A Mystery...

An excerpt (pages 41-47) from the new thing I'm polishing:

The café was dark and grubby with an indeterminate colour lino floor, wooden chairs and round tables. Spiller’s was a perfect name for it, seemingly describing the behaviour of most of the occupants. It was nothing at all like the new shiny, chrome and black leather cafés that were popping up everywhere, with lots of glass windows and outside tables. While she preferred the idea of having hot chocolates at the new ones, Sally swiftly decided this one suited their purposes better. She felt sure no one from school would see them here.

With the nose blowing and the excuse making they were five minutes late for their meeting with Milo Lestrange. When they walked through the doorway of Spiller’s to the tune of a bell over the door they could see two little old ladies wearing what looked like tea cosies on their heads sharing a pot of tea and a plate of dainties in the far corner by the counter. Only two other tables were occupied. An old man wearing a disgusting stained overcoat and a knitted beanie pulled down over a mess of hair sat at a table also near the counter and a tall school girl sat at another by the front window. They were both horrified to see the school girl was wearing a St Welt’s smock, blazer and hat, and even more horrified to see that the school girl was Vanessa Blunt. She didn’t look up when they came in but seemed deeply absorbed in a book and a large piece of carrot cake. Sally shivered at the sight of her enemy. Avoiding the table near the window Sally and Abigail wended their way through to the counter. The old man cleared his throat as they passed.

“Ahem.”

An older girl had come through the plastic strip curtain to stand behind the counter when the doorbell had rung and now they gave her their order for two hot chocolates, two pieces of cake and a filled roll. Charmaine, said the badge pinned to the front of her white pinny.

“We don’t do hot chocolates. It’s either coffee or a mug of cocoa each. Alright then?” she said, not looking terribly fussed whether it suited or not. They nodded and as she rung up their order on an ancient till, Abigail handed over some money. The girl then busied herself pulling two slabs of carrot cake and an overflowing filled roll from the display case and arranging them on three plates.

“I’ll bring your drinks over,” she said pushing the laden plates towards them.

Abigail and Sally grabbed their food and turned back to survey the tables.

“Ahem,” came the old man again. This time the two girls glanced over and he was staring straight at them. He winked and tilting his head to one side, nodded.

“He wants us to sit with him,” Abigail whispered to Sally, a horrified expression on her face.

“I think its Milo,” Sally whispered back, “In disguise.”

Sure enough now that they were looking straight back at him they could both see that he wasn’t actually old at all. It was just his coat that looked like it had been through three life times. And they could see his hair had obviously grown quite a bit longer since the photo for the expedition was taken but it was still the same dark coloured wild mess it had been back then.

They walked towards the table and when they were close enough Sally leaned forward.

“Mr Lestrange?” she asked as quietly as she could.

The man nodded and they sat down at the table pulling their chairs around so their backs were towards Vanessa. She still seemed totally spellbound by the large book she was holding close to her face.

“Oh Mr Lestrange I forgot to get you something,” Sally said.

“Shhh, don’t say my name out loud like that,” the man said leaning forward over the table towards them. “And it doesn’t matter. I brought my own,” and he pulled a little flask out of his coat pocket and shook it. It made a light sloshing sound as if he’d already consumed most of the contents. Sally and Abigail smiled faintly.

“So which of you is Barque’s daughter?”

Sally stuck her hand up a little and said, “Me, I’m Sally. Oh, and this is my best friend, Abigail Fray.”

“Do you have a brother?” Mr Lestrange’s voice went down to a whisper.

Sally nodded.

“Any other’s?”

Sally shook her head.

“I remember Barque talking about his two children,” he continued. “A boy and a girl. Michael and Sally. No, ... that’s not quite right.”

“Malcolm and Sally?” Sally offered.

 “Yes...that’s it.  You do look a bit like him.” he whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Abigail asked preparing to take a bite of the filled roll she had squashed into submission. Milo and Sally both turned to glare at Abigail. “Shhh,” they chorused.

“Well,” Milo said in a low voice. “Call me Milo.” He glanced at Sally. “I remember Captain Barque very well. Bill. That’s what he told me to call him. He was kind to me. No one else was on that voyage. I was the youngest and Bill took me under his wing. Treated me like a son. Or a younger brother. I remember it like it was yesterday. In fact I’ve had trouble forgetting it. Well, parts of it anyway. Other parts…hmmm…I don’t know. But one thing I know for sure. That one voyage changed my life completely.”

