ASHLEY MADISON

Hello World,

I'm beginning to believe that with all the new revelations coming through I should be starting a new blog-site. Maybe I will. I stopped writing just about new books of mine being published because Life got in the way. It's a common hazard for a writer, especially challenging when it offers new opportunities, or rather alternative plot lines for books already in the making. Suddenly characters change their psyche, seek a different vocation, take an alternate path, become someone they weren't supposed to be ... or at least someone the reader didn't believe possible. But that's okay. It keeps the reader guessing. And that's good, especially if the author writes thrillers, and it means a new and very different kind of unexpected twist at the end.

Those who have kept up with the plot of my Life so far will be aware that five weeks ago today ... FIVE WEEKS!!!! It still seems such an incredibly short time! ... my husband sent me an email saying he wasn't coming home from London. I hadn't seen him since my birthday on 4 July. Then the email was closely followed by a text saying he wanted an 'amicable divorce' ... which doesn't in truth, exist. Why? Because he'd 'found' an Italian Lady, and for the future, speaks of making Italy his home.

In coming to collect his personal belongings, it was surreal ... like having one foot in the nightmare, the other in the dream. He acted just as if nothing had happened, treating me the same, taking me out shopping (earlier this year he wrote off my car) and then to lunch just as we might do on a Saturday, the only day he wasn't working in London (allegedly). His email had come completely out of the blue, no warning. It's only in looking back, that it's possible to pick up clues, like footprints leading to this act of betrayal and pain and a breakdown, a total collapse of the world I once knew.

This past week I feel this huge weight of emptiness and pain. Like grief, I am consumed, overwhelmed with emotion. Even the smallest thing becomes a big deal and takes up so much energy. But then, through the ether, came another text. I ignore them now. Keep my mobile off most of the time. It hurts too much, teetering on the edge. But I was waiting for a text to come from my daughter, and at first sight this one from him looked gobaldygook. Complete gibberish!! I thought on his words and half-decided he was drunk on a good bottle of red wine. But then slowly, the words unravelled. Doth he protest too much? And what exactly was he protesting about anyway? More research was required. As a writer of books steeped in history, it's something I'm particularly good at, and it didn't take long ... helped, I might add, by a quick dose of late TV News which clarified the situation. His original text read:

'Hope you are recovering from your breakdown xxx oh, and you won't find me in Ashleigh Madison hacked data I wasn't on it or any other site xxx'

The late night News Channel was agog, relating what was happening via the Ashley Madison website which had been hacked, details of married male clients seeking affairs (which is what the website offers) being released by those taking the morale high ground. Good for them! In truth, I now suspect I am one of many many victims. He would have found his Italian female liaison online through this website. Maybe others also. For a man wanting out of a relationship or marriage it seems the ideal opening, without a thought for the consequences of their actions. It could have been happening right under my nose, and for a long long while, stretching back to before Christmas. All those days and nights he could spare the time to be with me, his wife, waiting at home while he worked in London; were spent diving for his mobile in and out of his pocket every three seconds (I timed it!!) to check for incoming ... while late at night he remained on his computer as the dedicated wife waited for him to come to bed.

More fool me!

But then again, how is a wife supposed to know her husband is cheating on her, playing her for a fool?

How is a wife these days supposed to trust when the internet too easily offers open doors to hidden worlds, secret worlds, bringing affairs directly into our homes?

All pertinent questions. Each one relevant. I understand from latest news bulletins that divorce suits have risen from cheated wives as a direct result of this website. It's too easy for a husband to shift the blame, thinking up untold excuses, making the wife feel guilty. He grew bored with his marriage ... 'I arrive home to the same old ...' Over sixty years old, it's too easy for a husband to start roaming, seeking his lost youth, chasing after younger ladies, long legs, heels, slim-waisted, long thick hair with the ability to make him feel young again, energised, filled with renewed vigour, and a thirst for all those things he hasn't yet done with his life. And of course, the enticement for the lady of the story has to be the racing green sports car, the new slim-line male, the new bachelor pad ... and money!!

What might you do in the same situation?

As a wife who has given everything to this man she met over five years ago, almost six, who she married a mere two years ago next month ... it's all the more difficult when she can't find the on/off button to Love! But then again, slowly, as time passes moment by moment, and through the ether more shocks and surprises are uncloaked, it is possible for that Love to be nibbled slowly, painfully away, until only the crumbs of what was once solid and dependable and true are left.

What was meant to last forever becomes a forgotten dream.

