Safkhet Publishing ~ Summer Reads

Wednesday 8 May 2013

The Next Generation. Inspiring children, inspiring authors!

By Kind Permission of the Author:
A Short Story by Francis Blincoe Deval

As mentioned in my previous post, I was invited along by the wonderfully organised Linda Bromyard, Librarian at Blessed Edward Oldcorne RC High School, to take part in a National Share a Story Month Event yesterday. Sue Johnson (novelist, poet and author of the fabulous Writer’s Toolkit series), Karen King (author of Children’s and YA books) and I, were there to offer readings from our work and chat to the children about books and writing in general. We came away wondering whether to retire! The pupils were such talented story-tellers they left us quite literally awestruck. These children write beautifully, read prolifically, and are as excited by books as we are. We had no doubt we had met the future generation of writers, fresh, exhilarating and totally inspiring.

By kind permission of the author, I’m posting one of the stories we had the pleasure of listening to here. The standard of the writing, I think you will agree, is amazing - and the research outstanding.  Have a read, I think you’ll be impressed.   

A Short Story
by

Francis Blincoe Deval

Sarah Trinny was controller on the 13th of June 2012. She was in the Manchester control tower monitoring flights. She had once worked in air traffic control, but moved to work in the tower. The airport was loaded with flights; some being refuelled; some boarding; some unloading; and some like British airways flight 2398, waiting to taxi.
“BA flight 2398, you are cleared to taxi.”

***
“This is British airways flight 2398 to control, repeat, cleared for taxi. Over”

Captain Omar had 16 years of flying with British airways. Before that he had spent 10 years with the British airforce. He was very experienced and knew his planes well. He was also an expert flyer. 3 years ago, when an elevator cable snapped, he led the plane down and made a safe landing. A year after that he managed to land a plane starved of fuel.
Captain Omar was flying with Co – Pilot Alexander Reed, or just Alex. Alex had also shared a bad fate when flying. He over shot a runway by accident and crashed into some barriers at the end of the runway. The flight crew were very experienced, but no level of skill could save them from their fate later that day…

***
At that very moment, under highly restricted air space, a new satellite was getting ready to be launched. Its rocket, Atlantis III, stood proud on the launch pad and numerous amounts of people were scurrying about on the ground, in the mission control centre, and in the view port, where the designers, scientists and computer technicians were all waiting tensely for the launch. Matt Griffiths was a scientist. He was a graduate from Cambridge University and he had done his PhD’s in space technology. He had worked around the clock to make sure that the rocket would get into the atmosphere. After years of dedicated planning and discussion, the European Sea level monitoring satellite, would finally get into orbit.

***
“British airways flight 2398, please use runway 05 Left. Repeat runway 05 Left. Wait behind the Virgin jet.”

“Okay, moving up from taxi way Bravo 1 and tailing the Virgin Australia. All right?”
“Yup, Cheers, I can see you on screen, enjoy your flight.”

“Will try. British Airways to Tower, out.”
Sarah smiled to herself. It was a perfect day for flying. Barely a cloud in sight.

***
At last. They had their spot on the runway. Everyone was seated and strapped in. Everything was set.

“Auto-flaps ready.”
“Yes. You’re getting nervous.”

“Sorry captain.”
“Okay, Engine gear from idle to 30 IRP. Engine 1,2,3,4, forward acceleration”

“Check sir. We’re moving.”
“12 knots”

“28 knots”
“43 knots”

“56 knots, 25 IRP’s… 67 knots 28 IRP’s… Setting to 60 IRP’s… Forward acceleration on lock.”
“83 knots. Rate of IRP is… too fast. It’s all right. ”

“94 knots”
106 knots sir… 112 knots past V1 Point 1… 127 knots… V1 Point 2… V1 Point 3 and 139 knots. IRP 90”

“150 knots… 156 knots… (Thud) airborne tell that to the tower.”
“Okay sir… 2398 to tower, we are airborne…”

***
Carlo Roguez was on ATC station 19 monitoring the airspace around Manchester airport. He was quite laid back. The weather was good and he was only expecting 25 flights an hour. He made himself a coffee at the machine and took it back to his work station. He decided that it was time to make contact with some newer flights…

“Umm, BA 2398 this is ATC at Liverpool. Climb to two niner zero. Your name on radar is now BA2398IT3.”
“Hello Liverpool Just climbing through two fiver zero feet. Grant climb to three three zero feet…?”

