Category Archives: Sunday Scene

SUNDAY SCENE: LINDA HUBER ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE UN-FAMILY

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I write psychological suspense, which isn’t well known for being a ‘cheerful’ genre. Although my books have their fair share of tension, I feel it’s important to include some warmer, happy moments too, whether it’s a touch of humour about something a child says, or an incident to do with a character’s relationship, or – as in my new release The Un-Family – their job. I think this helps to make the characters more real. Psychological suspense is basically about bad things happening to people, and readers are much more likely to sympathise with a character and cheer them on if they come across as realistic, rounded people, in spite of the tense plot and darker moments in the books.

In The Un-Family, Holly is a vet, having huge problems with her husband Dylan’s behaviour as well as smaller (she thinks) ones with his family. One day, however, she goes to look round a wildlife centre where she’ll be taking on some work from then on. Adam, the centre head, shows her round:

 

Holly looked in on a deer with a torn shoulder, a swan with an infected wound on one foot, and a hedgehog, who’d been stuck down a drain and needed fattening up. They walked on round the enclosures, which included two ponds, a home-made badger sett and a row of pens. Holly heaved a happy sigh – this would be such a great place to work.

A gaggle of teenagers on bikes was approaching as they arrived back at the main building, and Adam gave them a wave. ‘The after-school brigade.’

Holly watched as the teenagers dispersed around the buildings. ‘My niece Megan would love this. I’ll suggest she does a stint in the summer holidays.’

‘We always need volunteers. Okay, let’s go back in and sort out when you’ll be here next week. Then I’m heading down to the river to release a duck, now the water level has fallen again. Want to tag along? We’ll release you into the weekend when we’re done.’ He gave her his lop-sided grin.

Good, she’d be home well before Dylan arrived. With him away on his course, tonight would be their only opportunity to spend time with each other all weekend. Holly arranged her first shift for the following Monday and joined Adam in the centre’s green van, the duck in a pet carrier in the back.

He drove the short distance to the river, which was still full, but much less violent now. They walked along the bank to the place the duck had been rescued, and Adam stood back with Fred on his lead while Holly crouched down and opened the pet carrier. What a special moment this was, the first time she’d released a wild creature back into its natural environment.

She waited, motionless, then a yellow beak emerged from the carrier, followed by a beady eye, and three seconds’ flurry later, the mallard was swimming down the river, quacking loudly. Warm satisfaction spread through Holly. This was perfect.

 

Holly’s job turns into her main consolation as the plot develops, and as you can imagine, the wildlife centre provides many such lighter, human moments, and it also provides sanctuary for Holly later in the book. Does everything work out for her and Dylan in the end? You can find out more about The Un-Family on my website www.lindahuber.net

 

SUNDAY SCENE: SUE MOORCROFT ON CREATING HER FICTIONAL MIDDLEDIP

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Imagine a tiny village in Cambridgeshire, England…

It boasts one pub, one shop, one café and a garage. Just outside the boundaries stand a performing arts college and a posh hotel, and the Carlysle Estate and home farm snuggle around the village like arms.

I say ‘imagine’ because that’s what I did.

It began on a family car journey when I had a road atlas open on my lap. I loved the place names I was reading…Crowland…Eye…Whaplode Drove. For fun, I filled the gap between them by creating Middledip village and the nearby town of Bettsbrough. As we passed through the real-life village of Eye, I spotted a garage forecourt full of classic cars and mentally transferred it to Middledip village as MAR Motors, Ratty’s garage. A short, black, peacefully grazing pony in a roadside field became Snobby, Gabe’s cantankerous equine buddy. A few miles on, a stone pub looked just right to be The Three Fishes. A shop with one of everything in its window was perfect for Middledip, too, as was the village hall and playing field I borrowed. So Middledip took shape.

As we waited at traffic lights, I watched two women chatting. One, with long, strawberry blonde hair, looked awkward until children joined the conversation, and then suddenly she relaxed, smiling and laughing. That was when Tess Riddell was born – the first character to arrive in Middledip feeling lost and looking for a new beginning. (See Starting Over.)

Ten books on, I have a spreadsheet of characters that my brother maintains for me, because, although every visit to Middledip is a standalone story, I let earlier characters pop up so readers can see how they’re doing. There’s a spreadsheet for places, too, but I rarely need to refer to it because I just know that the cottages are stone, and there are also red-brick Victorian houses, like the neglected property that became The Angel Community Café. My hand-drawn map of Middledip (pictured) is probably the one item I’d try to save if my house burned down! A version can be found on my website here and you can click on the markers to discover where characters from various books live.

