Nicola Walpole
I am thrilled to introduce September's showcased writer, Nicola Walpole, who is another writer from Suffolk. I don't know what it is about Suffolk women but they seem to be multi-talented - Nicola is a fabulous poet and story-writer, and she is also a talented artist and seamstress who has been a costumier for a local theatre group for decades. Carer, parent, teacher, writer, artist, costumier, florist...how do these marvelous women find the time to fit it all in? I know her as a fellow-student on the Open University MA in Creative Writing course and the online Writers' group I set up in 2020. I am also now in the writers' group Nicola herself runs. I love her writing and wish her the best of success with her novel comprised of short stories about the coastal town of Winton.
Birthday picture April
2025 [Copyright
N Walpole]
Biography
Although her first nine years were spent living in
rural Essex, Nicola has lived in Suffolk all her life. A couple of failed
experiments with relocation occurred: Wales didn't offer the essential open
vistas available in Suffolk and Sussex was too damned busy. Suffolk was
definitely the place to raise her family.
After a twenty-year
career in the family floristry business, Nicola's second career in education
was borne out of the need to be at home with her children during the school
holidays. Twenty-nine years slipped by, supporting children with special needs
in primary and secondary schools and also teaching primary level French and Art
until retirement last year.
Creative
writing, whether poetry or prose or diary, has always been an integral part of
her life and a means to express herself. Studying under the brilliant tutorship
of poet Helen Ivory at the University of East Anglia helped Nicola appreciate a
wider range of poetry styles and gave her the confidence to submit to
competitions at that time. The penny dropped that other people might be
interested in her work. Standing in front of the audience at the Crabbe
Memorial Poetry Competition (Suffolk Poetry Society) and the Norwich Writers'
Circle reading her work, was a huge step forward in this regard. On a good day, she feels emboldened and full of confidence; on a cloudy day she's a full-blown
impostor.
Receiving
critical feedback from peers was also a vital feature of Nicola's creative
development, as was the realisation that she wanted a greater understanding of
how to use the English language. Six years studying for an English Literature
and Language degree with the OU, then finding that funding would dry up when
she reached the other side of sixty, she embarked on the OU Creative Writing
Masters degree. Thankfully the course was taught fully online, so the impact of Covid on her
studies was minimised and provided a valuable connection to other writers at
this time.
Nicola focusses her writing on short stories linked by the location of a fictional Suffolk coastal town. These stories range in time from Edwardian, World War One, World War Two, through to more contemporary times. Her ultimate aim is to connect these stories in a novel=length compilation. Presently, she continues to enjoy creating the stories and is currently adapting some for stage plays and radio. Poetry has definitely been overtaken by prose.
Examples of Nicola's published work
Regret
for not staying
till five in the morning
to watch the sun perform magic
on the cobwebs strung across
the meadow.
for not seeing
what forces come with the
light,
which spells wait unnoticed
in the dampness under our
feet.
for not hearing
blackbirds singing,
searching for food,
beginning a new day.
for not sharing
not wanting
not caring
you left.
[Published in 'Not expecting fish' (2007) Gatehouse Press Ltd]
Still Life
au Bassin de la Villette, Paris
Step out of the salon coolness
to a rippling heat
reflected from the canal
street five floors below.
Edging the railings, six
terracotta troughs
parched and cracked, gems of
radishes
and carrots long forgotten. No
alpine
strawberries leave their
sweetness,
grainy on your tongue.
The bird table shipped from
West Virginia
stands leaning, collecting
crumbs for comfort,
underneath, your British made
galvanized watering can,
the ten-year guarantee clearly
labelled.
Haws Watering Can
[Highly Commended in The 2007 Crabbe Memorial Poetry Competition, adjudicator, George Szirtes]
Angie
Danny – Dreaming of Angie
I’ve
told Woody and Joe I’ll join them later for a couple of frames and a pint.
They’d take the piss something cruel if they knew where I was.
The
wind’s whipping me like I’m Muhammed Ali’s punch bag, but I’ve got a good view
of her house. I wish I’d put my Parka on though.
A
shadow moves behind the glass and a moment later she’s stepping out, wearing
those tight little Levis that show her arse off a treat. I walk out onto the
path all casual, like I’m just coming up the alleyway.
‘Wotcha, Angie,’ I say, protecting my privates
from her rabid dog jumping up at me.
‘Christ,
Danny. You scared the living shit out of me.’
She’s calling for Lisa. Fuck. All
that waiting for nothing. Don’t feel much like pool right now. My bollocks are
aching and my chest feels like a brick.
David Cassidy
Angie – David Cassidy’s lips
It was just a boring Sunday afternoon in November. Nan was moaning that her tea was cold. Mum turned up the radio to drown her out. Dad was under the bonnet of his latest rust-bucket. Kieran would be out on parole in nineteen and a half days. I told Mum I’d done my homework and she said I could take the dog out.
Lisa
made a thing about putting on her new bomber jacket when I called round. I said
Kieran would get me one if I wanted, but I wasn’t sure. It looked cheap.
Toby
took us on his regular route through the hedge and onto the Rec to do his
business. I lay back on the merry-go-round, spinning slowly, watching a ribbon
of orange street lamps follow me around.
‘You
got a fag, Lise?’
I
closed my eyes and let the tingle spread right to my toes before releasing the
smoke in one, hot, slow pout, imagining David’s lips on mine.
Lisa
said she was cold. All her whining was getting on my tits.
I
sat up and took a swig from the half bottle of rum Mum had hidden in the airing
cupboard.
‘Won’t
she miss it?’ Lisa asked.
‘If
she doesn’t want it taken, she’ll have to hide it better. I’ll fill it back up
with water, she’ll never know.’
Lisa
wouldn’t have any. She wanted to get back to finish her homework. Swot.
‘I’ll copy it in registration
tomorrow. Ok, Lise?’
