by

Those painful rejection letters…

Clearing out a file the other day I came across a bundle of rejection letters from top publishers (aim high, I told myself).

As I combed my way through the Artist & Writer’s Year Book, I can still vividly recall my heart plummeting, and feeling completely devastated again and again on seeing my address written in my handwriting on the A4 envelope.

The pain of rejection was worsened by the positive feedback and encouragement that accompanied the rejection letters, and I wanted to scream: “Why bother telling me I’ve a natural writing talent and that you enjoyed my ‘regional evocative saga very much,’ but it isn’t right for your list of fiction????!!!  Arrrrrrgh!”

After 17 rejections, a well-established author friend asked if he could read my book. He thought it a good story, but required a fair amount of editing, cutting and polishing. He was right so I took his advice on board and cut 5,000 words.

I was one of the lucky ones who suffered only 19 rejections for my debut novel Language of Thieves.

So good luck to all of you writers searching for a publisher. Don’t despair – and don’t give up. If you love your novel somebody else will too.

I truly believe this with all my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

by

An excerpt from Kicking Over The Traces

Chapter One

The wintery sunset cast an eerie light over the little Norman church and the handful of mourners standing on the bleak hillside by the open grave.

‘We therefore commit her body to the ground … earth to earth … ashes to ashes … dust to dust…’ the priest droned. He glanced across at the girl and was instantly touched by the rawness and beauty of her grief-stricken face. Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, loosely caught in a ribbon of black lace at the nape of her neck, and her sapphire–blue eyes brimmed with unshed tears as they followed the coffin.

Florence Grainger shuddered as her mother’s coffin was lowered into the dark earth. Her father roughly yanked her hand and deposited a cold clod of wet soil into it. She looked into his face for a trace of comfort; it afforded none. She crushed the cold sticky earth between her fingers before throwing it into the gaping hole. It landed with a heavy thud on the coffin lid concealing the brass lettering: Esme Grainger 1884-1922.

Florence’s mother, Esme Grainger, had celebrated her thirty-eighth birthday barely a month ago whilst attending Yarm Gypsy Fair. They had been travelling north intending to camp within striking distance of Appleby in Westmorland for the ensuing winter months. And it was then that Esme fell dreadfully ill. She died quite unexpectedly in the rear of the bow-top wagon just prior to reaching the nearby village of Stoneygill in whose graveyard she now lay buried.

Blood poisoning, the doctor said: septicaemia, due to a small cut on her hand that had somehow become infected. Esme had developed a temperature and a high fever. Her daughter and husband suggested she rest in the back of the wagon for a few hours. But when they halted their journey to rest and water the horses, Florence looked in the back of the wagon to check on her mother to discover she had died.

I’m so sorry, Mother, Florence mouthed silently, to leave you here … in this strange and lonely place. But I’ll come back … and visit you … I promise, she vowed, gazing up to the heavens.

She felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder and turned to find the priest was standing close behind her. ‘What will you do now, my dear?’ he enquired. His voice was soft and full of concern; the warmth in his eyes gave her a measure of welcome comfort.

‘I … I’m not sure what I’ll do,’ Florence replied hesitantly.

‘Will you come back to the parsonage and have a bite to eat, please? My wife will be glad to—’

‘Thank yer kindly for givin’ my missus a decent burial – and for your invitation,’ Benny Grainger interrupted. He then handed a thin roll of notes to the priest. ‘Me and my daughter have a fair way to go and it’ll be dark soon. C’mon, let’s away, Florence,’ he said sharply.

The priest stood watching until the bow-top wagon disappeared down the road and out of view. There was something about the girl that he couldn’t quite put his finger on; something that had stirred an exaggerated concern in him. But it was too late now – they’d left. And there was no way her father was going to hang around. The priest tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling the man had imposed on him; and shivering, he headed back to the warm cosiness of the parsonage as the first snow of winter settled on the footpath.

And, unbeknownst to Florence, she would be included in his prayers that night.

‘Look sharp an’ take them over to t’barn!’ Benny Grainger growled impatiently. ‘I’ll go and see if it’s all right for us to stay here the night.’

