Blog Archive

Wednesday 15 March 2017

My writing journey

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)



 You can order any one of my books from Amazon or message me directly
 www.catherinebyrne -author.com












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.

Wednesday 8 March 2017

Another Tale from the Islands



I was four years old and I saw tiny horses galloping over my bedspread. My mother put a cool hand on my head and announced that I had a temperature. Then I began to feel so ill I thought I was dying. Granny came in with a basin of water and bathed me. I was no longer in my cot, but in my parents' bed. At some time during my sleep the curtains had been closed, like they did when there was a death. I wanted my mam.
‘She’s gone away for a new baby,’ Granny told me.
I knew then, for certain, that I really was dying. Mam had already gone for my replacement. The curtains were already pulled in preparation. I started to cry and sank into another hot stupor.
I must have been very ill for about three weeks as, living on an island, mothers were taken to the mainland to have their babies. They left before their due date, especially during the months of winter when there was a possibility of being storm stuck. (this was November) Also, the lying in period after childbirth was two weeks.
I don’t remember much about having measles. I know now that both my brothers had been struck down at the same time. 
As well as running her own croft single handed, my granny had to look after three sick children and attend to the animals on my parents’ croft. 
My father had several other jobs on the island, and also spent time with my mother and new daughter on the mainland.
By the time my mother returned I felt a lot better, but was still kept in isolation in case my germs harmed the baby. I was only allowed to see her by standing at my bedroom door while an adult held her up in the doorway of another room at the end of the passageway.

Little flashes of memory forever ingrained on the mind.



My little sister and me on a day trip back to Stroma.

Thursday 16 February 2017

Hiding from the wind.

Here in the long grass there is no wind. I like to hide from the wind. I look up at the sky, a bonny blue with white steamy clouds scudding across it. I am lying on my back in the hay field and the breeze through the grass is like rushing water climbing up the shoreline and fading away, the sound the sea makes when Mam takes us to the beach. I mustn’t go alone though. There are otters there that’ll crunch my bones until they hear the crack. Mam told me and she knows best. She says that all the time.
  A sea-maw flies above and it swings about in the wind. Mam shouts for me from the door. ‘Yer tea’s ready.’
  She’ll think I’m lost. She’ll worry. She might even come looking for me. I don't answer.
  ‘Scrambled eggs,’ she shouts.
  My stomach grumbles. It’s been a while since dinner and that was lentil soup with boiled beef, which I hate. I love scrambled egg and buttery toast with hot milky tea. I still say nothing.
‘Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to the dog,’ she shouts and goes back indoors.
  She’s not worried about me. She doesn’t care if I’ve gone to the beach and been eaten by otters. She doesn’t care if I’ve fallen in a hole. Well, I'll just hide here until it grows dark, maybe I'll die of cold in the night, then she'll be sorry, they'll all be sorry.

The house where I was born
But I'm hungry and the thought of scrambled egg and toast finally gets the better of me and squashes my mini rebellion. I stand up, shake the grass from my skirt and go indoors where it's warm and the kettle sings and the table is piled with eggs, toast and bannocks. The news is on the wireless and my brothers are eating and arguing over a comic.
'Eat up before it goes cold,' Mam says. This time, she doesn't need to tell me twice.






Friday 27 January 2017

Isa's Daughter



Chapter One

'You can't get married to the minister.' A horrified Annie Reid faced her mother.

Isa wiped rough, red hands on her apron. 'Why not?’ Her brown eyes, so like Annie’s own, grew darker as she stared at her daughter.

Annie knew that look, the look that said no amount of argument would change Isa’s mind. That knowledge, however, did nothing to deter Annie. ‘How could you put another man in Dad’s place?’

‘I’ll never forget your father, but he’s gone. I’ve been lonely. In any case it’s hard enough for Bel to feed herself let alone us as well.’

'So we’re leaving Scartongarth? Dad might have been heir to the farm. Why should Bel have it?' Annie set her hand against the lime-washed wall which held the faded framed photograph of her grandparents on their wedding day.

Isa gave a pained sigh. ‘Look, Annie, there was no will. I imagine it should have been your cousin Jimmy’s, but he doesn’t want it. His sister does.’

‘But you said we might have a claim…’

Isa held up her hand. ‘I said it was a possibility only. I didn’t know then how Bel felt about the place and I won’t fight her for it. She's worked hard to keep it going with the war and all.'

‘Then why did we come back? Was it for him, the Reverend Charleston?’

‘Of course not. There was nothing left for us in Canada. You know that.’

The arguments died on Annie’s lips. She, too, had been captivated by Bel’s gentle charm and had no real desire to take the croft from her. However, as far as her mother’s plans were concerned, she had to use all the ammunition she could think of. 'So we'll be moving into the manse? You who never had time for religion.’

