own recollections and provide information and statistics to put it all in context.

Are you sitting comfortably?

My Review:

This really is a gem of a book. For anyone who lived through the nineteen fifties and sixties in the UK, for anyone who wants to know how their mothers or grandmothers existed in the two decades after the Second World War, this is the book is for you.

Filled with so many details of the homes and everyday life at the time, there are also delightful pithy recollections and humorous facts of the author’s own life, such as this section on decorating and her father’s hilarious attempts:


“ Not only did gloss paint drip and take ages to dry, it had a powerful smell. My father used the tried and tested remedy of floating half an onion in a bowl of water and leaving it in the newly painted room as an early form of Fabreze. I can’t say that it reduced the pungent odour, but the paint smell still lingered for day – and as it began to fade, you’d pick up the top notes of old onion. Enchanting.”

And then the bathroom accessories:

“We had a wire rack, with cracked and splitting rubber handles, that spanned the bath and in one end was a bar of soap…. There was also a scratchy flannel.”


I loved these! In fact there are many places in this book where I actually cackled with laughter, remembered sections with nostalgia. And then sighed with relief that homes are more comfortable and housework and such is so much easier these days.

Crammed with illustrations that are a story in themselves, The Rat In The Python is a winner for Alex Craigie, and I have absolutely no qualms in recommended this to … well absolutely everyone!

And I look forward to the sequel.

About Alex Craigie


Alex Craigie is the pen name of Trish Power.

Trish was ten when her first play was performed at school. It was in rhyming couplets and written in pencil in a book with imperial weights and measures printed on the back.

When her children were young, she wrote short stories for magazines before returning to the teaching job that she loved.

Trish has had three books published under the pen name of Alex Craigie. The first two books cross genre boundaries and feature elements of romance, thriller and suspense against a backdrop of social issues. Someone Close to Home highlights the problems affecting care homes while Acts of Convenience has issues concerning the health service at its heart. Her third book. Means to Deceive, is a psychological thriller.

Someone Close to Home has won a Chill with a Book award and a Chill with the Book of the Month award. In 2019 it was one of the top ten bestsellers in its category on Amazon.

Book lovers are welcome to contact her on alexcraigie@aol.com

My Review of Lyrics for the Loved Ones by Anne Goodwin

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I received an Arc of Lyrics for the Loved Ones from the author in return for an honest review, and I gave 4* to the book.

Book Description:

After half a century confined in a psychiatric hospital, Matty has moved to a care home on the Cumbrian coast. Next year, she’ll be a hundred, and she intends to celebrate in style. Yet, before she can make the arrangements, her ‘maid’ goes missing.

Irene, a care assistant, aims to surprise Matty with a birthday visit from the child she gave up for adoption as a young woman. But, when lockdown shuts the care-home doors, all plans are put on hold.

But Matty won’t be beaten. At least not until the Black Lives Matter protests burst her bubble and buried secrets come to light.

Will she survive to a hundred? Will she see her ‘maid’ again? Will she meet her long-lost child?

Rooted in injustice, balanced with humour, this is a bittersweet story of reckoning with hidden histories in cloistered times.

My Review:

As always with Anne Goodwin’s work, Lyrics for the Loved Ones is a good story that is well written. This is the final episode of Matilda Windsor’s story.

I have previously reviewed both the first of Matty’s journey through life: Matilda Windsor Is Coming Home here and the sequel:  Stolen Summers : A heart-breaking tale of betrayal, confinement and dreams of escape (Matilda Windsor)  here. And, as with both of these books I will reiterate my words from these reviews: “I can only say how much I admire this author’s writing style and her ability to draw the reader into the world of the characters.”

None of us live in a vacuum; what goes on within our communities, and in the wider world, affects us. This is the same for Anne Goodwin’s characters. This story is set against the background of the Covid Pandemic and the protests of Black Lives Matter. So there are themes of frustration, anger, prejudices, technical and political and societal changes running through the whole book.

And, as always with Anne Goodwin’s work, every scene that portrays all of these themes, all of the reactions of the characters, are brilliantly shown. As well as the description of the actual physicality of the settings. So we are in the lounge of the care home, the cemeteries where one character goes to talk with those she knew when they were alive, the homes of the characters, and Matty’s bedroom.

