The Past is a Different Place...by Sheila Claydon

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Many a Moon, the final book in my Mapleby Memories trilogy came about because of a thirteenth century mill.

On holiday a number of years ago, I took an early morning woodland walk and discovered it. Roofless, its water wheel missing, and only a muddy ditch where there would have once been a fast flowing river, it sat close to the edge if a golf course. Surrounded by trees and ferns it was both forlorn and intriguing, and when the holiday ended the image of the mill stayed with me.  So did the village where I stayed, and, over several years, the first two books Mapleby books were written. Remembering Rose and Loving Ellen.

Although I always intended to write about the mill, I knew it would require a lot of research as there was nobody in the area who knew anything about it. I only had one piece of information, gleaned from a blue plaque. It stated that in 1250 it had been a working grain mill but, beyond that, nothing, and nobody knew who had put up the plaque!!

A story was waiting, but because it was the third book in the series, I had to tie it in with the characters in the previous two books. As Mapleby was already a village with a time warp this worked out just fine, however, and I really enjoyed introducing my earlier characters to their new friends. 

Why am I telling you this? Well I've just been back to the place where I created Mapleby after a gap of seven years.  I didn't expect to meet my characters (although wouldn't that have been great) but I did expect the old mill to be the same. What a disappointment! It is now so completely overgrown that the blue plaque is hidden, and it is easy to walk past it without even seeing it. The river is back though. Not fast, and nowhere near as wide and fast flowing as it must once have been, but it was back! And the woodland was glorious. Full of wild garlic, bluebells and fresh green leaves. 

Always intrigued by the past and by how quickly nature, people, construction and development obliterate the smaller moments of history, I felt sad that something that had once ground the corn for the inhabitants of a busy port, was now a hidden mound of crumbling stone in the middle of a wood. Then I remembered that the port had dwindled too, into what was now a small tourist village, and I accepted that times move on. And after so many centuries there is no known history to gainsay my story and my characters, so I will continue to believe in both the modern day ones who live in my village, and the thirteenth century ones who used the mill. 

Then, just before the holiday was over, I fell into a wonderful moment of serendipity. Anyone who has read Many a Moon will also know that several monks and a monastery, long since gone, also featured largely in the book. A monastery that I knew once existed but whose history has also been obliterated by the shadows of time. So imagine my delight and surprise when I discovered this.

Since I last visited, someone had built a grotto using the one remaining piece of the monastery wall. There was nothing explaining it other than it was in memory of the monks who had once worked there. It was a lovely place and for one brief moment, Mapleby, my imagined monks and all my imaginary villagers seemed very real. 

Mr Rochester - Ultimate Bad Boy!...by Sheila Claydon

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In my last three books (the Mapleby Memories trilogy) my heroines all travelled back in time, and in Many a Moon, the final book, the hero did as well. It took a lot of research to get the historical facts right and stepping into the past and finding a way to link it to the present was taxing at times. Writing them was also a lot of fun. Now, however, I'm in the middle of a real journey into the past courtesy of the writer Charlotte Bronte, and what an eye-opener it is proving to be.

I last read Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte's first published novel (1847) when I was 15. It was one of the set pieces to be studied for what were then known as O'Levels in the UK. Exams, that if passed, enabled pupils to continue to study at a higher level. I loved it and because I loved it, I ended up in trouble. Instead of reading at the class speed, which meant working through the book chapter by chapter twice weekly, I went ahead and finished it without listening to my teacher's explanations. Nor can I remember a single word of what she said when I was forced back into concentrating on my lessons.  I never forgot the story of Jane Eyre, though. And I passed the exam!

Now I am reading it again because  my eldest granddaughter gave me a copy for Christmas with the words, 'this is a bit of a random present because I'm sure you will have read it before, but because you like books I thought you'd like this one.'  

She was right. It is an illustrated hardback copy of the second edition of Jane Eyre. She illustrated the original herself and my book, although a pale copy, still has pages edged with gold leaf, and there is an attached green silk bookmark. It is altogether splendid to look at and very heavy. And on the first page is Charlotte Bronte's dedication to non other than the writer William Thackeray. Using her nom-de-plume of Currer Bell, she says:

             'Finally, I have alluded to Mr Thackeray, because to him-if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger-I have dedicated this second edition of "Jane Eyre"' - 

    December 21st 1847

The language is, of course, much more flowery than words we would use today, and she often uses a dozen words where one or two would suffice.  She also makes a great use of semi-colons in places where modern writers would mostly use full stops and some actual words are used slightly differently too, but oh my goodness, apart from that it could easily be a Books We Love romance.  

