 On Thursday I was interviewed about my latest historical romance, Taken To Heart on Radio St Austell Bay. It’s a small local radio station serving about 25,000 people in an area of roughly seven square miles. Run by a team of enthusiastic amateurs presided over by station manager, Sheila Vanloo, it is the very best of local radio and there is nothing amateur about the quality of programming and production. My interview, which lasted about 40 minutes, was more of a chat. Sheila had read my book and her questions revealed genuine interest in both the story background and my writing career. There were a couple of breaks for some music and the news which gave me a breather, then off we went again. I was amazed at how quickly the time passed. Of course, as always happens, after I was on my way back to the car I remembered several things I could have/should have said. But I’ll save those for next time. Yes, I’ve been invited back. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, and well worth the hour’s drive. This interview was the last arranged for publicising Taken To Heart. Once Christmas is over I hope to press on with my new one, Winds of Change.
 Yesterday morning Mylor school children assembled at one side of the village playing field in great excitement as they waited for the arrival of Father Christmas. He didn’t arrive by reindeer and sleigh but in a Search & Rescue Sea King helicopter. The noise was deafening and the downdraft sent hats flying. But the faces of the children were a joy to see. Father Christmas was accompanied by a very large and jolly elf dressed in green and red. We’ve had a lot of rain recently and the playing field – which is beside the creek – is water-logged despite the land drains which gush water from a large pipe in the retaining wall. As the helicopter weighs about twenty tons landing it on such boggy ground was not an option. So we watched some superb flying by the pilot who hovered just a foot or two above the grass, allowing Santa and his elf to jump out. The helicopter then flew off in a wide circle while small gifts were distributed and photos taken. After about fifteen minutes the pilot returned. As the wheels rested briefly on the grass, Santa and his helper were hauled aboard then off they flew. This week a score of Cornish primary schools with a playing field or safe space to allow landing will enjoy the excitement of a flying visit from Sea King Santa. The crew love doing it as it offers light relief from their normal duties: cliff rescues; responding to mayday calls; and recovering sick or injured seamen from ships during storm force gales.
 It’s been a demanding few weeks. I’ve done no writing. On one hand this has left me feeling low and frustrated. But on the other, precisely because I’ve had neither time nor mental energy to get on with my book, instead, when changing beds, doing dishes, ironing or cooking, I’ve thought about the story and the characters and played what if? This has led to pages of scribbled notes as new ideas replace large bits of my original plot. It’s been really exciting but led to even more frustration because I can’t get on with it. But, had looking after Dad not taken up so much time that I was forced to put my writing aside, I’d never have come up with these new ideas. So I’m thinking of it as the silver lining to a rather dark cloud. Dad has developed a chest infection. He’s on antibiotics but the coughing spasms leave him exhausted and shaky. He sleeps for much of the day. Yet when he’s awake he can be quick and funny. This morning after I’d washed him as far as his waist, I refilled the basin with hot water and told him I’d leave him ‘to do your little bits.’ His instant reply: ‘There’s no call to be insulting.’ Dear of him.
My interview with Freda Lightfoot – we talk about how I started writing, my methods, research, and life when I’m not writing – is up on the RNA blog today. Just click on the link below. And if you’d like to leave a comment or ask a question I’d love to hear from you.
http://romanticnovelistsassociationblog.blogspot.com/
Monday 31st October was the day my latest historical romance, Taken To Heart was published. So far a press release with photo of me has appeared in the Falmouth Packet newspaper, and the West Briton.
I’ve got my fingers crossed for the Western Morning News literary pages. Then on Tuesday Nov 1st I was invited into BBC Radio Cornwall for an interview with Tiffany Truscott. It was great fun. I’ve been a regular on Radio Cornwall since before some of the current employees were born! So I go well prepared with background info about the book, interesting snippets of research, contrasts between life today and life during the period of the book, especially for women. Then all the interviewer has to do is ask a question and off I go. Most interviews usually last ten minutes, but I often get twenty. It’s a mutually rewarding relationship. The interviewer needs to fill air time and I need to make people aware that my book is available. On Wednesday I went into Falmouth Bookseller to sign copies and was told that six have already been sold and more ordered. As a hardback priced at 18.99 this was fantastic news. I’m extremely fortunate in that I have some wonderfully loyal readers who buy every book I write. I treasure them. I’m booked for an interview on 30th November on Radio St Austell Bay’s Arts programme, and am looking forward to that. But now I’m back at work on the current book and hope to make it an even more emotionally gripping story. Watch this space!
Taken To Heart, my 28th novel, is published today by Robert Hale Ltd.
This book came about because a character who appeared in an earlier historical romance, Devil’s Prize, kept haunting me. At the end of that book, in which Jenefer Trevanion was a secondary character, she had lost her father, her home, and her fiancé: everything that defined her place in society. I wrote two further books. Bonded Heart featured the same background and some of the characters from Devil’s Prize appeared briefly. Then I wrote Heart of Stone with a completely different background and set of characters. But once that was finished Jenefer refused to be ignored any longer. What had happened to her. How had she had coped with her losses and the upheaval in her life? There was only one way to find out. So I returned once more to the village of Porthinnis. As Jenefer’s story unfolded I learned so much more about her character, how adversity had helped her discover new strengths and talents. Over three years she manages to rebuild her life. Porthinnis’s polite society is appalled by her independence and particularly by the fact that instead of doing the proper thing and applying to live as companion to an elderly relative, she flies in the face of all convention and decency by working as a bookkeeper for local businesses. If sometimes she aches with loneliness, she triesd to banish it by reminding herself of her good fortune in having work she enjoys and the freedom to live as she chooses. And she does have one suitor. But marrying him would mean relinquishing all she has worked for. Then her father’s heir, Charles Polgray, arrives with plans that could bring new prosperity to the village. Charles has been working abroad and only recently returned to England. The attraction between them is instant and powerful. But Charles has a devastating secret that could destroy all hope of a future together.