The reader is also in Matty’s head; we comprehend and appreciate the confusion of her thoughts of all that is happening around her. And because the author is so expert in showing Matty’s dementia we completely believe her perspective on everything.

But her point of view (told in third person) isn’t the only one; the book alternates with other characters’ perspectives. And the backgrounds change.

And this was my only reservation about how the plot is organised. For me, how these other characters fitted into the story was initially confusing. Many times I needed to read, go back in the narrative, and re-read some chapters, some sections, to understand where and when they fitted in Matilda’s life. And, I must admit, this did slightly spoil my enjoyment of Lyrics for the Loved Ones. Anne Goodwin has a great skilful talent for maintaining a suspension of disbelief – but with some of these characters, it was sometimes a struggle to be truly involved in the story.

And one character’s dialogue is written in dialect; at first in very strong, constant Cumbrian dialect, but which later on in the story, is less so. (For which I was grateful; I felt it was hard enough not knowing how the character fitted in, without having to struggle with understanding what was said) To be fair though, the author did insert a page at the end of the book which is a glossary of terms on the dialect. Perhaps this might be better placed at the front of the book, especially in regards to the eBook? Just a thought.

None of the above takes away from the poignancy of Matilda Windsor’s story. She is a memorable protagonist. Through her life, her situation (which, unfortunately, was once all too true in British society not too long ago) the reader is taken through a whole range of human emotions: happiness and sadness, anger and acceptance, empathy and indignation.

I have to admit I have laughed and I have cried whilst reading each of these books. And, despite the personal reservations I’ve noted above, I have no reservations in thoroughly recommending all three to readers willing to take the journey with Matilda.

About Anne Goodwin:

Anne Goodwin’s drive to understand what makes people tick led to a career in clinical psychology. That same curiosity now powers her fiction.

Anne writes about the darkness that haunts her and is wary of artificial light. She makes stuff up to tell the truth about adversity, creating characters to care about and stories to make you think. She explores identity, mental health and social justice with compassion, humour and hope.

A prize-winning short-story writer, she has published three novels and a short story collection with small independent press, Inspired Quill. Her debut novel, Sugar and Snails, was shortlisted for the 2016 Polari First Book Prize.

Away from her desk, Anne guides book-loving walkers through the Derbyshire landscape that inspired Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre.

Subscribers to her newsletter can download a free e-book of award-winning short stories.

Website: annegoodwin.weebly.com

Places in our Memories – With Angela Petch #Memories #Photos

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There are places that remain in our memories, the details may become slightly blurred, nostalgia may colour our thoughts, but they don’t fade. And how those places made us feel at the time is the one thing that remains.

Today I am really pleased to welcome author Angela Petch to tell us about her special memories of her family, her wedding and Italy.

This favourite photo from an old album captures a special moment. The day before my wedding in Italy, I went on a picnic with my family: the last day as a single woman. My mother gathered a bunch of wild flowers to hand to me and the moment was spontaneously captured on film.

These poor-quality photos of long ago represent memories embedded in my brain and which creep back nowadays in my writing.

I came late to publication and I truly believe I wouldn’t have been ready earlier. I needed life experiences to write about and most of my books include something from my past or my family’s past.

In my new book, The Girl Who Escaped https://geni.us/B0BYC1V9NHcover I revisited the city of Urbino, where I married forty-five years ago, to site my story. Much of it is a true account of my husband’s Italian grandfather. Luigi Micheli was a courageous partisan. But he kept quiet about it. We found more out after he died, from papers he left in an old box, and I have threaded details into my story. I used the abbey where we married as an invented location for secret meetings of partisans. Many priests were involved in the underground movement, so who knows if somethings did go on there?

My books, published by Bookouture, are all set in Italy.

In 1960, my young suburban life was uprooted from a London dormitory suburb and planted in the Eternal City, Rome.

My father had accepted a job at the headquarters of the branch of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. I still remember my first impressions as my mother and brother and sister stepped off the train at Rome Terminus into the noise, heat, bustle and bewildering babble of a strange language.

