Monday 29 January 2018

Unintended Retribution by Virginia Hainsworth

He slammed the door as he left.  Its sound echoed down the hall.  Celia sat down on the bar stool in the kitchen and pressed the damp towel against her eye.  A normal start to a normal day, although to be fair to Joel, he didn’t usually strike her face.  To be fair to Joel!  She remonstrated with herself.  He wasn’t exactly fair to her.

And yet today would turn out to be anything other than normal.

She stepped down from the stool and walked unsteadily over to the sink to run the towel again under the cool water.  She turned the tap on, put the towel in the sink and, leaving it there, walked out of the kitchen and towards the cupboard under the stairs.

The light bulb in the cupboard had blown and so she reached inside and fumbled about, eventually locating the reassuring, comforting feel of the tall, slim bottle right at the back.  She was about to grasp it and pull it out, when she felt something else.  Squashy, plump fabric of some sort.  She pulled it out into the light and was surprised to find Joel’s old football mascot, a small brown teddy bear.  She reached back for the bottle – mustn’t forget that.  Then, with a sigh of relief, she brought out the half full Smirnoff.

Minutes later, she was back in the kitchen, with the first vodka and tonic of the day, a cold towel and a battered old teddy bear.

After the first huge gulp of liquid had burned its way down her throat, she found herself reaching into the cutlery drawer and extracting a small, sharp vegetable knife.

Joel was still driving to work when he felt the first sharp pain in his lower back.  He winced and shuffled about to ease the discomfort.  The next pain was even sharper still, but at the bottom of his rib cage, and caused him to swerve the car ever so slightly.  It was the third pain, in his chest, near to his heart which caused him to swear. 

‘My God’, he thought, ‘I’m having a heart attack’.  He pulled over to the side of the road, trying to slow his breathing down in order to calm himself.

As the car stopped, he found himself gasping for breath, trying to breathe in huge gulps of air, but feeling as though his chest was caving in.  Now panicking, he could feel his throat constricting as he tried desperately to gain air.  He was going through the frantic motions of drawing air in, but nothing was happening.  His vision started to blur.

In the kitchen, Celia was again leaning over the sink, but this time not with the towel in her hand.  The tap was running fiercely and the small brown teddy bear, now partially shredded, was soaking wet as she held its face under the streaming water.  The coolness of the liquid felt as reassuring as the vodka had done.  Indeed, it was only the thought of having another drink that made her pull the knotted bear from under the tap.  She walked back to the bar stool, climbed upon it and poured another huge drink.  She breathed out a long, relaxed, satisfied breath.


Joel was never to breathe again.

Monday 22 January 2018

Running down the cobbles by Suzanne Hudson



Little Charlie Haigh
Running up the cobbles
And rushing into school
Just before the bell.

Chalk squeaking on slate
As he copies out his alphabet,
Hand shaking in fear
As the teacher’s steps come closer.

Chanting his times tables
And longing for the day to end,
When he can run down those cobbles
Towards freedom in the woods.

I wish I could tell him
That 130 years from now
Children in this classroom
Would be learning about him.

I’m glad he didn’t know then
About the horrors of the trenches
And the sacrifice that he would make
With seventy others from his school.

He could never have guessed
That his name would be listed
On a gleaming gold plaque
In the school’s entrance hall

And that a class would be learning
About his life in Dewsbury
Before that piece of shrapnel
Delivered its fatal wound.

He could never have predicted
That his name would be honoured
And his life would be remembered
Two centuries into the future.

But part of me wants to believe
That he is somewhere watching down,
Glad that we appreciate
The sacrifice that he made

And that somewhere he is still
Little Charlie Haigh,
Running down those cobbles
Towards freedom in the woods.




I am currently working as a freelance teacher (creative writing) in primary schools on behalf of Dewsbury Sacrifices.  They are a voluntary group who are working on a Heritage Lottery funded project to commemorate those local men who paid the supreme sacrifice during World War One.  As well as raising awareness of the scale of loss experienced in the Dewsbury area, they are in the process of documenting the lives of all the 1053 servicemen who are named on the war memorial at Crow Nest Park, Dewsbury, West Yorkshire.  Detailed soldier profiles are being gradually added to their website (dewsburysacrifices.org), helping to build up an online resource which they hope will be of great interest to present and future generations.