Isa sighed. ‘It’s a fine big house and Donald has his stipend. We’ll be comfortable.’

‘Is that why you’re getting wed, so we won’t starve?’

‘No. I like Donald a lot and he’s a good man. You’ll be welcome until you decide your future. You’re clever, Annie, you could go back to school, maybe get a job in an office.'

Annie considered this for a minute. Perhaps her mother marrying the minister wasn’t such a bad idea after all. ‘Would he pay for me to go to college?'

‘You’re my daughter. I wouldn’t expect him to even if he could afford it.’ Two pink dots appeared on Isa’s cheeks, a sign that her patience was wearing thin.

Annie cocked her head. ‘Then how will I ever get a better education?’

Isa took an inward rush of breath. ‘It’ll not be with Donald’s money, I’ll tell you that now.’ She turned her back and, grabbing a duster from the rod across the mantelpiece, began to rub at the range with small, quick movements.

Annie pursed her mouth and stared at the floor where the flagstones shone with Isa's regular polishing.

'Maybe, maybe if I had a word with Mr Dick...' Isa twisted around to face her daughter.

‘Mr Dick – the schoolteacher?'

‘He could give you some learning at nights. I could do a bit of washing, a bit of cleaning for him. If you want an education we'll find a way to make it happen.' Isa spoke with the grim determination that had taken them through all the hardships of their lives.

Annie’s mood lifted. Perhaps, after all, there was a chance of her doing better than ending up a herring gutter or a servant or worse still, having to marry to keep food on the table and become like the island women she saw around her, producing bairns and slaving from dawn to dusk in order to live another week.

‘I still won’t live with you and the minister,’ she muttered.

‘Bel would never turn you out, but see how you get on with Mr Dick. Right now I want you to go to Lottie’s shop. I need to make some bere scones for tea.’

Annie snorted. ‘I’d best go get my coat then.’ She moved sideways around the table in the middle of the floor. To go anywhere in this room she had to move sideways. Against one wall sat a pinewood dresser which held the crockery, on another was a bed in a recess with a door on either side, one leading to the passageway, the other to a steep staircase. On the third wall was the window with a sideboard in front, on the fourth was an iron stove and a mantelpiece with a rod for drying clothes. It was all so different from the roomy space where they had lived in Canada until a few weeks ago.

Annie climbed up to her room beneath the rafters, sat down on her makeshift bed with the large sack of chaff for a mattress that Bel called a caff seck and put her head in her hands. In spite of her words, she liked Donald Charleston and he would be good to her mother. She had seen how quickly the rounded curves of Isa’s body had turned to angles and the strands of white had streaked her coal-black hair after the Great War took her husband. Then the drought had devastated the land. Over the years, Annie watched her mother’s beauty fade as they struggled against poverty. Annie Reid hungered for more. She had thought something better would be waiting for them in the place her parents referred to as ‘home,’ but the war had devastated Britain, nowhere more than the islands. Without an education, a woman had few options.

From beneath her pillow she pulled out the magazines she had bought to pass the long hours on the journey to Scotland. In the meagre slice of day entering through the skylight, she studied the photos of grand ladies, fine carriages and city streets. ‘One day,’ she said, and slapped the magazine closed.
Annie knew she was beautiful. Even if the pock-marked mirror on the passage wall hadn't told her, the way men's eyes followed her did. No, she was not going to settle for becoming a mere crofter-fisherman's wife or a skivvy for some rich family.

She didn't want lessons from Mr Dick with his big belly and bulbous nose and the veins that stood out on the backs of his hands like fat worms. The young teacher, the one who taught the first year pupils, he was a different matter. Even his name had an exotic ring to it. Alexander Garcia’s black hair was short and he shaved most days, not like the young men of the island who, it appeared, only shaved once a week. But it was his eyes that really got her: dark, intense, burning with a fire that matched her own. From the first time she’d seen him, she’d been wondering how to get his attention. Unwittingly, her mother had given her the excuse.

‘Where are you, lass?’ Isa’s voice came from below.

‘Coming, Ma.’ Annie stood up and lifted the coat which doubled as a blanket. She was taller than the average woman and could only stand upright where the beams met in the middle to form the roof.
Downstairs her eyes fell on the big pot on the range. Her stomach clawed for a good feed. She lifted the lid. ‘Is there anything to eat other than porridge?’ She had never been fond of the grey, gooey sludge and since it had become their staple diet she detested it.

‘There’s a crust of bread in the larder and some cheese.’ Isa went to the jar on the mantel and took out some copper coins. ‘See if Lottie’s got any flour, then go and collect the eggs.’

Outside, a sharp breeze blew in from the Pentland Firth lifting the strands of hair that flew round her face. She never tied her hair in a knot or plaited it the way the local women did.