Jane Eyre is an orphan who has overcome a difficult childhood and made her own way in the world. How she achieves this, becoming so close to a modern day feisty heroine with a mind of her own, is almost laughable. Her morals and ethics are inevitably those of the nineteenth century but she makes the reader very aware that, although she has no intention of flouting them, at times she considers them a burden.

Then there is Mr Rochester. Rich. Entitled. Charismatic. The ultimate bad boy hero! He also has much to overcome but for many years he travels, socialises and generally indulges himself in an attempt to forget his problems. Then he meets Jane. She has been employed as governess for his charge, Adele, an young orphan he has rescued from a dalliance he once had in France. It is then that the reader begins to see his softer side. It is clear that little Adele loves him, and soon Jane, much against her will, begins to love him too. 

Their courtship is very different from modern day romances, with Jane deliberately keeping Mr Rochester at arm's length, apparently for his own good as well as her own peace of mind. She also frequently challenges him, disagreeing with some of his attitudes. Only previously used to women looking for a husband within the upper reaches of society, not to someone who has to work for a living, he is both intrigued and enchanted by her spikiness. Persuading her to marry him, he deliberately overlooks the fact that he already has a wife of many years, albeit one who is insane (the actual word used to describe her in the book) and kept locked away. 

Charlotte Bronte's description of her heartbreak when she discovers this, while flowery and at times very long-winded, has the same passion as that of any modern day romance. Mr Rochester's explanation does too. But while he expects Jane to stay with him, she, true to the morals of the day  as well as her own peace of mind, determines to leave him forever. Of course there is eventually a happy ending, although it isn't as problem free as modern happy endings. Nevertheless, in Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte proves herself to be one of the earliest, and for its time, erotic, romantic fiction writers.

There are others of course. Jane Austen (1775-1817) wrote about love amongst the British landed gentry at the end of the eighteenth century, but always from a critical viewpoint, commenting upon the need for women to make a good marriage in order to be financially secure. Charlotte Bronte is different. Her story is one of real passion. She undoubtedly wrote from the heart, weaving parts of her own life into the story. It is known she spent some time in a boarding school and also worked as a teacher and then a governess, all things that feature in the story. It is also known that she corresponded with a married man, thought to be the love of her life. Known too is the fact that she suffered a thwarted romance. She eventually married, aged 38, but sadly died soon after, probably from pregnancy complications. 

What is especially noteworthy, however, is that she  wrote from a first-person female perspective, a style so innovative that it drew a harsh response from some critics despite being universally loved by readers. Jane Eyre has variously been considered coarse, vulgar, improper, and a  masterpiece. It has never been out of print. 

And despite (to the modern ear) the sometimes overblown descriptions of both her surroundings and the conversations she has, mainly with Mr Rochester, but with other characters in the story too, you can really hear her speaking across the centuries. She might have written Jane Eyre in 1847 but her voice talks directly to the reader and it is the voice of a modern woman. It is also the voice of a woman in love.

The book I still haven't written...by Sheila Claydon

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I got the idea for my book Remembering Rose from two old photographs in my mother-in-law's family album. I thoroughly enjoyed researching the history that would enable Rachel, the heroine, to travel back in time, and it eventually turned out to be the first book of my Mapleby Memories trilogy. What's more, although the story is entirely fictional, there are snippets of her family history hidden in it, things that mean long dead family members are not forgotten. 

There is, however, another book that I really should write but somehow don't seem able to start, and that's the story of my own grandfather. When he died, aged 72, in 1910, he must have felt sure that the truth of his birth would never be discovered. 
 
According to family legend, his parents were scions of English nobility whose love affair had been thwarted, it was assumed by their parents. He had thus been born in secrecy, fostered until he was old enough to be educated, and later apprenticed in a trade that would ensure he had a well remunerated life. So far, so fairy-tale ending! But who were his parents? By the time I was intrigued enough to want to know, all the next generation were dead and there was no one to ask any more.  
 
Looking at his photo, I still wondered. Long face, high smooth forehead, amazing cheekbones, a luxuriant moustache; definitely a  Lord of the Manor lookalike. So for years I dined out on possibly being the granddaughter of a baronet, duke or earl…I didn’t go quite as far as prince. Then the Internet arrived and I realised I could track him down.
 
But where to start? A birth certificate, except I didn’t know where he was born, so a wedding certificate. My grandmother’s name would prove I had found the correct William. Determined, I contacted the General Register Office and…wow! He and my grandmother, Elizabeth, were married in St Margaret’s Church, Westminster in May 1884. Built next to Westminster Abbey, it has a long and imposing history as well as being the parish church of the House of Commons. Samuel Pepys was married there, and the poet John Milton. Winston Churchill was too. 
 
I discovered that Elizabeth lived in Kent so, instead of marrying locally, a wedding in  Westminster must have been a deliberate choice. Was it because her father was a Professor of Music who had previously been a Band Master in The Royal Hussars and had influence, or was it something more mundane?
 