This year’s winter story is A White Christmas on Winter Street. As there was a foster carer in the village, Nan Heather, I wanted to bring back one of the children she had fostered – Sky Terran. I give Sky an overwhelming wish not just to visit the village but to truly be part of it, so let her buy a house on the corner of Winter Street. The Corner House has been neglected for so long that it can scarcely be seen behind an explosion of conifers and shrubs. Sky has the task of restoring it to order as part of the process of sorting out her life.

As ‘make friends’ is written at the top of her wish list, I provide her with every opportunity to find them, not just in Winter Street but via the pub quiz or grabbing a coffee at the community café where Christmas shortbread is in the shape of angels. I’ve been told by readers that reading a Middledip novel is like being in a Christmas movie – but I think it must be more like living in a snow globe because the village certainly sees an inordinate amount of snow and frosty wintry weather!

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: MAISIE THOMAS ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE FOR THE RAILWAY GIRLS

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What could be more Christmassy than a children’s party? In the latest book in The Railway Girls saga series, the friends organise a series of parties to make Christmas extra special. By Christmas 1942, following the victory at El-Alamein, there was a new sense of hope in the air, but there were still severe shortages to contend with at home.

At Miss Brown’s suggestion, some ancient curtains had been borne down from the attics and the WVS had cut them up and sewn them into velvet and chintz sashes for the children.

‘Some will have party clothes and others won’t,’ said Miss Brown. ‘This way, everyone gets something special to wear and afterwards it can all go to salvage.’

One set of red velvet curtains had been used to make a Father Christmas suit for Kenneth. One of the WVS ladies produced a curly white wig, which she allowed Cordelia to chop up and turn into a beard. Last year, Kenneth would never have offered to dress up in this way. He had been far too much of a stuffed shirt. It brought home to Cordelia that she wasn’t the only one who had changed.

She couldn’t have been more delighted with how the party went. From the moment she saw the children walk into Darley Court’s grand entrance hall, where their eyes popped open at the sight of the holly-bedecked bannisters, mantelpiece and hearth, and the two huge flags hanging proudly symbolising the friendship of two great nations, she knew the afternoon was going to be everything she’d hoped for.

She had asked if a piano could be provided.

‘But I never expected a baby grand,’ she whispered to Persephone.

Persephone grinned. ‘This is Darley Court, you know. Only the best for our guests.’

Persephone and Alison took turns to belt out popular tunes, ‘Run, Rabbit, Run’ for musical chairs, ‘It’s a Hap-Hap Happy Day’ for pass the parcel and ‘(We’re Gonna Hang Out) The Washing on the Siegfried Line’ for railway stations.

The Americans, bless their generous hearts, had provided heaps of chocolate bars. Not only could every game have first, second and thirds prizes, but there were going to be enough left over for every child to have one to take home.

While hunt the thimble was in progress, to the accompaniment of ‘Bless ’Em All’, Cordelia and her team of helpers put out the sandwiches and fairy cakes in the next room. The food might not be Christmassy, but the room was decorated and one of the land girls was going to play carols while the children tucked in.

Once all the sandwiches and little cakes had been demolished, there was a loud knock on the door.

‘Who’s that?’ asked the children, looking round.

‘Is it Father Christmas?’ asked one tot.

‘No, honey, it’s the US Army,’ announced a handsome young American soldier, walking in, followed by more soldiers, much to the delight of the children – and also, Cordelia noticed, to the delight of the women helping. Cordelia’s heart sank. Yes, the arrival of the soldiers was exciting, but was Kenneth in his guise as Father Christmas going to be upstaged?

Persephone called for silence.

‘In a moment, I’m going to ask all the children to stand up and tuck their chairs under, so we can walk outside in a nice line, because we’ve got a special visitor.’

Cordelia frowned. This wasn’t part of her plan.

Everybody trooped outside and there, coming up the drive, was an American jeep in the back of which was a big chair and sitting on it was –

‘Father Christmas!’ shouted the children, jumping up and down in excitement. ‘It’s Father Christmas.’

A little girl tugged at Cordelia’s hand. ‘Is he the American Father Christmas? Is he different to our Father Christmas?’

But Cordelia was too choked with tears of pride to answer.

 

SUNDAY SCENE: S L ROSEWARNE ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE RESCUE

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The Rescue is a novel about about second chances, written by a terrier called Moll, who promises her owner, Pip, to look after his wife when he dies.