Sucking in the sea-salt air, she looked around. After the big, bright skies and miles of prairie she had grown up with, it would take time to get used to the flat expanse of Raumsey with its one-storied stone-built cottages, miles of ocean beyond, and a sky that was seldom free of clouds.

Sloping down from the shingle path, behind the hummocks of waving grass, the pebbles on the beach rattled as angry breakers smashed over them. For seventeen years she had grown up in Alberta and had never seen the ocean. Now she embraced its wildness; it was the one thing that fascinated her about this island. If only her dad were with them now, he would have built a boat for the fishing and turned Scartongarth back into the success it once was. Her brother Dan, who had remained in Canada, would come to help them run it, she would go to university, and her mam would not be marrying the minister.




Thursday 3 November 2016

Book Four in the Raumsey Saga





The Great War is over, and the inhabitants of Raumsey Island struggle to regain their livelihood. Seventeen-year-old Annie Reid is a spirited, ambitious girl, determined not to end up a herring gutter or go into service.
Annie befriends a young schoolteacher, Alexander Garcia, who promises to help her further her education but, after tragedy strikes, Annie pursues a nursing career amidst the political complexity of Glasgow. Garcia dreams of a return to his Spanish roots, but Spain is also in political turmoil.

Annie’s love for the teacher remains through the years, but will love overcome the barriers and prejudice of race, religion, beliefs and distance?




With her husband killed in the war, Isa has returned to her island home. The fourth book in the Raumsey sagas is about her rebellious daughter, Annie.
Isa's Daughter is already well reviewed and climbing the charts.


Saturday 30 July 2016

 Welcome to my blog interview.
I am pleased to introduce Matthew Drzymala.

Hello Matthew. Tell us a bit about yourself.
Hey. Me… hmmm, well I’m 34 years old and I’m originally from Manchester, UK but now live in Liverpool.  I work in Payroll, which isn’t terribly exciting compared to writing. I’m not terribly good with figures, I much prefer words.

What bought you to the world of writing?              
NaNoWriMo, really. Two of my friends took part in it in 2010 and I thought it sounded really interesting, so I took part in 2011 and it’s gone on from there, really. I was bitten by the bug and I haven’t stopped since. I went on to do a creative writing course in 2013-14 as I wanted to take it seriously. It was a brilliant experience, and I learn a lot because of it.

What is your first book and what do you think of it now?
Last Christmas and Bittersweet were released at the same time. Technically Bittersweet was the first book I wrote, which I think still stands up. Last Christmas was written in a week as a Christmas tie-in. That one doesn’t have loads of story and it is the one story I wish I could maybe add more meat too, but it was a nice, little story an it’s not bad. I think if I wrote it now more would happen, but you learn as you go along.

What type of books do you write and do they fulfil your reader’s needs?
I write humour, mostly and I think so, yes. They are quite gentle stories, but I try and pack a range of emotions in. I’ll always throw in a bit of pathos and not every character has a happy ending. Although they’re set in a fictional village I try and make the emotion real.
Most of the feedback I’ve had is positive. People seem to like the cosiness in the stories. They can be silly at times and some characters are completely crazy, but there are characters who are quite down to earth to, so there’s something for everybody in them.

Would you like to feature a book, if so which one?  Tell us about it?
My collection, The Bumpkinton Tales: Volume One, has all of my Bumpkinton stories so far. It includes Last Christmas, Bittersweet, The Bachelor, Albert’s Christmas, and the exclusive bonus short story, The Family Jewels.
I felt I was missing out on paperback readers and the book is something I’m extremely proud of. It puts all of Bumpkinton together in one place and you can get a real sense of the stories taking place within the same 12 months and how parts of a previous story affect a later one.

How long does it take you to write your first draft?
Short stories, I would say about 4-6 weeks. However, I am writing my first novel and draft one took about 9 months. I’m now on draft 3 and it still needs a lot of work, but I’m enjoying it!

Do you plot or not, if so why?
Not massively, no. I know, I know I’m bad for not doing it. I tend to come up with an idea and always seem to know how it ends and the rest I just write as I go along. Now and again I’ll plot a little bit, knowing I need to make certain things happen at a certain point, but more often than not I just have a vague idea and an ending and just write.

Do you write in 1st or 3rd person, or have you do both?
I’ve done both, but I prefer 3rd person, definitely.

How do you edit your work?  Do you leave your draft alone for a while or edit as you write?
I tend to edit once I’ve finished, unless it’s something glaringly troubling that’s changed, then I may go back and edit as I go, but I tend not to do that very much. I much prefer to get it written, then get it right.

What type of people/readers do you market your books to?
Anybody really. My books are accessible to all. They’re perfect to relax to. They’re happy or sad and if you’ve finished a heavy book, they’re just right to relax your brain before starting another heavy book.
I also want to make people laugh and I want everybody to see that humour has a big part to play in the world. We all need to laugh sometimes as life is too serious these days.