“Just a minute…. Permission granted. Climb to three three zero feet. Could you mind an Alaska flight though? It’s about 60 airo-nautical miles ahead of you. Next point 10 airo-nautical miles.”
“Gee someone’s grumpy today.” That was one of the last times the captain ever smiled.

***
At the launch site things were tense. People were excited about the launch but also worried. Matt was one of those people. What if the rocket got blown off course and had to use extra fuel to get it back on course? It wouldn’t reach orbit…. It might turn around and explode… so many things could go wrong. Matt’s pager bleeped. They needed him in the…. Radar control room? That certainly was unusual. It was restricted airspace. Nothing was in the air for miles around. So why did they need him?

***
Co-pilot Alex was getting a bit bored. After take-off they had nothing to do in the cockpit.

“Shall I make a speech sir?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”

Alex picked up the micro phone.
“Hello passengers, this is your co-pilot speaking. Welcome on board British airways flight seven to Italy. I sincerely thank you for choosing to fly with us. The seat belt sign will be coming off soon. May I please remind you that smoking is strictly forbidden on this airline. My steward and stewardesses will be coming round and serving drinks soon. Thank you and enjoy your flight.”

***
Matt ran into the radar room. About ten people were hunched around a screen. Matt pushed his way to the front.  In the green area (which he guessed was the restricted airspace) there was a single moving red dot. Coming up to the green area were 5 blue dots. The blue dots were in a triangle.

“An aircraft is in our airspace. It looks like it might be a spy plane, but we’re not sure...”
“What are the blue dots?” asked Matt.

“Fighter jets, F16’s, the best we could scramble.”
“Who could the aircraft belong too? Terrorists?”

“Maybe. It might be one of the Middle East countries; you know they want to launch satellites into space.”
“Have you called ATC at all?”

“As a matter of fact, Matt we have. They say that it’s just a civilian aircraft and not to take action.” That voice sent shivers down Matts back. It was his boss. He hated his boss. In fact he liked to think of his boss as Professor Snape from Harry Potter!
“What plane is it?”

“Air Traffic Control claims it as… a British airways plane going by the screen name of BA2398IT3, they say that it’s a civilian plane and that it’s just gone of course. I don’t believe the filthy liars of course!” Matt wished that his boss would just shut up.
Then another man called up; “We can intercept the aircraft. The F-16’s have it in their scopes.

Then an old man, about 50 said; “Well what are waiting for man? They could blow your rocket to smithereens any second now. Just let our jets blow them up first!”
Matt thought for a second. His satellite could change the world. It had taken years of planning and construction. “Fine,” Matt went to the micro phone “Approach target and destroy.”

***
Almost immediately the two middle jets peeled off in a different direction. They would go and mark the wings. The back left jet branched off and went to the cockpit. The back right jet would mark the back and the front jet went out to lock its missiles onto the ‘spy plane. It would also relay live video feed to the radar control room at the launch site. The operation had been practised hundreds of times in case it was needed for the Olympics.

***
A stewardess opened the door into the cockpit. Her face was a picture of worry.

“Captain, Captain!”
“Yes, Gloria?”

“The passengers are getting alarmed sir, there are fighter jets circling the aeroplane.”
“What?!” exclaimed captain Omar.

Alex Reed had never seen a captain so angry before. “Tell Air Traffic Control that, yes we have VIPs on-board but we do not, I repeat DO NOT NEED A PRIVATE ESCORT!!!”
“Yes captain, sir, yes indeed I will.” Alex paused, and then picked up the microphone to the cabin. “Hello passengers please do not be alarmed about the jets. They are nothing to worry about. Just a precaution for this flight.

“Air Traffic Control, Air Traffic Control do you copy? Give permission to climb to three fivers zero fivers?”
“Air Traffic Control, unreadable, unreadable. Switch to band 8, Frequency 119.3.”

“British airways to Delta Air Traffic Control band 8 frequency 119.3, reading?”
“Crystal clear British Airways.”

“Do you give permission for us to rise to three fivers zero fiver?”
“Permission Granted”

“Hey, erm, do you know anything about fighter jets in the area?”
“Um… No, why?”

“Doesn’t matter. 2398 to delta control, out”
Co-Pilot Reed Turned on the seat belt sign. Captain Omar walked into the cock-pit.

“All sorted I think.”
“Yeah, I just called our new controller. He’s a bit confused about the jets and all too.”

“Well, I take it we climb to thirty five and a half thousand feet, right?”
“Yes, that’s correct sir.”