I wanted to write about what happens when you lose your partner, and how it is terrible, but there can be plenty of life – and love – ahead. Moll was such a strong character, and kept me going through it all, so I felt she should tell this tale.

This scene is Moll’s introduction to the one and only time she has sex. It was quite a challenge to write – how do dogs feel about sex? The point of the scene is that she can understand how her owner, Suki, feels when she meets a man she is very attracted to but, for various reasons, doesn’t want to have sex with him.

 

Errol was a terrier/collie and a real flirt, with huge dark eyes and a wicked sense of humour, who lived in Penryn.

We met on the fields above the sea, and he gambolled over to me and ran away, back and forth, urging me to follow him. Which after a bit I did. He had a musky scent that drove me wild, and we had such fun that afternoon – racing down onto the beach, over the rock pools and back. I felt like a puppy again.

He made me bark with laughter, and nudged against me, and teased me and nuzzled my muzzle until all my cares and worries over Suki disappeared. When I was with him, I felt as if I was the most important bitch in the world.

Errol made me feel like a different dog. I noticed that I was walking strangely, swaying my hips a bit. My tail looked longer and I waved it upright, higher in the air. Even my coat looked glossy. Other male dogs started sniffing around me, but I wasn’t interested in them. I only had a nose for Errol.

Soon, Errol suggested going off in the bushes for a frolic. I wasn’t sure what he meant at first, but I had this overwhelming urge to, well, frolic, I guess, though I didn’t know what that involved. But I’d never had such a strong desire to do something like that with another dog. It was all I could think about for days, and I got so excited, lying at home, imagining what it would be like. Him sniffing my butt, then my ears, then…. I wasn’t sure what we’d do, but I knew we’d have to do it or I’d go barking mad.

So one day we sneaked off into the bushes – ‘we’ll have to be quick,’ Errol barked.

We were, and it was – well, not quite what I expected. It hurt a bit, but it was over very quickly, and all he did afterwards was bellow, then he scampered off. I could have done with a bit of a cuddle, paw to paw, and a nose-to-nose chat, but perhaps male dogs weren’t like that.

After my initial disappointment, I felt invigorated and emboldened. Desired. The experience went right up my nose. He was all I could smell for days. I got quite dreamy for a while, remembering his scent, imagining doing it again – but better this time. But he’d disappeared. I was barking to some other dogs who lived nearby, and then I heard he’d used the same chat-up to several other dogs, and my tail and my whiskers drooped. I felt a real fool.

 

www.suekittow.com

SUNDAY SCENE: JULIE HOUSTON ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE NEXT VILLAGE VICAR BOOK

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I think visitors to the north of England, and especially to the industrial urbanised towns of West Yorkshire, are always surprised to find themselves in the Yorkshire Dales – Skipton, Kettlewell and Grassington – and then, within another fifty miles or so, into the glorious Lake District. Wordsworth certainly knew what he was talking about when he called Grasmere, ‘The loveliest spot that man hath ever found’ and, writing in praise of Lake Ullswater, found it to be, ‘The happiest combination of beauty and grandeur.’

I have just completed my sequel to The Village Vicar (available January 2023) and, in this sequel, (probably to be titled The Girls of Heatherly Hall and available Summer 2023) I had a glorious time writing about Eva, one of the Quinn triplets, spending a weekend at an art retreat on Lake Ullswater.

To put the scene into context, Eva, newly separated from her husband, and utterly miserable, is in the Lake District for the weekend on an art course at one of the UK’s upmarket retreats, but also there on a fact-finding mission, prior to setting up her own similar art retreat back in West Yorkshire.

Eva arrives in the pouring rain for which the Lake District is renowned and, after a sleepless night, walks in the early hours of a now fine midsummer morning, down through the grounds of the retreat to the edge of Lake Ullswater itself. She is instantly captivated by the beauty and peace of the place:

…twelve acres of gardens and woodlands, as well as over half a mile of shore around the lake, and she set off down the beautifully kept gardens to the lake side.  The stunning mountain scenery to the south softened gradually to the gently undulating hills of the north and, as she walked, breathing in the early morning scents of Oriental Poppies, Astrantia and a mass of red and yellow roses she recognised but couldn’t identify, she began to feel calmer.

Eva spends the weekend learning to throw pots with the charismatic Russian, Andrea Zaitsev and, when he suggests an evening bike ride around Ullswater, she willingly concurs.