I
pushed the merry-go-round as hard as I could when I jumped off. Lisa slid in
the mud. I was glad she went home. Moody bitch.
Lisa – Homework
Angie pretends she’s joking, but we’ve been friends since first year, so I know when she’s faking it. Somehow she always makes me do what she wants. Like the fags. She’d dared me take some from Dad’s coat and told me not to be such a pussy. He won’t miss a few. I said why can’t you take some of your dad’s? Reckons he’s given up. I don’t believe her, but give her some anyway.
It
was already past four on Sunday and the street lights had just come on when she
called and made me go out with her and Toby. She said that creep Danny was
hanging around again. We hadn’t been out long when she pushed me off the
merry-go-round. What did I do? I’m not going to let her have my homework
tomorrow, that’s for sure. Mum’ll go ballistic when she sees my jacket. And all
that crap about her brother getting her
a jacket like mine, if she wanted one. He’s
banged up, isn’t he?
Angie – Love at first sight
The new guy looked straight at me in
the corridor just now and smiled. He’s gorgeous: blond, feather-cut hair, blue
eyes and perfect teeth. Fuck David, heaven was right here in school. I tried to
say hi, but nothing came out. So I waited for him at lunchtime and managed to
slip over just as he came past.
He
bent down to help me, his voice making me melt even more.
‘Are
you okay?’ he asked, looking really worried. ‘Can I buy you coffee?’
Nobody had ever bought me coffee
before. We sat in the corner of the dinner-hall. My throat was tight, I
couldn’t drink a thing.
‘You
might be in shock,’ he said. ‘You sure do look pale. I’ll drive you home. I’m
going anyway.’
I
told school I had an emergency dentist appointment.
He’s
Mitch to his friends and lives on the airbase with his family. His dad is
someone really big there. He loves the English sports car he had for his
eighteenth. He comes from Maryland. That’s a place somewhere in the USA and not
a cookie. He took his little sister to a David Cassidy concert last year.
There’s no way Dad will give me a flash car when I’m eighteen.
‘Why?
Do you think you’re bloody Lulu or something?’ he’d probably say. But I might
ask Kieran to take me to a concert when he’s home.
Lisa – What a cow
I only gave Angie my work to shut her up really. She never says thank you. We always hang around together at lunchtime, but I couldn’t find her anywhere today. Eventually saw her going out of school with that new American sixth former. It’s not fair, she always seems to get the good-looking ones and I get left with bad breath and acne. It’s up to her if she decides to skive off history and chemistry but I’m definitely not giving her my books tomorrow.
She
could have told me what she was up to.
Danny – The Rolling Stones’ Angie
On the way back from cashing my
giro, I saw her get out of a flashy red Lotus. Don’t know anyone around here
with one. I shouted ‘hiya’ across the road as she went down the alley, but she
didn’t hear me. I thought of running after her. I wanted to give it to her,
there and then, before I bottled out. Castle Records were selling it off cheap
as it’s out of the charts, I thought she’d like it.
There’s
piss-all to do in the afternoons, so I hung around the playground with the 45
tucked inside my coat, hoping she’d bring her dog out for a walk.
Angie – Mrs Mitch Harrison III
My heart was thumping like crazy.
Mum and Dad were both working days so I managed to creep upstairs without Nan
hearing me. I lay on my bed for the
afternoon, imagining what Mitch would kiss like.
Mitch
had asked me where the best place to buy records was. I told him Castle Records was the only place
in this dump of a town but at least they have a coffee machine and a manky sofa
and I’ll definitely be there to meet him at twelve on Saturday. Mitch said you
can get ice-cream and soda in the record stores back home. We’ll live in
Maryland when we’re married, for definite.
Lisa – Friday night
We made up as usual. Angie said she knew she’d been a cow but I was still her mate.
She
bought the chips and we hung around eating them. Then Danny and his mates came
over and wanted to buy us a drink in the Greengage, but we can’t; the landlord
knows we’re underage. When Danny said he’d got something to give to Angie,
Woody and Joe ribbed him like crazy. I felt a bit sorry for him when they
wouldn’t let up. Angie stuck two fingers up and we went home to do our nails.
She made me re-do hers three times until she was happy. We always go into
town on a Saturday but something was up, she didn’t normally make this much
fuss.
Angie – It’s going to be a Saturday like no other
Saturday
I couldn’t sleep.
Crept to the airing cupboard for the rum but the old cow had put vinegar in the
bottle. Went and got a fag from her handbag and hung out my bedroom window. It
was like taking a drag through a Polo, but I couldn’t be fussy, they were the
only ones in the house since Dad gave up.
Lisa – Friendship?
To be honest, Angie looked like
shit. If I looked like that, mum would make me go to bed with a Lemsip.
I gave Angie my bomber jacket to
wear, to cheer her up. It was a bit loose, even though she’d padded her bra
right up. Then she had the nerve to criticise my old mac.
We walked into town. She was
marching ahead, making me really breathless. It was all very well her calling
back, telling me to lose some weight. She’s got no idea.
It’s hard to keep being nice. Even
in the record shop, she made fun of me, making out I’d made her late because I
was so fat. In front of everyone. She can be really poisonous sometimes. Tony,
behind the counter, looked embarrassed. I’d never really noticed him before.
His smile made me feel warm inside, and best of all, he didn’t have any acne.
Danny – The secret’s out
I thought I’d crapped myself when
Tony asked Angie if she liked the record I gave her. It was laying on a pile of
clothes in my bedroom. I don’t think she heard what he said but I ended up
buying her and Lisa a coffee and handing them my last fags, just in case.
Angie – Not worth living
Danny was keen this morning, gave
his fags without me even having to ask. He was getting us coffees from the
machine when I heard the door go. I knew it would be Mitch, so I turned around
slowly, making the most of my padded bra.
He had a girl on his arm, blonde,
like him. Spoke like him too. The silly little bitch wanted to know all about
this “Cute little place that the kid from school told you about.”