The certificate also said William had a father, George! George (deceased) was a builder. What? There was something mysterious hidden amongst those statements and signatures. 
 
Fired up, I sent for birth certificates. Elizabeth’s was exemplary but William’s told a whole new story. I found him in Norfolk, born to Sarah. No father. I started trawling the censuses and there he was, in 1861, aged 3, LIVING WITH HIS GRANDPARENTS and, shock on shock, his older brother Joseph, also illegitimate. William was still there in 1871, aged 13. His grandfather was a bricklayer who owned a brickyard. Sarah lived and worked away as a maid. Also living there was his Uncle George, a builder. George never married and remained in the family home until his early death.
 
I’ve been to Norfolk now and seen where they all lived; the corner house with a yard behind it, the big double gates wide enough for a cart full of bricks to be pulled through by a horse. His grandfather, my great-grandfather, was always employed and apparently earning enough to keep both  his illegitimate grandsons in education until the school leaving age of 14, not very common in those long-ago days. He probably paid for their apprenticeships too.
 
I don’t know if the family tales of William having to sleep under the counter during his apprenticeship as a draper are true or just another embellishment to make his life seem more exciting. 
 
I learned nothing more about him until I found him, at the age of 22, living and working in Knightsbridge, where St Margaret’s Westminster would have been his parish church, so getting married there wasn't special after all.
 
How he met Elizabeth is also a mystery because everything I’ve learned about her family indicates that she moved in much more rarefied circles than a Draper from Norfolk. Surely they didn’t bond over a bolt of cloth while she was choosing material for a dress! 
 
However, by the time William and Elizabeth married, the stars were aligned. His mother, both his grandparents and his uncle George were all dead, so who was going to find him out if he sanitised his past by claiming George as his father?  In 1884 the Internet wasn’t even a concept. 
 
Was he a young man ashamed of his birth or a young man who saw an opportunity to better himself? Or did he lie to persuade Elizabeth's parents that he was worthy of their daughter?While I’ll never know the answer, I do wish my father and his brothers and sisters had known about their grandparents. Known, too, that they had cousins and aunts and uncles in Norfolk.  Was he ashamed of them? Did he disown his brother too? Did he lose his Norfolk accent? I certainly never heard that he had one. In fact nobody ever mentioned Norfolk at all, so I guess they all bought the nobility story. Nor do I know when the story of his supposedly noble illegitimacy became part of family legend and he ditched his uncle George. After his in-laws died I would imagine!

I have never been able to track down his father either, so Sarah’s secret will remain with her. William, however, has been well and truly found out! 
 
Am I shocked by his lies and subterfuge? Not really because I’ll never know what drove him to behave as he did, and when I look at that photo I have to admit that he still looks distinguished, a proper Victorian gentleman, so maybe he achieved his ambition to better himself. I don’t think I’m imagining the hint of a knowing smile beneath that luxuriant moustache either, so maybe it was worth it.
 
 
 

Thank You Tom Hanks...by Sheila Claydon

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In Remembering Rose, Book 1 of my Mapleby Trilogy, the heroine, Rachel, learns about the cares and troubles of previous generations as she travels back through time. I did much the same last week and it has made me feel very humble.

On Apple TV at the moment there is a new mini series series being streamed. Based on the non-fiction book by Donald L Miller (always mention the writer!!!) Masters of the Air is based on the true story of America's 8th Air Force's 100th Bomb Group during World War 2.  From 1943 to 1945 these young American soldiers, nicknamed the 'Bloody Hundred' on account of their immense losses, flew more than 8,500 missions over 22 months, losing 757 men, with 900 more becoming prisoners of war. Tom Hanks, who is an executive producer alongside Steven Speilberg and Gary Goetzman, insisted the story be told as it happened, with nothing made up. So every plane blown up, every pilot, gunner and navigator killed is a true account of the horror these men lived through. Of course there are the happier bits too, the friendships made, the acts of unbelievable bravery and loyalty, but despite this I could only watch one episode at a time instead of our normal back-to-back streaming.

The reason I felt like this, however, is not because of the actual story, although that is hard enough to watch, but because these brave airmen were stationed at Bomber Command in East Anglia in the UK, and that is where my parents were, and where they met and married. 

The Americans flew the Boeing B17 Flying Fortress while the Brits flew Lancaster Bombers. My father, who was in his thirties, was a sergeant responsible for loading bombs onto the Lancasters, while my mother, as a young WAAF (Women's Auxiliary Air Force) was a driver. Her job was to take the pilots and their crews to the airfield for their bombing raids, and then return to collect them, always wondering how many planes would actually return. This tension is very well portrayed in the series.