Florence jumped down from the wagon and led the horse into the barn and waited for her father’s return. They had arrived only just in time for the snow was coming down thick and fast and blowing across the moor, causing deep drifts; the road they’d driven along was no longer visible.

Florence placed her hands on the warm chest of the horse and buried her head in his neck. ‘It’s all right, Ginger Dick, I’ll soon have you fed and watered, lad,’ she said, hugging him.

‘What d’yer think you’re doing!’ her father bawled. ‘I thought I told you to get that bloody horse seen to! Are you bloody deaf?’

She hadn’t heard his approach and the flat of his hand struck her sharply across the back of her head, causing her to stumble. The pain was blinding, but she swiftly regained her balance and spun round to face him.

‘Your mother’s not around now to protect you. Yer an idle git an’ you’ll do as yer told from now on; an’ I don’t give me orders twice! Understand?’

His cold eyes blazed down into hers, and Florence, too stunned to reply, started work on Ginger Dick immediately. She relieved him of the heavy wet harness and quickly making a straw wisp she proceeded to rub him down briskly. Father’s never liked me, she thought, tears flooding her eyes. What on earth will I do without Mother here? He’ll be hell to live with. Well, he’s not going to beat me, she resolved in that moment. I’ll leave first. I’m a good worker, ’specially with the horses. And since the war things have changed … maybe not so much in the travelling community … but women are doing men’s work on farms and suchlike.

After Florence finished grooming Ginger Dick, she took the empty water-jack to fill at the pump in the farmyard. It was five in the evening and it had stopped snowing and the sky had cleared, allowing a full moon to emerge which lit up a snow-covered landscape. She turned up the collar of her worn tweed coat and trudged through deep snow to where the pump was located. She looked up suddenly when the back door of the farmhouse was flung open and a woman scurried out carrying a pail and hurried over to the pump. Florence instantly relieved the woman of the empty pail and began to fill it for her.

‘Thank yer kindly, girl,’ the woman said, pulling a battered ex-army greatcoat tightly round her. ‘Come on in and have a cuppa and get thissen warm, lass, I’ve got a grand fire goin’ in the kitchen.’

Florence hesitated for a moment, but the thought of a warm fire and a cup of tea were too much to resist. ‘Thanks, that’d be most welcome,’ she said. Then setting down the water-jack, Florence picked up the other woman’s pail of water and carried it back to the house.

A blazing fire crackled in the grate of a shiny black-leaded range. The woman gestured one of the spindle-back chairs at the fireside to Florence before disappearing into the scullery. The woman returned carrying a plate of buttered tea loaf. She then poured tea from a teapot resting on the range before sitting down opposite her. A log shifted in the grate, producing a shower of sparks which lit up the room.

‘Thank you, missus, it tastes lovely,’ Florence said, biting into the moist, sweet loaf plastered with butter, ‘and thank you for letting us shelter in your barn.’

‘Oh, that’s no bother to us. Now, tell me, lass, how on earth do you manage to get through these harsh winters?’ she asked, frowning and shaking her head. ‘It’s hard enough here for me and my husband with a solid roof over our ‘eads.’

‘Aw, you get used it, missus,’ Florence said, ‘’specially when folks are kind – like yourselves.’

‘And yer mother? I couldn’t help notice there was only you … and er, yer dad is it?’

‘My mother died the other day. We … we buried her … this morning, at … Stoneygill.’ Florence’s voice was thick with emotion and tears began to well in her eyes and clog in her throat.

Mary Dalby set her cup aside and reaching out took Florence’s hand in her own. ‘Ah, I’m sorry, lass, here.’ She handed her a clean white handkerchief from her pinafore pocket. ‘What’s yer name? I can’t keep calling you lass.’

‘Florence Grainger,’ Florence snuffled, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

‘And I’m Mary Dalby. So you can call me Mary, and me ’usband’s name’s Arthur. He’s just feeding up and shouldn’t be too long. Stay and have a bit o’ tea with us, love, eh? You’d be more than welcome.’

‘No, no I can’t. My dad will be wondering where I’ve got to and er … sometimes he can get a bit angry.’