Do you self-publish or have you worked with an Agent/Publisher
I self-publish. I did find a small publisher from my short story, Brainstorm, but they went under a few weeks after, which was a bit gutting, so I self-published that story a few weeks later.

How do you promote your writing?
Any way I can. I post everywhere I can online, Facebook, Twitter, Forums and interviews such as this one J I also have fliers so I hand them in to cafes etc locally. I recently appeared on a local radio station promoting my book and I will be on a local TV station in September.
The release of my paperback has spurred me on to get my work out there wherever I can, even signing up to signing events that span over three years. I’m doing my first talk in a school in September too, so I’m putting my face everywhere and seeing where it takes me!

Where can we buy your books?
My books are available online at Amazon, Waterstones, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and Smashwords.
If anybody reading this lives in Liverpool in the UK, they are also available from Write Blend in Waterloo, Pritchards in Crosby and News from Nowhere in the City Centre. I’ve applied for it to go into Libraries across the country and it’s also being considered for stock in Waterstones’ stores nationwide, but I haven’t had confirmation on that yet.

Who are your favourite authors?
I would say Terry Pratchett, I just love his Discworld stories and I’m not ashamed to say I love JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series. I don’t get to read as much as I’d like as I find it difficult to read books when I’m writing and I’m writing a lot lately.
I read Thrillers more than anything, so Jo Nesbo is up there for me, especially his Harry Hole series.

What other hobbies do you have?
I wish I had other hobbies. I like to watch TV shows and movies, but I don’t do a lot of things outside. I really should shouldn’t I? That’s terrible!
I run a writing group once a month at the local Library called The Laid-back Writers Group, which has been fun to do. I’ve met so many talented writers. I’ve been slack with the homework the last few months, but that’s mostly due to me writing my novel and getting my new paperback released and promoted. It’s cut into a lot of my time and I haven’t been able to do as much as I’d like.

Do you have any more information you’d like to share?

Links.



Friday 22 July 2016

A short, simple journey.



On a recent journey to Aberdeen, I once more discover that getting from A to B in the Highlands of Scotland is not necessarily straightforward. Since my late husband  would not allow me to drive outwith my home county, I have not built up a great deal of confidence behind the wheel and, given the cost of petrol versus my free bus pass, the most sensible decision seems to be, bus to Inverness. Once there though, we have to think again. The bus between Inverness and Aberdeen meanders around every village and takes more than four hours. The train. on the other hand, takes two hours and gives one the opportunity of a cup of tea, or a  cheeky glass of wine.

My companion and I decide that the train is the best option. We walk the short distance from the bus station to the railway station, dragging weighty luggage, just to be told that the trains are on strike today. Hmm.

We decide to take the 2.30 bus to Aberdeen which gives us time to grab a bite to eat before boarding. So, dragging our cases, we walk up to the Eastgate Shopping centre and stop at Starbuck's cafe for a much-needed cup of coffee.

The queue is moving slowly. Nearly there. Money clutched in my hand. At last. The waitress tilts her chin at me. I open my mouth to order. There is an almighty flash behind the counter, all the lights go out, a pillar of smoke rises in the air.  'Everyone out,' she screams.

A siren screeches and through a tannoy, a female voice shouts instructions of which I can't make out a word. We stream from the building.

Not just Starbucks, but the whole shopping mall is evacuated. No one knows what's happening, so there is a general rushing to be on the outside.

We burst into the outside into a sun-filled city street with buskers and shoppers and curious bystanders.  There is no real reason for panic, just an electrical fault and the sirens of emergency services competing with those sirens still emitting their warning from inside the centre.

How lucky we are to not yet be touched by the hand of the horror facing the rest of Europe.
So back to the bus station and a coffee in Asher's cafe.

Now it is time to board the bus. For some reason, the machine won't read my companion's bus pass. After a few more moments of panic, the machine finally decides to do its duty, and we are off.

A couple of hours into the journey the bus stops. I am engrossed in my book, so don't really notice anything other than that we seem to be waiting a very long time before taking off again.

My attention is alerted by the driver making an announcement. 'I'm sorry about this delay, but we're waiting for the police. There's been an incident. they shouldn't be long.'

What?

No one seems to know what the 'incident' is. After half an hour, some of us go outside to stretch our legs. Eventually, the police do arrive, but we're not really privy to what's going on. they do come and ask me if I saw anything, but I had my nose buried in a book.

It seemed a man had snatched a ladies purse as he walked by her seat. When he realised he had been spotted, he threw the purse over a wall. However, the police found the purse, and he was finally arrested.

Off we go once more, an hour late.

What more can happen you might ask? When I went to read my book that night, I discovered that I had left my glasses on the bus.