What really got me, however, is remembering that my mother was only 19 when she joined the WAAF and learned to drive those unwieldy canvas covered army trucks that were such an ubiquitous sight on British roads when I was a child. She had 2 week's intensive driving instruction and then was out there on her own. Unlike the American's daytime raids portrayed in the series, the British bombers flew at night, so she had to negotiate country lanes with no signposts and tiny pinprick headlights because of the blackout rules. I remember, too, that my Father had a deformed finger where one of the bombs had slipped as it was being loaded.

When I was about 7 years old my parents returned to visit friends in the area and, while we were there, revisited the airfield, which by then was a waste of abandoned Nissen huts with a solitary caretaker. I can still remember walking down the cracked runway with grass sprouting through it so the visit must have made quite an impression. Of course I had no idea what memories it brought back to my parents, how many wasted lives they must have remembered while they were there. 

Watching the series and remembering my life from 19 through to my early 20s, and remembering my children's lives, and the life my 18 and 21 year old granddaughters are enjoying today, I realise how much we owe to those brave young airmen and the ground crews who supported them, and how very, very lucky we are. Unlike so many war films, Masters of the Air is true, and I wish it could be mandatory watching although obviously that is not possible! My parents' reminiscences, including their memories of meeting the American pilots, was little more than a story from my childhood until, thanks to this TV series, I saw what they and countless others actually lived through and came out the other side still smiling. It is truly humbling.

 

New Year, New Dog...by Sheila Claydon

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There are animal characters in quite a few of my books, some wild, some domesticated. A horse, a dog and a lot of birds feature in Mending Jodie's Heart. It's not surprising really as we are a pet loving family. In the past there have been gerbils, hamsters, guinea pigs, dogs, cats, turtles, and the largest lop-eared rabbit ever. He was so tame that, as well as being house-trained, he used to join our dog on the rug in front of the fire whenever he got the chance. The dog, a sheltie/collie cross, appeared to sigh heavily whenever that happened. He put up with it though. Nowadays we only have a dog but our daughter, who lives nearby, has horses, dogs and a very naughty rag-doll cat as well as a 40 year old Reeves turtle that seems determined to live forever. So incorporating animal characters into my books is an inevitability. And now there is another one!

Somebody please play ball

This is Lilo (pronounced Leelo from the children's program Lilo and Stitch). Adorable and naughty in equal measure, she has a back story that is a book all of its own. The last puppy born in a litter of 8, she is far smaller than her brothers and sisters, definitely the runt of the litter, and to add to her woes one of her front feet is minus all its toes. On top of that she has a cough that ends in a spluttering retching sound that has us all waiting for the next breath.  Despite the missing toes and the cough, however, she is the most appealing little thing.  

When my son-in-law went looking for a replacement dog for a recently deceased and much loved 14 year old King Charles Cavalier spaniel (not that it is possible to actually replace a dog) he found Lilo. The rest of the litter had all been sold but because nobody had wanted a tiny, disabled dog with a cough, the owners were considering keeping her for breeding if she proved strong enough. Whether it was because he rescued her or whether it just her nature we'll never know, but she is the most joyous of dogs and everybody has fallen totally in love with her. The other dogs have accepted her too, and the cat. In fact she has very quickly stolen her way into everybody's heart.

The lack of toes doesn't impede her in any way either. She can already keep up with the older dogs, play ball and throw her toys around with abandon. She has a huge appetite too although I don't think she'll ever be very big. And she is the first in the queue for treats. Most amusing of all, because her back legs are slightly too long, she looks like a tiny and very appealing kangaroo when she sits on her haunches with her front legs in the air. 

The cough is almost better now as well and she has been given a clean bill of health by the vet despite her mild disability. 

Paisley, the older dog in the household, is a trained school dog with a job to do. She spent a year training and follows rules and directions to the nth degree, but despite that she seems to enjoy sharing space with Lilo, a dog who is unlikely to follow any rule any time soon, partly because of her appeal and partly because she so loves to be cuddled that the no furniture and no lap rules seem to have disappeared completely.  So, despite her inauspicious start, Lilo appears to have fallen on her (3) feet and has a very happy life ahead of her. We are looking forward to being part of it.

Waiting for her master

Cuddling up to the next best thing to a human

Sharing a bed, any bed, is just what I do!

• I am trying to stay awake but it's hard

Christmases Past (and Presents)...by Sheila Claydon

 

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I haven't written any books with Christmas in them but Loving Ellen (Book 2 of Mapleby Memories) has exactly the right cover. I can imagine little Ellen's excitement when she wakes up on Christmas morning and sees a bulging stocking at the end of her bed. And that imagining has made me remember some of the favourite gifts I received as a child.