“It changed mine forever too,” Sally said softly.

“Here are your cocoas,” Charmaine said plonking two chipped mugs of flat muddy liquid on the table. Abigail smiled up at her in thanks and grabbed her mug to wash down the roll before she started on her cake.

“So what happened then,” she said.

“Well things were already difficult before we left port. Although your father had everything running smoothly Sally, Professor Angstrom and Major Blunt were complaining about everything from the food and the size of their cabins to the way their equipment was stored on board and the route your father was recommending they take. It all came to a head when we were only two days out to sea. I’d been laid up in my cabin the whole time with sea sickness. But on that second night I felt a little better and I thought it was time for some fresh air and I got up and went for a walk up on deck. I was outside the galley and I heard shouting. It was the Major and he was yelling at your father. Calling him names. Saying the expedition would be a disaster because of him. Your father was saying something about turning the ship round and returning to port right then. There was the sound of breaking glass and then steps and bangs and thuds and a shout. Doors were being opened and slammed shut and then more footsteps... and then the sound I can’t get out of my head. A scream and a crash and an enormous splash, like something very big had fallen in the water…”

“Dad...” Sally whispered, her eyes round and swimming with tears.

“I rushed around to the other side of the ship as fast as I could and I looked in the water and I called ‘Man Overboard’ and the crew came running but in the dark, even though they turned the ship around... you know even for a small ship like the Pole Star it takes a really long time. They don’t turn on a dollar coin you know. Well anyway, it was too late. We couldn’t find the body and…” Milo looked at Sally’s face.

“Please keep going,” Sally said in a small voice.

“The only person missing was the captain. The major was in the infirmary bandaging up the professor’s head. He’d taken a nasty knock and couldn’t remember anything. The major said it was the professor who’d screamed.”

“What did he say had happened to the captain,” Abigail asked breathlessly, peering over the top of her cake as she took another bite.

Milo looked from Abigail to Sally, uncertainty on his face. “I…he said…he said the captain had fallen.”

But Sally hadn’t heard. “There was that photo in the book,” Sally said staring off into space, her mind fidgeting around for something. “Of the Professor on the stretcher all bandaged. You couldn’t see his face.”

“That’s right,” Milo said.

“It could have been anyone,” she said, her expression suddenly hopeful.

“Ahhh, it looked like the professor. Whoever it was in the infirmary had the professor’s long black coat on too,” Milo said.

“But you never saw his face,” Sally persisted.

“No but the captain was a lot shorter than the professor, and the professor was…”

“But you couldn’t be a hundred percent sure. And it was a long time ago.”

“Well yes…but Sally, I don’t think it was the captain.”

“You didn’t see who went overboard?”

“No. Only the major knows what happened. And the professor. But he never recovered from the accident. He’s been in St Olaf’s ever since.”

“That’s not an ordinary hospital though, is it?” Abigail interjected. “It’s a mental hospital. Ooo, what if he’s too drugged to remember or so he can’t tell the truth or something.”

Milo looked aghast. “Look you two. It was all very straightforward back then. Don’t go inventing things that just aren’t true.”

“But it wasn’t straight forward at all.” Sally protested. “You said in your book that they weren’t going to the South Pole for oil. It was all about the army or something.”

“I don’t…remember…,” Milo said looking confused all of a sudden.

“You don’t really know the truth yourself, do you,” Sally said. “I want to know what happened to my Dad.”

“I can’t tell you any more than I’ve already told you. Although I do know the ‘Pole Star’ never made another voyage after that. It’s been in dry dock ever since. Down at the port.”

“Shhh,” Abigail said, winking and nodding her head towards Vanessa’s table. Sally turned to see Vanessa leaning back in her seat as far as she could without tipping backwards. Her book lay closed on the table and her cake plate was empty.

Sally’s face turned a livid red colour and she stood up so suddenly her chair fell to the floor with a loud clatter. She marched over to Vanessa.

“What do you think you’re doing, nosey parker,” she said banging the back left leg of the chair with her foot as hard as she could. The back legs slid under and the chair fell back with the tall solid Vanessa crashing down like a brick wall. Everyone in the cafe stared at the girl lying on the floor. Sally marched right back to the table, picked up her own seat and sat down. She didn’t look back. Vanessa lay in a tangled heap with the chair, like a tortoise stuck on its back unable to right itself, legs and arms waving in the air helplessly. Abigail snorted hysterically into her serviette.