THE ITALIAN JOB!

Hello World,

Again I come to talk, to share, because it's always been my way. Writing was my first language. It will probably be my last! Writing about personal experiences was how I was originally published in 1984 when I became the first woman in the UK to write about living as a battered wife on a day-to-day basis (writing under Janine Turner). Now writing comes as a natural release, words spilling onto a virgin page waiting to stem the tide of emotion that otherwise threatens to engulf me, carrying me on to the very edge of despair.

There's a saying: 'I stare into the abyss, and the abyss stares back at me'. I know that place well, filled with such darkness and pain. It's an awful hell to be and exactly where I am right now, existing on a moment-by-moment basis. Not knowing what even tomorrow might bring.

Disability. Abuse. Love. Betrayal. Secrets. Lies. Words which speak of a good thriller. Always one the hunter, the other a victim. And the prize? In this case, it turns out to be an 'Italian Job'. No, not the film ... but a lady! If you're keeping up with the plot so far, I was left by my husband and in the cruelest way ... finding out through an email he sent me four weeks ago today, Sunday. It was all my fault, of course, I was to blame, turning the screws on an already intolerable situation. It's the oldest trick in the book - making the victim believe she/he is the one to blame. Guilt-ridden thoughts unbidden ride the tsunami of emotion, blocking the truth, filling her mind with questions about what she did that was so wrong.

Even this morning, four weeks to the day, my husband remains in denial. Another text: '... I am truly sorry about what happened, but every time I came home it was just more of the same old ... and I was getting depressed about it.'  What does he expect - an apology, or a medal! And the one day in the week we actually got to spend together because he was working in London, couldn't he at least have tried to make it special ... take me out for a meal, spend the day somewhere, go out on the town to the Theatre followed by a meal, flowers ... chocolates ... treats? Since being accepted for the contract in London in March, London became his home more and more, to the extent that he was there except for Saturdays which he spent with me, his wife, waiting at home in the north. I became his 'Lady in Waiting' ... waiting, waiting, always waiting until he had time for me, feeling more like something he picked up and put down at will, with seemingly no feelings of my own.

But now, finally I know the truth. It makes sense of everything that has gone before. He told me himself, so it has to be true. Early this year he met an Italian lady in London and is even considering going to Italy with her for the future, making it his home. Quite how or where he met her I have no idea ... on the internet? Always a possibility. But despite all his protestations ... there IS another woman involved in this affair! His growing unsettlement, depression and subsequent abandonment of the little village in the north where we lived together as husband and wife, had no value to him any more when London, the City, beckoned, together with a new woman to boost his aging self.

Does this sound bitter?

Do I have a right to be bitter ... resentful even ... especially as, because of London and this woman, he has relinquished all responsibility to me, his wife, who gave everything to support him, especially during our beginnings when he was out of work. He owes me BIG TIME!

All I want for myself right now in practical terms is the right to manage my home, my life, without the threat of losing it because he continues to be in control, holding the purse strings, as well as having directed all the bills of this house to remain in his name at his new abode.

Emotionally, I am broken.

There are days I don't want to live.

I've had enough.

This is the third time someone has walked away ... the first I was married to for eleven years and he totally disappeared off the face of the earth leaving me with a young child. He left for another woman and we lost everything, our home included. The second man I was with I never married, but years on, he went out and never returned ... leaving for a younger woman in London.

What is it about London?

Are its streets really paved with gold?

I even suggested to my present husband that if London was to be his place of work for the next few years, perhaps we should move down there, to be closer, to revive our ailing quality time together. It seems it was the suggestion that started this whole scenario. Or rather, was it his fear that I would 'jump on a train' and go to London to somehow find him with this new woman ... 'The Italian Job'?

Sounds plausible and more than likely, hence the hurried email, followed by a text three weeks on, saying he wants his freedom and a divorce. So much simpler to say 'I'm divorced', than owning to being separated and still married, don't you think?!?

I can't switch off Love. But slowly, he's nibbling it away, bit by painful bit, by his actions .. the things he says and does, the secrets, the lies, the deliberate confusing trail he lays to hide the truth, and continuous denial, playing the 'blame game'. I gave myself to this man completely in trust, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part ... I meant every word, every emotion. Now he is a stranger to me. Gretna Green where we married almost two years ago; a far distant memory. Our only holiday in over five years at La Rochelle where we spent our honeymoon; the kind of picture painting I've had to bury along with the rest of our happy memories shared, each too painful to remember.