The traffic was scary and so my father swapped his new, white Ford Consul for a tiny, dented second-hand Fiat Topolino. He barely fitted in with his long legs and in the summer his head poked through the tiny roll-back soft top “lid”.  In this car he could give as good as he got and join in the terrifyingly lawless traffic that sped through the streets of Rome.

Our garden in the countryside outside Rome was surrounded by peach orchards and vineyards. Dotted around the gravel paths were a roman bath and ancient statues and columns. We cycled round fig, orange, lemon and medlar trees, always wary of snakes. The highlight was a rudimentary, unchlorinated swimming pool filled by hose pipe and emptied when the water started to go green. We shared it with tadpoles and baby frogs in spring.

Our classmates at St George’s English School were international. I sat with a Ghanaian girl called Dorcas, an Australian boy called Gregory, and there were South Africans, Italians, American, French and a handful of Brits too. I’ve always loved mixing with people from other nations and this early experience was the start.

St George’s English School Rome

Italy is an integral part of me. If I were “born again”, I’d choose to be Italian. I went on to study Italian at university, work in Sicily, marry a wonderful half-Italian, teach Italian, live in the Tuscan mountains for six months each year, and now I have had five books published by Bookouture, all set in Italy.

Little did I know that the hamlet of Castel Cavallino where I married, outside Urbino, would be an important place in my new book and that forty-four years later, I would perch again on the wall surrounding the houses, to jot research notes.

 

My sixth book comes out on April 19th and is available now to pre-order on Amazon.  Link: https://geni.us/B0BYC1V9NHcover

Blurb and a couple of reviews

Italy, 1940. The girl sobs and rages as her father tells her the terrible news. “Italy is entering the war alongside Germany. Jews are to be arrested and sent to camps. We have to be ready.”

As fascists march across the cobbled piazzas and past the towered buildings of her beloved home city, twenty-year-old Devora’s worst fears come true. Along with her Jewish parents and twin little brothers they are torn away from everything they love and sent to an internment camp huddled in the mountains. Her father promises this war will not last long…

When they are offered a miraculous chance of escape by her childhood friend Luigi, who risks everything to smuggle vital information into the camp, the family clambers under barbed wire and races for the border. But Devora is forced to make a devastating choice between saving a stranger’s life and joining her parents. As shots fire in the moonless night, the family is separated.

Haunted by the question of whether they are dead or alive, all Devora can do for their future is throw herself into helping Luigi in the Italian resistenza in the fight for liberty. But posing as a maid for a German commander to gather secret intelligence, Devora is sure she sees her friend one night, in a Nazi uniform…

Is Devora in more danger than ever? And will her family ever be reunited – or will the war tear them apart?

An absolutely devastating but ultimately uplifting historical novel about how love and hope can get us through the darkest times. Perfect for fans of The Tattooist of Auschwitz, Rhys Bowen and Soraya M. Lane.

Read what everyone’s saying about Angela Petch:

‘Wow!… The writing is magnificent… A story of love, loss, secrets and hope… I have truly fallen in love… A beautiful, touching story that I would recommend to everyone.’ Cooking the Books

‘The mysteries and the discoveries come fast and furiously: leaving the reader often gasping for breath… A lovely read.’ I am, Indeed  

BIO:

Angela Petch is an award-winning and bestselling writer of fiction – plus the occasional poem.

Every summer she moves to Tuscany for six months where she and her husband own a renovated watermill which they let out. When not exploring their unspoilt corner of the Apennines, she disappears to her writing desk at the top of a converted stable. In her Italian handbag or hiking rucksack she always makes sure to store notebook and pen to jot down ideas.

The winter months are spent in Sussex where most of her family live. When Angela’s not helping out with grandchildren, she catches up with writer friends.

LINKS

Blog: https://angelapetchsblogsite.wordpress.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AngelaJaneClarePetch

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Angela_Petch

  Instagram:     @angela_maurice

Buying link for new book:  https://geni.us/B0BYC1V9NHcover

My Review of The Safe House by Louise Mumford  #TuesdayBookBlog #Review #Thriller

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Book Description:

She told you the house would keep you safe. She lied.