“I guess somebody ought to help her up,” Sally said out loud in a most insincere voice so the whole café could hear.

 “Oh Sally,” Abigail gasped through tears of laughter. “How could you. She might be hurt.”

“She looks quite alright to me,” Sally said without even turning round to look. “I imagine it would take quite a lot to damage Vanessa.”

Eventually Charmaine emerged through the plastic curtain and helped Vanessa off the floor. “Lean too far back did we Miss. Happens all the time. There you go. Alright?” She picked up the chair and dusted off the back of Vanessa’s smock. Vanessa glared at Sally, gathered up her book and school bag and stalked out of the café.

“My goodness,” Milo said, “that was the major’s daughter. What a coincidence. Do you know her Sally?”

From somewhere on page 121...

A small taste of my current efforts

(Located somewhere in the Southern States of the Soviet Union in 1941)

“We need drinking water,” Mama said, holding up the empty glass flagon. The train had pulled in to a railway station surrounded by a small but busy town, an oasis of colour and life. Everyone grabbed bags and containers, laced up shoes and buttoned jackets. I hopped down onto the platform and Mama passed the flagon to me. She stepped down and turned back to look up at Sophia.

“I need you to stay here,” she said.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Sophia whimpered.

“You are not alone...Pani Dorota will look after you,” Mama said. She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and rushed away into the crowd before Sophia could cry.

I wandered around the streets for a little while worried that I wouldn’t be able to do this one simple task. In the end I found fresh water back at the train station. On the other side of the station building from the train, at the far end next to the Station Master’s office a boy stood filling his container at a tap. A few others lined up behind him and I joined the queue. Before long a snake of people had formed. Then it was my turn. I fitted the flagon under the tap and turned it hard, the water soon overflowing. And then I heard the worst possible noise. It had become so familiar; the mundane hooting voice of the train signalling the stops and starts of our travels. Now it struck fear in me. The train was leaving.

Everyone scattered. I wanted to run but the flagon felt awkward and heavy. I hobbled round the corner with my load and saw the locomotive pulling away. Why was it leaving? Wagon doors still gaped open. People on the train leaned out and pulled their friends and relatives on board. My heart fluttered in panic. I ran after the wagons sliding away along the platform, the flagon knocking at me. I wasn’t fast enough to catch up and climb on. My only chance was to grab the hand rail. I had no choice. The flagon dropped, smashing, the water gushing away as I threw myself at the train, my hand reaching out to grasp the metal bar. Others were doing the same. Taking frantic leaps and grabbing on as tightly as possible. The train accelerated. For five minutes it raced through the countryside, people clinging, pressed hard by fear against the speeding locomotive. A few kilometres from the town it slowed and came to a complete stop in an open field. I didn’t wait to see what happened next. I jumped down and ran beside the track as if the devil himself was after me. Others ran too. I saw Mama running, a bunch of her skirt in one hand to free her legs. I caught her up as we reached our wagon. Sophia stood at the open door sobbing hysterically. We clambered on. Mama clutched Sophia to her.

“I just...got hold of a...hand rail,” she gasped. “I saw you...I saw you up ahead. I thought...I thought I might have lost you.”

I grinned at her, wiping sweat from my eyes.

“The water?” she asked.

The grin fell off my face. I shook my head. She shrugged. “I have nothing either.”

For several hours the train stayed in the field as if daring someone to try getting off again. But no one did. We’d had a lucky escape. Mama didn’t ask after the missing flagon and it was never mentioned again. I knew now wherever Mama went Sophia and I had to go too.

The Half Life of Ryan Davis - an excerpt...

an excerpt from my teen novel The Half Life of Ryan Davis. This comes later in the first half of the book. Ryan has succeeded in falling out with his best friend Alex and younger sister Gemma. Mallory is his older sister, missing and presumed dead for the past three years.