I
felt my insides heave. I didn’t even grab my coat, I was out the door so fast.
Lisa – Totally confused
As usual, it was all my fault. Angie wouldn’t believe me when I told her I didn’t notice her go. Am I her minder or something?
She
wasn’t interested to know that Tony and me are meeting at half seven outside
the Odeon.
Danny – Angie on fire
I reckon that was the guy who drove her home the other day. I remember his blond hair. Didn’t know he was a Yank though; explains why he’s got the money for a Lotus. His girlfriend, Charlie, was a real looker, just like one of the girls off The Brady Bunch. They stayed for a bit, thumbing through the racks, saying how “cute” everything was.
Angie
had shot out the door like a greyhound at the track. She came back after they’d
gone, all red in the face and really stroppy, shouting at me for letting her
coffee get cold! Don’t know what’s up, but Mum gets like that when she’s on the
rag. I stay well clear.
Angie – What a fool
Oh, God! I feel like shit. Went
straight to bed when I got home. I could hardly walk up the stairs. I could
hear Lisa talking to Mum.
‘Yes,
Mrs Murphy. No, Mrs Murphy. Three bags full, Mrs Murphy. Angie’s got my jacket,
Mrs Murphy.’
Lisa – Poor Angie
Mitch stopped me in the corridor
today; he’d wanted to see Angie before going back to the States for Christmas
and he hadn’t seen her around school.
‘That’s bad luck,’ he said when I
told him. ‘Glandular fever can really pull you down. You tell her I said to
keep well. And give her this. My sister Charlie thought it might cheer her up.’
I looked inside the bag after he’d
walked away. It was The Rolling Stones single ‘Angie’. I’ll take it round
later, after I’ve finished my homework.
[Included in the showcase curated by Jenna Clarke on the theme of 'Poison'. Published in Mslexia 2023 issue no.99]
From Nicola's 'Winton' collection, hitherto unpublished:
High Tide
This Photo by Unknown Author is licensed under CC BY-SA
Suki glanced at her watch as
she pressed the front door bell. One-thirty. This would have to be quick, she
mustn’t be late picking Skye up from school again, especially as she’d promised
McDonalds as a treat.
The glass panel darkened. She stood ready, going over the
introduction in her mind.
Hi, I’m Suki. I work for The Suffolk Magazine, we’re
doing a feature on unsolved disappearances, and I’d like to talk to you about
Mary.
No.
Hi, I’m Suki. I wrote to you about the disappearance of
your daughter.
No.
Hi
Norah. I’m writing an article about missing children, can I talk to you about
Mary?
There
hadn’t been any reply to the letter she’d sent. The woman didn’t seem to have
an email address or even a phone number, and Jason was getting super stressed.
‘Got
to be ready for the June deadline,’ he said. Jason always liked to state the
obvious, made him feel superior. ‘We need the Mary Coles story, Suki, its key
to the piece. Step on it.’
Up
yours Jason.
The-guy-who-just-visits-his-kids-on-a-Sunday-morning-and-takes-them-to-the-park-Jason.
She hated cold calling, but there was no easy way in.
‘Who’s there?’ a voice said.
‘Hi, is that Norah? It’s Suki. I wrote to you. Can I come
in and have a chat about Mary?’
‘Bugger
off!’
‘Norah! Norah! Don’t go away, I’ve got some new
information,’ Suki said. She didn’t like lying but it usually worked, people
were predictably curious.
There
was a rattle of a chain and the door opened just enough for the old lady to
peer around.
‘What
you got then?’
‘We
can’t really talk on the doorstep can we? Let me come in please, Norah.’
Indoors
wasn’t much warmer than outside, and the rancid, oniony smell burnt the back of
Suki’s throat as she followed Norah into the front room. The curtains were half
drawn, revealing a layer of grime on the window that must have taken years to
accumulate. Suki held her scarf to her mouth and feigned a cough, unsure in
that moment how she’d continue with the interview.
Norah
indicated for her to sit on a filthy, threadbare sofa. Suki looked around the
room quickly. ‘Do you mind if I sit here, Norah?’ she said, pulling out a chair
from the table by the window. ‘It’s better for my back.’
‘Well,
what you got then?’
Suki
was thankful for Norah’s directness, the interview shouldn’t take long. She
pressed record on her phone. ‘It was forty years ago this June that Mary
disappeared, is that right, Norah?’
‘I
know that.’
‘Of
course you do. Firstly, can you tell me a little about Mary? What sort of
person was she? What was she like at home, as a daughter?’
Suki
looked across at the little old woman scrunched up on the sofa. She looked
dried and wrinkled like a prune. No, more like a walnut, there was a hardness
around her eyes that wasn’t just old age. After forty years, what would she
remember now? It didn’t really matter how reliable she was, it was always good
to get a human story behind the headline, nobody remembers details accurately
anyway.
‘Why
should I tell you?’ Norah said.
‘Well,
if you can tell me what Mary was like at home, I can paint a picture for the
readers,’ Suki said, realising that Norah might not be as easy as she’d
thought.
Norah
said nothing, keeping her head down, examining her bony hands. Suki sneaked a
glance at her watch.
‘Mary,
she were a good girl. Always did her jobs, worked hard at school and kept
herself to herself.’
‘She
worked at a newsagents when she left school didn’t she?’
‘Yeh,
but I didn’t mean that. She’d cook supper when I was doing lates at the Picture
House. She’d keep the fire banked up so’s it was warm when I got home. Used too
much coal mind, but she wouldn’t listen. Said I needed to feel cosy. That were
a load of rubbish, it were her that were cold of an evening. Told her to put
another jumper on, coal don’t grow on trees. She’d laugh and gave me a few quid
each week when she started work. “For the coal,” she said. Oh, and she always
cleaned Norman out. She were a good girl like that.’
‘Norman?’
‘Him,
over there.’