The first one I can clearly recall is a pair of rabbit fur mittens. I was about 5 years old. The fur was on top, the palm was leather, and there was a gathering of elastic at the wrist so they wouldn't fall off. They were so soft and warm and  I wore them for most of the Christmas holiday, indoors and out, often rubbing the furry side against my face. I adored them. In those days it was real fur too. Nowadays it would be faux. We also used to eat rabbit in those long ago days not long after the war, so it seemed entirely natural to use their fur for hats and gloves, whereas now rabbit pie has all but disappeared from the British culinary tradition and rabbits are mostly children's pets.

Another present I remember was a doll house. It was really special although I didn't know how special until years later when I realised my parents had made it for me. It was only a few years after WW2 so toys were in short supply and money was too. But by using wooden boxes, scraps of wallpaper and carpet, and by contriving beds, chairs and sofas out of matchboxes plumped up with cotton wool and covered in old dress material, they conjured up the most marvellous gift. It had four fully furnished rooms and a family of tiny rubber dolls. The baby's cradle was half a walnut shell. I loved it beyond words.

I remember, too, the artist's palette, 3 canvases and box of oil paints I received from a much older cousin when I was about 14 and fancying myself as a painter. My poor grandmother and my father patiently sat  for hours while I painted them. Although I am no artist I did capture their likeness and my mother hung them in the hall until I left home. She then removed them somewhat rapidly and I am quite sure with a sigh of relief.

I remember the baby doll too. I insisted it was a boy and called him Michael. Maybe prescient as that's my husband's name! He was almost new born baby size and my mother, who had kept my old carry cot ready for another child who sadly never arrived, let me use it for Michael along with the covers and shawls I had been wrapped in as a baby. I had a doll pram too but I don't remember how or when that arrived or whether it was new or second hand. I do know it was maroon though.

Then, when I was about nine years old, I had the book Christmas! I don't remember what my parents gave me, but everyone else gave me a book. I had a great many aunts and uncles and cousins, so that was quite a lot of books. At least ten, and not a single one replicated. Nor had I read any of them before. There was What Katy Did, What Katy Did Next, Little Women, one of Enid Blyton's Famous Five books, Swallows and Amazons, Children of the New Forest and Heidi to name a few. I don't remember them all but I know my parents had a very peaceful time because I spent Christmas with my nose in one book after another. And although I already loved reading, I think that was the year I started writing too. I can remember turning a cupboard in my bedroom into a desk with pencil, rubber and notepad laid out neatly on the shelf and a small stool tucked underneath. None of my early scribblings survived but I do remember writing about a girl called Dorothy although what her story was about is lost in the mists of time.

Christmas for children is wonderful if they are lucky enough to be part of a caring family. Nowadays, so many years later, I enjoy my Christmases vicariously through the eyes and excitement of my grandchildren, and, although I hardly dare admit it, my grand dogs, cat and horses!! According to my granddaughters they are so much part of the family that they can't be left out. However I don't think dog biscuits, catnip and hay nets will have the same lasting memories for them that my early Christmases have for me. 

As I get older I relish the memories and know how lucky I was, and still am. I hope you have your own wonderful memories too.

Merry Christmas!

The Silver Screen and Me...by Sheila Claydon

 

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For a variety of reasons I haven't been able to concentrate on writing recently, which means I've lost the habit of putting words on a page every day. So in an attempt to reactivate the creative juices I have been looking at my backlist and, because I frequently use places I've visited as the setting for a story, remembering what prompted me to write each particular book. It's been an enjoyable journey. So has the game I started playing, which was trying to decide which one could best be adapted into a film for the silver screen!

Pie in the sky I know, but fun nevertheless.

Out of all my books Miss Locatelli won. It has all the ingredients. A family business and a family mystery. A burglary. A far too sexy 'bad boy turned good' Italian hero. A quirky heroine with a prodigious talent and a temper to match. Some fabulous and some less than fabulous clothes! Jewellery. A large Italian family. Mouth-watering Italian food. Settings in London, England and Florence, Italy. And, of course, the ubiquitous misunderstandings that keep the reader turning the pages of a romantic fiction novel until the very end.

Then there is the intoxicating thought of all those long distance drone shots of the wonderful Italian countryside as well as the close ups of life in Florence with my characters walking across the The Ponte Vecchio or staring up at the iconic Duomo.  Equally intoxicating is the imagined bird's eye view of the River Thames in London, the Houses of Parliament, the parks, the interior of one of the city's famous hotels. If only!

I'm quite sure actually having my book turned into a film would be far less exciting than imagining it. For a start I would lose control and have to watch as producers and directors decided to alter parts of my story. None of the actors would look the same as my imagined characters either. The settings would be different from the ones I had imagined, probably the clothes too. They might even leave out my favourite scene or, horror of horrors, change the ending! It happens.