I am left with the phrase: 'Second second second-hand Rose' and the feeling I'm not worth anything at all. I don't know who I am, never mind how to be, what to say, what to do with the agony of betrayal. I just want to do the right thing ... FOR ME! I can't be a victim any more!! But what does that mean for the future?

This is me being honest and open with the world. It isn't by any means a case of the 'poor me's', but rather a reality check. I forget the last time I found laughter and love, wide open arms embracing me, a face to trust, an evening dressed for a special occasion. Some people find it easy to simply walk away and build a new life without looking back, no thought for what they're leaving behind. It doesn't matter to them who they crucify in the process.

Next time, to prove this isn't simply the ramblings of a hurt and betrayed woman, I will share the blessings which have come because of it ... sparkling stars, treasures spilling into an otherwise ocean of darkness.

Dear world, keep smiling back at me offering Hope. Never forget to tell those who wait for you at home that you love them. Never take them for granted. One day, you may find the words coming out of your mouth are your last ... so make them special ... always.

THE PRECIOUS GIFT

Hello World,

Time again is paused as I sit in the stillness of the morning trying desperately to unravel the tsunami of emotion that swells up within me, threatening to drown everything I once knew, once loved. He comes today for the final time to collect his personal belongings ... this man who is my husband, or at least the stranger he has become. I know he will look the same as he steps through the door of our once-home, he will maybe even reach out to hug, lurching me from one reality to another and for a moment making everything seem normal again. Yet at the same time, his eyes will roam the hallway, the rooms into which he leads while I follow, seeking things he needs for his new nest in London, things essential to him, items he does not want to leave behind. In the end, it all comes down, for him, to possessions rather than those things that money cannot buy ... the sweet caress of a kiss, the touching, holding, folding of arms, nestling close to someone you know you love and trust as a comfort, a strength, those unexpected moments, the friendship, the support, the soulmate-ship, a partnership that once fitted together like two pieces of a puzzle joined as One.

To be told all this had ended in an email that swam in on the tide of ether one Sunday morning in July, churning up my emotions as I read it with such dread, was to bring about a breakdown. I collapsed. Somehow, since then, I have existed literally moment by moment, unable to think beyond. One part of me remains shocked that something like this could ever happen. Another part of me an ocean of tears. While the greater part feels betrayed, grieving for everything I believed in and the one who is leaving me behind, like a piece of discarded rubbish no longer worthy.

What did I do wrong?

Why would he abandon me in this way?

When a contract took him to London, I remained in our home in the North, asking why I couldn't travel with him as I'd done before. Writing is something you can do anywhere, with a laptop. We'd done it in Warwickshire. Why not London? But then, the expense, yes, I could see that. City prices for two rather than one. It made logical sense. But a three day contract went into five days, leaving me stranded with things I couldn't do in the house as I'm disabled. He'd come late Friday evening ... no more in the mood to celebrate his homecoming with a meal out. Tired, exhausted from driving. Saturday was spent in a fury of activity catching up on shopping, mowing the grass and jobs, before he was back in the car Sunday morning, driving in the fast lane back to London. It was as if he couldn't wait to get away ... and yet I'd waited all week for this, to simply be with the one I loved. One weekend he told me the contract would be 2-3 years. They'd offered him a flat to save costs. Okay, maybe I could be in the flat and we could re-establish quality time ... but then no, that wasn't in his equation! Suddenly, alarm bells were sounding, and swiftly there followed the email, cutting me off, drawing a line.

End of.

The flat was in truth a house. He was happy in London ... the buzz of the City, Tubes, travel, people. This was a whole new Empire inviting him to be a part. He thrived on the stress, the manic insane push and shove of it all, everyone focused on their own places to be, eyes locked on mobiles and i-phones. His email which tore my world apart had pushed out 'blame items' such as not being able to cope any more with my disability and past abuse issues, as if all this was somehow my fault. And yes, I took it to heart. Blamed myself. Must be something somehow I was doing wrong. Never mind I was dressed up ready for his homecoming, there must be something I was missing. But then, the first time I saw him since my birthday on 4 July, following the email on 19th, when I tried to talk, to draw out his feelings, to make some kind of sense of what was happening around me, feeling so helpless and out of control, there were other words overtaking the last, echoing in and through and around me ... he had been 'falling out of love with me'. 'Falling' implied a way back. It implied choice. A crossroads in his life. Wasn't our marriage worth saving? Didn't the time we had shared count for anything? And Love ... where did Love fit into all of this? That precious, most treasured gift of all, made up of so many qualities which couldn't simply be washed away on a tide of new proposals and energies and dreams of his own making. Surely couples who truly love one another talk and share, and keep on talking and sharing to work at resolving any problems, any issues that come between them? So why hadn't he done so the moment he realised he was 'falling out of love with me'? I'd sat faithfully waiting, waiting, always waiting, wondering when he would ever be able to spare quality time to bring back specialness and laughter into the love we once shared.