Captain Omar sat down. Both men pulled up on their control columns. The plane climbed. The aircraft and all it passengers and crew, had their fate sealed…
***
Major Gennadi Osipovich was a Russian pilot. He was in the British airforce. He was leading the squadron with his missiles armed. A call came in. He didn’t recognise the voice thought he perfectly understood his instructions. ‘Approach Target and Destroy’

He sent out a rapped stream of conversation to his military boss at the radar station.
“Target travelling at high speed and approaching unrestricted boarder.”

“Well then, switch to module two, and target is on your heading. Over”
“Give warning burst with cannon.”

A stream of bullets went by un-noticed. But it didn’t matter, because their fate was already sealed. The plane’s nose went up. Major Gennadi mistook this for an evasive move.
“All F-16’s pull away. The craft is pulling up.”

Matts voice came back on the radio. “Approach Target and DESTROY before THEY destroy MY SPACE CRAFT!”
The F-16’s responded.

***
On-board flight 2398 Co-pilot Alex tried to keep his voice calm. “Captain… the, the planes, they’re branching off, away from us.”

“Captain Omar gave him a smile. Don’t worry. They probably realise that they’re wasting time following us.”
Joshua Omar never smiled again. The plane carried on climbing.

***
“Take up position for attack.”

“Rodger, target in visual, missiles armed and locked. Everything is to protocol.”
“Destroy target, launch, launch, launch, launched.” At that very moment, 2 air to air missiles went streaming towards the plane at over 2000 kilometres per hour. The first one hit the tail. The second hit the wing. It was an automatic twin engine flame out. The lights on the tail went out.

“Major Gennadi to base. Target is destroyed.”
“Well done, good work.”

Major Gennadi Osipovich turned and went back to base thinking that he had just shot down an enemy spy plane.
***
On the plane it was a scene of chaos. Due to the explosion there had been a rapid decompression. The cabin was filled with white smoke as all the oxygen was sucked out of the plane. The oxygen masks deployed and a screeching alarm repeated through the cabin. “Decompression, put the masks over your head and adjust the head rest.”

In the cockpit the scene was even more chaotic. About thirty different alarms filled the cockpit and the pilots still had no idea what had happened. The plane was diving. They were losing altitude. The plane was going down. Another alarm came on in the cockpit. ‘Fire in Cabin, Fire in Cabin, Fire in Cabin.”
The captain screamed. “Holy S*** what’s happening?” This line was blocked out by even more desperate screams from the cabin. The plane gave a massive bump and the co-pilot’s head smashed onto the manual auxiliary power control box. Blood came streaming from the co-pilots nose and all over the cockpit. The plane slashed through a cloud and the back half of the plane was sucked right out of the rivets that held it together. It took a few seconds for the captain to gather that they were separated from the wings and tail. The plane gave one last desperate spin. But they had fought a losing battle. Impact. Their world went black…

Tuesday 7 May 2013

National Share a Story Month. Writers - The Next Generation!


Not one to want to share gloomy news, I’ve been a bit low profile recently. W’d’y’mean, you thought it was nice and quiet?? Well, telling the truth and shaming the Devil, as my dear mum would have said, I’ve been dropping my balls... splat, splat, splat ...and eventually gave up and chucked them over my shoulder. Reasons for doing so, I can’t really share – that wouldn’t be fair to the people involved. Suffice to say, I’ve been visiting so many hospitals lately, they’ve asked me to push the tea trolley around as I go.

Anyhow, on a more upbeat note, by lamplight at the dead of night, I’ve finally managed to finish my WIP! YessSS! I am relieved, to say the least. My muse, having got bored with filing his nails while I was in carer mode, was about to jump ship in favour of inspiring a more worthy author. Duly placated on sight of my fat ms spewing out of the printer, however, he had a considered browse and, “Yes, not too bad, I suppose,” he mused (sorry), “but it needs a fair amount of editing, sweetie. You’re a teensy bit superfluous in places, aren’t you?” Yes, thank you. You’re sacked.

Obviously, it did need a good final edit (I concede I can be a bit narratively excessive). However, I am super-pleased to disclose that a section of this new book has been selected for a short in the Birmingham University Anthology. Be gone, muse. I no longer need your acerbic comments posing as inspiration. All right, all right, I’m sorry, I do. I love you, honestly. Please come back. Really, I can’t live without you.
I have a biscuits…


 He’s back.