Aye, I bet he can, thought Mary. On meeting him she’d concluded he was a mean-looking man; and had she not seen Florence at the side of him when they drove into the yard, looking pale and tired, she’d have told him to keep moving. She and Arthur hadn’t any children, unfortunately, but they’d been happy through the last twenty years. Glancing across at Florence, Mary couldn’t help but wonder how that man had managed to father such a pretty daughter and assumed the girl’s mother must have been a very beautiful woman.

‘Here, take the rest of this loaf with you. I’ve got more in the larder,’ Mary said, wrapping the remainder of the tea loaf in greaseproof paper.

‘You’re very kind, missus, thank you again.’

‘Think nowt of it, lass, I mean, Florence. My, but it’s a pretty name, Florence, it suits you.’ Mary smiled at her. ‘Now there’s no need to be rushing off in this bad weather, love. Tell yer dad, I said it’ll be all right for you to stay on a while; if you want to, that is.’

‘I’d like that very much, thank you,’ Florence said, beaming with delight at the prospect of spending a few days here.

‘And in return I can help you if you like. I can turn me hand to most things; cooking, cleaning, washing …’

‘You just come over in the morning,’ Mary said, interrupting her and gently patting her arm, ‘an’ I’ll find something for you to do. Be nice to have a bit of female company about the place; it can get lonely in these parts, particularly during the long hard winters we get up here… . Aye, I’ll see you in the morning, Florence. Fetch that handkerchief back with you and I’ll have a clean ’un for you.’

Florence’s spirit soared with delight as she made her way back to the barn. She liked Mary Dalby and it would be nice to spend a few hours in that nice warm house every day, away from him!

Benny Grainger eyed Florence suspiciously as she entered the wagon.

‘Took yer bloody long enough to get some water!’ he snapped, ‘an’ what’s that yer’ve got there?’ he yelled, snatching the tea loaf out of her hands. ‘Ah, good … so you’ve got friendly with the farmer’s wife, eh? Now that could be useful. What’s she say? Does she want us gone in the mornin’?’

‘No, Dad. She said we could stay. And I can help her in the house in return for us stopping here.’

‘Not gonna pay yer anything for working? Bah, bloody cheek of some folk – typical bloody gorgios taking advantage of us gypsies … thinking we ‘ave to be grateful for any crumb they toss our way …’

‘Well, at least we’ve got somewhere to stay through this bad weather and I don’t mind helping her out in the house – honest I don’t. Please, let’s stay here. It’ll be Christmas soon.’

‘Get summat cooked for me tea! Never mind harpin’ on about bloody Christmas!’ he snarled. ‘And I decide how long we’re staying ’ere for.’

‘What’s the matter with you, Dad? What’s wrong?’ Florence pleaded. She was fed up with his shouting and bullying. He’d changed: the coolness he’d always displayed towards her in the past, had, these last few days, deteriorated into extreme, downright cruelty. ‘You’ve been nasty to me ever since Mother passed away and it’s not my fault she’s dead!’

‘Well, now she’s gone I don’t have to pretend to like yer any more, do I?’ His voice was low and menacing. ‘Cos I don’t like you … and I never have – it’s all been a bloody sham, and when the time comes to leave here – I’ll be leaving on my own.’

Florence gasped aloud hardly able to believe her ears.

‘Aye, that’s shocked yer, hasn’t it?’ A grim smile creased the corners of his mouth.

‘W-what about me … Dad, d … don’t you care?’ Her voice held a tremor and was a mere whisper as she struggled to take in what he was saying. He didn’t want her with him … Her own father didn’t want her!

 ‘Dad? Hah! You can stop calling me Dad now your mother’s dead. Cos I’m not yer father. Yer mother was carryin’ you in her belly when I married her! That’s why she married me; cos no bugger else would ’ave her. ’Ad a fling with some gorgio, she did, at Topcliffe Fair.’

Benny Grainger raised his head, his eyes examining her carefully; he was enjoying the pain which was evident in her face. ‘Yer ill-gotten whatever yer breeding – an’ it’s no bloody concern of mine.’

‘What?’ Florence felt physically winded and her hand shot up to her mouth to stem the sharp pain shooting through her. Her eyes were wide with horror and as she stared in disbelief at this cruel man before her a chill began to steal over her. What an ugly nasty man he was, she thought; it was as though she was seeing him for the very first time. He had small pinched features; his nose and cheeks reddened by a network of fine broken veins. And with a sudden realization of this truth, she thanked God it wasn’t his blood coursing through her veins. Then lowering her hand from her mouth, Florence started to laugh; quietly at first, but it wasn’t long before her whole body began to shake with laughter.