Taken To Heart pub. Robert Hale Ltd. Hardback. Price £18.99
The military engineers were front line troops, often found alongside the Armour and infantry units. During the retreat from Dunkirk Dad had the job of holding up the advancing Germans for as long as possible. This required him to blow up roads and bridges once our own men were safely past. On the march to Dunkirk for the evacuation he saw babies being born in ditches by the roadside, and men dying of appalling wounds. Dad and his unit were among the last to reach the beaches.
They waded out as far as they could then had to swim – still wearing battledress – to reach one of the last minesweepers. But they all got safely home. A short while later Dad sailed with a new engineer regiment aboard the troop ship Andes which was chased by U-boats all the way to the Middle East. After three years in Egypt, The Lebanon and Iraq Dad returned to England.
Until a few months ago he was a founder member and chairman of the local branch of the Dunkirk Veterans Association. Only a handful of members remain and most are too frail now to make the journey to the monthly lunch meeting. It’s the end of an era.
 During the war Dad was in command of an advance RE stores depot in Egypt. This covered several square miles. Next door to this depot was a large stud farm. As well as the pedigree animals there were a number of less exalted horses. Among these was a 16-hh gelding called Chinaman. Wanting a means of getting around the depot while at the same time getting exercise, Dad and the owner agreed agreed a price. On horseback Dad had a far better view of the depot and a horse made far less noise than an engine which meant no one knew when he was coming and his depot ‘lost’ fewer stores. The owner neglected to tell him about Chinaman’s mean streak. The horse loathed telegraph poles and would gallop directly at the nearest one then swerve at the last minute in an attempt to rid himself of his rider. Dad had never ridden before and the first few times this happened he fell off – fortunately not hitting the pole. What surprised him was that the horse didn’t keep running. It stopped a short distance away and watched him. Dad said if horses could snigger that’s what Chinaman was doing. One day, the horse tried his usual trick. But knowing what was coming Dad hung on for dear life and yanked the animal’s head hard round at the last minute. He stayed in the saddle while the startled horse staggered sideways for several yards. There was no more trouble after that.
I’ve been spending every morning with my 96-year-old father recently. I’m his carer now, and while I get him washed and dressed – something he hates no longer being able to do for himself – I’ve discovered a way to divert his attention. We reminisce. A few days ago we were talking about the St Mylor Players, our village’s local drama group.
From the 1950s into the late 1970′s the Players put on dramas, comedies, pantomimes and variety shows. In the late 1950s – when men were the wage-earners, women remained at home raising the family, and Women’s Lib hadn’t been invented yet – a particular ‘turn’ in one variety show nearly brought the Church Hall down. It was Dance of the Flower Fairies.
The ‘fairies’ wore white ballet tutus, white socks, and headdresses made of white crepe paper roses. Each carried a crepe-paper lily. So far so unremarkable. What stunned the audience was that the ‘fairies’ were my father (top right) District Surveyor on Cornwall County Council; John Garvin, a stocky Scot who managed to keep the Church Hall’s ancient and unpredictable electrics operational without catching fire or causing a power cut – well, only once; Frank Roscora, a telephone engineer; and Rodney Prout, a plaster technician at Falmouth hospital and the Society’s producer. The music was played on a gramophone in the wings, and my mother – a dancer in her youth – had worked out the choreography. The introductory music started, the curtain rose to reveal the ‘fairies’ in graceful pose. There were several moments of stunned silence then the dance began. Mum had threatened the ‘fairies’ with dire consequences if they hammed it up. They played it absolutely straight and it worked brilliantly. Within thirty seconds the audience were crying with laughter and stuffing hankies in their mouths determined not to miss a moment. When the dance finished there was uproar as people clapped, stamped and hooted.
The ‘fairies’ who had all been extremely nervous beforehand and needed their courage boosting with a stiff whisky, swept into elegant curtseys with dazzling grins then lumbered off the stage streaming with sweat and greasepaint. Their photo, wearing soulful expressions and elegantly posed, was on the front page of all the local papers. All except Dad are dead but the memory lingers on – vividly!
 I was going through some of the old photograph albums with Dad and I came across this. My father was never a very demonstrative man. He was born to parents whose own upbringing was very much in the Victorian mould – duty first; children should be seen and not heard; boys don’t cry; and so on. Also as the eldest of five he had to grow up very quickly. But though he found it difficult to express affection verbally, he showed how much he loved us in far more practical ways. Money was tight in the post-war years. So he got mum to buy a length of blue plaid tartan and made proper Scottish kilts for my sister and me. He was a stickler for doing things properly so the pleats were measured to ensure each was exactly the same. The flat front panel was fastened vertically with a large silver-coloured kilt pin. After that he made us dressing gowns in royal blue with red facings and a red tie belt. The photograph shows my sister and me in the village carnival. We went as rainbow fairies, and Dad had made our costumes by machining frills of gathered crepe paper onto plain cotton petticoats. Mum made the wands and headdresses. We won a prize. They were both as as thrilled as we were.
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