On the ‘Other News’ front, I’d also been invited along by the wonderfully organised Linda Bromyard, Librarian at Blessed Edward Oldcorne RC High School, to take part in a National Share a Story Month Event. Together with Sue Johnson (novelist, poet and author of the fabulous Writer’s Toolkit series) and Karen King (prolific author of Children’s and YA books), we were there to offer readings from our work, chat to the children about books and writing in general and, hopefully, offer a little inspiration. Turns out the children inspired us. Encouraged by Karen to ‘build a story’, using the three essentials, person, place, problem, those kids came up with some absolutely wonderful stories, romance, fantasy, thriller, all genres therein. Talk about talent. Wow! The next generation of writers are amazing! A total credit to their school. Linda has kindly promised to forward one or two of their stories, which I’ll be posting here as soon as. You will not fail to be impressed. I’m thinking of asking for a permanent seat in the corner of the library in hopes their enthusiasm will wash off on me!

So, that’s my news. On the home-front, I’m still juggling, but then … aren’t we all?

If anyone fancies a peek at my masterpiece, entitled ‘The Memory Box’, I’ve posted it below, for interest. (One of the pupils wanted to know when the book would be published, btw, so I have at least one fan. Phew!)

Have a wonderful week everyone!

Love, Sheryl and Snoops! XX


The Memory Box
 

Damn. Daniel Adams cursed silently, noting the thunderous look on his son’s face.  There was a time and a place for carefree frivolity, and their lounge – with a whole other family, when Jake had lost such a huge part of his – wasn’t it.

Raking a hand through his hair, Daniel walked over to him. ‘Hey, Jake, how’s it going?  We were just . . . ’ He stopped, searching for a way to explain.  Andrea and her family were only there until their own house was habitable, but still, it must seem to Jake as if she was trying to replace his mother.

‘Sorting through the clothes people have kindly donated,’ Andrea supplied, ‘before Ryan’s forced to go out chatting up babes in his boxers.’

Jake’s expression didn’t alter. He glanced at Andrea, then dragged his eyes back to Daniel.

Daniel placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are going to get some breakfast, Jake, before you and Ryan go –’

Jake pulled away. ‘Not hungry.’ 

Right.  Daniel blew out a breath. ‘Jake, you either eat something, or you don’t get to go into town today.  Your choice.’

‘Whatever.’ Jake turned to walk towards the stairs, shrugging scrawny shoulders under his rugby shirt as he went.

‘Jake!’ Daniel called after him.

‘What?’ Jake didn’t turn back.

‘The kitchen’s that way.  Get some breakfast, please,’ Daniel said calmly, though his patience was wearing thin.  How in hell was he going to get Jake to talk to him, if they couldn’t even communicate on a rudimentary level?

Jake did turn around then. ‘Why?’ he asked, his eyes holding a defiant challenge.

‘Because I said so, Jake.’

‘And what gives you the right to tell me what to do?’ Jake demanded, his expression now bordering on hatred.

So here it was. Standoff time. Jake’s fury about to be unleashed and Daniel had no clue how to respond.  ‘I’m your dad, Jake,’ he tried, sounding feeble, even to his own ears. ‘If I ask you to do something, it’s because I –’

‘Care?’ Jake gauged him through narrowed eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’ He sneered, and turned away.

‘Jake . . . ’ Daniel counted silently to five. ‘You either do as I say and eat something, or you’re grounded.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’  Jake walked on up the stairs. ‘Yadda yadda yadda.’

‘I mean it, Jake.’

‘Whatever.’

Daniel tried very hard to remain calm. ‘Jake, come back down, please.’

Jake stopped on the stairs, breathing hard, his shoulders tense. ‘No,’ he said shortly.

‘Now, Jake!’

Jake whirled around. ‘No!’ He swiped a hot, angry tear from his face. ‘I’m not doing anything you say!  Why should I?’ he shouted.  Christ, how Daniel wished he could close the gap, climb the stairs, hold him. Tell the kid to hit him, kick him, whatever it took to make him feel better.

‘Jake, come on . . .’ He took a tentative step towards him. 

‘Get stuffed!’  Jake stopped him in his tracks. ‘You don’t care about me. You don’t care about anybody. You didn’t even care about Mum!’

Christ. Daniel felt the blood drain from his face.  He couldn’t do this.  He swallowed hard. Not here. Not now. In front of . . . Daniel glanced back at Andrea, his own breathing heavy.  ‘I . . . ’ he started, shook his head and took another step forwards.  ‘Jake . . .’