While J K Rowling, whose Harry Potter books were such best sellers long before they were filmed, was able to influence filming, most writers cannot. One writer, when interviewed, said that when she sold her book to a production company she had to accept that the story was no longer hers and just enjoy spending the money instead. And that is another problem. Mostly writers make very little money despite their book being the heart of the film. And then there are all those other books, the ones that despite being sold  never actually make it to the silver screen.

Still, imaging how my book might be adapted has been good fun, and trying to decide which particular scene I would most like to see filmed was too, although in the case of Miss Locatelli  I'm still working on it. It's been a good mental exercise and who knows, it might just prompt me to start putting words on paper again.

Try it with one of your own books if you are a writer. And if you're not, then try imagining filming your favourite novel or, better still, your favourite book from Books We Love. 

Let's be positive for a change...by Sheila Claydon

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I always try to find a link to one of my books when I blog, but this time it is a very weak one! In Remembering Rose (Book 1 of Mapleby Memories) Rachel's one hospital visit to see her grandmother is a very small part of the story. Hospital visits this month, however, are a much bigger part of my and my husband's story. There is also a slight resemblance in that, like hers, they were far from dispiriting.  Most importantly, however, I am writing this piece as a counterpoint to the almost daily negative Press coverage of the UK's National Health Service (NHS). 

My husband, aged 82, has been an avid and very good tennis player for 70+ years.The downside of this  was that he needed a new hip. He wasn't desperate because, with a painkiller, he could still play, and as all his team mates are over 70 these days it was never going to be so physically challenging that he could no longer cope.  He did, however, make a doctor's appointment on the advice of his physiotherapist, who told him the sooner the better while he still had the necessary musculature to help him with his recovery. 

Within a month of that first doctor's appointment he had had the operation and was home. He was operated on only12 days after seeing the surgeon. No 2 year wait, no 7.5 million waiting list, no traumatic tales of delays and less than optimum care. Everything ran like clockwork. The aids and adaptations necessary for his recovery were delivered at the promised time, the nurses, doctors and ward orderlies were all cheerful, caring and dedicated. Nothing was too much trouble and when he attended the occupational therapy clinic to prepare him, he was introduced to other patients waiting for the same operation.  

He was actually playing tennis when I received the call saying he was booked in for 3 days hence so had to attend a pre-operative check later that afternoon. 

We had to be at the hospital at 7.30 on a Sunday morning (yes, some of our medics do work weekends despite what the media says) and by the time I visited that evening he was in bed recovering, and although hooked up to various machines, had eaten a good meal and was very cheerful. The next day he was up and dressed and doing the mandatory physio and the day after that he was home! District nurses turned up when they said they would to tend the wound and remove the sutures, the GP pharmacy sorted out his meds and made arrangements for a post operative check, and now, only 3 weeks later, he's walking unaided up to a mile at a time and no longer needs any special care.

Much of his recovery is down to his general good health and strong muscles of course, so not everyone will be so lucky, but many will be. One of the two lovely surgeons who operated told him that hip replacement is one of her favourite jobs as it gives people their life back, and she is right. And what is even more important is that all of this excellent care was free, including all the the aids and medication. We were prepared to pay privately if, as the daily news seemed to convey, he was going to have to wait years, but when he suggested this to his doctor, he dismissed it, saying let's test the NHS first as I don't think that will be necessary.

There are similar tales. One friend has just had a stent inserted following a mild heart attack. Another is waiting for a new heart valve and has been told she will probably have it done by the end of the month. Another has been given a 3-year open appointment with his surgeon in case the 'wait and watch' treatment he is receiving breaks down and he needs more urgent care. And these are in different hospitals in different parts of the country, so it's not just special where we live. And to top it all, we have just been booked into a local pharmacy for our booster Covid and Flu vaccines. All free. All without any angst or waiting. 

We feel very blessed and we also wish that just once in a while the British Press would report some of these positives instead of making the UK, and especially the NHS, look as if it is going to hell in a handcart. It isn't! 

On a lighter note, here is the short extract of Rachel's hospital visit in Remembering Rose, where her nonagenarian grandma is playing her part as a link between Rachel and Rose, Rachel's long dead great-great-grandmother, who has breeched the boundaries of time itself to stop her great-great-granddaughter making the biggest mistake of her life.

    Grandma was as pale as the pillow behind her head and Ma didn't look much better. They smiled when Daniel and I walked up to the bed though. Ma with relief and Grandma with satisfaction.

    "Rose said you'd both come," she told me, and then closed her eyes.

    I shrugged when Ma raised her eyebrows, and for once I wasn't lying. I had no idea what Rose had told Grandma. I didn't find out for ages either because she wasn't talking. Ma looked at her inert figure in consternation.