No one was speaking to me. Mum was so uptight
about what I’d said and Gemma hated my guts. And
there was no way I could talk to Alex. As I pulled
my good hoodie over my favourite t-shirt I checked
myself out in the mirror and had to ask Mallory what
she thought because there was no one else.
In her opinion, the t-shirt wasn’t smart enough
and the shoes were fine if I was going down to the
skate park on my bike.
“I can’t wear my good shoes,” I complained.
“They’re for like funerals and tea at Grandma’s
place…and they pinch.” Yeah, but the shoes you have
on now are for riding and P.E. class. I wished she was
here for real and not just in my head.
“At least my jeans are clean,” I said. “And my
socks.”
“Talking to yourself are you?”
“Dad! What are you doing here?”
“I was talking to your Mum last night …”
Oh no. Here came the lecture on staying in
school, the importance of education, the you-have-to-
do-as-you’re-told speech.
“Look Dad …” I began, ready to say that I
probably wasn’t going to leave school and he should
save his breath but he cut me off.
“She thought you might need a lift to this shindig
at your school.”
“Do you mean the social? Um…yeah…” Of
course I wanted a lift. Alex said his mum could take
all of us if we met at his place but that was before
Brittney dumped him and I told him to piss off. I
don’t think the offer still stood. But if I went with
Dad, what about Kim? I’d said I’d meet her at her
place. I was going to ride my bike there and walk her
to the social and she said she’d ask her mum to pick
us up. “I’ll be okay walking …” I said.
“Don’t be silly,” Dad said. “Are you just about
ready to go? I have somewhere else to be after I’ve
dropped you off.” He gave me a funny look: a kind of
unsure half smile.
“I guess…” I said. I’d figure something out. “Um,
Dad, do you think this looks okay?”
“If you change your shirt you can get away with
wearing those shoes,” he said with his normal size
grin. Well, if they both agreed, I had no choice but
to change into a shirt.
“Nice car,” I’d said when we got in. The Audi I’d
wanted to vandalise.
“It belongs to a friend,” Dad had replied. I
swallowed guiltily.
Now I sat hunched down, my mind running a mile
a minute. Could I run all the way back from school
to Kim’s house without getting too sweaty and then
walk her back to school in time before the whole
thing was over? I rehearsed telling Dad about her in
my head again and again but I couldn’t bring myself
to open my mouth. I must have been squirming in
my seat.
“Is something wrong, Ryan? Don’t worry. You look
good. Is there some girl you’re trying to impress?”
He’d made it so easy for me and I still couldn’t
say anything. I think I was going red in the face.
“Look buddy…”
That’s what he used to call me when I was little.
What the hell was going on?
“Taking you to this thing isn’t the only reason I
came over. There’s something I wanted to talk to
you about. Mum told me about what you said last
night … about your argument with her.”
This was it.
“Dad, before you go any further, stop the car.”
“I don’t think it’s that serious, Ryan. I know you’re
probably just yanking your mother’s chains. You kids
are too smart these days. It’s easy to wind her up.”
He looked sideways at me. What was he going on
about?
“Dad, stop the car,” I said more urgently, my
hand on the door handle.
Dad pulled over and turned the car off. “What’s
wrong, Ryan?”
“Dad, we ... we need to pick up my girlfriend on
the way.”
Dad burst out laughing. It kind of wasn’t what I
was expecting.
“It’s not funny,” I said through gritted teeth.
“No. No it’s not. I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m not laughing
at you.”
“What’s so funny then?”
“So I take it Mum doesn’t know?”
I shook my head.
Dad said, “Okay. Where does she live?”
I told him her address and we moved off again,
heading to Kim’s place.
“Look Ryan, you’re growing up…”
“Dad, I know all about that stuff. It’s not like that.
Not yet anyway.”
“You’re a smart kid, Ryan. I don’t think you’ll
make any stupid mistakes about girls. But don’t
make any stupid mistakes about school either. Don’t
leave unless you’re absolutely sure it’s the right thing
for you. Don’t do it just because you’re angry with
your mum.”
“I did just say it to annoy her,” I said. “School’s
okay. But I need to earn a bit of pocket money. She
won’t let me get a part time job. Having a girlfriend
costs money.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Dad said, turning into
Kim’s street. “Ryan, there’s something else I wanted
to tell you. It’s about where I’m going after I drop
you off …”
We came to a stop outside Kim’s. I patted the
pocket of my shirt to check the tickets were there.
I put my hand on the door handle again but Dad put
his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve got a girlfriend too, mate,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say. My stomach kind of
flopped over. I figured he and Mum were never
getting back together but this news punched that
message home – right in the guts. I didn’t want
another mum. Girlfriends were what people my age
have. Not old dudes like Dad. He had a bald patch
on the back of his head and his stomach hung over
his trousers.
I turned back in my seat. Took my hand off the
door handle. “How old is she?”
“She’s younger than me,” Dad said. “Not by
a lot though. She works at my office. Her name’s
Annabel. She’s really nice, you’ll like her.”
I don’t even want to meet her, I thought.
“She’s got two kids too, although they’re younger
than you and Gemma. This is her car.”
A surge of anger drove through my body. I
wished I had that coin in my hand to run along the
paintwork. Two kids? He already had two kids. His
own kids. My eyes stung with tears. I didn’t want to
be hearing about this now.
“Does Mum know? Or Gemma?” I forced the
words out. He shook his head in reply, this gumpy
expression on his face.
“So why tell me?”
He shrugged and shook his head again. “I
don’t know. You were going to have to find out
sometime.”
“Not if it doesn’t last.”
“Ryan!”
“Don’t ask me to babysit,’ I shot at him as I
yanked open the door as roughly as I could and got
out, slamming it behind me.