‘No!’ Jake yelled. ‘You never cared about her.  You never did that with her.’ He nodded towards the lounge. ‘Mum never laughed after she was ill when you were around.  Never!’ Jake’s expression told Daniel all he needed to know.  Jake did hate him, with every bone in his body.  He’d every right to. And it hurt more than anything had ever done in his life.

‘Let me try,’ Andrea suggested gently, as Jake turned on his heel and flew up the stairs.

Daniel looked at her bewildered, incapable of coordinating his thoughts let alone his speech. 

‘We have a bereavement plan in place at the school,’ Andrea explained. ‘To help children like Jake cope.  He might let me talk to him.  You never know.’

 

* * *

 

‘He’s good in a crisis,’ Andrea went on talking to herself, as she had been the last five minutes.  Still Jake refused to acknowledge her, his expression stony, his eyes fixed to his PC.

‘He has to use a sat-nav to find the kitchen, but he makes a mean Pepsi Max,’ she went on, expounding her son’s dubious culinary skills.

Still no response.

‘A cup of tea is beyond him, unfortunately, which Ryan’s always at pains to point out,’ Andrea chatted on, ‘he being a man and therefore incapable of multitasking, he says, i.e. putting teabags in the cups whilst boiling the kettle.’

Silence was Jake’s answer.

‘Of course, this is after he’s hilariously balanced the kettle on his head, because I’ve made the fatal mistake of asking him to put it on.’ Andrea waited, wondering what on earth she could say that might at least elicit some response, however small.

Jake shrugged again, then . . . Yes!  There it was, a definite upward twitch to his mouth. ‘I’ll go and see if he’s managed to negotiate his way to your kitchen yet, shall I, before we dehydrate up here?’

Jake nodded. Definitely progress, Andrea thought, heading for the door.  Pepsi Max and chocolate biscuits were probably not the most balanced breakfast, but at least Jake might eat something if she and Ryan joined him.

‘He doesn’t talk about her,’ Jake blurted, behind her.

Andrea turned back. ‘Do you want him to, Jake?’

Jake dragged his forearm hurriedly across his eyes. ‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded, trying hard to force back his tears. ‘He never says anything. It’s like he’s scared or something. Like the kids at school, where I went before. No one ever asked me about Mum after she died.  No one ever said anything.  They just looked, and whispered stuff to each other.’

   Andrea sat back down next to him, as close as she dared without invading his space.  ‘Why was that Jake, do you think?’ 

Another shrug.

‘Because they thought it might make you sad, possibly?’

‘Maybe,’ Jake conceded. ‘The thing is . . .’ He hesitated ‘ . . . it does make me sad sometimes, really sad.  But I want to talk about her.  She was my mum.’  He glanced at Andrea as if he couldn’t quite understand why people didn’t get it.

‘I’m sure your mum knew you loved her, Jake.  Mums do, you know? It’s instinctive.  We feel it in here.’ Andrea placed a hand over her heart.

Jake’s eyes slid towards her again. ‘She said she was scared.  Scared for him.’

‘Your dad?’ Andrea probed softly.

Jake nodded. ‘She said she was scared for me, too, but that she knew I knew she’d always love me and watch out for me. She didn’t think he . . . knew she loved him, though.’

Andrea took a breath, her heart breaking for this little boy and his lost father.  ‘Adults don’t see things so clearly sometimes, Jake.’ She saw a chance and took his hand. He didn’t pull away. ‘Sometimes emotions get in the way.  Do you understand?’

Jake nodded again. ‘Like anger?’

‘Yes, anger.  Hurt, sadness.  Sometimes they stop you saying what you really feel.’

‘I did tell her I loved her,’ Jake confided, after a second.  ‘When she was ill, she tried really hard, you know?’ He turned at last to look directly at Andrea, his eyes full to brimming. ‘To make sure I was all right.  Make me smile and stuff.  She tried to make sure things would be okay for me and . . . Dad too, making lists of where things were and how stuff worked.  I was kind of proud of her, you know?’

Andrea did know, absolutely. The sense of the woman she’d felt whilst looking through her things. Even knowing how ill she was, Michelle Adams had been strong for her family, yet as gentle and caring as a mother could be. 

‘You know something, Jake,’ she said, feeling humbled. ‘There isn’t a mum anywhere who wouldn’t be proud of a son who could say out loud that he loved her.’

Jake pulled in a breath, his skinny chest puffing up. ‘I’d like to tell people more about her, but . . .’

‘No one gives you chance?’

‘It’s like everyone’s pretending she never existed,’ Jake said quietly.