‘You think it’s funny, do yer, your mother being nowt but a whore?’

Florence’s laughing ceased. She looked into the face of the vile being standing in front of her and saw a complete stranger; a callous man whom she detested and wanted no connection with ever again for as long as she breathed the breath of life.

He would be easy to forget. The sooner he was gone the better.

Garrett Ferrensby looked out from the drawing-room window across to the snow-whitened moorland, illuminated by a full moon in a darkening sky. A log shifted in the grate, disturbing the Great Dane which slept peacefully on the rug by the hearth. He jerked his head and looked from the fire to his master. Garrett picked up a long iron poker and leaning forwards pushed the log back into the flames. There was a tap on the door and a young girl entered the room.

‘Mrs Baxter says I’ve to see if yer want the fire buildin’ up an’ the lamp lighting, sir?’ she said. The girl’s thick Yorkshire accent belied her refined features; there was nothing delicate about the folk born and raised on Hamer Moor; they were as tough as the sheep that roamed the moor and could withstand whatever hardships life threw their way.

‘No, I do not want the fire building up and I’m quite capable of lighting a lamp. Now you can go back and tell Mrs Baxter that I am not completely useless!’

The girl was no longer taken aback by her master’s rudeness. She nodded, turned, and hurried from the room. The dog opened his eyes at the sound of his master’s harsh tone and, seeing that this was not directed at him, he discharged a contented groan before slowly letting his eyelids fall closed again.

Garrett struggled to his feet with the aid of a walking stick and prodded the dog. ‘Move, move Bruno!’ he griped. Bruno clambered to his feet and stretched before retreating to a safer distance on the other side of the fireplace. Garrett hobbled across the room with difficulty and lit the oil lamp. Then, grimacing, he made his way back and crumpled wearily into the chair.

The door opened with a simultaneous knock. Ivy Baxter blustered into the room. She stood before him with her hands on her hips. Garrett stiffened and waited. His housekeeper was not only beginning to get on his nerves, but getting out of hand and forgetting her station since his return from the war.

‘Are you wanting rid of all my staff?’ she demanded, ‘Because if you are you’re going the right way about it!’

‘Don’t you talk to me in that manner! How dare you?’

Ivy Baxter ignored his counter-blast. ‘I’ll tell you how I dare, sir, cos no bugger’s going to come and work up here in the middle of nowhere if you keep shouting at them and biting their heads off. Your dinner will be served in the dining room in fifteen minutes,’ she concluded in a civil tone before marching from the room.

Garrett stared blankly at the closed door. I’ve taken my meals in this drawing room … what? Ever since … since I came home! What’s got into that blasted woman? Damn her! Damn that woman!

Garrett unconsciously ran his hand down his thigh, allowing it to rest upon the damaged limb. If it hadn’t been for that brilliant young surgeon I’d have lost it, he thought, gently massaging his leg. He recalled the Belgian doctor who, thankfully, had ignored his superior’s advice to amputate the leg, thereby saving it. Most of Garrett’s regiment had been killed. They’d been blown to smithereens that day at Passchendaele in October, 1917, five years ago. Still, the graphic nightmares continued, and he would wake up sweating and crying in the middle of the night. In the recurring nightmare Garrett would be fighting his way through the heavy, stinking sludge, where thirty days of heavy rain had converted soil to mud so deep that men and horses drowned in it; nothing less than a grinding swampy slaughter.

He looked at the clock on the mantelshelf, which said seven o’clock. ‘It looks as if Mrs Baxter means what she says, Bruno.’ The dog rose from the hearthrug at the mention of his name.

‘There you go now, sir, I’ll put your stick where you can reach it,’ Ivy said. Her tone was gentle, like that of a mother to her child. She was smiling broadly at her employer as he made his way to the dining table. ‘Grouse,’ she said, ‘shot on the moor last week, and poached pears for dessert. Enjoy yer meal, sir.’ Ivy quickly examined the table, ensuring everything was within easy reach before leaving.