Go on, you know you want to!...

Win this book! Whet your appetite with the first chapter, then enter in the comments section of the previous post. Go on, you know you want to.

Chapter One

Apparently my older sister Mallory was perfect. That’s not how I remember her, but it’s what my mother tells me when I’m doing something wrong. My sister certainly looks perfect in all the photos mum has plastered her bedroom with; photos that sit next to trophies for netball and gymnastics, photos that hang next to certificates of merit for academic achievement, and principals’ awards for community service. But she was just my sister. A sister who fought over the TV remote with me and complained if I took up more than my fair share of the couch. A sister who told me my friends were rude and smelly and called me names. But I guess it doesn’t matter whether she was perfect or not. It’s impossible to be as good as someone who’s just a memory.

“What are you doing Ryan?” Mum asked, glancing over to where I sat at the kitchen table.

I covered my work with my arm. “Nothing,” I said.

“Is that homework?” she pestered. “That better be homework. Mrs Penman wasn’t very happy with your homework last term.”

“She’s just one teacher. I have lots of teachers … and Mrs Penman doesn’t like me.”

“So what did you do to make her not like you?” Mum said, standing at the kitchen bench, squeezing the last home-made muffin into an old ice cream container.

“Nothing. She just doesn’t like me,” I repeated.

“You must have done something, Ryan.’ I could feel her looking over my shoulder. “So is this for her?”

“She’s my science teacher, Mum. This is for English.”

“Ok. Well, make sure you do your science homework.”

I didn’t bother saying I didn’t have any.

“I’m off to a meeting,” she went on, sitting a knife and a small tub of cream cheese on top of the muffins in her basket. “It’s time to organise the Candle-light Rally for Missing Children again. Gosh, they come around quickly. I need you to look after Gemma.”

“I told Alex I’d be down to see him at the skate park with my bike as soon as I did my homework. You said nothing about going out.”

Mum pointed a wad of paper napkins at me. “Don’t be smart with me. There’s no one else to sit with Gemma and I can’t take her to the meeting. It’s too hard for some of the other parents. Too soon.”

Jeez. Mallory wasn’t here any more but she was still wrecking my life. I wanted to hate her but I couldn’t. It’s hard to hate someone when something bad has happened to them. I wondered if she’d felt this hacked off about babysitting me.

“Can Alex come here?” I don’t know why I asked.

“No. Next thing you know he’ll be texting his mates and there’ll be twenty of them round here. Or a hundred …”

I didn’t bother saying Alex didn’t have a mobile phone at the moment. I’d already told her enough times but she chose not to remember or blocked it out or something. She was good at blocking stuff out. I guess it helped her cope with what had happened to Mallory. I’d see Alex at school tomorrow. In science class.

“I’ll lock the back door on my way out,” Mum said briskly, brandishing her over-full, jangling key ring like a jailer.

Mallory was nearly fifteen when she disappeared on the way home from netball practice, I wrote as I heard the lock click and the back door slam. I’m older then my big sister will ever be.

I didn’t make Gemma go to bed until an hour after her usual bedtime. Gemma’s okay for a little sister. None of this is her fault. She is a bit of a cry baby, but she’s a girl. Its kind of what they do. She hadn’t moaned at all when I’d asked her to clear the table and wipe while I washed. So I just said nothing while she watched an extra hour of television. I guess you’d call it a silent protest. It’s not like Mum would find out or anything, but the program was a bit grown up and full of swearing. Gemma’s always been on about watching it so I knew she wouldn’t dob me in. I didn’t even bother to make sure she did her homework. That was Mum’s job. 

