angel wing has taken flight, accompanied by her ‘sister’ the broken line. My two linked novels are out in the world now, finding their way to the readers who might enjoy them.
Once a book, or any creative work, has been released, it takes on a life of its own, an existence connected to but also separate from the author, finding its place within the collective. I am reminded of Kahlil Gibran’s famous words to a mother:
On Children
... Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you ...
The act of publishing a book feels just a little bit like this - there is a certain letting go of ‘ownership’ as it travels out into the world and lands in unknown places, in the hands of unknown others who now share in the act of creation through their reading of it. And through this sharing, we become mysteriously connected across time and space.
The publication of a book, in my experience, always feels like a birth, like my own birth revisited. When my first book, Wisdom of the Body Moving was released, I was shocked when I received the initial copy – the publisher had not used the cover ideas I had suggested and I really did not like the cover they had created. The obstacles to publication, then this encounter with the external appearance of the book (it has now been changed I’m relieved to say) reflected so specifically my original birth experience. I had to create a ritual space at home to gently get to know and welcome this new ‘baby’, just as perhaps my mother had felt a need to do after I had been born, though I doubt she would have been aware of this need and possibility. I feel we both suffered from the difficulty of the birth, followed by her disappointment at my ‘appearance’ – not at all the sweet and pretty thing she had been expecting! Well, some babies are just born squashed up and red like a tomato after the struggle of birthing and the months of being squeezed into a tight, cramped space!
This time, I was supported and had a say at every step of the way, could make all the final choices, and now feel such a thrill to see the finished products – two books that I can feel proud to release into the world. From this I can see there has been some healing, a resolution to some of the imprints from my birth. And after publishing two novels I am beginning to feel I can finally take on the identity of an ‘Author’. I confess that, despite six non-fiction books behind me, I always felt shy to take on this mantle. Since my adolescent aspiration to be a writer, I had always felt that meant writing novels.
So here I am, in my elder years now, and feeling very much like a beginner setting out on a new path, with no idea where it might lead.
A Brief Glimpse … the broken line
I thought I’d celebrate the launch with you by offering a sneak preview. Both novels can stand alone but are linked; each answers questions that the other leaves open. the broken line was written first, and is possibly better read first, though I think they could be read in either order as there is a circular structure weaving the lives of the three protagonists together – Liza, Ellen and Anita.
This is the opening to the broken line. It begins with a poem (of sorts) by one of the main characters, then a short prelude of what will come much later in the story:
November 3rd 1947
The heart gathers burdens as it journeys through a life,
some from deep in the past, secrets of the ancestors,
their untended wounds.
A lineage of grief rolls on into the future,
pulling lives apart and scattering dreams.
We are helpless in the grip of our wounding past.
Eliza O’Neal
Part I The Art of Survival
The iron gate closed behind her with a hollow thud. She held her breath and listened - for a door opening, a shout, an alarm being raised. There was no sound but the wind whipping through the tall spruce trees that lined the wall. For now, at least, she was safe.
Outside the gate she paused, breathing in the crisp, clear air. A full moon cast its silvery light over the field that stretched down to the bank of the stream. So many times she had looked out on this field, through the misted windows, between the iron bars, longing to run across it. Right down to the stream, and up over the wide hills beyond, lying in silent folds all along the ancient skyline. But tonight it would not be safe to run in the moonlight. She would be easily seen.
Turning to her right, she headed down towards the edge of the wood. The shadow of the trees would hide her well enough. She clutched her small bundle of possessions - tied up in a thin grey blanket - to her chest as she ran. The thick woollen coat she had picked up by the back door was much too big, and flapped about her ankles.
Along the path that ran along the edge of the wood, across the stream, down a farm-track, then - finally sure that she was out of view of the house - she struck out over the open moor – running, running, clutching her bundle of possessions. The moon shone, the clean wind blew, her red hair streamed out behind her like a flame. She ran and ran until at last the clouds covered the moon, and the faintest hint of dawn began to show.
By the time the morning bell rang and they realised she had gone, she would be far away.
Chapter One
The north-east - 1969
I grew up knowing it in my bones, in my blood. Sometimes it came with the scent of jasmine and warm milk, drifting like a spirit through the night air. Or in the fleeting image of a girl with red hair, just like mine, running, fast, like a gazelle through woods and over moon lit fields. Another time, a place unknown. Not a memory or a dream, just a shadow passing by. A spirit piercing through the veil.
But after Richard came into my life, I knew it in my heart. Love is grief, and grief is love. They are the same. Like water turning into ice, ice melting back to water.