Norah
pointed to a rusty birdcage in the corner where a scrawny yellow bird sat
motionless on his perch. It was difficult to tell whether he was alive or not,
but it certainly explained where some of the smell came from.
‘Is he
a budgie? I didn’t know they lived that long?’
‘I
thought you’re supposed to be clever, you journalists,’ Norah said, exposing
gaps between her yellow teeth as she laughed. 'It's not the same one.'
Suki
resisted the bait. ‘I know it was a long time ago, Norah, but what do you
remember from that day? What had you been doing?’
Norah
shuffled in her seat and tidied her straggly grey hair behind her ears. She
took a deep wheezy breath. Her pause seemed like forever.
‘I
were working that night. It were ‘Close Encounters’. It were really busy. Had
to lock up, so I didn’t get home until just after half ten. I remember the time
because the town clock struck the half hour when I got to the top of Prentice
Road. I knew as soon as I got in that something were wrong. I knew Mary hadn’t
been home. The fire had gone out and there were no supper on the table, see.
Mary always did my supper, like I said. She weren’t in her bedroom, so I went
round to Stan’s.’
Suki
had already spoken to Stan Harman, the local bobby at the time. He was still
sharp, despite being in his eighties and, as an added bonus, he’d kept his
notebook from the initial enquiry. He was only too happy to help, he never
liked the way Lowestoft CID had handled the case. “Barging in, pushing me to
one side. What did they know about us down here?” he’d complained.
The
old woman shuffled back against the sofa, her feet barely touching the floor.
As she smoothed the wrinkles from her faded brown trousers with the flat of her
hands, Suki noticed the patched knees, roughly sewn, like something a child
would do. Why would you choose to live like this for God’s sake?
It was
two fifteen. Half an hour left. Norah could run for a bit longer. There was a
message notification on her phone from Dom. She couldn’t be dealing with him
right now.
Norah
continued. ‘He said, “Norah, she’s probably out with her friends, she’ll be
back soon. Leave the latch so’s she can slip in. Talk to her in the morning.”
Well, I weren’t going to wait until morning. I know my Mary, she don’t do this
kind of thing. So I went out looking. I went down by the pier but it were high
tide so the water were sucking under. There were no-one there, all the kids had
gone home. They go there when the water’s out, see. Think they’re hidden, but I
know that’s where they go for their smokes and cider, even now. They think I’m
just a stupid old woman that don’t know nothing and can’t see what they’re up
to.
‘It
were a Westerly that night. At least that’s where the vane on the Mission were
pointing when I went past. The waves are quiet when the wind comes off the
land, see, and the water were just lapping at the groynes. It were really calm.
There were only a quarter moon that night, but it were clear.’
Suki
had read all the theories: abduction, running away from her crazy mother, a
drunken swimming party, suicide, secret boyfriend, The Yorkshire Ripper,
aliens, the list went on. But someone had to know where Mary went.
‘Norah,
what did you think happened to Mary?’
‘I were round at Stan’s at first light. I’d been
walking all night see, all round the town, down on the marshes, up by the beach
huts, on the backshore where the boats are drawn up. No sign of her. They took
me serious in the morning. The big-wigs from Lowestoft came down. They were
here for days, poking all over the house, going through all the things in her
bedroom. Like ants they were, crawling over fresh meat.’
‘Did you speak to her friends? Had she planned to meet
with them?’
‘I went round to Janey, she were Mary’s best friend,
but she knew nothing. No-one had seen her after she left the shop. Someone’s
lying, she can’t just vanish, can she? Them coppers kept saying, “She’s a
pretty girl Norah, she must have boyfriends.” The bastards.’
‘Do you think Mary was too trusting, Norah?’
‘What d’ya mean?’
‘Well,
could she have got a lift home from someone she knew?’
Stan
had mentioned this angle in his notebook, his suspicions fell on Brian Smith,
Janey’s dad.
‘Is
that what you got?’ Norah began to shuffle, like a child eager for sweets. ‘You
said you knew something?’
‘There
were some suspects weren’t there?’ Suki checked her notes, she knew she had to
try and pull something out of the bag. ‘What did you make of them, Norah? There
was Janey’s dad, Brian Smith. Also a boy called Mackie from school and Davey, a
young fisherman. The police interviewed them all. Did you know any of them?’
Norah
hobbled over and leant on the table, far too close for Suki to avoid the
strength of the woman’s breath.
‘You
think I’m some old crone and you can just barge in here and stir things up?’
she said, waggling a bony finger. ‘If you ain’t got nothing new, then piss
off.’
Stan
had said that Norah could be unpredictable but Suki wasn’t prepared for the
force the old woman showed, she really thought she’d won her over.
‘I
want to get your perspective, Norah,’ she said, in a voice she used for calming
Skye from her tantrums. ‘I’m wanting the true Mary, the one you knew.’
Her
phone beeped a low battery warning. Shit. Suki glanced at her watch again. ‘But
look, have a think tonight, I’ll be back tomorrow and we can talk more, okay?
By the way, what were Mary’s favourite biscuits?’
For Suki, caught up in a
procession behind a tractor, the drive down the A12 had been agonizingly slow.
She should have known, it happened so often, but thankfully she was only a few
minutes late.
‘Sorry.
Traffic,’ Suki said, dashing up to the teacher on duty in the playground.
‘She’s left already,’ the teacher said,
seeming more interested in a group of parents chatting by the climbing frame.
‘What?’ Suki jerked back, as if the woman had
punched the breath out of her. ‘She can’t have, I’ve only just got here.’
Suki
ran towards her daughter’s classroom, shouting Skye’s name. The corridor seemed
endless and the walls began to close in like a tunnel and something heavy was
pressing down on her chest.
‘Why the hell didn’t you let
me know you were back in the UK, Dom? You can’t just turn up at school and pick
her up,’ Suki said, when she finally got home. ‘I had to bow down to Mrs
Sampson because of you.’