‘How about we make a memory box, Jake?’ Andrea suggested, knowing that he needed to dwell, but on the good things.

Jake squinted at her curiously.

‘We’ll make up a box of special things you can remember her by.  Photographs, and such like.’

Jake thought about it, then nodded. ‘They’re in the spare room,’ he said, scrambling off the bed as Ryan came in with a tray laden with biscuits, essential sugar-high fizzy stuff and an actual cup of tea.

‘And anything else you can think of, Jake,’ Andrea said. ‘Things that will help you to think about the good times.’

‘Her perfume. I’ve got some in my room. It makes me remember her better.’ Jake made a grab for his Pepsi. ‘And Harry Potter,’ he added, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve as he headed on out.

‘I’ll give you a hand, mate,’ Ryan offered, giving Andrea a knowing wink as he plonked the tray down.  ‘Not sure Harry Potter will fit in the box,’ he said, heading after Jake, ‘but . . .’

‘Dimwit. I meant the book.’  Jake’s child-bordering-on-adolescent tones drifted back.  ‘Mum used to read it to me at bedtime.’

‘Cool.  Which one?’

Goblet of Fire.  Prisoner of Azkaban.  Most of them, until she died.  Have you read them?’

‘Yep. Got them all,’ Ryan said, cranking up his enthusiasm, for Jake’s sake. Bless his mismatched Simpsons socks. ‘Or I did have, before the fire.’

‘Aw, that sucks,’ Jake said.  ‘You could share mine.’

‘Cool,’ Ryan said, with rather less enthusiasm.

 

* * *

 

‘Jake?’ Daniel knocked on his son’s door. 

Would he answer this time?  Probably not.

Daniel reached for the handle, only to find the door opened by Ryan.  

‘Hi.  How’s it going?’ Daniel smiled at the gangly teenager, who, far from being the bad influence Daniel had worried he might be, seemed to be sprouting a halo along with some stubble – and who Daniel reckoned deserved a medal for looking out for Jake.

‘Yeah, good.  Just helping Jake sort some stuff out.’

‘Oh?’ Daniel glanced past Ryan into the room, to where Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, no PlayStation control in sight, amazingly.  ‘What stuff would that be then, Jake?’

Daniel waited, but took his cue when Ryan motioned him in.

‘Off to get some more Pepsi, mate,’ Ryan said diplomatically. ‘Want some?’

Jake nodded, but didn’t look up.

‘Back in ten.’ Ryan drooped out, skinny fit jeans still clinging to hips, looking every inch the typical allergic-to-anything-strenuous teenager. Daniel owed the kid, that was for sure. 

He owed Jake too, big time. 

Daniel turned his attention back to his son, who was surrounded by a sea of photographs.  Photographs of Michelle, from the albums in the spare room.

Cautiously, Daniel walked across to stand by Jake’s side. Then, hands in pockets, he waited again, wondering what to say that could even begin to heal their relationship.  What would he want to hear, if he were Jake? 

Sorry perhaps?  Wholly inadequate, Daniel knew, but it might be a start.

He looked down at his son, whose head was bent in concentration. He needed a haircut.  Needed a lot of things. Daniel closed his eyes, as he noticed the bottle of perfume tucked in the corner of Jake’s Adidas shoebox. 

   ‘Need any help, Jake?’ Daniel asked softly.

Jake didn’t answer. That was okay. Daniel didn’t really expect him to.  He swallowed back a lump in his throat, then took a gamble, crouched down next to Jake – and silently prayed. 

Biding his time, he studied the photographs alongside his son.  ‘You’ve chosen all the good ones,’ he ventured.

Jake did respond then, somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

‘Not many fun ones though.’ Daniel reached for a photograph. One he’d taken himself on what had turned out to be their last time at the theme park together:  Michelle – Jake in front of her on the log flume, both shrieking with laugher and soaked through to the skin. Probably the last time she had laughed – with him.

Daniel breathed in, hard. ‘I did make her sad Jake,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t help much, but . . . I wish to God I hadn’t.’

Jake’s head dropped even lower.

‘She did laugh though, you know, Jake,’ Daniel pushed on, ‘with you.’ 

He placed the photograph carefully in the box. ‘Alton Towers,’ he said, ‘summer before last.  She laughed so much she had to dash to the loo, remember?’

Jake dragged the back of his hand under his nose.

‘She couldn’t have been that happy without you, Jake. You gave her the gift of laugher.  That’s something to be glad about. To be proud of.’