…the bike set off through the stable yard and down towards the large open wooden gate, before turning right onto the country road and accelerating at speed. Eva felt her heart and pulse escalate in unison with the bike as the Harley Davidson roared along, the warm summer evening breeze in her face and the rumble of the V-twin engine beneath her.

Andrea powered the bike through the village of Pooley Bridge before taking the main road which clung to, and followed, the margin of Ullswater lake to their left. Once on the main road, the bike gathered momentum and Eva realised they were probably well over the speed limit, but she felt totally safe in this man’s hands, surrendering to the glorious experience of flying through the summer evening as dusk began to descend and a large Strawberry moon rose over the lake itself.

Andrea slowed down completely as he took them through the villages of Watermillock and Glenridding where tents and B and Bs announced their popularity with tourists and then, leaving the A road, continued slowly down country lanes until he pulled up at a quirky-looking pub in the village of Patterdale.

‘Where the dogs come from,’ Eva said as, with slightly shaky legs, she dismounted the bike and waited until Andrea parked correctly in front of the pub.

‘Dogs?’

‘Patterdale terriers. No idea what they look like, but I guess they must have originated from here…’

 

 

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: LUCY MORRIS ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM TEMPTED BY HER OUTCAST VIKING

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My latest book ‘Tempted by her Outcast Viking’, begins in Viking age York, known at the time as Jorvik.

York has a special place in my heart as I went to university there. It’s a beautiful historic city, and still remains quite small in size. Walking through its old town you can easily imagine what it would have been like throughout the ages. Roman walls surround it and medieval architecture is down every narrow-gobbled alley.

Jorvik was a well-established city well before it fell to the Vikings. But the Norse made it into a successful trading centre that rivalled all others. Silks, spices and precious gems from across the world were bought and sold within its walls.

I wanted to reflect the global reach of the Norse trading routes with my character Erik, a man with a pitiful upbringing. His father is a powerful Jarl, and his mother was a captured Persian from the middle east. Trading with his half-brother has finally paid for his freedom, but after his father’s horrific treatment, Erik only longs for a peaceful future with a wife and children.

But that has to wait, because a woman from his past needs his help, and he needs her forgiveness:

Anger raced through her like lightning, burning away all reason.

She grabbed him by his broad shoulders and thrust him against the nearest wall. His hands in response locked around her biceps to steady himself, his grip firm, but not painful, and the heat that radiated from his fingers only angered her further, because of the effect it had on her. It caused her body to warm and her breath to catch in her throat, shivers of longing twisted in her gut and she thrust him back a second time, the plaster on the little house cracking and crumbling with the force.

‘I don’t like you!’ she snarled, ‘I’ve never liked you! So, let’s make this very clear. I do not care if you are sorry or not! Just do as you’ve promised and get my mother a damn farm!’

They stared at one another, their breathing heavy and the tension between them thick in the silence. Their big bodies filled the space of the alley, making the wattle and daub buildings seem even more fragile and small, neither of them willing to back down, their bodies held in a tight balance of frustration and stubborn pride.

The dark pools of his eyes locked with hers and then dropped ever so slowly to her mouth. ‘There was a time when you liked me…’

 

 

Go to www.LucyMorrisRomance.com for more information, and to sign up to my newsletter.

SUNDAY SCENE: JANE BHEEMAH ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM HER PRIZE WINNING SHORT STORY

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‘Under the Spreading Oak’ is a story that’s been in my head for a while, just waiting to be told. Then earlier this year Blue Poppy Publishing ran a short story competition – calling for Devon writers and a Devon based theme – and I found a fit. Quite simply, it was a joy to write. Set in Powderham Castle’s beautiful deer park, it’s told from the perspective of an ancient oak. A descriptive piece, it depicts life in the deer park, the change of seasons and some of the people who have taken shelter under its spreading boughs.

The story is – well, a story, though the place is real enough. I was lucky enough to grow up in the estuary village of Starcross, not far from Powderham. In my mind’s eye, while penning the story, I was revisiting childhood walks through the deer park with my beloved Nan. Stories do that to you sometimes, don’t they, trigger nostalgic memories. This one certainly did for me!

I’ve walked through the deer park as a teenager, too, when – like other local youngsters – I had school summer holiday jobs at the Castle tea rooms. The path was more of a track then, still a public right of way, but not opened up for ramblers as it is now. There must have been rainy days, of course, but all I remember is sunlight dancing through a canopy of leaves and a chorus of birdsong. The old gatekeeper’s cottage is gone; in its place is a café and farm shop.