‘I
tried ringing but you went straight to answerphone. I left a message.’ Dom
stretched back in the chair, hands linked behind his head in his usual taunting
style. ‘What’s your beef, Sukes?’
‘You
weren’t there to pick me up, Mum,’ Skye said, swirling her McFlurry to get the
last from the bottom. ‘You’re never there on time, it’s so embarrassing. And
it’s Ms Sampson.’
‘That’s
what I said.’
‘No,
you said Mrs,’ Skye said, with another slurp.
‘You
did, you know,’ Dom said.
‘For
Christ’s sake, Dom,’ Suki said. ‘Where are you staying? When are you going back
to New York?’
‘I’ll
be in the UK for a couple of weeks, I’ve got some meetings in London and I
thought it’ll give us time to sort things out,’ Dom smiled towards Skye. ‘My
girl said I can stay here, didn’t you, Sweet Pea?’
‘You’ve
got it all planned then I see?’
‘Pretty
much so I guess. Can I fix you a drink? You look as though you need one.’
They had tried to talk after
Skye went to bed, but it wasn’t easy. Dom had got it all sorted as usual: Divorce. Joint custody. Skye to stay in New
York in the holidays. Skye needs her Daddy. We can do this Sukes. We’re
sensible adults.
Despite
standing her own with all the difficult characters she’d come across
professionally, Suki found herself mute when presented with Dom’s fait accomplis.
Why the hell couldn’t she say what she felt? She’d made an excuse and left the
room.
‘I thought you said you were
coming yesterday,’ Norah said, peering around her front door.
‘Sorry, Norah. Something came up. Here, take these, I’ve
brought some of the biscuits you said Mary liked.’
‘Well, what you’ve brung them for?’ Norah cackled,
opening the door a fraction more. ‘Mary’s been gone forty years.’
‘I thought you might like them, Norah. To remind you?’
‘Do you really think I need a packet of biscuits to
remind me of my Mary? You’re joking! Have you got kiddies?’
‘I’ve got a daughter. Skye,’ Suki said.
‘Well, take them home for her, I don’t need ‘em. You
don’t go bringing me things, you hear? But I suppose you’d better come in.’
Several photographs, mostly black and white, were laid
out neatly on the table by the window. Suki picked up a strip of two happy
looking girls pulling faces in a photo booth. ‘Is this Janey with Mary, Norah?’
Norah
looked across from the sofa, ‘Yeah, they took that at the funfair when it were
in town.’
‘She looks happy.’
‘Why wouldn’t she?’
‘No reason. Did you talk to Janey much?’
‘She came round here a couple of times after, brought
back some of Mary’s things she’d borrowed. Her mum were a difficult woman
though, I never got on with her. They moved away sharpish, went to her sister’s
in Ipswich I think. Never saw them again.’
Suki hadn’t been able to trace Janey at all. She knew
that Brian Smith had been found guilty of possessing indecent material, but in
the end, there was no evidence to link him to Mary’s disappearance. His wife’s
alibi also seemed watertight.
‘What did you think of Brian, Norah?’
‘I didn’t like him neither, but I don’t think he did it,
if that’s what you mean. He were such a pathetic excuse for a man, all he could
manage were a wank in his allotment shed. Bit like Ern before he buggered off
to God knows where. The pathetic bit I mean.’
‘Was
that your husband, Norah?’
‘Good
riddance I said when he left. He could have joined the Navy and drowned for all
I knew. He never came back, never sent Mary anything for her birthdays neither.
She were four when he went.’
Suki
was beginning to figure how Norah’s life had panned out. It must have been
tough having to survive all those years, but the woman could have looked after
herself a bit better; had a bit of decency. Good God, she’d never get like
that. But what if Dom really had snatched Skye the other afternoon and taken
her to the States?
‘What about the fisherman, Davey Wells? What did you
think of him, Norah?’ Suki said, struggling to focus on her work.
‘Them Wells’. Load of rogues,
all of them,’ Norah said. ‘Him and his twin, Andy.
Fancied
themselves they did, left a few broken hearts around that’s for sure. Their old
man gave them his boat when he retired but they had an accident when they were
out fishing, and Davey died. That were in the eighties I think, after he got
married to the Russell girl. Left her with a kiddie who's grown up himself now
and got the café down on the beach. He’s up to no good an’ all, I shouldn’t
wonder.’
‘Norah,’ Suki said, listening to her gut, mindful she was
going to potentially upset the old woman again. ‘Did Mary know Davey or Andy?’
‘Of course she did.’
‘Yes, but did she go out with either of them, as
girlfriend and boyfriend?’
‘She weren’t like that, I told you!’ Norah said, her
voice starting to waiver.
Oh my
God, Suki thought, she’s going to cry, I’ve cracked the tough old nut.
‘Norah,’
Suki said, trying to be as consoling as possible. ‘Its okay, it’s normal for
young girls to be attracted to older teenagers. I went out with a nineteen-year-old
when I was sixteen. It didn’t last long though; I think I was flattered that he
even noticed me. My mum was furious you know, we didn’t speak to each other for
a week.’
God.
She hadn’t thought about Ed for years. He drove his bike like a madman, weaving
in and out of the traffic. No time to see the tanker turn out of a side road.
She went to his funeral out of curiosity really. Loads of his biker mates lined
up along the route, got Suki wondering how many of them survived to see their
children grow up. Or to even have children.
‘But
Mary weren’t like that,’ Norah insisted. ‘She weren’t even sixteen, she were
just a baby.’
Suki
made a mental note to check the FOI file again for the Wells' twins.
‘What
about Mackie, the young lad she went to school with, Norah? Did you know him?’
‘Nah,
he’d only moved in just before Christmas. Lived over the back there,’ Norah
pointed behind her. ‘In Argyle Street. They walked to school together though.
Mary said he were good to talk to, not like the other boys. He wanted to be a
teacher. She were going to college to be an accountant don’t you know.’