After I’d said good night to my sister I wandered aimlessly around the house. I wasn’t going to do any of the chores Mum would have made me do if she was here. I had a few more days to finish my English assignment and there wasn’t any other homework because the new term of school had only started a couple of days before. TV was rubbish and I didn’t want to ring Alex. He’d be hacked off I never turned up, although he had to be used to it by now. He’d met my mum enough times.

I found myself standing outside Mallory’s bedroom. The last door on the upstairs hallway. I’d seen those forensic crime shows on television. I know what dead people look like. In the beginning I’d imagined Mallory, pale, lying in long grass, her eyes closed. Just her face because I didn’t want to see beyond it. But I couldn’t do it any more. Mum kept telling me she was still alive somewhere. And one day she’d come home and we’d be a happy family again but that was one big fat stupid lie. Mum could tell it to herself but I’d stopped believing it ages ago.

Don’t get me wrong. I wanted Mallory to come back for so long. I waited and waited and waited and the police kept coming back with developments and new ideas and then questions and then, eventually, they stopped coming. I cried bucket-loads of tears – I was a lot younger back then - with Mum and Dad and Gemma, and by myself in my bedroom, and then they just dried up because they weren’t going to bring her back. For a while I hated everything and everyone because what had we done wrong, why was everyone else’s life going along okay and this shit thing had happened to us? And I hated and cursed the person who had taken my sister and wrecked our family and made it break apart into five lonely pieces.

And sometimes I blamed Mallory.

In the end it was Gemma who kind of saved me from becoming a pathetic crying hermit because they were forgetting about us and we had to stick together. Poor Gemma.

I felt a little guilty standing outside Mallory’s room now. It’s not like she’d chosen to be abducted and murdered. For ages I blamed her for all the bad things that happened after she’d gone. And then I did my best to shut her out of my head, except when it suited me to blame her for something else. Like having to babysit Gemma tonight. Even if she was here, she’d be seventeen, nearly eighteen. She’d probably be going out with a boyfriend. Probably some jock like Mike Crenshaw who played rugby for the senior first-fifteen at my school. Or maybe someone older to piss Mum off. Or she’d be hanging out with her girlfriends and I’d still be minding Gemma although Mum wouldn’t be at the meeting to organise the Candlelight Rally for Missing children. I couldn’t imagine what else she might be doing if Mallory was still around. There wasn’t anything else.

            I felt for the light switch and flicked it on. For a second I thought she’d probably be annoying me like crazy if she was here. She’d find a way. And suddenly I desperately wanted to be annoyed. And this flood of sadness swept over me like a wave and threatened to suck me down. As if casting off from the safety of the shore in a leaky boat, I let go of the door frame and drifted into Mallory’s bedroom.

I didn’t know why I was in here. I gave up on the idea long ago that I could find some clue in here myself, something that everyone one else had missed with their fine-toothed combs and their specialist equipment but I couldn’t help feeling a small stab of hope. Then I remembered it all happened three years ago and any clue would just lead me to a pile of bones or a faded empty netball uniform.

When she first disappeared the police spent hours in here, looking through her clothes, flicking through her books as if she'd left a secret coded message in lemon ink in a pocket or between the pages of a favourite book as a clue to what had happened;  like she was someone in a Nancy Drew mystery. But she didn’t keep a diary and there was nothing in her room to show what she’d been thinking those last few days before she was gone. There were posters on her bedroom walls of people famous three years ago, but they had nothing to say now. She’d kept a whole lot of stuff in her school bag. She never let anyone else look inside it but she had it with her when she disappeared. They searched for her mobile phone but it was missing too. They monitored it for weeks but there were no calls or texts. Mum had convinced Dad to get a mobile phone for Mallory, saying it would help keep her safe. But a phone can’t protect you if someone has bad intentions. Mobile phones don’t know kung fu and can’t dial for help on their own. And they can’t tell you where they are when the battery’s dead. Just like a person.

 A frilly pink duvet lay smooth over her bed with a couple of soft toys propped up on the pillow. The one on the far side was Mr E, her first teddy that I always wished was mine, but I didn’t recognize the other one. It looked brand new; as if no one had ever held it or dragged it through the mud or wiped their nose on it like had happened to Mr E. I punched the new one off the bed. Mallory would have hated it.

