In a nutshell: This book is more than it appears to be.
We've all seen them. The endless help guides, many of them good, some of them just plain awful, others are middling. What's clear from the opening pages is that merely reading this book won't be enough. Of course, what readers will expect from this kind of book is one that is well written and easy to follow.
But Write Your Novel is so much more than that!
This book is simply bursting with great ideas. I thought I had a good writing system in place, but the Pomodoro exercise is excellent, and writers really should put this into practise.
There are things mentioned in the book that I cannot comment on even though I have heard about them and their merits - Scrivener, for example. Maybe I will take the plunge on this one day!
Other elements mentioned, such as NaNoWriMo - well I attempted this in 2014 and wrote 37,000 words in that month. The fact I did not complete the 50,000 challenge did not bother me, because I was working on other writing projects at the time.
But I can see the use of it as a motivational tool.
One of the things I liked most about the book was the use of inspirational but relevant quotes dotted throughout its pages.
This made more sense here than just a random Twitter or blog reference. It meant a writer could put the motivational quote into practise there and then.
I really loved how the author broke down pretty much every aspect of writing. The segment about
"You're a human being. you'll have been through joy and sorrow...."
"...put these emotions into your writing and your characters." (para)
This is good. It may seem like common sense but so many stories I read are ruined because whilst some thought has been put into the story, almost zero effort has been put into the character creation.
There's too many points to really reference here, but I especially liked this one:-
A shiver of fear ran up my spine, making my hair stand on end.
As a horror writer I loved this, (not the line, but the example) but it is so obvious we can as writers write the same thing three times over in the same sentence, when one element would have sufficed.
The book doesn't stop there. The character breakdown is a little over done (political views may not apply to my characters, but may do to yours) but this is better than selling the character short.
Basically, if you are in dire need, or moderately dire need of getting that novel written, this book works as a guide, motivational support, an ass-kicker if you are slacking, and a deep resource guide to make your book the best it can be.
At just over 100 pages long it seems like it may be too short to have anything new to offer. I consider myself reasonably experienced at this writing journey and yet I felt I learned loads from this book.
Synopsis (from the author): Daniel Stockholm was fifteen years old when a parasite hijacked his brain, rendering him paralyzed and reliant on machines that run day and night to keep him alive.
For nine years, Danny has been confined within a biological prison with only two small windows, through which to view the world around him; a silent witness to the selfless compassion of some and the selfish contrivance of others.
When the malicious actions of care worker, Marcus Salt, threaten to push Danny farther from the ones he loves, and deeper into the dark recesses of his skin cage, he is left with only one option. He must find a way out.
Review: Nico Laeser is an author name you would remember, and Skin Cage is such a strange and affecting title for a book. Then, you consider the artwork, which just adds to the overall strangeness. The synopsis adds another level to this - and then - you start reading.
Skin Cage holds the reader's attention from the start, telling us the story of Daniel (Danny) who gives clues to his state. He is paralysed, and can hardly move anything, save for his on occasion or when his head lols to one side or another whilst being repositioned in his chair.
It is told in first person perspective. I've told a few stories like this already and it is a skill that most authors cannot pull off effectively. Ultimately, if you don't care about Danny, the first person narrative starts to grate. However, the author has been smart in keeping his chapters short but utterly readable. It's not a book you can skip parts on and understand what is going on. The author treats his reader with respect by saying 'you're in Danny's head with his thoughts, and in his body through his skin cage - if you casually skim past stuff, we will punish you by not filling in the blanks.'
Here is a story where each word, each sentence and paragraph has been painstakingly thought through before committing to paper and screen.
Danny's view of the world is a strange one. He has his carers, some, like Cassie and Anna, who genuinely care about him. There are others, like Marcus Salt, who seems to be the villain of the story, but again, Skin Cage is not so explicit in the difference of black and white.
Despite the engaging narrative and thoughtful 'thoughts' of Danny, which are always interesting, the story is never heavy, but neither should it be taken as light reading.