‘Did
you know he’s the Head at Fairdale School in Ipswich, Norah?’ Suki said. ‘I had
a chat with him last week.’
Mackie
McDonald had been the easy one to trace, although he hadn’t wanted to give an
interview. It was forty years ago he said, they were kids. Of course, he was
sorry that she hasn’t been found, but there’s nothing he could do to help.
He
seemed the sort of guy who didn’t want to get his hands dirty. His spotless
white shirt, still with the iron creases in the sleeves in the afternoon, told
her that.
She
remembered her old village primary head teacher, Mr Naylor. He wore scruffy old
cords and a checked shirt with rolled up sleeves, ready to get the football
from the school pond or the canteen roof.
Dom
was always taken in by a head teacher’s clothes. When they were looking at
schools for Skye, he’d dismissed Suki’s first choice.
‘It’s
in the backwaters, Suki,’ he’d said in his whiny voice. ‘That guy looks like a
janitor not the boss.’
When
they chose St Mary’s, Dom totally denied that it was Ms Sampson’s skirt length
and the tightness of her crepe blouse that influenced him.
‘I just love their ethos,’ he said. ‘And those
English blazers, they’re so cute.’
Suki
had been more impressed with the Academy funded computer suite and sports
facilities that Ms Sampson droned on about. It was also close to home, perhaps
Skye would be able to walk to school with her friends when she was older.
Suki
realised Norah was fidgeting again.
‘Do
you want to see her bedroom?’ Norah said, quietly.
Bingo.
It was
a total contrast to downstairs. Clean, fresh smelling and not a speck of dust
anywhere. The single bed, draped in a pale pink candlewick bedspread, dominated
the modest room. The window was framed in matching pink curtains, and revealed
a clear view across the small garden and neighbouring rooftops. Children’s
picture books, paperbacks and school reference books were stacked neatly on the
shelves between the bed and window. A little decorated wooden box sat on a
shelf, just like the kind that Skye stores her keepsakes in, Suki thought. A
vase of pretty miniature daffodils, reflected in the dressing table mirror,
scenting the room.
‘They’re Tete a Tete,’ Norah said, as Suki
bent down to smell them. ‘I grow them for her, they’re her favourite.’
‘They’re
lovely,’ Suki said.
Magazine
posters peppered the walls. Faded and curled where the sunlight had caught
them, the brittle paper prints definitely showed their age.
‘She were mad keen on David Soul and The Bee Gees. Had
loads of cassettes, saved up her money for them she did. Her and Janey would
sit up here for hours singing along to them songs.’
Norah
picked up an old-school cassette player sitting on the bottom shelf and handed
it to Suki. It felt like a brick. How had people managed to carry them around
for goodness sake?
‘Press ‘Play’,’ Norah said.
Suki
did as she was told. She was amazed at the clarity of the young voice. At first
singing, then giggling in response to her friend.
‘I sit
up here on her bed and listen to her sometimes,’ Norah said.
Suki
stood in silence.
‘You got a girl, you say?’ Norah said, looking up at
Suki, her voice crackly.
‘Yes, she’s nine.’
‘Well you look after her, careful like.’
Of
course she’d keep Skye safe. It wasn’t her fault that Dom was an arsehole and
she couldn’t live with him anymore.
‘I wouldn’t wish this on anybody,’ Norah said, rubbing
her eye sockets hard. ‘You don’t really have nothing new do you?’
Suki left, knowing that all she could offer the old woman
was a bit of sympathy. If Jason wanted the human angle on the story, she could
deliver that in bucketfuls.
‘Suki. Hi, it’s Jan. I’ve had a call from a lady in
Bracknell, a Susan Coombs. It’s about the feature article you did on Mary Coles
a few months ago? Can you pop in later?’
Suki
needed to go into the office. She was looking forward to telling Jason he could
get stuffed.
She’d
accepted a job as communications manager at Amazon Adventures. The hours were
regular and mostly working from home, but conveniently, the site was only just
up the road. Just as long as there weren’t any stupid team building activities
she’d have to do. No way was she going to be dangling from a rope thirty feet
up in the trees. According to Skye, who had already been to a friend’s birthday
party there, it was a cool place to hang out.
Typically,
Jason wasn’t in his office. Suki propped her resignation letter on his desk and
went to find Jan.
‘I’ve
passed the information on to the police already,’ Jan said. ‘But Mrs Coombs
said she wanted you to tell the mother.’
‘Norah?
Surely that’s their job?’ Suki said.
‘Well,
you’d think so wouldn’t you? But is there any harm in you going round to see
her again? It’s quite an amazing story. Just by chance, Mrs Coombs saw the
feature you wrote. It reminded her of the summer of 1978 that she spent near
Winton, when her parents worked as lettuce pickers. She was only about four or
five but she says she remembers meeting a girl who was called Mary. Apparently,
this girl visited the farm regularly for a couple of weeks, then suddenly
stopped coming. Mrs Coombs never knew why and nobody would tell her when she
asked.’
Suki stood in a little patch
of September sunshine waiting for the old woman to come to the door. That first
time she’d called, Norah’s daffodils peered up through the fresh spring grass.
Now the grass was long and tired, with seed heads rustling gently in the
breeze.
Suki
was looking forward to updating Norah. It would be great to tell her that, yes
at last, she did have some new information.
‘Come on, Norah, answer the door,’ Suki said,
rattling the letterbox.
‘Did
you want Norah?’ A head appeared over the neighbouring wall.
‘Yes.
Do you know where she is?’
‘Yes,
but you’re too late,’ the neighbour said. ‘Poor old dear, she passed away the
other week.’
Suki walked down to the sea
front, past the sherbet coloured beach huts with ridiculous names, and along
the concrete promenade that stretched towards the pier. The tide was out,
revealing the sweeping expanse of sand that won a Blue Flag every year.