'Are you leaving me for another woman?'

The obvious question to ask.

But the answer was a firm negative. Could I believe him? 

Time moved on. Now I am having to accept more and more that, once he knew he was falling out of love with me, and London beckoned, he began putting out for a replacement. Man on the Town! Never mind he was married with a woman who loved him waiting blissfully ignorant for him at home. It was the call of the wild. The call of a hunter already in the excitement of the chase. He felt free to make new choices, new pathways for the future. What was there to hold him back? Who could possibly stop the adrenalin flowing through when there were new pastures to explore?

It's the saddest tale of lost love. Yes, there is a deep-rooted anger throbbing inside me. I could have gone the way of other women who have been traded in for a new model and shredded his shirts, tossed his clothing out into the driveway, slung his possessions in a heap as a statement of defiance, a visual display of the way he was rubbishing me and that precious gift of love I offered so freely.

But I love him.

I can't simply switch off that love in the same instant he switched off his for me.

Besides, I have always taken the alternative path. This journey I am presently on is fraught with mixed messages and danger. Often I slip and fall. My emotions keep boomeranging back to me. Often I feel I'm living 'Groundhog Day' and the pain is incredible and deep ... so deep I simply don't want to be here any more.

What keeps me going?

The veterans of RAF 100 Group is the straight answer to that!

Brave heroes one and all, they send me the most amazing messages of support and strength and love. They telephone me from New Zealand and the States and Australia. These people saw war at first hand, a very secret war, fighting the enemy by identifying and jamming their radar, Guardian Angels in the skies watching over the bombers, working one-to-one with the Resistance, and so much more. They have lived at the sharp end of life and their words inspire me to live another moment of another day.

To love and to be loved is the most precious gift of all.

To lose the one you love most in all the world, someone who is so much more than a husband, but a best friend, a partner, a soulmate, is to lose a part of oneself.

And it hurts like crazy! Nights are filled with dread, an aching awful weight sinking into my stomach, plunging me into waves of panic attacks which, on waking, remain with me through the day. I'm sick. I can't eat or sleep. The pain takes over. I am awash with tears. Yet somehow I am still here. My world is black and white, the colour washed out a while ago.

And today, he is coming for the last time to collect his personal belongings. The moment he walks back out that door to his car and vrooms away up the road, my world will tilt and turn and crash, pushing me off the edge into the abyss of despair.

Pray for me, World.

Every single one of you who has someone close, someone to turn to, someone who means something special, reach out right now and take their hand, or write them a love letter, share your feelings, let them know you love them, you care, you are there for them ... always ... even to the ends of Time.

xxx

LIVING IN A SURREAL WORLD!

 Hello World,

I haven't written here in a long while, and for moments I pause, listening to the silence, knowing that everything I have to say lays heavy on my heart. But then, writing isn't just about creativity, it's also about experience ... Life Experience. Everything you feel and wish and  hope, even the pain, depression and gloom can be channeled through writing towards creating a more positive outcome. At least, that's what I'm hoping might happen here. Writing is a solitary art, only shared once a book is written and publishers found, pushing your baby into the wider world to grow, to develop, to realise its full potential. It's how I've lived for many years ... and through writing, shared aspects of my Life, hoping in doing so to have enriched others.

But there is an alternative path, and it is this I am on now where, instead of walking through a dark still wood, I am in an open meadow, a vista of meadow flowers lifting their heads creating an unexpected vibrancy of colour to envelop the land, with a babbling brook pausing in its flow, as if straining to catch the new thread of melody working its way towards its clear fresh waters.

Truths unexpectedly cast shadows across the scene ...

On Sunday last, almost one week to the day from writing this now, I received an email from my husband basically telling me he had left me to live a life alone in London. He'd been working on contract there awhile. For one day a week, I could look forward with so much pleasure and yearning to his company and togetherness shared. Now suddenly, the world I knew was slipping from under me. It was surreal. I looked around our Home. We'd been together for over five years, both with chequered pasts; married for two. I believed I had found The One. Finally after all these years of pain and betrayal, I loved this man with all I had to give ... body, mind, spirit, soul. My instincts of late had been screaming something was out of kilter. It could have been me, but I asked all the same what was going on. It irritated him for me to ask. It's all in my mind. Emotions playing havoc. Nothing. He isn't the sharing type. A Hunter. One who likes control. I trusted him ... he is the only person apart from my parents I have trusted with my life.  