Monday 15 January 2018

Telling Dreams by Owen Townend


EDIT: I just realised that I haven't had the chance to introduce myself properly to most of the other members so I'll endeavour to do so here.
I'm Owen and I've been coming to infrequent Writer's Lunches since late last year. I'm Vice President at the Huddersfield Author's Circle and a friend of Nick's and Ian's.
I write short stories with speculative themes: sometimes sci-fi, usually unusual.

"Why are you reading my dream journal?" I asked the man on the bench.
            "Seventh of January," he muttered.
            "Seriously! how the hell did you get it?"
            "You left it out."
            "In my bedroom! That's breaking and entering." I reached into my pocket. "I'm calling the police."
            "I have a question," he said, setting down the journal.
            I laughed. "You have a question?"
            "You've had three now, I deserve at least one." He finally looked up at me. "Why did you lie about the date?"
            "What?"
            "Your coil nightmare didn't happen on a Saturday and certainly not on the seventh."
            "How would you know?"
            "That particular dream was between your factory floor romance and wooden stick murder spree. Which were respectively on the first and fourth."
            He knew so much, too much. His eyes suggested that he knew more.
            "It felt like a Saturday," I muttered.
            "It felt like a Saturday in the nightmare," the man corrected, "You go out on Saturdays, don't you?"
            "But how would you-?"
            "And, in the nightmare, you get stuck in the coil during an art gallery trip."
            "Yes."
            He slid the journal across to me. "This is the problem with not writing these things down immediately after they happen. The memory inevitably changes. You go away with the wrong impression."
            "Not wrong," I said, "That was just how I remembered it."
            The man raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever thought for one lucid second that a dream is noteworthy and must be written down forthwith? Then did you pick up a pen on a bedside table and scribble it all on a sheet of paper?"
            "Yes."
            "On waking did you realise that the paper, the table were never actually there?"
            I nodded. "And then I remember the writing dream better than the dream that I actually wanted to write about."
            The man grinned. "Vicious, isn't it?"
            I finally laid a hand on my dream journal.
            "Unfortunately we do tend to carry incorrect feelings of time and space into the conscious mind," the man carried on, "That's when immediate and accurate recording becomes essential."
            "I suppose."
            "Also you wrote it in the past tense, not the present," he said, shaking his head, "How do you expect the dream to remain vivid that way?"
            The man stood up and walked away.
            "Then when did it happen?" I called after him, "When did it actually happen?"     But he had already gone.
            I opened the journal, flipped to the third or fourth page. Empty.
            The entire book was empty.
            "When is this happening?" I asked, "What time is it now? Really?"

Monday 8 January 2018

Dave Rigby interviews Val Penny about her debut crime novel ‘Hunter’s Chase’



To start things off Val, can I ask how you began writing fiction? Was there a specific trigger?
There was indeed a trigger, I began writing my first novel when I was being treated for breast cancer. I had taken early retirement and was beginning to wonder how I had ever had time to work when I received the unwelcome diagnosis of breast cancer. As my treatment proceeded, I started to blog about my experience. My writing here still receives considerable attention: www.survivingbreastcancernow.com. I found my treatment very tiring and had little energy to do anything but read, so I started reviewing the books I read on www.bookreviewstoday.info .I have always enjoyed reading crime fiction and I began to think that, as I had the time, I would try my hand at writing a crime fiction novel. It was not an easy task, and it took a lot longer than I thought it would, but the result was Hunter's Chase.

The novel features DI Hunter Wilson. How would you describe him?
Hunter Wilson, like all my characters in Hunter's Chase, is a combination of several people that I have found interesting. I needed my main protagonist to have certain characteristics including patience, perseverance and a desire to achieve justice for those who could not attain that for themselves. Hunter is a compassionate man who fights for the underdog and is a fine team player. These are important qualities in my main character. But I also needed Hunter to have flaws. Everybody has faults and to make Hunter believable, he had to have them too. He is not a saint. He is divorced, he is untidy, he likes to win, he bears a grudge.

How did you first come up with the plot for the book and how did it develop from those initial ideas?
The original idea came from a former employee of mine. She had worked in a lawyer's office, in the north of Edinburgh, where they specialised in criminal law and when she came to work for me in a rather different type of office in a rather elegant part of Edinburgh city centre. The comment my employee made was “It is lovely not to work in a place where you smell the clients before you see them!” It was this comment gave me a kernel of an idea that formed the basis of the Johnson family in Hunter's Chase from that central family and their story, my novel evolved from there.