They
came here a lot when Skye was little. There was so much space to enjoy. They
built sandcastles together and collected shells and seaweed from the little
pools of water at the base of the wooden groynes. Skye had squealed with
delight as Dom crafted sand into a tail over her legs. ‘Our Little Mermaid,’
they called her, huddling together in a protective embrace.
Suki
sat for a while on the dry sand, scooping up handfuls and watching the grains
escape between her fingers. She tried to imagine how Norah must have felt when
she came searching for her daughter on that dark night, hoping against hope
that she wouldn’t see a body floating in the high water.
She
owed it to Norah not to mess up. Dom had had his own way for far too long, she
wasn’t going to let him take Skye away from her.
Black-Tailed Godwits and Other Wading Birds
This Photo by Unknown Author is
licensed under CC BY-SA
Therapists have always encouraged me to talk. Remembering will help me to heal, they say. They don't understand that despite not being able to find the words, I've never been able to forget.
The
morning after my tenth birthday, Dad was washing up and I was rushing to dry the
dishes, waiting for him to say let's go shopping to spend my birthday money.
Instead, he casually told me we were moving to Suffolk.
The
half-eaten birthday cake sat on the worktop to my right. A red, horizontal
jam-line cut through the cliff of yellowy sponge, while white, plasticky icing
stencilled with princesses, covered the top. The characters nearest the edge were
distorted by the drag of the knife when Dad cut the cake.
I
can’t remember ever having liked princesses.
Nobody
really wanted cake, but Dad said you have to have a cake at a party, even if
it’s to take a slice home in the party bag. If I ever have kids, I won't bother
with a birthday cake or party bags.
‘Don’t put on your face,’ Dad said, with his
fake smile. ‘You’ll love it in Winton. There’ll be lots to do by the seaside
and you’ll soon make new friends. It’ll be like being on holiday every day.’
I made it clear that I didn’t want new friends, I was
perfectly happy with the ones I already had, especially Janey. No way would I
want to go near the sea. Dad knew water terrified me. Looking back, I find it
hard to reconcile his knowledge with his actions, I guess it was really all
about his new job at Sizewell.
I began to have seriously bad nightmares. Huge waves
reared up and swallowed me whole, tumbling me over and over, then spat me out
to join smooth, lifeless pebbles on the beach. After the fourth successive
night of waking up screaming and running for safety into his bed, Dad said,
‘Enough of this, Eve, the move is going ahead, whatever antics you pull.’
Moving day came. Dad eventually discovered me amongst the
pigeon nests in the crumbling tree house built by previous tenants. He
certainly wasn't pleased.
We sat
in silence for most of the car journey. As Dad slowed down to pay the toll at
the Dartford Tunnel, I told him I was desperate for the toilet. He laughed and
said he couldn't stop now. All I could do was shut my eyes really tight but my
tummy felt funny and I had water rushing in my ears.
Dad
pulled into a service area on the A12 and used his best voice.
‘Come
on, Honey, this is a new start for me too you know. For both of us. I promise
Janey can come and stay and you can visit her too.’
He
hugged me tight, bribing me with a chicken nugget Happy Meal. I'm sure my
constant flipping of the plastic pocket toy in the car must have driven him to
distraction, but to give him credit, he didn’t say anything.
My new bedroom wasn’t upstairs
like our old house, it was between the kitchen and the bathroom.
‘It’s
a bungalow,’ Dad said. ‘A bungalow doesn’t have any stairs.’
I hated the fact that when I was lying in bed
trying to get to sleep, the water pipes came alive each time Dad used the
kitchen sink or flushed the toilet. I stuffed tissue in my ears but it didn’t
really stop the noise.
Dad’s
response was his usual, you’ll get used to it. It was all very well for
him but his bedroom was the other side of the lounge.
Annoyingly,
he was right and the scary noises became part of the house after a while. What
I did like was the name of the street: Plovers Way. My new teacher, Mrs Norton,
lent me a book on wading birds and I read about sandpipers, redshanks, curlews
and the black-tailed godwit.
Janey
had chicken pox in the Easter holidays so couldn't come. I remember that her
mum was livid because she'd planned to go away on holiday with a friend and
now, she had to stay and look after Janey.
Admittedly,
Dad did make an effort and took me on an egg hunt. We had to follow clues
around the garden at Felbrigg Hall. I was given a small chocolate egg at the
end when we handed the clipboard in. I also managed to tick blackbird, sparrow
and thrush off in my new I Spy Book of Garden Birds that The Easter Bunny (aka
Dad) gave me. There were no black-tailed godwits listed in the book.
It
might seem strange that I developed an obsession with wading birds whilst being
traumatised by the water they inhabited. My current therapist has suggested
that it is a bird’s ability to fly away from danger that fascinated me. I
wonder if I would have had this connection if we lived in the High Street, Main
Road, or another banal address in Winton?
Yet
again, Dad was right, I did make new friends at school, well sort of. There was
a boy called Jacob who lived around the corner from me. I would walk to school
with him, and his mum looked after me until Dad got home from work. Jacob had
no interest in birds, even though he lived in Curlew Close. Jacob was only
interested in beating me at chess. He knew I’d never played it before so I’m
sure he kept changing the rules to suit himself.
‘What
happened to your mum?’ Jacob asked me one day as he was about to take my king.
I
waited until bedtime to talk to Dad. He brushed it off, saying people were
nosey and not to mind. ‘Don’t think about it, just go to sleep,’ he said,
turning off the light as he went out of my bedroom.
Of
course, I knew Mum and Joe had died when I was little. Dad had always given
answers to my questions, but I realise now that he’d skimmed over the details.
Well, what could you tell your
surviving child?
By the start of the summer
holidays, I had achieved my Book Lover and Craft badges with Winton’s 1st
Brownie Pack. Brown Owl wanted me to get my Swimming badge like the other
girls, but I refused. It was never mentioned again.