Life ... suddenly a fragile bird ... broken beyond repair.

As I read and re-read the email over and over, as if trying to make the words mean something else, my heart was already bleeding, a heavy weight of fear sinking me to the floor, making me physically sick. A lake of tears quickly became an ocean of pain. I collapsed into an untidy heap screaming ... screaming ... screaming for someone to hear, someone to make everything come right. Child. Waiting for the loving arms of a mother to draw her in. Then, like the fragile bird trying to fly again, only too badly wounded, I fluttered helplessly around the house, our Home, filled with everything I knew and loved, everything that spoke of Us ... our Wedding Photo taken at Gretna Green still proudly displayed, a smiling couple gazing enraptured at one another, the man I loved gazing back at me, smiling, still managing to bring a spark of magic to a dark moment that suddenly became black.

How? Who? Why? When? Where?

Questions I couldn't answer.

Secrets whispered from the shadows.

Who could I trust to tell me the truth, to explain, to make sense of the devastation surrounding me, drawing me down ... down ... down into the depths of despair?

It is now almost one week to the day when that email arrived. Life is surreal. First thing Monday morning the Council had been notified with a telephone call from him, instigating the posting of forms to my address. The word 'Separation' was already spoken. While I was standing still, trying to grasp what was happening, tick... tock...tick, everything was going on around me. Post arrived. Forms to fill. A Link Worker from Age Concern sat on the sofa for hours amidst a torrent of feeling spurtling from my mouth, unable to stop the flow. 

Was there no stopping this Force, this Power that had taken over my Life?

'But we're married', I kept saying over and over again. Hadn't I asked if there was anything wrong expecting him to share, to discuss things like any sane partnership, and in the case of a husband and wife, to work at the relationship, to heal the rift, to have that chance at least. 

Wasn't Love worth saving?

The worst of it is, this happened before. Someone else walked away without warning. He didn't make contact for weeks, while I thought maybe he'd had an accident, a heart attack, lying in a hospital somewhere waiting to be found. I had a serious breakdown. Already I feel myself slipping into that same state of mind.  

But why me? What did I do wrong?

I ask the question. I know, stupid. But people don't walk away for no good reason ... do they? Unbelievably, texts gradually eased their way through the ether, as if knowing the hurt they would cause ... Disability! Yes, I've been disabled since birth. Not everyone is cut out to be a Carer, I guess. But look where that leaves me now!! Feeling really really stupid when I can't unscrew a top, write a shopping list, with no grip in my hands. An abuse survivor with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Can I help it that Life has been cruel? I manage. I cope with Life, knowing the triggers when they come, feeling my way through the pain of the past to the other side where once He was always there, with what I had believed was comforting warmth and understanding as much as he was able. And yes, I take an interest in other people's problems, reaching out, because no-one had been there for me.

But then it comes.

'I fell out of love with you.'

Ah! Now we're at the bottom line!! Another woman perhaps? No, he just wants to be alone, away from me and where we live, to start afresh ... but then again, we're not simply having a relationship ... WE'RE MARRIED!!! You can't simply walk away from that and deny all responsibility.

Anyone who has experienced loss of any kind will know how I'm feeling now. Someone has described it as 'a living death'. Another: 'worse than death'.  He's gone, but he hasn't gone. He's still a very real part of my life ... but then again, not here by my side. This is Home. But he doesn't live here any more.

I'm living in a surreal world!

And right now, as another sleepless night creeps in, folding me in layers of darkness and fear ... I just wanted to reach out and to share with an ocean of people about what is happening, how that feels, wondering how on earth we come through something like this when it's happened before, caused a chaotic breakdown, and for eighteen months being unable to move on with life.

It's the need I hate most in me, and staying true to the contract I made with myself many years ago in another world of pain, I try to create at least one positive a day, however small ... getting out of bed to walk painfully into the village to the shops means I have to speak words to someone, even if it's only 'Hello'. I could so easily become a hermit. Stay safe inside my bubble which starts out as protection, but so easily becomes a trap, a prison, blocking the energy, pushing in the pain, imploding in a place unseen.

Writing here is a positive.