    "She seems to have worn herself out calling for you."

    I took hold of one of Grandma's hands. It was warm and I felt a faint pressure as her fingers curled in mine. She wasn't asleep, she was just binding her time. I settled down to wait.

    Ma stayed in the chair opposite and Daniel set off in search of coffee. When he returned with three cardboard cups of questionable liquid he suggested Ma take a break once she had finished hers. "I passed the hospital canteen on my way back to the ward and the lunch smells good," he said.

    I saw my chance. "Why don't you both go? You haven't had a thing since early this morning Daniel, and Ma would probably appreciate the company. I'll be fine here with Grandma until you get back."

    They both looked doubtful, Daniel because he had seen how panicked I was earlier, and Ma because she was worried. "I wish we had never shown her a single photo, let alone tried to persuade her to remember the past. She's done nothing but talk about Granny Rose ever since she saw that picture of her. On her worst days she even confuses her with you, Rachel, so who knows what she'll say when she wakes up and sees you next to the bed."

    I aimed for a suitably understanding expression as I nodded my agreement because I knew that if I didn't Ma wouldn't leave me on my own with Grandma."It's only because I look a bit like Rose," I said, as I wondered how long it would be before Ma and Daniel totally trusted my sanity again. Then I remembered all the times I had seen Rose and spoken to her and I didn't blame them because I wasn't entirely sure how sane I was myself anymore.

    "I suppose so," Ma looked doubtful. She didn't demur when Daniel asked her a second time though. Draining her coffee cup, she stood up and stretched. Then she picked up the large tote bag she carries with her everywhere and followed him out of the ward. Left to my own devices but aware that we didn't have that much time, I squeezed Grandma's hand.

    "You can open your eyes now because they've gone."

    She peered at me through two slits. I laughed. "Did Rose put you up to this?"

    "Rose wanted Daniel, too."

    "You mean she wanted me to realise how much I need Daniel and this was the only way she could arrange it. I suppose she was the one who made me forget to switch on my cell phone this morning too." I was getting better at reading Rose's mind by the minute. I was also beginning to have an inkling about what she was up to.

    Grandma nodded. "She made me promise."

    I frowned. "Well, from now on you can tell her to leave you out of it. If she wants to talk to me she knows where I live."

    But Grandma was too intent on relaying the rest of her message to listen. "Daniel is a good man."

    "I know he is, and so was Arthur. Tell Rose I know she loved Arthur. Tell her I understand."

* * *

    

Reluctant Date's setting Unveiled ...by Sheila Claydon

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This is a blog I never expected to write and I wish I didn't have to!

About 12 years ago I enjoyed a truly memorable holiday with my husband and another couple who have been our friends for more than 40 years. Although we have been lucky enough to visit many countries across the world, often being hosted by locals who have helped us to properly engage with the peoples and their culture, this particular holiday remains one of the very best.

We arrived late in a hire car and, due to a lack of street lights, found navigating the small town a bit of a challenge. This continued when we finally located our motel and the carpark turned out be a dusty area strewn with shingle and ankle-turning rocks. The building was on stilts so there were stairs to tackle before we reached the very small elevator and squashed in with our suitcases.  Climbing them would have been almost as daunting as our journey if it hadn't been for the occasional light set into the planking. What had we let ourselves in for?

We had booked an apartment for 4 but at first glance wondered if we'd got it wrong. As one of our party had a knee problem she decided not to climb the exceedingly narrow spiral staircase unless she had to, so my husband and I said we would investigate. At the top of the staircase we were confronted by a large double bed that almost exactly fitted the room, and what appeared to be a large cupboard. When we opened it we realised we were in fact on an upstairs 'balcony' or mezzanine, which would give us a great view of our friends who would be sleeping below on a bed settee that had to be made up every night.

We were still laughing when we opened the doors to the downstairs balcony, and there it was. The Gulf of Mexico right outside. Moonlight illuminated a calm sea and there was nothing but silence. We had never experienced anything quite like it and could hardly wait for what the following day had to offer.

The next morning we woke to sun shining through the skylight in the upstairs bedroom while seagulls squawked as they spied on us through the glass. Hurrying down the very decidedly hazardous stairs and onto the balcony we were greeted by a pod of dolphins leaping across the sunlit Gulf on their way to breakfast. Needless to say we ate our own breakfast and every subsequent breakfast on that balcony after that, revelling in how close we were to nature as large numbers of horseshoe crabs gathered on the sandy beach below us while brown pelicans clustered like a group of old men on some broken wooden spars and sandpipers picked a delicate path along the shore. We discovered many other birds later, cormorants and osprey, buffleheads and white pelicans to name just a few, but it was the dolphins that transfixed us. They came every day at the same time, morning and evening, so breakfast and an evening drink on the balcony swiftly became mandatory! 