It all began one afternoon in June - I had just turned sixteen. The sky was deep blue and the air hot for this time of year on the wind-swept Northumbrian coast. The beach was not yet crowded. Before the storm of holidaymakers arrived, there was calm and just a gentle breeze blowing in off the sea.
I was sitting on the seawall dangling my bare legs against the rough stone. Warmth against my skin. Cupped in my hands lay a small bird, not long hatched - an ordinary little fellow, a sparrow, with greyish brown feathers still damp with saliva from the mouth I had just rescued him from. I called my baby chick Tom. The cat that had almost finished him off was a sleek grey tabby. His amber eyes had narrowed to thin slits and his whole body was poised, still and alert, low to the ground with tail flicking side to side. I knew the cat was about to pounce.
Tom was still breathing. His heart beat quickly, just a flutter of life in there, his round little chest pumping in and out. A naked soft heart throbbing through thin skin. Specks of white and cream threaded through the grey-brown of his mangled feathery breast. His eyes were closed. He was still recovering from the shock of being very nearly swallowed alive.
I cradled him in my hands to warm him back to life. If he couldn’t fly, I would take him back to my aviary - no more than a small chicken coop really, but it had served its purpose for many years.
The midday sun was burning into my bare shoulders. I wore my green halter-neck top, ever hopeful of a sun-bronzed back but knowing that my white skin would only turn pink then red and very sore. I should find some shade but the long stretch of beach and promenade offered none.
Looking up from marvelling at Tom’s tiny throbbing chest, my gaze wandered down to the water’s edge. And it was then that I saw him. His skin as brown as a chestnut, wet hair black and slicked back. I noticed the way he walked, his stride bold and confident as he pulled his canoe up out of the water. Broad shoulders, slim hips, taut muscular body. He was perfect.
I know he noticed me too. He kept looking my way. I could see myself as if through his eyes - my red hair, ironed out to a sheen, lifted gently by the sea breeze in fluttering waves - my white jeans rolled up to the knees - the skimpy green sun-top and my bare feet bouncing against the wall. I felt shy, but curious too. I wanted to see everything about him. I would paint him later that day, walking up the beach with his blue canoe, denim shorts clinging to his thighs.
By the time he reached the steps up to the promenade, I was sure I had fallen in love.
I climbed off the wall and walked back along the prom and up through Briar Dene. When I reached the bush where I had rescued Tom earlier, I crouched down and opened my hands to see if he was ready to fly away. He wasn’t. So I took him home and settled him into the aviary. I had nursed many wounded birds and small animals back to life in this sanctuary, and when they wouldn’t return to life, I buried them beneath the beech tree at the bottom of the garden. Many spirits lived there now.
And Another Glimpse … angel wing
When I finished writing the broken line, I felt that Ellen’s absence was such a strong presence running throughout the book that I had to write her story too, and the idea of angel wing was conceived. The four main characters emerged spontaneously, as if wanting their stories to be told, and the outline of a few crucial scenes appeared vividly in my imagination. The story began to unfold organically from there. This is how it begins:
act one 1927 – 1939
Chapter 1
Movement was my first language. I remember running in circles around the small patch of grass in our garden, flapping my arms like a bee. As if I could fly.
I was just three when I ran away for the first time. I took my yellow-haired rag doll in her pram and ran out of the gate, along to the corner, and half way round the crescent. Then I stopped. I didn’t know where to go next. And anyway, my father had caught up with me. He took hold of my hand without saying a word and walked me back home.
Years later I remember running over the fields - the sheer joy of it - the lightness in my feet as I skimmed over buttercups, and the sun in my eyes.
I was always running - into something I shouldn’t have come across, or away from wherever I was. I wanted to get away. This felt like my whole, big purpose in life.
Movement was my first love. I danced, and when I thought no one could hear me, I sang. That is how words began, the language of words, my second language.
And there the trouble really began, because I could not see how to match the sounds of words to what I was feeling inside, in my body, through my movement. The language of movement and the language of words made no sense to each other. There was no one who could explain the meaning of one to the other, just as there were none who could interpret the words of Esther and Trevor - the people I called Mammy and Daddy - to each other.
They were strangers, unknown to each other, and I was a foreign land. They would visit me from time to time, but we lived in a world of incomprehension and long silences. The art of messaging in our home was a crackle of broken signals, like the static of a wireless stuck between stations.
If I could speak in my first language, I would describe the push-pull excitement of the swing in our back garden. The great tug of effort as my heels thrust through the air, propelling swing and me up and up, and the great thrill surging through my belly. Then stomach tipping over as the swing arced down again, towards the earth, then back and up - whoosh, whoosh - push and arc and the thrill surging up inside me again. I could almost fling myself up and all the way over the top, like a stone tied to the end of a rope. Up and over, down, round, up and over - whoosh - back, forwards.