Okay, maybe no-one who understands right now is going to read it. But loneliness and loss is a huge HUGE topic in this world today. It would be good to hear how other people cope and survive. We come through different experiences, but emotion can be the same, drawing us together, connecting, creating a chain of kindred spirits. Writing is my one outlet right now, and if I could just get one reply from someone somewhere it will be a major positive and well worth having opened my heart.

Thank you for listening.

SHOW TIME!!

FILEY LIBRARY
Thursday 22 January 2015
2pm - 4pm

A library is always the hub of any community. All people are welcome. Filled with subdued chatter, it offers a safe space where any number of worlds are labelled on surrounding shelves, enticing us to enter.

Libraries have been a familiar setting to me since my beginnings. Holding tight the hand of my father, we would stroll together down the High Street, passed the shops, and play peep-bo either side of the hedge before heading towards the Common, with the library opposite. My head would peek above the counter at the lady stamping my books. I would wince each time her hand hammered down, feeling the pain of the page, wishing she would treat the book with more respect. But then, I would creep in and down past shelves achingly familiar, seeking out the portal to a world I hadn't yet explored.

Oh, the sense of surprise and adventure! I couldn't wait to get my three precious books home!!

Filey library had once been my second home. I would spend days locked into this safe space, with the freedom to explore, to prize open the memory of those early years, sensing that same excitement, visiting the children's section, before earnestly seeking out new Kingdoms in which to spend my time.

It was here that Tony and I set up the exhibition around RAF 100 Group, a secret WWII Group whose prime objective was to identify and jam enemy radar with new and experimental equipment fitted secretly into aircraft. We had been invited to present a book signing of my latest book: UGLY TRUTH, BEAUTIFUL LIES with the picture of Shrewsbury Tunnel on the front cover, offering a glimpse of the world that waited for readers to explore. The previous book, the first in the series, stood proud at its side: STONE COLD DEAD, the picture of a Lysander set against a full moon brought veterans tripping to the table, sharing their own wartime adventures.

I am passionate about preserving wartime stories and its history. It was a war in which so many families were destroyed. Nothing was ever the same again. Life was snuffed out in a heartbeat. But for those who survived they want these haunting memories to be remembered, to remind us of what war is really all about, and to stop something like that ever happening again.

May those countries at war in the present time somehow find their peace!

Amongst the many books surrounding us, history was being shared ... not through the pages of a book written by some unknown author, but here and now by someone who was right there, in the heat of battle, wanting to tell the way it was. Others gathered to listen, to become part of the essence of that sharing ... which in turn produced discussion amongst strangers who became friends.

It was a small and yet significant miracle!

'What do I need to start writing a book?'

The question came suddenly, as if from out of nowhere. The conversation shifted and shaped into something else.

'I began with pen and paper. You simply need to get used to the idea of writing, of putting your thoughts and feelings on paper, however that comes ... or a computer if you use one.'

'What kind of pen?'

Is that important? The thought flashed across my mind.

'I mean ... do you use a fountain pen, a biro, a pencil ... what?'

'No. To be honest I started off using a biro, but then put alterations in pencil so I could change them again, or in a different colour so they show up. It's the writing that important. What you use are simply tools you are using to create a piece of writing, like crafting something out of wood, or cooking up a meal ...'

'Paper. What kind of paper?'

Whooah! Where are we going with this?

'I used lined paper only because it was simpler for me. A notebook would be ideal to jot down ideas and thoughts you have, and it's small enough to carry around with you ...'

I broke off as the speaker began to share a story he called 'Seascape'. It had shape and form. It had characters which easily came to mind. He paused for breath.

'Sounds like you have a good story. And it's one of local interest. But you need to get it out of your head onto paper ... do you use a computer?'

'No, not really.'

'Okay, then go buy a notebook ... whatever you feel most comfortable with ... and just get used to the idea of writing, putting words on a page. It's an incredible feeling, to know you're creating something unique to you.'

A face peered down at the large A4 sheet I had in front of me, just in case anyone wanted to share their details.

'It doesn't have to be that big, to be honest. A small notebook will do. But if you want that size, there is a shop just around the corner ... or Tesco actually sell them as well as notebooks. Remember, it's your choice. Your story sounds good. Do you think it's a short story, or a book? Whatever, maybe you simply need to just write ... however it comes, that's good.'

'I took a Creative Writing Course, but I left before the final exam. It wasn't a good day for me ...'