In the first third of the book, I found myself clocking up the chapters even though I hadn't sat through and read it for say a solid hour. By the second third (forgive me, I have an ice hockey past!) things take a dark and twisted turns. A few 'a-ha' moments arrive. That's not the end of it. Or the start.
By the final third, there was only one thing to do - finish reading this elegant and articulate story and find out the ending. It's hinted at where the story is going. But once Danny escapes his skin cage - a sequence that I thought was brilliantly highlighted in the synopsis but wondered could it possibly work in its execution - wow, is all I can say.
Skin Cage sounds dark, twisted and disturbing. It is. But it is also funny, engaging and well worth anyone's time and money to read. I say that with the confident knowledge that this book is fighting against millions of others to be seen.
Scenes where a nurse is wondered a character may harm themselves should be disturbing. Instead, the author gives us a humourous scene:-
"Can I have a pen and paper?"
(pause)
"I'm not going to kill myself with it."
Another scene.
I would love to have the use of my body for long enough to deny him the further use of his.
There's a scene with a car that was my favourite moment in the entire book. It's so good, you will simply have to read it. I must also apologise to the author -Skin Cage has been on my read list for ages - but thankfully, it's been read now. I hope this review will help others to read it sooner than I did!
Synopsis (from the author): An international group of indie authors, inspired by the personal grief of one, decided to collaborate in the spring of 2015 in a project to create this multi-genre smorgasbord of original short stories, all with the same potent theme – relationship. Some are heartfelt, some funny, some poignant, and some are just a little bit scary – much like relationships themselves. All are by authors fired by the shared enthusiasm to give something back in aid of Macmillan Cancer Support. 100% of the profit made on the purchase of this book, in any format, goes to the charity. Cancer touches us all. It has in some way affected those who have contributed their time and talent here. This is our way of showing that we care.
Indie authors carry forward a revolutionary shift in publishing, which allows the author to be creative director in their own work. There are many exceptional, experienced and acclaimed writers who have decided to take this bold step in publishing. In producing this anthology we have also had the inestimable assistance on board of artists, graphic designers, and bloggers – all of whom have a place in our acknowledgements. You, the discerning reader, are the other vital part of this equation. By buying this book you are supporting the work of indie authors, as well as discovering their worth. You are also supporting the charity to which we have chosen to dedicate our work.
100% of the royalties earned or accrued in the purchase of this book, in all formats, will go to the Pamela Winton tribute fund, which is in aid of Macmillan Cancer Support.
Review: Now this is going to be tricky. How can I review a book that features so many authors, some whom I am familiar with, others less so?
I'll start with an admission. I treated this much like an LP (remember those) or a CD of an album I had bought, where I knew some of the more famous tracks. That's right - I read the authors I had previously read first. Not sure why I did that, but maybe it was because I had read a book of theirs already, in most cases it had been a full length novel they had written. Fully understanding the difficulty of condensing a story into a novella format, I wondered if they could pull it off.
Before I dissect the stories themselves, I would like to pay a special tribute to Ian D Moore for pulling this off - bringing so many authors together was no easy feat, and yet with You're Not Alone, that's what we have right here.
Add to the fact that the proceeds contribute to a worthy cause - Macmillian Cancer Care, and there is yet another reason to buy this book.
Readers of course, will want to know what it is all about. Here goes.
There are stories that pay an obvious nod to people affected by cancer, and I pay tribute to them for tackling such a hard subject. My own father went from an apparently healthy man to death's door within a matter of weeks, once this brutal disease had taken hold. The fact he had long left the marital home was irrelevant. Whatever differences he and my mother had did not disguise the fact that he was a human, and this disease tore him apart.
I suppose the overriding theme of these stories in You're Not Alone is that whoever has been touched by cancer, there is some hope, some feeling that it can be beaten. Even where it wins - it's a temporary win, because it cannot kill the love held for that special person.
With so many stories in the book, and many authors who I hold in high regard - being indies takes away none of your talent (who says established authors have got this writing thing down anyway?!), I don't wish to highlight some at the expense of others, yet I feel I must. Otherwise this review could turn out to be a book in itself.
