Hello

It's been a while since my last post. I have been preparing to travel again (at last) and putting finishing touches to Sandhill Cove.

I would like to share with you a little of my writing process.

Flora, a character in Dear Maggie, started life as Phoebe and while the details changed in the writing of my book, the piece shows how I develop my characters and am flexible when it comes to the final draft.

I hope you enjoy reading this and please feel free to comment. 

Thanks, until next time

Phoebe: A Self-Portrait

There are things in my life that I have tried to forget; to hide them away in shame. Why shame? My mind is in turmoil; my baby is gone. Nothing else matters now. Not Father; not George or Henry; no amount of rejection is equal to the pain that I suffer with the loss of my little girl who is now in the frozen ground outside of the church yard, to endure the cold eternity of the unbaptised. Cruel and unnecessary punishment for being born before it was her time.

Ruth, so tiny, but perfectly formed with all her fingers and toes and rosebud lips that never drew breath or knew that her mother and her father loved her. Her father; Andy was the first man, apart from Uncle Charles to show me that the world can be a kind place.

I can’t face Andy; I was unable to hold onto his child. He will never forgive me. Words fail me. I know that he worried about me; that he tried to see me on several occasions. I’ve tried to write to him, but can’t find the words to tell him. I asked Jonathon to tell him and to say that I don’t wish to see him again. I failed him.

But I should begin at the beginning, in Chester where I was born and grew up.

**

I was about three years’ old when Mama stopped visiting the nursery.

Until that time, it was my safe place and I only have warm memories of soft voices and gentleness. Mama used to have tea with Nanny and me. We sat around the nursery table we three, or four if you count Lucy the lamb who had her own special chair, but didn’t eat anything.

The first actual memory I have of my father is still with me. That was the day that changed everything. Mama was late so Nanny decided that we could start without her. She didn’t eat much either. Instead of the expected soft footfall of my mother, a voice boomed down the corridor outside the nursery, bouncing off the wainscotting and bursting into the room, before he filled up the doorway.

“Joanna! Joanna! I’m warning you! If I find you in here, I promise you, you’ll regret it!”

 The bread and butter I held, shook in my hand. I paused halfway from taking a bite.

“You’re home early Sir.” There was a trembling in Nanny’s voice, like she was fearful of something; I had never heard her speak with anything other than confidence. “The Mistress isn’t here, Sir. Would you like a cup of tea, or cake?”

Father turned on his heel without a word, snorting as he went. As his footsteps retreated, Nanny gathered me up and, leaving our tea, she carried me down the back stairs, through the kitchen and into the garden where she held me on her lap under the apple tree until the thudding in my head quietened, along with the thumping in my chest. 

Lucy wasn’t sitting in her usual place when we returned and I never saw her again. I was afraid to mention it and Nanny didn’t either. I had trouble sleeping that night without Lucy and for a long time afterwards. I watched the moon shadow as it passed my window and listened to the wind rustling the trees as they talked to each other. What did they say? Did the wind speak to them, tell them where he’d been and what he’d seen? Where did the wind come from and where did it go after visiting the trees?