Mary Rosie’s War is the direct continuation of The Broken Horizon. When the story opens, Chrissie and her family have moved to the mainland to live in John O’Groats and Mary is seventeen years old. War is breaking out in Europe, and Britain is on high alert. Today I am 30,000 words into the story. I aim to do at least 1000 words daily. I do not know how the story will end. (I’m still unsure how I will begin it but watch this space for a sample coming soon.)
Outside the sun is shining, but it is deceptive. The wind is bitter. I have to steel myself to face the cold, otherwise my two dogs will not be walked, and I will not have any exercise either. I will spend my time sitting at the computer (not always writing)
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Extract from Mary Rosie's War.
From the distance came the deep drone of a solitary plane.
‘Doesn’t sound like one of ours,’ said Sally, pulling a moue of distaste. ‘Could that be Jerries?’
The girls looked at each other, smiles slipping, their hands clutching their cups. At dusk on 16th March an attack had been made on Scapa in Orkney by fifteen enemy bombers. Four officers had been killed, and four officers and three ratings wounded. And that event, though many miles to the north, had brought the war to their door.
‘I’m not sure…’ Rita’s voice was lost as the thunder of the plane came so near it could have been right outside. The girls rose as one and crossed to the window. ‘Bloody hell, that’s close,’ said Sally.
Suddenly the world around them seemed to erupt. Cups rattled in saucers, the building trembled.
Customers leaped to their feet and ran out of the door into High Street, desperately looking for a safe haven. A pall of black smoke rose from the direction of the harbour as another explosion rent the air flashes of fire, smoke, thick and black belched from down river.
‘On my God,’ someone screamed. ‘They’re bombing the town.’
A woman dropped her shopping basket and ran past the girls. ‘Ma bairns,’ she screamed, ‘I left them playing…’
Everything seemed to happen at once. The clanging of the fire engine’s bell, children crying, people running around like confused ants as the managers of shops and banks with cellars, herded them into relative safety.