Kayla Howarth's "Dad" is a poignant story that really pulls at you. (Having read her excellent Institute series, where she brings us a dystopian world that works), I found myself thinking about that story long after finishing it. I'm not saying it is the best of the tales, but my, does it hit home, and yet is never depressing or self-serving.
Ian D Moore is the man who brought the collection together, and his story One of Those Days is a truly brilliant story that left me absolutely floored. If you want genius in a few short pages, you could not go wrong here.
Lesley Hayes'A Year Afterwards opens the collection, and having read her Oxford Marmalade collection of short stories, I can say reading one of her works again was like a guilty pleasure - you know it's going to be good, professionally written as befits an author of her considerable experience, and well, I loved it.
Tom Benson'sGoals demonstrates the breadth and depth of this author. I read another collection of his and his short story here is an easy pick, and will be remembered by those who read it.
Now this review is starting to look like a love letter to independent authors. Not all the stories hit a home run, but it would be unfair to expect that. What I can say is that each other has given their all here, so if the tale didn't quite work for me, it doesn't mean that someone else wouldn't absolutely love it.
A title that stood out for me was Witch's Mark by Katerina Sestakova Novotna. Now this lady can spin a tale or two - her own Hawaiian Lei of Shrunken Heads was the oddest and yet utterly beautiful collection of stories I have read this year. I knew she would hit the heights again with an amazing tale. Her story is worth the book price alone.
An author I was not familiar with was Anthony Randall. Anyone who had relied on the little black box in their car will empathise with this wickedly clever story. For my own part, the satnav got me to Cornwall, only to direct me towards a cliff....thanks for that!
The Birth by Lucinda E Clarke is truly jaw-dropping. Make this high on your list to read!
Babes by Max Power shows the depth and sheer talent of this man. I have not read anything of his since Darkly Wood (still my book of the year so far)
There are some authors here whose individual books I have not read, but am about to. Nico Laeser, Angela Lockwood and Eric Lahti are authors to watch. If you are unsure, look through the names. There is a wealth of talent here.
Synopsis (by the author): The Selection began with thirty-five girls.
Now with the group narrowed down to the six Elite, the competition to win Prince Maxon's heart is fiercer than ever—and America is still struggling to decide where her heart truly lies. Is it with Maxon, who could make her life a fairy tale? Or with her first love, Aspen?
America is desperate for more time. But the rest of the Elite know exactly what they want—and America's chance to choose is about to slip away.
Review: I'm not often swayed by a cover. It's usually more about the story. The Selection was one of several books I picked up at the same time. I was in a heavy YA reading phase, and wanted more dystopian, more zombie related stuff.
Of the latter, The Selection has none. The former - well the jury was completely out on The Selection. I didn't feel like it was a dystopian world. There were the odd mentions about how the world of Ilea was ruled, but the clear definition was lacking for me.
The Selection is more a romance than a dystopian book. I have the feeling that HarperTeen knew how to market the book, so with the success of The Hunger Games, mentioning a dystopian world, however lightly, ticked a box. There's a strong possibility the author Keira Cass fully meant to explore this darker side of Ilea in later books, and while I will admit that The Elite begins to develop that side, it is still not developed enough in my view. But this is my own personal wish for the story. If the author wished to go another direction with this, that is her right.
Let's start with what I liked. With fewer girls left in the Selection, we get to know them in more depth. Whilst Celeste is perhaps the best known of the girls after Mer, I was pleased to read more about Kriss and Marlee because I liked them from the first book.
Maxon did a 180 for me near the end of The Selection. I could not help but call him a paper hat (tw*t) for acting the way he did. This time, he seems to understand the weight of responsibility that being King might actually mean and I liked this development for the character. He needs to be more than eye candy for the girls in my view, and again, the author succeeds.
The story overall is better, and though it ends abruptly, just like book one, the announcement that The One was already slated for release, just made sense. It doesn't get away from my belief that the story is a little too stretched out. But as a second book, it works.