Esther is safe in the house. For sixteen years, she and her mother have lived off the grid, protected from the dangers of the outside world. For sixteen years, Esther has never seen another single soul.

Until today.

Today there’s a man outside the house. A man who knows Esther’s name, and who proves that her mother’s claims about the outside world are false. A man who is telling Esther that she’s been living a lie.

Is her mother keeping Esther safe – or keeping her prisoner?

My Review:

I enjoyed The Safe House, it’s just the kind of psychological thriller I enjoy: well written, character driven, with many twists and turns. Told in two timelines, the past when the protagonist, Esther, is a child who develops asthma (described throughout as the demon living in her chest) and living with her parents in an industrial town with all the accompanying toxic pollutants. A situation that the reader sees her mother being driven to acute mental stress. And then the present where she and her mother, Hannah, are living in hidden in The House, with filtered air and  away from all civilisation. It’s a structure designed and devised by Hannah, to keep Esther safe from asthma attacks.

But it’s a life forced upon the protagonist, and it’s not long before both the extreme, almost unbelievable, conditions and the length of time they have lived like this, is revealed. And, from the start, the restlessness of Esther, at twenty-one years old, and the maniacal determination to keep the status quo by her mother, becomes a tense standoff.

It’s very difficult not to give spoilers in a story such as The Safe House, so I will try to concentrate on the way it is written.

The two main characters, Esther and Hannah are well rounded, created to reveal the many sides of human nature – and then given extreme emotions – entirely acceptable given their claustrophobic and almost dystopian lifestyle.

A lifestyle that Esther is given chance to compare with Out There when a stranger eventually finds her and coaxes her to escape, to meet her father, who she has been told is dead – to go into a “rushing, flashing world” inhabited by people. The description of the settings, from the House to the countryside, the town, the first pub Esther has ever been in, the music festival, the night sky, seen for the first time. (there are so many first times in this section of the plot), give a brilliant sense of place.

This is not a book with many characters but each character is well drawn, each has their own personality, their own distinctive voice to add to the story. But it is the protagonist’s internal dialogue that carries the story; densely written, with each of her actions being considered, each thought, each physical sensation explored and described in a simple yet evocative way. This is powerful writing.

The story begins a little slowly, probably to evoke the sense of normality in a world that is totally artificial, but then moves with sudden twists and turns, some expected, others less so. It’s a good plot that held my attention all the way through to the end.

About Louise Mumford:

Louise was born and lives in South Wales. She studied English Literature at university and graduated with first class honours. As a teacher she tried to pass on her love of reading to her students (and discovered that the secret to successful teaching is… stickers! She is aware that that is, essentially, bribery.)

In the summer of 2019 Louise experienced a once-in-a-lifetime moment: she was discovered as a new writer by her publisher at the Primadonna Festival. Everything has been a bit of a whirlwind since then.

Louise lives in Cardiff with her husband and spends her time trying to get down on paper all the marvellous and frightening things that happen in her head. She is Co-Chair of Crime Cymru, a co-operative of Welsh crime writers, and is part of the team bringing Wales’ first ever in-person crime fiction festival to Wales. Gwyl CRIME CYMRU Festival will take place in Aberystwyth in April 2023.

Her thriller called SLEEPLESS was published by HQ in December 2020 and THE SAFE HOUSE came out in May 2022. SLEEPLESS was the July Asda Karin Slaughter Killer Read in 2021. Her new thriller THE HOTEL will be out in June 2023.

Twitter: @louise_mumford

Instagram: @louisemumfordauthor

Facebook: @LouiseMumfordAuthor

Website: www.louisemumfordauthor.com (sign up to the newsletter for a free short story, giveaways, updates and sneak peeks at new work!)

My Review of Snow Angels by Jenny Loudon #TuesdayBookBlog #review #WomensFiction #RBRT

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Many thanks to Jenny Loudon for sending a digital copy of Snow Angels to me, in return for an honest review as a member of Rosie’s Book Review Team #RBRT

I gave Snow Angels 4*

Book Description:

An accident. That’s all it was.