Daniel stopped, his chest filling up as he watched a slow tear fall from his son’s face. Daniel hesitated, then rested a hand lightly on Jake’s shoulder. 

Jake didn’t shrug him off. 

‘You won her a stuffed toy that day, do you remember? What was it?  A tiger?’

‘Tigger.’ Jake finally spoke.

‘That’s right,’ Daniel said, his throat tight. ‘Tigger.’

‘She kept it in the car,’ Jake picked up in a small voice.

The car she never arrived at the hospital in. ‘She kept a whole family of furry friends in the car,’ Daniel said. ‘I’m surprised there was room for her.’

Jake’s mouth twitched into a small smile. ‘She talked to them.’ He glanced up at Daniel, his huge blue eyes glassy with tears.

‘That was the little girl inside her. The little girl you made laugh.’ Daniel squeezed Jake’s shoulder.

He actually felt like whooping. Like punching the air. Like picking Jake up and hugging him so hard . . . He’d looked at him.  Full on.  No anger. 

Daniel closed his eyes, relief washing over him.  ‘I have one of Mum’s stuffed toys,’ he said throatily.  ‘One she kept.  Not Tigger, but . . . Do you want me to fetch it?’

Jake nodded.

‘Right.’ Daniel smiled. ‘Back in two,’ he dragged his forearm across his eyes as he headed for his own room. He had something else, too.  Something he’d wanted to give Jake before, but somehow couldn’t. 

The antique locket he’d bought Michelle for her thirtieth was in the bedside drawer.  Daniel ran his thumb over the engraved rose-gold surface of it.  If Jake needed something to remind him of his mother . . . 

‘Bedtime Bear,’ Daniel announced, joining Jake back on the floor. ‘Your very first toy.’  He handed the scruffy little white bear to his son.

Jake laughed – and Daniel really did feel like crying.

‘I have something else for you, Jake.’ He passed him the locket. ‘It was very special to her,’ he said gently, as Jake’s eyes fell on the photograph of himself inside it.  ‘She wore it right next to her heart. And that,’ he went on as Jake looked at the lock of hair on the opposite side of the locket, ‘is your hair and hers, entwined.’

Jake went very quiet.

‘Okay?’ Daniel asked.

Jake nodded vigorously. ‘Okay,’ he said, around a sharp intake of breath.
Daniel reached out, ran his hand through Jake’s unruly crop, and then allowed it to stray to his shoulder.  He wanted very much to hold him, to reassure him.  But Jake’s body language was tense.  It would take time, Daniel knew, but maybe, someday, Jake would let him back in.

Saturday 4 May 2013

Guest Post & Review! Goodbye Henrietta Street by Lin Treadgold!



Guest Blog from Lin Treadgold, Author of romance novel Goodbye, Henrietta Street.


I am delighted to be invited by Sheryl Browne as a guest on her blog. Sheryl and I have something in common. We are the proud owners of Jack Russell Terriers! -  both with their own story to tell. I am sure if they could write, it would be both poignant and heartwarming. In the meantime, we have to be content with two little dogs that watch our every move and sit faithful by our sides as we write our work in progress.

Dogs can be a great comfort for those who suffer illness, but they are also very good for authors who would quite happily sit by the computer all day and write (like me!) I feel it’s important to exercise and my Dylan makes me do all the things that are good for me. He drags me out of bed and won’t settle until he has been walked. They say a walked dog is a good dog and I have to agree with that. A walked human is a healthy one too.

There is only one problem with having a Jack Russell, they love the attention and just as I am settled into editing my work in progress, along comes Dylan, ‘turboing’ around the house at the very point when my story is going well and my mind is truly locked on to an important scene in the book. No matter what I say or do, won’t make him stop until he has had his walk.

SB: Oh, I so agree, Lin. Snoops gets his football out. I kid you not. His second nickname (the first being Rambo – superstar of Recipes for Disaster) is Peckham (as in Pelé and Bekham) and he boots it like a pro – mostly straight into my shins. Needless to say, he gets my attention!

When I first joined Safkhet Publishing for my novel Goodbye, Henrietta Street, we had only acquired Dylan a few months before. I found it very hard to edit and have an unruly puppy by my side, but with patience we managed him well and within weeks he became a real fun dog. We have a routine and now my time is split between walking the dog and writing the book. When I learned how Sheryl’s dog, Snoops, had been cruelly treated, I was glad she could give him a loving home. Sheryl and I found we had a mutual interest other than writing, we could also talk dogs as well! 