Here's what was less certain. Aspen as a guard, in the palace, no less. He dumps Mer in book one, and it's never clear to me why he did that. I know why I have ended relationships with girls in the past. Aspen's actions are at odds with his behaviour. There is something of the night about him. He is too creepy for me, and as a plot device. seems to have been inserted to make the choice for Maxon and America not so plain sailing.
It's not a love triangle. Maxon also does dark things - going into the different girls rooms and one would have to be dense to know that he was playing them, and Mer, for that matter. I was pretty uncomfortable with that.
Of course, if we are to take the dystopian world at face value, then this behaviour by the prince should not surprise or shock us. Despots do this. Can Maxon rule absolutely in the future? The rebels, such as they are, seem pretty useless, so I believe Maxon and the monarchy are safe to treat Ilea as their personal plaything.
As the book draws to its close, we are no clearer to understanding Mer. For a main character, I think she is poorly conceived. Celeste and Marlee are far better drawn, and the book is better for it.
Ultimately, The Elite works well as a second book of three. I know The Heir is upon us, but I believed that Keira Cass intended only three books for this story. It looks like it could run and run. Would I be persuaded to read The One? Yes, even though The Elite doesn't offer any real surprises. It's good, solid YA fun. I think unlike The Selection, it doesn't pretend to be anything else.
Synopsis (from the author): A Powerful and emotive story. Mandy McCabe is a single parent trying to cope with her three children. All she wants in life is to love, nurture and protect them.
Without warning her world begins to crumble.
For the sake of her family Mandy has to find the strength, knowledge and will-power to face her problems. With her world falling down around her, she is forced to take drastic measures, but will it be enough to save her family?
Review:Things Fall Apart is a brutal and unflinching portrayal of life in Scotland in the 1980s. As I look back to my teenage years, it's easy to see that decade in anything other than a nostalgic haze. This is not helpful as we must look at things as they are.
Well. The first thing to say is that it is a family drama of the highest standard. The MC is Mandy McCabe, a mother who does her best to keep her family together, but as they descend into a vicious cocktail of drugs and alcohol (though the latter seems gentle in comparision as a method of abuse), things really do fall apart.
Part of the main issue I felt was the mother's often blanket denial that nothing was wrong, yet knowing it was. I am not a parent, but I can imagine protecting my kids from the outside world, yet might end up scolding them in private if they went off the rails.
It's hard not to think of one of the most famous portrayals of life - Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. The book and the film gave us a flavour of Scotland, and it is far from the national pride displayed in the recent referendum. Scots are a proud people - as they should be,but drugs is not about pride - in fact it will take your pride and leave you with nothing.
As I read the book, I wondered why the author had given us such a hard read. Well, life is certainly not all sunshine, rabbits and rainbows. It's hard, and for some readers, the realism on offer amongst its pages may be a little too much to take. Having said that, if you do read this book, it's not likely to leave your mind for a while.
This is one of those books that hits you so hard, I think it is best to read once, take your time over it and absorb it all. I mean, Schindler's List is a very hard film for me to watch, and to date I have only seen it twice. Once in the cinema, once at home. Its dark, uncompromising tone meant that I only had to view it a few times to take it in.
After reading this book, I promise that you will do whatever you can to protect your kids and those around you from drugs.
The first third of the book has a lot of police involvement, the middle third a descent into madness and depravity caused by drug abuse, and yet, by the third segment, I began to feel that maybe this dark story could have a good ending. That doesn't mean I wasn't put through the ringer, because I was.
Ultimately I think this story is about hope - that through a terrible set of tragedies there is a possible sunrise that one can aim for. But I was genuinely shocked that the falls were not the final humiliation for some of the characters. Some of them just kept on falling.
As I was reading I was thinking 'come on, get a grip.' But they can't. How can they? Drugs offer a different reality. No wonder the outer effects are so hideous.