‘Ahem!’ Garrett coughed and Ivy stopped at the door. ‘Just a moment, please, Ivy.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Thank you for … for all of this,’ he said in a quiet voice, waving his hand over the table, ‘and, err, the young girl … tell her from me, please … she’s doing a grand job.’

‘Aye, I’ll tell her. It’s good to have you back in the dining room, sir.’

Garrett looked around the huge room. He sat at the head of the table that seated twelve, twenty when the extra leaves were inserted. Two silver candelabras were positioned at each end separated by a large ornate silver fruit dish which stood in the centre. Dark, heavy Victorian furniture graced the sides of the room, and a strong smell of beeswax filled the air. For a moment he remembered the laughter that had rung in this room years ago, before his parents had died … and before the God-awful war… . His older brother, Robin, was now married and living in London with his wife, Felicity. He rarely visited nowadays, but when he did, he would only came for a few days during the grouse season; often accompanied by two or three colleagues longing to get away from London and its frequent smog.

Robin, it appeared, had returned from the war physically and mentally unscathed by its horrors, unlike himself. And having taken up politics he was fast becoming a big noise at Westminster.

The next morning Garrett woke up feeling rested. It was the first night since arriving home from the war he’d managed to sleep through till morning undisturbed by his usual hideous nightmares. His leg felt stiff and sore as he hobbled without the aid of his stick to the bedroom window and drew back the heavy curtains.

Dawn was breaking.

The sun’s weak ascent cast a watery glow across a landscape of vast barren moorland; moorland formed thousands of years ago when the ice sheet melted, and which rambled all the way to the east coast, diminishing in height on its approach along the way.

High Agra had been in the Ferrensby family now for four generations. The estate was some twenty thousand acres in total and boasted one of the best grouse shoots in Yorkshire. The land was tenanted to sheep farmers who lived in the tiny cottages dotted about the moors. These farmers scraped a meagre living from the harsh moors as had their ancestors before them; many were old and since the war deprived of sons to carry on farming. Their bodies lay buried on French soil with the thousands of other young men who’d lost their lives; a loss which had echoed throughout Britain – nobody could avoid the impact of war.

All of a sudden his eyes hardened. They settled on a fold in the moor beyond the long drive and the main gates to where a tumbledown hovel, Hamer Bridge, crouched in the depression and interrupted his panoramic view.

Old Tom Pickles, who owned the property, died more than six months ago; and as yet, there was no indication of a For sale sign. Only last week Garrett had paid a visit to his solicitor in Ryeburn instructing them to make enquiries regarding the property but so far had not heard back from them. He craved ownership of the property and who other but himself was the obvious buyer, he’d pointed out to his solicitor.

And after I’ve bought it I’ll damn well demolish it! It’s a bloody eyesore! What the hell was Father doing selling a piece of land and a cottage – ripping the very heart out of High Agra? And to bloody Old Man Pickles? I can only assume Father must have been a bit strapped for brass at the time …

Garrett straightened his back and brought his attention back to the present. Looks like a fine day, he thought, scanning the clear blue sky.

‘Come on, Bruno!’ The dog jumped to attention immediately, his tail beating madly against him. ‘It’s about time I was back in the saddle, my friend, and you can come with me. We’ll ride into Ryeburn together – that should please Ivy Baxter, to get me out from under her feet.’

Friday in Ryeburn was busy and there was an air of activity. It was market day, and people from the neighbouring villages assembled in the open square to sell their wares. Their voices rang out from beneath canvas-covered stalls crammed with home-made chutneys, jams, cheeses, butter, rabbit skins; anything they could barter with – or exchange for a few pence.

Garrett made his way to the Three Feathers Hotel where he liveried his horse. He then weaved his way through the busy market square to his solicitor.

‘Mister Ferrensby, what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you had an appointment? Is Mr Hatch expecting you? I don’t think— ‘

‘No, Miss Brown, he is not. But, I happened to be in Ryeburn and hoped he would give me a few minutes of his valuable time. Ah, here’s Hatch now,’ Garrett said, glancing to where a tall, thin, cadaverous man emerged from the office.

Clive Hatch extended a bony white hand which Garrett shook. ‘Have you got five minutes, Clive, please? As you’ve probably already guessed I haven’t got an appointment.’