This place, which cast a magical spell on us from the start, is in fact a small island city (700 inhabitants) off the northwest coast of Florida. You will have read about it recently when Hurricane Idalia engulfed it in a nearly 7-foot storm surge, inundating the lowest parts of the island and destroying or severely damaging many homes and businesses. 

It is Cedar key.

Cedar Key, despite its size and the quaintness of some of its aspects, is a place of so much history from the Civil War onwards. Once a busy port, it now describes itself as a walkable island paradise. It is tiny, with a total area of 2.1square miles, most of which is water. It is part of the Cedar Key National Wildlife Refuge, a group of small islands with nature trails and rich birdlife. The devastation caused by Idalia's 7 foot storm surge and 200 km winds is heartbreaking. I don't know if our holiday motel has survived. It might be the one that was washed into the Gulf. What I do know is that 90% of Cedar key's downtown was underwater following the storm surge, docks and piers were knocked out and many homes destroyed. Now the water has subsided and the bridge, which is the only road in and out, is passable again, the mammoth task of clearing the debris, mud and sand is underway, to say nothing of restoring the power, water and sewerage.  

Our holiday there was so perfect that while we often talked about returning we always worried that it wouldn't be the same the second time around, so we never did go, and now there is no Cedar Key to return to. I just hope that the community will be able to rebuild the same as they did after other hurricanes in 1896 and in 1950. They have also survived storm surges and according to one of its residents, that's what some people were expecting this time, a tropical storm they could sit out drinking wine and playing cards, the same as they have done before. Sadly Idalia had other ideas. I just hope that at some time in the future Cedar Key will again be the wonderful place it once was and that its community will thrive again.

Why did I have to write about this? Well many of my books are set in places I have visited but, apart from the cities, I always anonymise them, so the only indication that Reluctant Date is set in Cedar Key is the dolphins leaping in the background on the book cover. In my story it is called Dolphin Key and, with apologies to the owners, I've upgraded the apartment we stayed in just a little. Much else is authentic though and if you read my book you will quickly understand why I found the whole place so entrancing. The counter setting towards the beginning of the book is the northwest coast of England, the two juxtaposed together. Both are coastal communities, both are nature reserves, but they are so very different, and then, of course, there is the romance. 

I could write a great deal more about Cedar Key, from our visit to the nearby and equally magical Suwanee River to our daily trip to the best ice cream parlour ever, and how, instead of using our car, we had  to hire a golf cart to travel locally. I could tell you that the airport is a grass strip with Ospreys nesting on the top of the surrounding trees and that a sunset voyage on a flat bottomed boats is an unforgettable experience, but as so much of this is part of my story you can read it for yourself. If you want to experience Cedar Key's true magic then follow Claire and Daniel's romance in Reluctant Date. 

Thanks to the Internet I will be able to follow the rebuilding of Cedar Key. In the meantime I will never forget what was a truly magical holiday and below is a small extract from Reluctant Date that I hope explains it. It is when Daniel takes Claire to see the white pelicans on her first morning in Dolphin Key....

    They didn't say very much for a while after that. Daniel was too busy guiding the dinghy round the pier and out into the bay, and Claire was too busy absorbing everything that came into view. Only when she laughed out loud at the sight of at least twenty brown pelicans perched every which way on a derelict wooden structure that had collapsed into the sea, did Daniel speak.

    "Its the local doss house," he told her with a grin. "Once upon a time it was part of an old landing stage but most of it disintegrated years ago. These guys took this bit over a few years back and now it's one of the iconic images of Dolphin Key. You'll see it everywhere. On postcards, books, posters...even on letterheads."

    "I can see why. It's just so funny, and yet picturesque at the same time," Claire turned her head as he steered the dinghy away from the pelicans and their dilapidated roost.

    "The white pelicans are a bit different," he told her, opening up the throttle in a noisy burst as they sped across the bay."Much more stately; they are almost aristocracy compared to their common cousins."

    But Claire had stopped listening to him. Instead she was looking over his shoulder, her eyes wide with disbelief. He turned his head to follow her gaze and was just in time to see a pod of dolphins flip into the air before arcing back into the sea.

    "Hunting for breakfast," he said. "Same as the white pelicans will be. Everyone eats early around here."

    After looking in vain for another sighting, Claire brought her gaze reluctantly back to the boat. Daniel smiled at her. "You first time?"

    She nodded.

    "It gets everyone the same way. Soon you'll be used to it though. There are so many of them around here that before long you will start to recognise individual dolphins because they swim in a particular place at a regular time each day."

    Claire stared at him."Are you serious? This just gets more and more like fantasy land!"

    He grinned at her. "You'd better believe it. Was I right that you will love living here?"

    "Maybe."