LETTER TO MY COUSIN IN VANCOUVER: JANUARY

Dearest Elaine

Well, here we are in Devon in mid-January. Oh the horrors of a wet winter!  I don’t think I have ever seen so much rain pouring out of the sky as we have had in the last four weeks, and it’s still coming – but not today. There is a bright blue sky as I write to you, and when I glanced across at Dartmoor earlier it rolled across the horizon, vivid and clear enough to touch...

I am working hard on 'The Illandrian Diamonds'. It has spread out, both in my mind and on cyber-paper, like an enormous sheet of patchwork. Sometimes I grapple with it, searching fold after fold for the bit I have missed, then finding it but failing to link the correct colour or pattern – or so it seems. I am in two minds about Leo, my 14-year-old boy of mixed parentage. Mark, his father, loves him already even though he has only just discovered him, and will defend him to the end. But is Leo on the side of the angels, or is there something dark lurking behind those glittering pale eyes so like his mother’s? I want him to be the one who saves them all, but I think that he has a more sinister side. We shall see. Meanwhile the Illandrians continue to be infuriatingly naive and Helen struggles on...

Alfred

As the Winter Olympics approach I recall my hopes to come out to see you four years ago, and the huge disappointment of realising that it was simply, financially, beyond us. When you discover a far-flung relative, and you eventually meet them, you are unprepared for the bond which may flash into existence between you. Perhaps we were lucky, and this does not always happen? From the moment we met at the airport it was as though I had discovered the sister I never had, the best friend I knew might exist. Our grandfathers were brothers, so we share our great-grandparents. Your grandfather, Alfred was born 9^th February, 1868; my grandfather, Reece was born 31^st January, 1871.

Reece

From what we know and from their letters to each other and to others, I guess that Alfred was the braver of the two. To journey across an ocean and a continent and then to make a home at Chilliwack showed huge reserves of strength, both physical and mental. Reece was more solid and placid. I don’t know why he went into the Church, but it was often the case that the third son in a Victorian family like ours did just that. He was the only one to go to university, boasting in a letter to his sister: ‘I have been getting some awfully good marks lately – I think I could get an Exhi? [Exhibition – a kind of scholarship]’ I do not know whether he did or not, but I believe he was a clever man.

What have we inherited from them? I leave this question for another time. I amuses me to think that both of them came late to parenthood – as did both of our fathers, as a result of which we have grandfathers who we could not hope to have known, Reece dying in 1938 and Alfred in 1951.

I am juggling my writing life with my new obsession: knitting. I discovered Ravelry, where you can record all of your projects as well as discuss crafts – and many other subjects – and get ideas; and where a vast number of people knit socks. My latest project is an Icelandic sweater, rather daunting in its complicated design, but when approached with something like relaxed amusement, most enjoyable! It is hard though, and I have struggled to translate little black and white dots on a grid into black and bright purple stitchery which approximately resembles snowflakes. Or not.

Write to me! I send love...

TWO THIRDS MYSELF

‘What sort of a title is that?’ you ask. Well, I am glad to be able to reassure you that I am still whole and have not lost any part of myself – except for one small organ: my gallbladder. This was extracted by Mr Cooper on 19^th November, 2012.

My ‘gallstones attacks’ began over the Diamond Jubilee weekend. I will not describe the excruciating pain – that is for another day. Suffice it to say that on the Doctor’s advice I reduced all the fat in my diet to a bare minimum and by the time of the operation I had already lost 3 stone in weight.

Yes, I had been heavy! In April 2012 I weighed myself for the first time in years, for the purpose of a pension annuity declaration. The scales climbed to 13 stone 7 lbs. I was size 20. Chubby and tubby.

The weight fell off, dramatically at first, then slowly and surely. One year after the operation it had stabilised at 9 stone, which is where I am still: size 10/12. Skinny!

Over Christmas, a cousin who I never see asked me whether I have got used to this, and I realised that it has definitely changed me. It is not just the extraordinary (and costly) wardrobe replacement, which dropped from 20 to 16 (where did 18 go?) then on down through 14 to 12, finally stopping between 10 and 12. Nor is it the fact that all of my treasured rings, including my beloved wedding ring, are far too big; my teeth feel strange and some shoes are loose. My other half has had to get used to me too – a hug from him now envelopes me completely!

It is lovely to look at myself in the mirror and see this slender person staring back, but is it really me? I don’t think so. Not yet. I need to get used to this stranger who now has cheekbones and a neck. A huge bonus health-wise has been the suppressing of my hiatus hernia and the almost complete lack of heartburn, as well as – of course – the lack of pain. I can walk up hills again, easily, and getting myself out of the bath (which I no longer squeeze into) is a doddle. These are all wonderful surprises, but they still feel very strange.

I wish I could have told my 40-year-old self what to do to stay thin, but I fear that it would have changed the last 21 years of my life. You have less energy and lower stamina on this ‘diet’/way-of-life. Of course this might be because I am older now, but I wonder how I would have reacted then?

You cannot change the past; only warn and advise from experience. It may take a long time before I am completely comfortable with being two thirds myself, but I know one thing for certain: I am healthier and happier in my day to day life than I have been for a very long time. And that has to be a 1/3 bonus!