The solicitor took out his pocket watch and checked it.

‘Ah, it’s almost lunchtime, Miss Brown,’ Clive said to the middle-aged spinster who’d been with the firm for as long as Garrett could remember. Her pursed lips softened a little when the solicitor leaned towards her and affectionately rested his hand on her elbow. ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so. Come, Garrett.’

Clive Hatch wiped his mouth and dropped the napkin on the table. ‘I can’t find out a damned thing about Hamer Bridge, Garrett, I’m afraid,’ he said, with a puzzled expression. ‘I’ve made enquiries for miles around: Thirsk, Northallerton, Malton, every town within thirty miles of here – and nothing! God only knows who’s dealing with the man’s estate. I take it that no sign has been put up at the property, then?’

‘No,’ replied Garrett, shaking his head, ‘and nobody’s been to view the place either since the old boy died. The workers keep their eyes open for me and promise to relay any comings or goings, but not a dickie bird. Well, thank you, Clive, I’d better be making my way back. No, no, my pleasure,’ Garrett insisted, taking out his wallet.

He paid the bill and then pressed a shilling into the hand of the young waitress who attended their table. The waitress looked up and rewarded him with a wide smile when seeing the generous tip he’d given her.

Garrett smiled back and the noisy chatter of the other diners muted into the distance. All he was aware of was the smallness and softness of her hand, and how it impacted greatly on his senses and that he didn’t want to release his hold; he didn’t want to lose the warm glow which spread unwittingly throughout his entire body. Nor did he want to relinquish the stirring sensation in his loins, something he hadn’t experienced in a very long while. The girl blushed as he continued to stare wordlessly at her, but Garrett didn’t care.

Most of those taking lunch in the hotel were well aware of who Garrett was: his family was respected and well known for miles around; the Ferrensbys were local gentry. The townsfolk were also aware that the squire had sustained injuries during the war and that he didn’t venture far from High Agra, so today would set their tongues wagging, especially those observing him now smiling down at the pretty young waitress. The room had fallen silent as the diners stopped eating and chattering and turned to look at him.

The solicitor coughed loudly.

‘I’d better be getting back to the office,’ he said, hauling Garrett’s attention away from the young waitress. ‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything.’

‘Yes, do that, Clive,’ Garrett said, watching the young waitress retreat to the safety of the kitchen – the glorious moment gone.

On leaving the hotel, Garrett was mindful of his faltering stride. His leg ached terribly because of the ride into town along with the effort of trying to hide his limp. But he didn’t mind too much. What mattered most to him then was that he felt alive inside again. The desire to take that young waitress in his arms and crush her to him was proof enough for him.

There was a stiff breeze blowing across the moor as Garrett made his way home with Bruno running alongside his horse. A red-brown flash of a grouse rose from the snow-covered purple heather. It took flight with a deep whir from its strong wings, its plaintive call fading into the lonely distance. The cold wind whipped his face, but Garrett couldn’t stop smiling to himself as he recalled the young waitress smiling her thanks at the tip he’d given her and he pondered her warm, soft young body. It had been a long time since he’d made love to woman – too long.

‘Something I must rectify, Bruno,’ he said to the loping dog. ‘Come on, boy, we’re almost home!’

**

You can buy Kicking Over the Traces at http://www.whiterosebooks.com/

Or on AMAZON

 

by

Getting To Grips With Writing Again

I find it hard to believe that it is four years since my first novel was published – or that I’m THAT much older and not THAT much wiser…

What happened? Life happened; challenging me with a cliff face ascent I would quite happily have avoided had it been at all possible. After writing the first chapter of Kicking Over The Traces, it was consigned to the back burner for a year while I nursed my husband back to health when he sustained a stroke during a routine heart operation. Added to this were two moves and a new house build.

When I eventually did pick up the manuscript again, the characters resurfaced – awaiting their fate…. It was no great hardship to weave a story into this beautiful area, North Yorkshire; with its vast, rich, rural landscape; for this is where I’ve lived all my life and where my roots are deeply entrenched

North Yorkshire plays a major part in my story telling. One bleak day in the middle of winter while trundling over the North York moors that we stopped and parked the car. I gazed in wonder at the spectacular wilderness; the raw beauty of the moors had a profound effect on me that day and I craved this dramatic location to play a key role in Kicking Over The Traces; it was the perfect setting for the characters demanding release in my head; and I can only hope that I’ve done this magical landscape a fraction of the justice it truly deserves. The story also embraces a popular market town that sits on the southern edge of the moors that I chose to call Ryeburn, which I’m sure many readers will have no difficulty in recognising.

