Category Archives: Writer Interviews

THE ECHOES OF LOVE – REVIEW AND INTERVIEW WITH AUTHOR JENNY ASHCROFT

Posted on by

Jane Cable reviews this fabulous historical romance

Where do I begin with this incredible book? With the sweeping love story at its gripping heart, or the impeccable historical research, or the phenomenal sense of place and time that had me living and breathing Crete in 1936 and during the Second World War? Or shall I just cut to the chase and tell you this will most likely be my book of the year.

In 1936, eighteen year old Eleni Adams returns from England to Crete to spend the summer with her Greek grandfather, something she has done every year since her mother died when she was a baby. But this summer is different; this summer she falls in love with Otto, the German boy staying in the villa next door, and I was as captivated by the breathlessness of young love, the intensity of feeling, as I was by the setting that made me feel as though I was really sitting above that cove near sun-drenched Chania.

But we all know our history, and in 1941 Crete was captured by the Germans. By that time Eleni is an SOE agent based on the island, and rather than leave she goes underground in the bombed out ruins of Chania to help to support the resistance. Meanwhile Otto is one of the first wave of fighters to be parachuted in; a reluctant Nazi, a man who stands against cruelty and reprisals, and of course the lovers’ paths cross once again.

Also running through the book is the transcript of an interview from 1974, given by the man who, it becomes apparent, betrayed Eleni. A man who knew her well. A man who she trusted.

This book transported me absolutely, haunted my dreams, tore me apart, and put me back together again. It’s an absolute triumph, so I was delighted when Jenny Ashcroft agreed to tell me how, and why, she came up with the idea of the interview transcript.

 

JA: First of all, thank you so much for this wonderful review. I’m absolutely thrilled you enjoyed it! As for the transcripts, the idea for those actually came before the central idea for the book. Often when I’m trying to come up with something new, I’ll write scenes or bits of dialogue that spring into my mind, and one afternoon I found myself playing around with a prologue written in interview form.

I love historical documentaries, and just thought that the dynamic between a researcher and their subject could be a really rich one – especially if that subject is carrying some deep regret, or secret, from their past. So, I wrote a sample for my agent, she really loved it, and when, a couple of weeks later, I went back to her with my synopsis for The Echoes of Love, she was really enthusiastic about that too, but asked, ‘Is there any way you can get that transcript idea in?’ I thought there was, decided that they could work as being from a fictional BBC documentary commemorating the liberation of Greece, and that’s how the transcripts came to be woven through the text of Eleni and Otto’s story.

All very iterative, and I wish I could say that I knew from the start precisely what I was doing, but I never seem to know that with any book! For me, it really is the case that it’s only when I start to write that I come to realise where I want to go. But I’m so glad I did weave those transcripts in. They really did become such a core part of the story.

 

 

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

Posted on by

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

Posted on by

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

Posted on by

‘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

Posted on by

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.

 

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: NATALIE NORMANN ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM SUMMER ISLAND

Posted on by

When I was asked if I could write a contemporary romance set in Norway, I jumped at the opportunity. I didn’t have a story, but I knew the perfect setting.

I love islands, but I couldn’t make up my mind which one of my favourite places to use, and I ended up making my own fictional island. From that, came Summer Island with it’s quirky characters and the best part of Norwegian summers.

It was the perfect place for a romance between two people with broken hearts who think they have lost what they loved most.

Ninni Torp comes to her beloved island to heal from the biggest shock in her life, only to find there are bigger suprises in store for her.

I also had great fun dropping a big city boy in an unfamiliar environment. Jack Greene arrives from London to sell the farm he has inherited, and finds the experience more than a little strange.  Like here in this scene, where he gets into a rowing boat for the first time.

 

Jack looked at Frikk with a wary expression on his face. The dog looked back at him, ears up, tail down.

‘Are you sure he’s friendly?’

‘Are you scared of dogs?’ Ninni smiled at him.

Jack kept a watchful eye on Frikk. ‘No, not really. I’m not used to them, that’s all. We never had any pets. My brother is allergic.’

Ninni turned to Frikk. ‘Say hello to Jack, Frikk.’

The dog lifted a paw and Jack, after a moment’s hesitation, shook it. ‘That’s pretty good,’ he said and smiled.

Ninni laughed. ‘He has excellent manners. Better than most people, I think.’

She climbed into the boat, keeping it steady by standing with her legs apart. ‘Come on, Frikk, jump in.’

The dog looked at Jack, seemed to grin at him, and then jumped. Ninni grabbed him and lifted him to the front. She looked up at Jack. ‘Come on.’

Jack hesitated. ‘Are you sure that thing is safe?’

‘My word, you are a scaredy-cat. Don’t worry, if you fall while getting into the boat you can’t drown. That’s what the life jacket is for.’

She held out a hand, but Jack ignored it. Copying her, he carefully stepped into the boat, then sat down. He stretched out his hands and grabbed hold of the gunwale on both sides.

Ninni didn’t say anything. It wasn’t nice to make fun of someone sitting in a boat for the first time, no matter how hilarious he looked. He seemed so sure of himself on land and now he sat there, staring at the water as if it was going to attack him.

She sat down in the aft and pulled the cord to the engine a couple of times. It spluttered and then started.

The wind was coming from the south and the water was a bit choppy. The bow jumped on the waves and Frikk had a grand time barking at them.

Jack turned pale.

Ninni leaned forward. ‘Are you seasick?’

‘No.’ He shook his head, then turned a shade greener.

 

I can’t even express how much fun I had writing the two books in A Very Hygge Holiday: Summer Island, and the sequel Christmas Island.