'Okay', I said carefully. 'Then you must have written things for the course. Which brings us back to the story you've just shared and the importance of getting it onto paper, and then building it up, working on characters, making them real, and ...'

'It has to be a best seller ... how can you guarantee that? And a film ... I want it to become a film!'

The silence around us deepens. It's as if the library is holding its breath, waiting for the next word to fall.

'Anything is possible. Remember that. But first steps are important. First you need the writing, your story on paper before it can go anywhere. And if you enjoyed the Creative Writing Course why not go back there? It's a good place to start, with people available to help and support you ...'

'You make money out of writing. You've written all these books. They all have your name on. So why write if you're not going to become famous?

My words now dropped to a whisper. They were meant for his ears alone.

'I have been writing ever since I was a little girl. It was like creating my own world. I was in control of it. I could make things happen. But then I could also make nasty things go away. You can't do that in real life. My dream wasn't about becoming famous, or becoming a bestseller ... my dream was simply about writing. It became an everyday habit, like brushing your hair, doing your teeth, washing your hands ...'

I watched his face fall. Oh no, I hadn't meant to shatter his dream. Everyone needs a dream, something to hang on to ...

'The story 'Seascape' is already out there. I'm just borrowing it, and changing it to become mine.'

This was a bold statement, and not said that quietly. Now we were entering a whole different ball game!

'Oh but the writing has to be your own. Maybe you have something that has happened to you in your life you could write about?'

'No!'

'Okay. It was only an idea. So think about the story you were telling me, that's already out there, how it starts ... can you think of something that happens in everyday life you could use to build a story, something you see or hear about? You need to be writing about things you know. To use your own experience. But as I said before ... it's about getting used to the idea of writing first off, putting pen to paper, however it comes, letting it flow from what's going on inside your head ...'

The guy had wandered off. I thought we were done. But then ...

'I've found it!'

'What?'

'How to Write a Best Seller!'

Oh!

'That's okay isn't it? Once I've read this, I'll know all about it, and my writings will get into the bookshops and become a film!'

I shook his hand.

'Remember, the first words are important. They have to come from you ...'

'Yes, yes, yes ... but now I have the answer!'

The answer to Life?!?

Whether it was going to prove to be the answer to Somebody's life only time would tell. For us, it was time to go home. But just as we'd begun packing up, the guy still standing in the background, glancing through the book before placing it carefully on the stand from whence it came, a mother and daughter approached. The mother was a Carer, she spoke of a veteran who had shared with her his story of wartime before passing on. Her daughter and she were obviously very close, very warm, cuddly people. And I couldn't help but give them a parting gift ... a gift of the heart. It wasn't the book I was here to sign, but my mother's wartime story, a very warm, funny, poignant romance. I discovered their names, and dedicated it to them before putting my signature and presenting it to them.

They were in tears. I was in tears. We shared a group hug. Suddenly, the day was so warm, so vital. Everyone around us right then could, I am certain, feeeeel the love, they were so much a part of it, and it was that same love and joy and laughter we carried with us through the doors, back out into reality ... and home, their parting words ringing in our ears ...

'We'll read it together, Mum, at bedtime. Something to share ...'

I was reminded of my own Mum. I miss her. All those years ago, before her death, sharing her wartime story with me, her love for Vic Vinnell who didn't return from war; Jack Fisher his pilot who disappeared 26/27 November 1944 with him in Mosquito DK292 preparing to be their Best Man at their wedding a few days on. Then researching and writing the book together, feeling so much a part of it, stepping through the portal so many times that living in 1944 became a surreal experience and so so familiar. When finally it was published on the 60th Anniversary of the death of Vic and Jack, I felt that not just my dream but also that of my mother's, and of Vic's, had been fulfilled. 

A promise kept!

Thanks Maya and Mum (Mrs Hodgson). I hope you enjoy the story every bit as much as I loved writing it. Maybe I'll hear from you again soon.

 

  

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR: Welcome 2015

UGLY TRUTH, BEAUTIFUL LIES
published by Austin Macauley

Special note: Also available as audio

Event: BOOK SIGNING

Venue: FILEY LIBRARY, NORTH YORKSHIRE
Date: 22 JANUARY 2015
Times: 2pm - 4pm

A chance to meet and talk to the author and obtain a personally signed copy of her book.

I will have other publications on display offering opportunities to appreciate many of my 20 other works, including the first in this present-day series featuring Joe Maddison as the unlikely hero. Each of these books can be read as a stand-alone story, and each offers a different historical mystery to solve. It is one wartime thread that binds them together.