Like I’d seen a hundred times before, there was Mallory’s hairbrush, and her earrings and heart necklaces and other jewellery and a bunch of face junk on the top of her drawers. Mum had tidied her girly magazines into a pile but you could see strands of paper sticking out where she’d cut out her favourite hot guy to pin on the cork board above her bed. A chill ran over me as I thought that these things were all that was left of her. Her celebrity crushes in May the year she disappeared and the big plastic rainbow heart that Tyler had given her in year seven, that she wore on a cheap rusty chain. Forever stopped at fourteen, just a roomful of stuff that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else but us. Like when you take your hand out of a bucket of water and the water falls back into place like you were never there.

I heard the car door slam outside and footsteps climbing the wooden back porch stairs to the house. The key rattling in the lock. I sprinted for the door, quietly let myself into the hallway and along to my room at the other end. It wasn’t worth the trouble I’d be in if Mum found me mucking around in Mallory’s room.

Time for a little fantasy...

Here is a sample of one of my current projects ... still in draft form, but you get the idea

“You are such a worry wart,” the boy teased. “It is years away.  And the Hunting of the Hare is just a tradition. It is organised to the last detail. Nothing will go wrong. ”

“Athel is right,” the second boy said.

The third one said nothing. He looked away from his friends, his gaze sweeping up the hill to settle on the castle perched on its brow.  A light spring breeze ruffled the pennants on the top-most tower and sent the clouds on their way. Twilight shadows began to creep over the grey stone walls, welcoming the dark of night. Even the majesty of this sight could not put his mind at ease. It just made him feel worse. Tomorrow he would hunt the hare. Tomorrow it would tell him he was not fit to rule. Tomorrow everyone would know what Arran was already too well aware of.  He sighed.

 Athel rolled his eyes at his friend. “Come your highness, it is time for you to prepare,” and he clicked to his horse to move on. The others followed, the third boy letting his horse fall behind. There was little point arguing. When his father died, he would take his place. None of them could understand why he thought it the worst thing in the world.

He woke too early the next morning, the darkness proving a fertile ground for his fears and concerns as he lay waiting for the cock to crow the day awake. But it was still well before dawn when his father’s guard came to get him. Tomorrow he would be sixteen. Today he discovered whether he would be a good King.

There is something behind the wall, banging...

The weather here is awful at the moment. I do not mind the rain or the cold but when either is incessant I go a little barking mad. Having children exacerbates the problem, especially sporty children with school uniforms. People will soon start to talk about my kids repeatedly turning up in stinky and/or muddy things. I have a dryer but everything that goes in the dryer has a shortened life. All that tumbling would wear me out too. And uniforms for school or sports are expensive so i do not put them in the dryer...as much as I want to...as much as my hand inches along, creeping closer to the dryer door, itching to press the 'on' button, desperate to be free of the damp of wet clothes hanging on the clothes horse and the dehumidifier that runs day and night. And the wind makes things bang...

There is something behind the wall, banging. There is a high wind buffeting the house. A storm. But I do not think the two are related. The banging in the wall has a rhythm all its own. I wonder who it is. Trying to get in. I wonder what they want with me. I wonder if they know.

In the Weekend Herald's Canvas Magazine (Sat. May 7) there was a lovely article on Michael Morpurgo by Hermione Holby. I have not read anything of his - I read a lot and there are a lot of good books out there, so I refuse to feel bad about this - I am making my way towards his books I am sure. But I love him irrespective of his books, for his comments on literature and children's books.

Morpurgo himself was not a great reader as a child. He came from a literary family and explains that, "literature with the big 'L' was thrust down my throat from a certain age - as it is thrust down many kids' throats.

"I still, to some extent, rebel against that," he says, "because at the heart of every great work of literature, in my view, is a great story. I think at our peril we make literature this rather elite thing. Rather sadly we think of storytelling as writing for young people, and the number of times I've read comments on this play [War Horse] like 'what is remarkable is that it comes only from a children's book'. It reflects the way many people feel still about children's literature. We don't have respect for youth any more than we do for age. I mean the word 'childish' itself," he goes on, "it's not exactly a compliment. And yet if you lose the heart of yourself, if you lose the child in yourself you lose your soul."

Dear Bottle Opener...

Thanks to Old Kitty for reminding me of another lovely magical piece of writing. I think A.A.Milne has had a lot of stick over the years for his sentimentality (Dorothy Parker's 'tonstant reader fwowed up' comment comes to mind) but that bit Kitty quoted beautifully and succinctly sums up the true meaning of a good friend.