Once again Kicking Over The Traces is laced with ample quantities of the travelling and gypsy community; bringing colour and diversity to the district…. I don’t believe I would want to write a book without adding a good measure of the traveller and gypsy way of life.

I am currently writing a sequel.

You can buy Kicking Over the Traces in White Rose Books Cafe in Thirsk http://www.whiterosebooks.com/

Or on AMAZON

by

Kicking Over The Traces

9780719817588

I’m very excited to announce that my latest novel will be published in October 2015 by my publisher, Robert Hale Ltd.

During the early stages of writing this second novel I had no choice but to set it aside, often for months at a time as more important factors (family commitments) lay claim to my time.

Apologies to my readers for having taken so long to write Kicking Over The Traces – I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

My hometown, Thirsk, and the nearby magnificent North Yorkshire moors are the backdrop to this romantic novel.

Westmorland – winter, 1922

When her mother dies unexpectedly, Florence Grainger is subsequently deserted by her stepfather at an isolated farm owned by the Dalby’s.  He leaves her with nothing – save an old red coat belonging to her late mother… and her tenacious gypsy spirit.

It is much too dangerous for a young woman to travel the roads alone and Florence must abandon her gypsy origins and learn to embrace the settled way of life – courting pain and prejudice along the way.

Then one night, after a days heavy drinking at a local market,  Arthur Dalby breaches any trust…  rendering Florence’s stay there intolerable.

Distraught, but not defeated, Florence rejects the wilds of Westmorland for the barren landscape of the North Yorkshire moors. And it is here she encounters two men from two entirely different worlds:  the charming, yet irascible, Garrett Ferrensby from High Agra… and gypsy horse dealer, Ambrose Wilson.

Both men have the potential to change her life forever.

by

An excerpt from Language of Thieves

‘Tell you yer fortune, sir?’