SUNDAY SCENE: LIZ FENWICK ON THE HELFORD RIVER AS A SETTING FOR HER NOVELS

Posted on by

I first visited the Helford River in June 1989 and it has held my heart since then. It has become my muse, or a major part of it at least. It is difficult to write about this part of Cornwall without reference to the river. It pulls you in as much as the moon pulls the tide in. My first six novels are set on both the north and the south side of the river and this coming Spring my latest novel, The Secret Shore, returns there once more, this time set in 1942. The protagonist Merry Tremayne was born on the south side on a farm just above Frenchman’s Creek. From her early explorations of the many creeks that feed the river she draws her very first map. This is the start of her life journey that many woman of her time did not and could not travel.

It was a challenge to look at the river through Merry’s eyes as I am so accustomed to viewing it through my own. But a setting only has true meaning when seen through the eyes of those viewing it. With each novel I have had to look at this familiar landscape and yet see it anew. In my debut, The Cornish House, it was fun to look at the area through the eyes of a stroppy London teenager. All Hannah could see was an empty landscape devoid of her former luxuries such as a decent latte and all she could smell was the air reeking of cow shit! Whereas Gabe in A Cornish Stranger experienced the area through the river’s sounds… the shrill cries of the wading birds at low tide and the soft wind in the Eucalyptus trees.

Merry is an Oxford geographer who doesn’t simply see fields and hills, but their structure, composition and development. She only notices their true beauty when she thinks of her mother Elise, an artist. It is Elise’s view which causes Merry’s analytical mind to stop every so often, enabling her to pause and see the elegance beyond the facts and figures.

Standing high on the plateau above the Helford, I watched the world change from the indistinct shapes of dawn to the defined ones of the day and I recalled my mother’s search for what she described as impossible light. It was the moment when the beauty was so sharp, so clear it hurt and broke into your mind and your soul giving everything new meaning. The only thing she had been able to compare it to was when she fell in love with my father. In that moment of understanding, her perception of everything changed.

When writing about landscape it’s important for me to be in my character’s mind because what the character sees also reveals her point of view. Does she pick out the light or does she notice how rundown things are? Victoria in Under A Cornish Sky sees the landscape through history and folklore whereas when Merry is on the river she experiences it quite differently.

This old canoe had provided Oliver and I with endless trips on the Helford and around its creeks while we pretended that we were travelling on the Amazon, or the Nile, or the Yangtze. The bending oaks and hollies had become far more exotic and dangerous.

The joy of writing is that with each book and each character I can take a fresh look at the landscape around me and discover something totally new. I appreciate it all the more for the experience.

 

 

www.lizfenwick.com

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: JAN BAYNHAM ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM HER NANNY’S SECRET

Posted on by

My third book, ‘Her Nanny’s Secret’, is a dual timeline novel, set in wartime and the sixties in rural mid-Wales and Normandy. It involves secrets, forbidden love, loss, and hope. In the 1963 story, my main character, Annie, travels to France with Clara Pryce to whom she was nanny when she was younger. Clara’s father had been shot down over Normandy in June 1943. Now as an adult, Clara is keen to try to find out what happened to him and where he’s buried. My chosen scene in the novel is when Annie accompanies Clara to Ville de Roi, a town near where her father’s Spitfire fighter plane had been shot down. It’s her first day and I want to capture Annie’s reactions to French life, seeing it through the eyes of someone who had never been to France before.

As she and Clara approach the town, ‘the sea sparkled like a mirror in the afternoon sun’ to the left; ‘coves and inlets surprised her around each bend’ in the road. Once parked, they wander through the streets, eventually choosing a pretty crepêrie where they can have lunch.

La Belle Epoque was situated down a narrow, cobbled street branching off from the main square. Outside, tables, covered with red-and-white tablecloths, and bentwood chairs were placed along each of the two large windows. Ornamental fruit trees in brightly glazed pots separated each table.

‘Is it warm enough to sit outside, do you think?’ asked Clara.

Just being able to sit out in the fresh air to eat is a new experience for Annie. A real treat. None of the cafés in Pen-y-Rhos have outdoor seating.

They sat down and studied the menu. Annie had never seen such a choice and couldn’t decide from the images between a savoury galette filled with ham and cheese, topped with a fried egg, or, to satisfy her sweet tooth, a crêpe, oozing with cooked local apples and whipped cream.

Clara laughed at her indecision and Annie wondered if her eyes were as wide as she felt them to be.

Back home, pancakes are only eaten on Shrove Tuesday and then always with lemon juice and white sugar.

Later in the scene, they come to a central square where a group of elderly men are playing a game Annie hadn’t seen before.

‘Pétanque,’ said Clara. ‘It’s very popular in this part of France.’

They found a bench and watched the game in progress. One man threw a small white ball onto the dusty gravel, a ‘jack’ Clara called it. In turn, each player threw a larger silver coloured ball, a boule, as close to the jack as they could. The men became more animated as the game went on especially when someone’s boule knocked another’s further away from the jack.

‘Every village will have a square for pétanque. Can you see how earnestly the old men take the game? You must never disturb a player when they’re about to throw.’ Clara laughed, waving a finger.

Clara explains to her that even the smallest village in France would have a square and a town hall, a mairie. Annie can’t get over how many cafés and bars there were in one place.

Pretty window boxes adorned the upstairs windows and scarlet summer geraniums and tumbling blue lobelia gave a blaze of colour.

During the rest of her time in France, Annie is to encounter many more new experiences. In the search for Clara’s father, she could never have imagined the outcome of the visit. Keeping her secret for over twenty years is justified at last.

 

https://janbaynham.blogspot.com