Here is something that I am rather fond of from my as yet unpublished picture book The House That Went to Sea about a shy boy Michael Mariner whose parents have disappeared while studying monkeys in the rain forests. Michael goes to stay with his grandmother in her cottage by the sea and one night granny pulls up the anchor and away the house sails...:-

Michael checked for mermaids, sharks and pirates before he dropped into the water. It wasn't quite as warm as a bath which was just as well, he thought, for you shouldn't use soap and shampoo in the sea. He frog-kicked around the house and when his fingers and toes got wrinkly, he climbed back on board. As he did so, a bottle with a message knocked at the porch.

The message read, 'Dear Bottle Opener, We were pushed in the sea by some bad tempered monkeys. The log we managed to cling to, took us to an island. We shall be available to be rescued any time after 3 o'clock on Friday.
Yours most sincerely
Mr and Mrs Mariner

Enjoyed this handy little guest blog on the topic of coincidence over at the Rejectionist. I like the last paragraph especially which wisely says that its okay to have coincidences in your stories but only if you make them believable.

Also found this lovely piece on the importance of doing your own thing as a writer over at Janet Reid's blog. Like Sean Ferrell it took me a while to realise that I didn't have to write like other people wrote. I didn't have to follow their methods. Didn't have to do it the way they did to produce something good. I guess its a matter of confidence. Like shoe horning an ugly sisters foot into cinderella's shoe, its uncomfortable and impossible to walk forward. When I started out as a writer I spent a lot of time stressing that I couldn't do what needed to be done the way it should be done. Simultaneously I kept scribbling down things in my own cack-handed fashion and after a while the cack-handed stuff began to look better then the method writing. What an immense relief it was when I finally settled on the right shoe for me (nothing too orthopaedic or sensible) - how comfortable it felt and now I could walk a lot faster with ease, maybe even sprint or jog at times. I had to hand make that shoe myself but boy it fits like magic.

Smories...

My children’s story Made with Love has now gone live on the Smories website (UK) and can be viewed here - http://www.smories.com/watch/made_with_love/ ..go check it out. This is a competition with a cash prize for the top five place getters. Winners are decided by most views over the month of July.

And go check out this fab post There are no rules for writing - just results, over at Nicola Morgan's brilliant blog Help! I Need a Publisher. As Nicola says "When you look gorgeous, I do not need to know how you got dressed." Genius.

A big tick, a smiley face stamp and a jellybean...

My side of the family has a history of heart and blood pressure related health issues so after experiencing some dizziness over the last three or four weeks, today I took myself off to my doctor to get my blood pressure checked. I got a big tick, a smiley face stamp and a jellybean and I can now report blood pressure isn't an issue for me right now. The dizziness is just me (yes I know you already knew this) but its nice to have a health professional confirm it. Heh. She told me to try breathing with my diaphragm but I'm incredibly shallow and this makes me look fat so as long as its not life threatening I think I'll stick with the dizziness.

My recent attempt at a new picture book has come a little unstuck as I realise it is a picture book in the body of a short story (with a slightly Frankenstein's Monster quality about it) - rats! I like the story; it has some darkness, some charm and some originality about it - some of my favourite qualities - but it unfortunately lacks some other qualities essential to a successful picture book, especially in these financially difficult (ie best to write something commercially viable) times. It is at the older end of the picture book age range (always a hard sell here I think), and I don't know that it manages to conjure up a sufficient number of different images to satisfy the requirements of the picture book format. The story itself is resisting pagination. Easy, I hear you say - make it a short story instead. Sadly I don't think it has short story chops. As is so often the case with my stories, it is a fantasy-reality hybrid which makes it less saleable in an educational short story market, and the trade short story market is tiny and usually theme driven. I guess I have two options. Either 1) euthanasia, or 2) put it away and see what happens. A story has to be pretty bad for me to put it out of its misery and this is definitely not one of those. With option 2, I have learnt over time that a number of things can happen while a story is in hibernation. Sometimes the market place changes or hitherto unknown or impossible opportunities present themselves. I am learning and developing as a writer all the time and sometimes either experience or events will provide a writing solution to my story problem. For example, my last completed picture book story (started february 2006, completed march 2009) required years (although I wasn't thinking about it that entire time) for me to figure out an appropriate workable plot line. If nothing else, experience has taught me never to throw anything with potential away. So this story is going for a little lie down in my filing cabinet while I wait to see what fate and the passing of time has in store for it :)

Today's juicy link is this fab little guest spot by writer Varian Johnson on 'Battling Time Suck' over at Justine Larbalestier's blog. Good stuff.