The best ideas come when I’m out and about. Nature never fails to inspire, and I’ve always been enchanted by ancient trees and the stories they could tell, if only they could speak – imagine the history witnessed under their silent watch! And, mighty and majestic, there is something special about the undisputed king of the forest.

Here’s an extract from the opening paragraph of ‘Under the Spreading Oak.’

“The last vestiges of night cloak the woods in shadow. No sound, save for the tramp of boots as the gamekeeper makes his pre-dawn round, checking on the pheasants in their pens. Its hunt disturbed, a fox slinks by, picking up a new scent as the rabbit it almost had slinks into a burrow.”

The icing on the cake: not only did my story ‘Under the Spreading Oak’ do well in the competition I’m delighted to say that it was included in an anthology and published by N. Devon based Blue Poppy Publishing this summer.  It’s a little gem of a book, titled: ‘The Cream of Devon, An Anthology of Short Stories From the County that Rhymes with Heaven.’

Now I will let my story speak again:

“A May morning like any other. My branches reach up to the cerulean sky. There’s a shimmer of mist over the Exe now. Here in the Powderham deer park, set in deepest Devon, the seasons come and go like an eternal wheel. I’m one of the forest giants, standing sentinel and watching the days unfurl. I’ve lost count of the springs I’ve seen as the cold earth warms and a carpet of bluebells spreads out on the woodland floor. All life is played out here.”

I also write novels as Kathryn Haydon, the pen name chosen as a nod to my mum.  She would have been thrilled to know about my Powderham themed story!

Below is a link to my Facebook Author Page, for those who would like to take a peep. You’ll find me there as Kathryn Haydon.

https://www.facebook.com/flickypenpot

Warm wishes and happy reading.

SUNDAY SCENE: ALEX STONE ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE OTHER GIRLFRIEND

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The Other Girlfriend is my second psychological thriller set in Dorset. After a weekend away at Durdle Door ends in tragedy, Lizzie’s world falls part and she battles with anxiety and agoraphobia.

Agoraphobia is so often misunderstood and assumed to be a fear of open spaces, but, as Lizzie discovers, in reality it is so much more and any situation or place where it difficult to escape from can become a trigger for panic attacks.

 

My heart pounded and my legs felt weak, as though they would give way at any moment. All I had to do was open the front door, step outside and walk down the driveway to the car. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t difficult.

Except it was.

‘What are you standing there for?’ Mum asked, giving me a nudge forward. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

I side stepped out of the way, allowing her to pass. She cast a sideways glance at me before reaching for the latch and pulling the door open. I stared out at the world beyond the threshold. Somehow it seemed as though all the oxygen was slipping away through the open door. My breathing became laboured. Quick shallow gasps that didn’t satisfy my lungs.

I heard Mum sigh. The patience she was trying to hold onto was starting to slip. I had to get it together. I couldn’t fall apart in front of her. Not again.

I fought to regain control. But it wasn’t working.

Nothing worked.

The hallway dipped and swayed. Everything started to blur. Tears streamed down my face. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. It was just a door. Just a driveway. I wanted to run away. To hide. But I couldn’t.

My feet were welded to the spot. I couldn’t move. Dark patches appeared at the edges of my vision. I was going to pass out. I could feel it.

‘Don’t start that nonsense.’ There was an edge of frustration to her tone. ‘We haven’t got time for it.’

I nodded, obediently, as a loud sob escaped. She was right. It was nonsense. I was being stupid. It was just the driveway. The same driveway I had walked down nearly every day for my whole life.

And yet somehow it was no longer the same. I was no longer the same.

Mum couldn’t understand. She’d tried. She was still trying. But the daughter she’d known had simply disappeared. All she was left with was this shell of my former self. Sad. Tearful. Panicked.

She couldn’t understand why. She couldn’t figure out how to fix it. How to fix me.

With every day that passed I became more reclusive and she became more frantic. My failure somehow became her failure. It was a mother’s job to keep her kids safe and well, that’s what she said. But she couldn’t make me well. Plasters and paracetamol wouldn’t work this time. Eighteen years of experience as a mother hadn’t prepared her for this.

Mum thrust smelling salts under my nose. I flinched as my eyes smarted. But I inhaled deeply. I took the little brown glass bottle from her and clung to it, wafting it back and forth below my nose as the darkness gradually faded into grey.

‘Just don’t think about it,’ Mum said as she hooked her arm through mine and pulled me forward, escorting me outside, while my body trembled and each breath rasped in my chest.

It had become her favourite phrase. I wasn’t even sure what it was I wasn’t supposed to think about.

I don’t think she knew either.