Amelie Tierney is working hard, furthering her nursing career in Oxford. She has a loving husband and a small son, who is not yet two. She jogs through the streets of her beloved city most days, does not see enough of her lonely mother, and misses her grandmother who lives in a remote wooden house, beside a lake in Sweden.

And then, one sunny October morning, it happens—the accident that changes everything and leaves Amelie fighting to survive.

Set amid the gleaming spires of Oxford and the wild beauty of a Swedish forest, this is a story about one woman’s hope and her courage in the face of the unthinkable.

My Review:

This is a story of love, of grief, of acceptance, of guilt, of survival, of secrets. There are many themes interwoven throughout: the love of nature, the inevitability of life moving on, the change of seasons, the exploration of human nature, as well as the more disturbing themes of racism, cynicism, suspicion, antagonism. All thoroughly explored by the author of Snow Angels.

And, as I wrote in my review of the last book I read by Jenny Loudon, Finding Verity, here, there are exquisite descriptions as well in Snow Angels that give a wonderful sense of place. Set in Oxford and Sweden, it is obvious that the author both knows and has researched both places extensively, and brilliantly captures the tone of each. As a consequence the pace of the narrative is vastly different.

The first quarter of the story narrates the inciting incident, the accident which completely changes the life of Amelie from wife, mother, daughter, to a grieving woman who has lost her husband, her child, her mother. The action in this section moves quickly, and in itself is shocking, portraying a reality that is distressingly realistic, and shows how tenuous life can be. It is well written, and the breadth of emotion explored here gives the characters so many layers that it is easy for the reader to see them, to immediately empathise with them.

In an almost unconscious need to escape the loss of the life she has known in Oxford, Amelie leaves her home, the friends she has there, and her work as a children’s nurse in a hospital, to escape to Sweden to stay with her grandmother, Cleome, who lives in a small cottage surrounded by a forest and close to a lake. And so begins the next phase of the book.

And this is where I show my subjectivity as a reader. Before I say anything about this I need to say that Jenny Loudon’s writing, when it comes to setting the scene is superb. This is truly poetic prose: expressive and lyrical, she conjures up wonderful images that juxtapose the emotions of her characters. The descriptions in these chapters, each headed to portray the different stages of the moon, the shifting of seasons, parallels the action within the plot.

However, as I say, this is where I reveal my preference in stories. The narrative slows up too much for me. I became aware that some scenes, some thoughts, some actions, some dialogue of the characters, were returned to, too often. And described in similar ways. I realise that this whole section is written to show the stages of grief, of acceptance, of moving on. But the repetition, albeit presented in numerous similar ways almost … not quite… but almost, tempted me to skip parts. I promise I didn’t!

What frustrated me was the fact that there were other subjects, other characters introduced into the plot that I feel could have been explored to more depth, integrated to balance the introspection of Amelie and Cleome. I became impatient of the contemplative mood within the text. There really are some brilliant minor characters in Snow Angels. But I felt they were only given a voice in a retrospective way; the reader is told their stories in a distanced, almost objective way, which, for me, lost the immediacy of their tragedies, their losses, the way their lives had fallen apart.

Which leads me to the last part of the story, the summing up of the action when the story is over. In one way it satisfied my curiosity; We are told what eventually happens to each and every one of the characters. In another, it disappointed me. The résumé almost felt like a synopsis, and, for me, emphasized the comparative slowness of the main section of the story.

Having said that some might wonder why I gave Snow Angels four star. Well it’s because I realise that, despite my preference for more action packed novels, I do like character led stories as well, and there are great characters in Jenny Loudon’s book. She also has a a very evocative style of writing that gives instant imagery that will appeal to many. In that vein I recommend Snow Angels to those readers.

About the Author:

Jenny Loudon is a British novelist whose work includes SNOW ANGELS, a moving and uplifting tale of recovery after loss, and the bestselling love story FINDING VERITY. She read English and American Literature at the University of Kent in Canterbury and holds a Masters in The Modern Movement. She lives with her family in the English countryside.

Learn more about Jenny Loudon at www.jennyloudon.com