‘Ellen, that’s enough now. You’re going too high. You’ll fall,’ she would call out from the kitchen window.
‘No, I won’t fall. I’m flying.’ But she would never understand that, with her tight tied-up hair and skirt to match, her neat clicking heels and polished nails. She would never fly.
act three 1945 – 1955
Chapter 2
I grip the wheel tighter and straighten my back, coaxing my mind to stay alert as the veil of dusk obscures the margins of the road. The car bumps over holes in the tarmac, rattles louder and judders as I press my foot down on the accelerator. I feel tired. No, weary. I carry the weight of the last two years right down in my bones, like an impossible burden I had never expected, not wished for at this moment in my life. Now I have no choice. I have to make this journey. I must find her.
Through the creeping grey of evening mist, the harsh headlights of an oncoming car pierce into the back of my eyes. I want to look away but the glare draws me to stare right into the centre of the beam. The car flashes past and for a split second I am blind. I have swerved towards the centre of the road. I yank the wheel sharply to the left and straighten up again.
The light is fading and still I have forty miles to go. I have driven all day but tonight I will be in Liverpool. In the morning I will catch the ferry, and be in Belfast by lunchtime.
A tune is playing relentlessly in my mind. I begin to sing, quietly under my breath at first, then at the top of my voice, belting it out, just to keep awake.
‘My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea ….. oh, bring back my Bonnie to me, to me ..... ’ Just thirty-nine more miles. I must keep going. I’ll buy fish and chips for supper then snuggle into a warm bed for the night. I had imagined a stroll around the harbour, watching the sunset over the Irish Sea. Instead I will arrive in the dark, wishing I had set out earlier. But it had been so hard to leave.
At the last minute James was trying, one more time, to persuade me not to go. During his fortnight holiday we could leave the children with his mother and he would come with me. He pleaded with me. He would drive and I could rest. Some rest would be good for me, he said. But more than I needed to rest, I needed to do this alone.
James was angry that I had to make this journey. Angry that a letter falling onto our doormat one spring morning had thrown my life, our life together, into chaos, and plunged me into a hole so deep he could no longer find me. He felt hurt when I would not let him help.
‘Ellen, this is crazy. Please - if you must go, at least let me come with you. You can’t do this on your own. Not the way you are at the moment.’ By this he meant the madness in my brain that kept me sad and empty and sometimes flying into a rage for no reason that he could fathom. The car keys were clenched tightly in his hand, which was dug deep into his trouser pocket.
Resorting in frustration to my first language, I moved my arms in a wide circle and brought my fists together in front of my chest.
‘I have to do it by myself. I just have to do it, James,’ I managed to articulate after one long moment of staring blankly at him. ‘Please give me the keys.’
‘Mammy, when will you be back? Will you be away for long? Will you be back to take me swimming tomorrow?’ Martin came running in from the garden, mud on his knees and a smear of jam across his pink cheek. I had already said goodbye to him, but now would have to do it all over again.
Anita toddled in after him a few moments later, her yellow beach pail in one hand and a blue plastic spade in the other. Her red curls trembled as she swayed precariously. Her toes fringed the edges of her soft padding feet like two rows of small pearls.
My heart fell at the sight of them standing in the hallway, mouths open, identical lost expressions on their faces, a plea in their wide eyes - Anita’s blue as a lake, Martin’s deep brown, like my own. They sensed that this was more serious than just an outing to the coast or a shopping trip to Newcastle. I faltered as I looked into their innocent upturned eyes, unsure if I had the courage to leave them behind.
But I did. James finally gave me the keys - more to avoid a scene in front of the children than from any skilful persuasion on my part. Thankfully the car coughed into life after a burst of choke and two sharp turns of the ignition, saving me from the indignity of the cranking handle. That would surely have stalled my flight.
I could not look back as I drove away. I knew their forlorn faces, and Anita’s plump little fist clenching and unclenching a ‘goodbye’, would break my heart and bring me right back home again. Tears were brimming in my eyes, but my heart was set.
Thank you once again for reading - I really appreciate your time and attention. If you feel drawn to read one, or even both of the books, it would be such a support to receive a review. Amazon, I am told, is the best place for reviews, and also Good Reads. You can find the books here: angel wing and the broken line
Whatever is calling you, I wish you happy reading as the closing days of summer approach and the special beauty of autumn promises to appear soon.
Linda