There will be another thriller in this series available soon, entitled: Smoke & Mirrors.

The good news for the New Year is that I now have a publisher who will be bringing out RAF 100 Group - Kindred Spirits for the future, alongside an in-depth 3-part series of books about this very secret wartime Group.

A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL MY READERS!

EXHIBITION 7 November 2014

With the launch of a new novel, it was my pleasure to be asked to take part in an Exhibition being held at Ga11ery 11 local to where we live. It offered the chance of old and new artistes to display their wares ... including arts and crafts, paintings ... and my books.

With my 21st publication, it felt like a Coming of Age Party!

Bottles of wine flowed followed by dishes of tasty nibbles as the public gathered to talk and share what was on show, despite the howling wind and rainfall putting off all but those determined to enjoy their evening.

My display featured the RAF 100 Group Association, remembering those brave forgotten heroes whose name is never mentioned on Remembrance Day because of the secrecy of their work. Shame then that the book I had hoped to be able to show on this day in their memory was pulled suddenly by the publishers, despite having a contract between us. RAF 100 Group - Kindred Spirits, draws together the voices of both RAF & USAAF who flew in partnership on secret airfields in Norfolk, UK. It is a precious and very unique book which illustrates commitment and courage of ordinary men and women living in extraordinary times. 

As a complete work, it is written in their words, including private writings, poetry, photographs and information about secret operations, flying like Guardian Angels over the bombers, identifying and jamming enemy radar. This was their main field of work, and yet they did so much work, including working with the Resistance, S.O.E and S.O.D, confusing the enemy by countermanding orders in German, etc, etc. The book is filled with so many personal experiences shared openly for the first time. It is a book which has come to mean so much to so many. 

As Secretary of the worldwide RAF 100 Group Association, and having worked alongside them for the past twenty years or so, my promise to them was to bring their stories out of the shadows into the light, to give them a public platform and a voice with which to share their fascinating stories. Those who did not come home will remain forever young, like my mother's wartime fiance who served under the lead Squadron of RAF 100 Group - No. 192, at RAF Foulsham, Norfolk. Vic and Jack went off in their Mosquito DK292 and were never heard from again. It is thought they were on an operation over Munich, and on their return perhaps had engine trouble, forcing them to land on a French beach, which they didn't know was mined!! The story of my mother Nina and Vic, who were to have married a few days following this operation, was published on the 60th Anniversary of Vic and Jack's death in November 2004. While this year marks the 70th Anniversary. And it was just so important to have this book published this year, 2014, bringing them together as part of the RAF 100 Group with which they served ... showing the wider picture, offering a deeper understanding of their very secret world.

Those who survived have held secrets about their wartime years throughout their lives, never speaking of what they were involved in, not even with their wives and family, taking the Official Secrets Act they had to sign at the time very seriously.

By withdrawing publication of this book, the publishers betrayed their trust and mine.

It was meant to be out for Remembrance Day, a fitting Memorial, which served to mark so many Anniversaries.

It is a book which means so much to so many, and now my pledge to these veterans is to continue my quest to get this book published ... whatever it takes ... sooner rather than later because for many, time is running out! Meanwhile, I have an ever-growing waiting list of people across the world made up of veterans and their families and friends, bookshops and Museums waiting to purchase a copy of this unique book.

I remain passionate that this book WILL be published. These precious, brave, and very wonderful people who helped bring the war to an early conclusion and saved so many thousands of lives WILL be recognised, and have the respect and honour they so richly deserve.

 Meanwhile, the exhibition offered a platform for the second of my two mystery novels entitled: 'Ugly Truth, Beautiful Lies', featuring Joe Maddison who has become adept at uncovering historical puzzles. The first in the series came out last year, published by Austin Macauley: 'Stone Cold Dead'. Both have an underlying thread linking them into a third in the series still to be published set in WWII.

I remain passionate about writing, but grow wearisome of publishers for whom books remain a business. I understand they need to make their profit margins, etc. And yet it is people who matter, people who become the readers, people who are curious and want to be informed, otherwise why do I continue to receive so many letters from those wanting to know how to find out about family members who served in this secret Group?

In this year, when the world has been remembering Anniversaries relating to two World Wars, I would have thought it fitting that a book be published to celebrate the lives of forgotten heroes, who served in different RAF Squadrons under a very secret Group involved in electronic warfare in the Second World War about which so little is written or known, particularly from the perspective of those who were there at the time.

'We WILL remember them!'