- What gave you the idea for your Baubles story?
It was only after my
grandfather's death (at the age of 96!) that I researched the Battle of Boars
Head, France, in which he fought as a young man in June 1916, just prior to the
Battle of the Somme. Crippled by a wound to his leg, it is amazing to think
that, had his colleague not saved him, none of my family would exist. Whilst
walking my dog one day, I found myself enchanted by fluffy white baubles of
cloud and a huge eagle-like bird which kept circling us. The bird (now called
Grandfather!) subsequently became a familiar companion on those walks and
inspired me to write a little more of this story each time I encountered
it.
The Dandelion Bed
There is a beautiful meadow
close to where we live which regularly transforms into a moonscape of Dandelion
Puff-balls. This inspired me to write this story for the Baubles theme and
allowed me to illustrate my belief that the deceased sometimes watch over
us.
- How would you describe your normal style of writing?
My normal style of
writing is descriptive, with a dark edge to it.
- Have you published other material?
I've been fortunate to have had short
stories included in several Bridgehouse anthologies now and poems and flash
fiction stories published by Early Works Press. This year two short stories were
taken by a publishing company in LA and just recently a short story has been
selected for publication soon in Graffitti magazine for their theme
'temptation'.
- Do you have a writing routine?
Life doesn't seem to allow for a
routine for writing so I have to grab opportunities when they arise.
5.
Do you have a favourite place
for writing?
I don't have a favourite place for
writing, but inspiration pours in from country walks.
6.
Tell something quirky about
you.
I believe in angels.
An extract from The Dandelion Bed
As her car pulled up at the Old Rectory, the Wisteria
tangled frontage hadn’t changed since she was a child. The huge wooden door
towered above her, gnarled and thirsty for paint. She struggled with the old
lock, leaning all her weight on the door until it groaned open. Vaguely aware
of it closing behind her, Alison stood listening to the creaking house and
imagined her mother appearing from the kitchen wearing a floral apron. She
remembered her brother careering down the lengthy banister in a pillowcase and
the tall fir tree which reached right up to the gallery, heavily hung with
colourful baubles. Joyfully she’d pat the angel at the top as she drifted off
to bed, and it always seemed to smile back at her.
Matthew had persuaded her to come here to supervise the
redecoration ready for sale, to pay for their mother’s care home fees. She’d
told him it would be the worst possible place for her go; but he pointed out
that her own house had become a shrine since John died fourteen months ago and
she needed to get away.
There was a muffled barking… she’d forgotten the dog was in
the car again; yet another example of how she wasn’t quite with-it these days.
Despite her years, the hefty Labrador jumped
agilely down and ran eagerly to the front door wagging her tail excitedly. Once
inside she began sniffing elatedly and as Alison opened the sitting room door,
Millie rushed in. The room hadn’t changed in over 30 years; it was as though
time had stood still. She carefully touched the long soft velvet drapes which
now looked faded and sad whereas the old brown leather Chesterfields seem to
have improved with age. She fondly patted her father’s sturdy walnut writing
desk, picturing him there peering through his horn-rimmed spectacles at one of
his sketches. She was glad to see his, now slightly faded, water colour
collection still hung above the fire place. The dust covered chandelier was
missing several bulbs and a delicate layer of powder had formed a fluffy white
tablecloth on top of the maple coffee table.
The dog trotted behind Alison as she made her way back to
the hallway and then entered the large but very ancient kitchen, where her
mother had spent many hours slaving over the range. Wiping the grime from the kitchen
window she could see that the gardener had recently scythed the lawn into a long
shag-pile carpet. As the ancient plumbing rebelled at the filling of the
kettle, Millie sighed and flopped at Alison’s feet.
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