So why should you read this? I suppose because not every story needs a zombie, vampire, mermaid, or billionaire boss. Sometimes a book needs to bring us back to Earth. This one does, and whilst you wil find it hard to read (not because of the writing style - which is excellent) but because it examines so clearly the brutal truth about drug abuse. When it is happening under your nose as a parent, I cannot think of anything worse.
Read this unflinching drama. It will make you think that your next day, your next moment is one to treasure. When you are drowning in drugs, or those around you are, you really can't see the rainbow - not the real one anyway. But the fight is worth it.
Synopsis (from the author): Ten For The Devil is a labyrinthine murder/revenge ride from an idyllic English Village to the industrious shipbuilding port of Saint John, NB (then St. John), in the newly formed country of Canada, over a span of fifty years. Chief Inspector Michael McLaughlin has believed that his nemesis was dead, but discovers that Seth Shaw is alive and in the very city that Michael and his family are visiting. His loves ones at risk, Michael closes in on a collision course with a serial murderer while the city is in flames. Book 1 - Michael was an eleven year old boy when he witnessed a murder and the lives of the families - friends, of both our murderer and witness are intertwined throughout generations from 1850 to modern day. A dark tale of obsession, revenge, murder, seduction, a love curse, reparation and survival. Our young boy grows up to join Scotland Yard and is obsessed with bringing Seth Shaw to justice. There is a sense of paranormal forces at work protecting our villain. The story’s climax will occur during the fire of June 20, 1877: a fire - second - only in size and damages to the famous Boston fire.
Review: Reading many books over the years, I cannot quite recall coming across a stronger representation of evil than the primary antagonist in Ten For The Devil. The story itself is a truly remarkable work in depth and in scope. This is the first book in the series and yet manages to cover a huge amount of time within this one volume.
Reading it back, and actually feeling sorry for Seth, I wondered why he had become so evil? We hear in modern media that the reason killers do what they do can be explained away through some medical imbalance in the brain. Others may state there was an emotional disconnect at home, where the father constantly beat the child for every minor infraction, or the mother never offered a simple hug.
In Ten For The Devil, I think the answer is far more simple. The main antagonist is evil, but not pure and certainly not simple.
I found it remarkable how the author drafted other characters into the story, some who were an unknown witness to several brutal and unnerving kills, and as the reader I felt like I was over their shoulder too - that if the antagonist saw me reading this stuff, he would come after me too.
No-one is safe from his brutal ways, yet he displays many signs of the psychopath - he is self assured, full of himself, has a total lack of respect for all kinds of life, and is vain in the extreme.
This is, however, just one facet of the story, and it would be inaccurate to list Ten For The Devil as a one man show. I will admit, however, that as rotten as he was, I missed him when he was not part of the narrative.
The story ends satisfyingly, though there is a lot more to come from the author, the extremely talented Deborah R Mitton.
Ten For The Devil features bizarre and sometimes distasteful elements of romance, but in no way does the author try to colour her main baddie with shades of grey. Yes, he is handsome, charming, disarming. But he is also a killer, and we must never forget that.
He is not someone you can root for, but you cannot ignore him either.
The story does not lack humour though, and one of the lines I liked:-
Referring to Pastor Brown: 'His voice carried the whole breadth and width of the church and a parishioner had once speculated that the pigeons in the bell tower flew to safer perches when he preached.'
But it is full of beautiful lines like this, too:-
The candle on the side table gave the sleeping pair a halo of golden light before it flickered and died, enveloping the room in darkness.
The book is choc-full of lines like this. Eerily beautiful, I have to say.
Beautiful, eerie, strange, dark, deliciously compelling. Buy Ten For The Devil today!
Short post today: When I wrote the first book in the Haunted Minds series, The Ghost of Normandy Road, and indeed, many of my books are enhanced by musical compositions that I reference throughout the stories.
For 'Ghost', the song that stayed in my head was released some twenty years ago. As I write this blog post, I cannot quite believe so much time has passed. But life has a way of doing that. Anyway why not play the music whilst you read short excerpt from the story. Maybe you will want to give the full book a try.