Tobias Flint turned to where a dark-haired, olive-skinned elderly gypsy woman was sitting outside an immaculate, colourful, bow-top wagon. She smiled at him, a clay pipe filling the gap where once there had been teeth. Her dark hands heavily laden with sovereign rings rested upon her apron. Enormous gold earrings the size of bracelets dangled to her shoulders, and around her neck hung strings of bright coral beads.
   ‘I don’t think so, but thank you,’ he said smiling at her.
   ‘My, but you’ve got a lucky face,’ she continued, ‘Come along in young sir, you’ll not regret it. Rose Marie’s me name – I’m known all over the country for me gift of fortune telling.’
   Tobias hesitated. Aw, why the hell not! He said to himself, it’s harmless enough. He then about turned and made his way toward the famous Rose Marie.
   ‘And what will the pleasure cost me?’ he asked, looking into the darkest eyes he’d ever seen. But they were kindly, knowing eyes that twinkled mischievously when she smiled back at him. He decided there and then he liked this woman. Whether she was a charlatan, he cared not. He wanted to spend some time in her company – and this was as good a way as any.
   ‘Five shillings,’ she said in a business-like tone.
   ‘Good Lord!’ He exclaimed, ‘That’s a lot of money, are you good?’
   ‘Oh, I’m better than good,’ she boasted, ‘I’m the best you’ll find for miles around.’
   Marie Rose stood up from where she perched on a stool. She placed the clay pipe on a small ashtray then indicated the wooden steps leading to the inner sanctum of the bow-top wagon.
   He had to duck his head and bend his knees to go through the door. On entering, he gasped with delight at the beauty of it. It was crammed with the finest china and cut glass he’d ever seen; even his mother would be hard pushed not to be impressed, he mused.
   The canvas roof of the wagon was lined in a quilted silk fabric, exquisitely embroidered in tiny flowers which must have taken months, or even years to do. Rich red velvet curtains hung at the tiny window. He was astounded at the delicate, intricate work visible in the construction and furnishing of the charming little house on wheels.
  He sat down slowly, carefully avoiding knocking over any precious pieces of glass or china. Rose Marie read concern in his face and advised him not to worry but to relax.
   She placed a flimsy bone china cup and saucer on the table between them. For the life of him he didn’t know how she’d managed to produce the hot cup of tea within seconds.
   ‘Go on, drink it. Don’t look so scared, I’m not going to poison you ‘cos you ‘aven’t paid me yet!’ They both laughed and he relaxed a little. ‘And I can’t get to them leaves if yer don’t get it down yer – an’ it’s your lips that must drain the cup.’
   ‘Right, right…’ he said apprehensively, and quickly gulped the hot tea. He swallowed a few tea leaves causing a bout of coughing and choking. ‘Sorry … sorry about that. I’m ok now.’
   His index finger became stuck in the tiny handle. She leaned forward and gently released it.
   ‘There now,’ she whispered, and with a strange unnatural slow swirling motion of her hand – which appeared not to include any wrist action – she emptied the last drops of tea from the teacup into the saucer then held the cup in both hands as though ready for prayer.
   She stared into the cup for what seemed an eternity. Her eyes assumed a faraway look. There was a hushed stillness within the wagon even though, outside, the place thronged with people.
   A shiver ran down his spine when she placed the cup on the table and raised her head to look at him. The faraway look had vanished and was replaced with an intense gaze of concentration. This is serious stuff! He thought.
   Her eyes held his gaze and she sensed a disturbance in his heart. ‘Don’t be afraid of the danger in your midst, but it is there … not for too long. You must ride the storms in the near future. Your help will be much needed by someone….’ She took a deep intake of breath placing the cup back on the table.
   Tobias could feel his heart racing. He was unable to move a muscle or take his eyes from her. He made no resistance when she took his hand and turned it palm upwards in her own.
   ‘Ah, a gentleman’s hand,’ she said, stroking her fingers over his soft palm.
   Most of the hands she read were gnarled and callused from hard labour, the hands of men and women who were desperate for change in their lives. They wanted to hear about coming into lots of money, a way out of the poverty, hardship and misery that swallowed them up. Rose Marie could see that there was no way out for most of them.
   She continued stroking the hand that lay in hers for a while before she spoke. ‘You must guard against someone, someone close…’ She hesitated, unable to continue for a while and her lips moved as though in secret conversation with an unseen being. ‘There is somebody who would harm you and there is also someone waiting … waiting for you to help them …not a stranger. It’s not clear who… but will be made so…’ She then looked up into his eyes and smiled. ‘Ah, there is much love in your heart, and I see you are waiting for the fortunate young lass to come and claim it. She will, all in good time. There’s nothing any good gotten in a hurry, young man, so be patient, and your patience will be rewarded.
   The mystic spell dissipated as the Romany let go of his hand and stood up.
   ‘Come and see me next year.’ This was something she never asked any gorgio to do, probably because they always came back to her for another reading in any case. Yes, she had the gift of seeing into the future; sometimes it was a blessing, other times a curse, but for some reason she wanted to know how this man would fare through the difficult times ahead.
   ‘I’ll still be around next year then?’ Tobias jested.
   ‘You’ll be around, young man, that’s as sure as night follows day.’
by

Language of thieves is Kindle Bestseller!

What an amazing week it’s been.

We’ve been settling in to our new temporary accommodation (whilst our log home is being built), which I have to admit is proving to be no great hardship. Having sold our house, we’re now staying with our son, his wife, and our two little granddaughters. (You know, the ones I’m always bragging about on Twitter!). They’ve been out of the country on holiday for the week and due back tomorrow.

The best news is that my husband has improved immensely and continues to do so. Thing is, if he improves any more he’ll be a damn nuisance!

And the next best news is that Language of Thieves, my debut novel, reached the dizzy heights of  #2 in the Kindle charts! Thank you to all those who bought it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

That emotional high was equal to when my novel was accepted for publication last year. I cannot believe my good fortune after what I can only describe as one of the most difficult years in my entire life. Of course, these highs are short-lived and hold little substance. It was great while it lasted.

Somebody once said: “Don’t take life too seriously. None of us is going to get out out of it alive.”

Good advice.