BOOK REVIEW: 'JUST ONE EVIL ACT' by Elizabeth George

- read November, 2013

I suggested this to a thriller readers' group - and wished that I had not, as no-one liked it. In fact I may be the only member of the group who finished it! Excluding the spoiler, here is what I reported back to the group:

At last I have reached the end of `Just One Evil Act' and it has been a real roller-coaster of a ride. I am left wondering what to say about it - simply because it is SO long and parts of it are so tough to get through. The last quarter of the book is the best by far. I think that the entire book could have been cut right back with some judicious editing. I could also have been made much easier to read by the exclusion of Italian words - you have to ask yourself WHY she felt the need for this when it actually detracts from the reader's understanding and enjoyment of the book. Bizarrely in the first part of the book the description and behaviour of Barbara Havers drove me mad and, I believe, has put some readers right off the book - and yet once she arrives in Italy this all seems to change. The character of the Italian policeman Salvatore Lo Bianco is beautifully drawn and his interaction with Barbara is intriguing as it combines compassion with a fierce intelligence.

Am I glad I read to the end? Yes, and I actually enjoyed the last 20%! Would I recommend it? Er... probably not.

For Jack Sadler - Afghanistan, 4th December 2007, Aged 21

FOR JACK SADLER - GUILTY                         by P R Ford, November 2013

Do you feel guilty for being alive?

For seeing a day which he did not see?

For feeling the chill of Autumn’s breath

As the raucous groans of rooks in the tree

Echo across barren fields, yet not

Bursting through air like a rifle shot?

Do you feel guilty for growing old?

Or welcome the ache of the swollen thumb

Fore-running the pain? – Sweet agony looms,

Not sudden, like flesh torn open and raw,

Nor lethal as chemicals which suddenly blow -

But slow and insidious. - He will not know.

His aging is there on memorial stone

Which weathers and yellows as memory fades.

His smile, cut off, will not lose its shape

As the photo curls or the image gapes.

Don’t cut it! Enhance it, love and embrace

His life, his youth, his darling face –

Oh yes! I feel guilty.

'The Uninvited Guest' - A Short Story

THE UNINVITED GUEST

‘The Uninvited Guest’ by Eleanor Fortescue Brickdale

H

e was there again. As she turned her head to glance back at Margaret, who was arranging her dress, she caught sight of him. This time he was closer than before, seated at the foot of one of the stone columns where he must have waited for her to pass by. So on this, her wedding day, he had chosen to distract her with his unearthly presence. On this most important day of her life, he was taking her mind off her flowers, her dress, the ceremony... She pretended not to notice. The page preceding her continued his slow march leading the newly married couple out of the church to their celebrations and their destiny.

She had last seen him when they read the banns. His expression was the same: desultory longing which he could not conceal. There was an air of hopelessness about him. A lost soul, perhaps? She knew, though, that he was watching her. No-one else. It seemed as though he had unfinished business with someone. Was it with her?

She almost tripped, and her new husband’s strong hand immediately took hold of her arm in a gentle, reassuring grasp. She glanced up at him and met his proud, smiling gaze. The silk of her dress rustled as it re-settled around her.

Another glance back confirmed her suspicions: he was still there. He had risen to his feet and she saw the long bow in his hand and the quiver full of silver-tipped arrows hanging from his shoulder. His expression was both grim and sad.

She knew now that he was going to kill her. She had recognised his identity. He was the Angel of Death about whom so many stories were told.  If only she could have had a little more time. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, not the last. Her husband was a good man. She did not know him very well, but she had hoped for more time than this, for time to get to know his body and his soul, to bear his children and perhaps even to love him...

She risked a final look, and saw that he had fitted one of the arrows to the bowstring and was standing in the classic manner of an archer, one foot forward, drawing back the string and straining the curve of the weapon.

She stopped.

She closed her eyes.

She waited.

She alone heard the rush of the arrow as it sped through the air towards her, its silver tip parting the molecules of oxygen, its shaft vibrating.

As it pierced her heart she fell against her husband and he took her in his arms. She felt the blood swelling, rising in her body and falling again as it drained out of her face – yet not out of her wound.

She opened her eyes as his lips touched hers, and immediately realisation dawned. It had not been Death who had shot his arrow into her, but Love.

This little story was inspired by the picture and written to submit to the Google+ Speculative Fiction Writers community SFFFlash ‘Just For Fun’ weekly article. My thanks to them for the inspiration!

WHO IS GOING TO READ THE BOOK?

The ideal reader of my book will be someone who enjoys a puzzle and loves surprises - because things never go the way the reader expects. Things go wrong, they are shocking. Some events delve backwards into the past to attempt to solve the mystery. Others move forward into the present to provide more consternation. Characters discover that they are not who they think they are, and neither are their friends or even those closest to them. People move from normal everyday life across the boundaries of time and space, and in so doing create even more predicaments, adding to the confusion. The reader will love this, will want to understand what is happening, but will be so mesmerised by the narrative, so attracted to some of the characters and so concerned by their fate that he or she cannot stop reading.  

What goes wrong? – Helen, a young accountant struggling with life post-divorce, and on holiday in Ireland, steps through a doorway and finds herself in the past, thereby triggering an alarm in an alien world.

What is shocking? - You will have to wait and see...