Every time I go to the house on Normandy Road, I think it will be the last. No matter how many times I do this, I find myself shaking uncontrollably. Perhaps it is understandable. I do this to myself, time and again. Because, I want to feel the excitement, the exhilaration, the fear. Okay, I admit it.
I want to see her.
I know she’s there. I’ve been told about her before. Only in ghost stories, they are just stories, they don’t mean anything, nor should they, to you or I. When I am not anywhere near that house on Normandy Road, that’s all it is. A house. Nothing more, nothing less.
I want to believe in her. I want to believe in the existence of ghosts.
Oh, I know you will think I’m being silly. Your questions? I’m sure you have many. I bet you have the answers to them all as well.
Do the floorboards creak? Of course they do. Does the door open slowly, making a sound only those on the other side of the grave could possibly make? You bet.
Do the windows rattle? Yeah, for real.
All houses do this, don’t they?
Sigh.
Yes they do. Pretty much all of them.
Come on. Rationalise this. Everyone knows why I shake uncontrollably when I go there. It’s because she is real. She exists, and she will not rest in her grave. Why? Because she belongs there, belongs in the house on Normandy Road. She’s never going to leave, because she can’t. But I can. I tease her every time I go, daring her to scare the living daylights out of me.
Sometimes, I can swear she responds to my dare. But no-one will believe me. No-one believes in ghosts, where I live.
Perhaps they don’t believe because I have not followed through on the dare, and lived to tell the tale. I hear them say ‘you should spend a night in the house then’, or they put it in the rules of threes, you know, like saying ‘you should go there, three nights in a row. Whatever is in that place, sure won’t like that.’
Of course, it’s my own fault. I say I will go and stay the three nights, but I never do. I can’t, really. I have to be home soon after school, otherwise Mum will be mad.
To understand, you’d really have to see the world through my eyes. That’s the problem with convincing people of the truth. They are only ever willing to accept their version of it.
Everything else, is a lie.
---
“Came in from a rainy Thursday
On the avenue
Thought I heard you talking softly
I turned on the lights, the TV
And the radio
Still I can't escape the ghost of you.”
Ordinary World – Duran Duran
---
Act One: The Witch of Hill-Top Green
The route from my school to home takes about fifteen minutes to walk, maybe ten if I run. On the days that I dare to pass the house on Normandy Road that stands so tall, foreboding, and yes, terrifying to me, I go quicker. Much quicker. On those days, I don’t think Jesus himself could catch me.
It’s something my mum would term as ‘he’s got the fear of God put into him.’ That would be a pretty accurate way to describe it. My heart would beat fast as I would approach it, and even faster as I passed it. As to what happened to my heart as I ran alongside it, maybe, just maybe it stopped beating for a few moments.
I know you won’t believe me, and think that it is the overactive imagination of a child. I’m only ten years old, and I will soon be eleven. I think I might just be growing up, but I know for a fact that the adults think differently when they look at me.
They think I am scared of my own shadow, and well – they’re probably right.
I do have a genuine reason for being scared, I really do. I’ve been nervous for as long as I can remember. Maybe it is a case of genetics, and my parents have passed their fears on to me.
Every time I pass that house on Normandy Road, I refuse to believe my fears are anything to do with genetics. The fear – the one psychiatrists would say is not real or rational, nor one that could hurt me, takes on a life and persona all of its own.
I believe an entity that is the embodiment of all I fear resides in that house.
Now I know I’m being irrational.
At school, we are always trying to scare each other. Sometimes, it’s a dare like going into the girls toilets, even though it’s five minutes after hometime and only the teachers remain in the school.
Oh, and the caretaker. He’s always there.
And the ghost.
Well. We don’t know for sure. There’s an old story that the girls failed to confirm or deny, but it is said that a girl died after being locked in the toilets one night.
The official record of her death (say the girls) is that she died from a severe anxiety attack. The news had reported she was found with her eyes sewn up, and her tongue had been ripped out to stop her screaming.