Goodbye, Henrietta Street will be launched on 1st July 2013 and if I can enjoy my time and success as an author as much as Sheryl is doing with her latest book Recipes for Disaster, I feel sure that between us we can take on the world and follow our aspirations well into the future. I always wanted to write a book, not necessarily to be famous, but to prove I could do it. I write because I can!

To be an author you must have determination and not worry about how long it takes to get there. Once you have decided on your goal, there should be no stopping to achieve it. I wish all new writers good luck and my advice is to write and enjoy every moment. My Dylan has lots of determination and Sheryl informs me that Snoops is the same. With our dogs beside us, I know they will never cease to inspire. All those walks clear the air and allow the writer to enjoy the writing process and stay healthy at the same time.

SB: Snoops is and endless source of inspiration and comfort, Lin. My partner is actually seriously in love with him. Not sure where this leaves me…  Thanks so much for sharing.  Snoops and I wish you the absolute best of luck with Goodbye, Henrietta Street.

For my pre-publication review, please see below!





Twitter  @itslinhere


An island paradise in Cornwall
The eternal nature holiday or just a passing wave on the beach?

Pippa Lambton's life has fallen apart and husband Rob is ready to give up their marriage. Three years before, their son Daniel passed away; he was the glue that held them together. Now, Pippa's left home for the beautiful Isles of Scilly, for a chance to rediscover herself. She meets handsome Norwegian nature warden, Sven Jorgensen, who teaches her about the island wildlife.

Pippa finds herself laughing again. She is aware of Rob's dilemma over his childhood adoption and their turbulent relationship, but after an awkward kiss with Sven, she is torn about how to proceed. There is much to resolve, and leaving Rob could prove a disaster. Is her affair with Sven a holiday fling? How can she walk away from Rob after losing Daniel? Should she leave her home in Yorkshire for Sven and his island paradise? Find out more in Goodbye, Henrietta Street.

Pre-publication Review!

‘Goodbye, Henrietta Street’ is a poignant romance novel based in Yorkshire and the Cornish Isles of Scilly. 

The poem at the beginning of the book sets the scene for this story perfectly. Within the opening chapter, it soon becomes clear that Pippa Lambton is struggling to come to terms with the ‘worst thing that can happen to a parent’, the loss of her child, and the subsequent devastation grief can wreak on a marriage. I have to say that, as someone whose parents suffered a similar loss in very similar circumstances, I drew a breath. For obvious reasons, I immediately wondered whether Pippa’s grief would be believable. How does one cope with such a loss? Can one ever get past that kind of grief? It tore at my heartstrings a little, but I have to say, yes, Pippa was totally believable. I felt her pain. 

Pippa and Rob (the lost little boy’s father) married very young, as was often the case in the seventies and eighties. Friends from their schooldays, they came together, had a child together and possibly would have stayed together, but for the fact that the child was the cement in their relationship. With little Daniel gone and Rob internalising his grief – as men sometimes do, Pippa was alone and adrift trying to deal with the loss on her own. Time passes, but it doesn’t heal the gaping wound in her heart and the distance between the couple only grows wider. Choosing to take a holiday away from Rob and her hometown in Yorkshire, Pippa goes back to the beautiful Isles of Scilly, where she has treasured memories of Daniel in happier times. Her hope is to try to come to terms with her loss, examine her life and her marriage and find a way forward.

Through interests in common, wildlife, conservation and bird-watching, she soon meets handsome Norwegian nature warden, Sven Jorgensen. Though initially hiding heartbreak of his own, Sven is kind and caring, happy and carefree. He’s also intuitive. Sensing Pippa’s deep sadness he takes her under his wing, teaching her about the island’s wildlife.

Sven is just the tonic Pippa needs and the outcome might seem inevitable, but the author weaves in backstory in regard to Sven which keeps you turning the pages. She also keeps Rob’s life back in Yorkshire – and the lives and turbulent marriage of a couple close to them – running alongside Pippa’s story, making the book a satisfyingly rounded read.

The scenery on Scilly and attention to detail vis-à-vis wildlife and conservation is beautifully done. Lin Treadgold has obviously done a tremendous amount of research.  The questions are all answered, the overriding one being can Pippa let go her guilt and her grief and find happiness, yet still hold her son’s memory intact in her heart.

Goodbye, Henrietta Street is a thoroughly enjoyable read. I have to admit, if I thought I’d find a gorgeous Viking in the shape of Sven waiting, I’d be packing my bags and hopping aboard the Scillonion ferry in a flash. Loved it.