To what extent is a sense of place important in your books and how do you create this?
I chose Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland as the setting for Hunter’s Chase. Setting is most important to a novel and Edinburgh is a beautiful city of around half a million people. It is big enough so that anything that I want to happen in my novels can happen, but it is also a small enough city that many people in the city know each other. The main protagonist of 'Hunter's Chase' is Detective Inspector Hunter Wilson. He lives in Leith, an area to the north of the City and drinks in his local pub, the Persevere Bar. His home is also close to the Hibernian (‘Hibs’) football ground. The other main character, Detective Constable Tim Myerscough lives across the city from Hunter, in the south-west of the city. He moves into a flat Gillespie Crescent between Tollcross and Bruntsfield. His local pub in the Golf Tavern, off the Bruntsfield Links. DC Tim Myerscough's father, Sir Peter Myerscough, lives even further to the south in the Morningside district of Edinburgh. From his large house he has fine views across the Pentland Hills.

Plot, character, setting, theme, genre…which of these do you focus on initially when you are developing a new book?
My novels fall squarely within the genre of crime thrillers. I first draft out a rough idea of the plot of my novel. That tells me who I need to populate the story and make it come to life. In Hunter's Chase, DI Hunter Wilson struggles to ensure the crime in Edinburgh does not go unpunished. Hunter's Chase introduces a new detective, DI Hunter Wilson into the ‘Tartan Noire’ genre. I am delighted to be compared to other proponents of Tartan Noire such as Ian Rankin, Alex Grey and Quintin Jardine. I think all crime novels explore the triumph of good over evil. The readers know the criminals will not succeed. Still, the thrill of the chase and the problems overcome to achieve justice for the victims must enthral and satisfy the readers.

How do you come up with names for your characters?
I have always been interested in names and this interest has stood me in good stead when populating my novel with characters. In many cases, the characters told me their own names. Hunter Wilson, for example: reflects the fine Scottish tradition of using surnames as first names. Wilson is a popular Scottish surname and I do like the conceit of having an investigating detective who goes by the name of Hunter. Meera Sharma is another character who told me her own name. I once knew a very pretty girl whose name was Meera. I partnered the first name with the name Sharma because I thought it had a good ring to it. As for Timothy Myerscough, I have been savouring the name Myerscough for over twenty-five years and the first name Timothy balanced it nicely. Names for the characters come easily to me and I enjoy finding names for my characters very much.

I see from your biographical details that you have a background in law – both in practice and in teaching. How has this influenced your writing?
I write crime fiction, but I was never involved in the practice of Criminal Law. Indeed, I only passed my Criminal Law exams at university by promising the Professor that I would never work in that field! However, I did meet many policemen and sat through many court cases. There is no doubt that my background fired my interest in crime novels.

Do you have a regular writing regime? What would a typical writing day look like and do you have things which help you along, such as a regular supply of coffee, music, or a stimulating view from the window?
I usually write in the afternoons. In the mornings I take care of the regular household and social matters that I need to deal with. In the evenings, I tutor local children for their English exams at school, so in the afternoons, when I have the house to myself, I write. I find Earl Grey Tea, quiet, familiar music and watching my cats all help in their own way if I have a block in my flow. However, most help is afforded to me by chocolate. That is my excuse and I am sticking to it!

And, can I ask, is there a new book in the pipeline?
Only this week, I heard from my publishers, Crooked Cat Books, that they have accepted the sequel to Hunter's Chase: Hunter's Revenge. It is very early days, but we are aiming to get the novel completed and edited with a view to publication during August or September 2018.

Click for more details


Thanks very much for answering our questions and good luck with ‘Hunter’s Chase’ and your future projects.
Thank you for allowing me to visit the blog today, Dave. I really appreciate it. I can be contacted on social media at:

Friends of Hunter's Chase - www.facebook.com/groups/296295777444303


Val was interviewed by Yorkshire Writers’ Lunch member, Dave Rigby.





Monday 1 January 2018

My Daughter did Science by Andrew Shephard


I was speaking to my daughter
of the properties of water –
the flow, the singing brooks,
reflections on a placid mere
the inspiration of a tear,
how it differs from the rocks.

No Dad, she said, rocks too can flow,
erupt and spew and turn to gas
when subject to sufficient mass –
just watch the molten lava flow
from this Icelandic volcano.

So,
it’s not important what it is,
what matters is how hot it is.



A very happy New Year to all contributors to, and readers of, the Yorkshire Writers' Lunch.