The boys that heard this added something to it.
“She was killed by the Ghost of Normandy Road.”
Prior to them saying anything, I never believed there was a ghost on Normandy Road. Our school was in the next street, called Bayswater Road.
There was a church beyond it, and a football stadium on the other side of the road that stands to this day.
Normandy Road had tall houses back then, and it’s fair to say that adults were sure to be dwarfed by that big old house.
It stood alone, you see. Every other house was semidetached or part of a terraced block – all except that one. Why, I did not know, but I was intrigued to find out.
That’s what we kids do. We like to look around – if there’s a side entry, a dark alleyway, a broken window or an abandoned house, you can bet we want to check it out.
Not for its historical significance, if it had any, and not because we are without any sense of right and wrong. Don’t let anyone just say ‘oh, they’re kids.’
We know what we are doing – we just happen to rely on the foolishness of society to let us off the hook. I know for a fact that there are some children at the school who play the ‘I’m only a child, I didn’t know it was wrong’ card on purpose.
As for me, I probably had one of those faces that looked innocent in one way, only to be ratted out by my guilty as charged expression.
Sometimes, it was innocent enough. I would be unable to wait to open at least one Christmas or birthday present. I would sneak down the stairs, placing one foot, then another on the far side of the stairwell.
Life was very simple back then. We had a bit of blue carpet that covered the stairs, except for the edges where I now depended on keeping my balance, my safety and my secret. In fact, falling down the stairs and breaking my neck would have been preferable to my mum or anyone else in the family catching me.
I wasn’t supposed to be out of bed. Young children were supposed to go to bed early, quietly, and stay there until the right time to get up for school.
Ugh.
School.
School itself was fine. Looking back, it’s hard to know exactly what we learned in class. I think we had fun for the most part. There was Miss McManus, who would teach us almost every lesson.
Maths, English, Music, she’d do it all.
Sometimes, we’d get Miss Oakley, who was a Nazi in a twinset. Okay, I’m being a little unkind. That sort of title was better reserved for Mrs Pearson (or Mizz Pearson, we were never quite sure and she was unlikely to explain her married status, or otherwise, to a class of school children) whose contempt for us was barely concealed.
Mr Flanagan would teach us Maths too, along with Geography.
P.E class would involve having to change with the other schoolchildren, which I disliked intensely. Not for the bizarre communal situation, no, it was just that certain boys would take it upon themselves to talk when they weren’t supposed to, and our class would be harder as a result.
“Today, we’ll be doing cross-country running.”
The teacher was probably going to let us play football, but decided on a change of lesson content just because one boy was sniggering or had been playing another boy up.
Now we would all pay for it.
“Hey,” they’d say to me, as we would go for the hated run in the mud, the rain, and the cold, “you had better keep up with the pack. The Witch of Hill Top Green is just behind one of the trees, waiting for you to pass.”
I’d fight back with words. “Witches wouldn’t hide in trees. They wouldn’t have to. And it’s you who needs to keep up with the pack, not me. You watch out for the bleedin’ witch!”
Ah yes, the Witch of Hill Top Green.
We’d all seen her, though no-one admits to it, at least, not openly.
We would run, and it would be pleasant enough. The September sun grazed our shoulders gently, unlike the harsh glare of early July. Honestly – two weeks before breaking up for the summer holidays, and they are making us run in blistering heat.
In contrast, I almost found myself enjoying the September run. Then, they’d start their annoying tales again.
“Roy’s gone missing,” said one of them. “I’ve lapped you lot twice now, and there’s no sign of Roy. She must have got him, her bony fingers must be gutting him out right about now.”
I would get a poke in the back when I’d attempt to ignore them, and continue on my run.
“Are you listening? She’s out there! Out here.”
No. I am not listening. I’m running, and will keep running until we get back to the school.
Usually, we would see the teacher over the course of the run. Where was he?
The Witch of Hill Top Green has got him, and Roy. Best be happy she hasn’t got you.