I had managed to avoid swimming lessons at
school by having a series of colds that mysteriously started on Sunday evening
and were in full-flow by Monday morning’s lesson. I thought I had been rumbled
when Dad found the jar of ground ginger in my bedroom one day, so I changed
tack and forgot to take my costume or the obligatory swimming hat. There was no
way I could explain my fears to the teacher. I found out years later that as
well as Brown Owl, Dad had spoken to the school and excused me from the lessons.
I really hadn’t needed to go to such trouble.
My dreams got way scarier.
I was
used to being thrown about by the waves, but instead of being spat out on the
beach, I was the whole cliff face. I towered over a woman and a little boy
waving in the water, a way off. I couldn’t move.
‘What’s
up, Honey?’ Dad said as I stood snivelling in his bedroom doorway.
I was
barely able to see under the door lintel, barely able to see Dad’s sleepy face
peering from the duvet. I mumbled something about being enormous.
‘You’re
ok, Honey. It’s just a dream, go back to bed.’
I
followed his instructions, flopping onto my doll-sized bed, feet hanging over
the end.
I woke
the next morning to hear Dad, calling me for breakfast. I rushed out of bed,
eager for our Saturday morning breakfast before shopping. I wanted to get a
pair of dungarees before Janey came to stay and, if I was really good, I might
be allowed a pair of pink, sparkly jelly shoes, like all the girls were
wearing.
‘Come on, Eve, pancakes are getting cold.’ Dad
shouted again. He sounded really irritated. I would have to work hard to get my
new shoes.
My
bedroom was so hot and stuffy, I couldn't breathe. My head hit the ceiling. I
was still puffing up, inflating like Ghostbuster's Marshmallow Man. Soon, I
would fill the entire room and wouldn’t be able to move a muscle. I looked
around and spotted a birthday badge on my dressing table. I opened up the pin
and started jabbing myself to let the air out.
We didn’t go shopping that
day. Instead, Dad drove to the emergency hospital as I was bleeding so much.
When
Dad went to get me a drink, the lady doctor asked if he had hurt me. I couldn't
explain why I used scissors to cut myself when the pin hadn’t worked. She said
I'd go on the children’s ward as I should stay in for a few days. Meanwhile,
Dad needed to talk to a different doctor but he’d come back later with pyjamas
and teddies. I was a bit too old for teddies, but I told Dad to bring my
Rainbow Bear anyway.
I don’t remember the bed being too small so I guess I was
a normal size again. To be honest it’s all rather hazy. I'm sure the medication
they gave me made me sleep a lot. I had some wild dreams, flying around over a
lagoon crowded with other birds, desperately looking for somewhere to land.
Thank God I wasn't a cliff anymore.
Eventually I came home. New
dungarees and jelly shoes were laid on my bed, even though I’d caused all that
fuss. I'd got a kitten too, a cute little tabby girl kitten called Ellie. I
sneaked her into my bed at night where she snuggled up and helped me sleep. Dad
didn’t seem to mind.
The
doctor arranged for a lady called Chloë to come round and talk to me about
Mummy and Joe. I was stroking Ellie on my lap, but I couldn’t think of anything
to say that made sense. Chloë looked disappointed but she told me not to worry
and asked if she could come and see me again. I might feel like talking soon,
she said.
I got my latest tattoo
finished last week. I must admit, although it's taken a while, it's pretty
cool. The artist copied the design from the book of wading birds that I never
did give back to my teacher. The bird's body covers my right forearm and the
wings wrap right around my elbow, the tips stretching to my wrist and shoulder.
It's the closest I'm going to get to a Black-Tailed Godwit.
And finally we come to The Big
Interview, in which Nicola kindly
answers writing-related
questions and lets us into
some of her writing secrets...
1.
How old were you when you first knew you
wanted to be a writer, and what set you off down that journey?
Even as a young child, I had a fascination with the written word and its effect on the imagination. I can recall looking at the back page of the newspaper my father was reading and realising that the black print held meaning. I must have been about five – my reading was certainly in its infancy. I still have the first book of poetry that I created, aged nine, full of my own poetry and that of the poet, Leonard Clark. I can only imagine that I was introduced to Clark's poems at school. I don't think we had children's poetry books at home. The only book of poetry I recall on my parents’ bookshelf was a tartan covered book of Robert Burns's poetry (I think I still have it somewhere).
First Book of Poetry [
2.
Tell us about the books and writers that
have shaped your life and your writing career.
I am the youngest
of three siblings (seven years younger than my sister and twelve years younger
than my brother). Until the age of nine, we lived in a very rural place, half a
mile across fields from out nearest neighbour. As a consequence, I usually had
to amuse myself at home. I loved pouring over the set of Encyclopedia
Brittanica stacked beside the piano (my sister used them to raise the height
of the piano stool). I would lose myself in adventure stories by Enid Blyton,
Arthur Ransome, and the like. As a teenager, I read quite a range and was
heavily into Arnold Bennett, Chaucer, Thomas Hardy, Stephen King, American
Westerns, as well as Bronte and Austen. More recently, Helen Dunmore, Ali
Smith, Kate Atkinson, Jon McGregor, Miranda July and Maggie O'Farrell to name a
few, satisfy my reading. Prior to adult study, my knowledge of short story
collections was limited to two or three anthologies; now, looking at my
bookcase, I can count over thirty including Margaret Atwood, Alice Munro,
Graham Swift, Claire Keegan, Hilary Mantel and several Raymond Carver. I return
to these authors regularly for advice if I'm stuck on how to achieve a
particular effect in my writing.
3.
Have your children, other family
members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing? In what way?
Age eleven, I had
an interview with the headmistress of the girl's grammar school as I didn't
have a clear pass in the 11-plus exam. It is still vivid in my mind, sitting on
a chair across the desk from a very formidable Miss Applegate. She asked me, 'Well,
Nicola, what do you want to be when you grow up?'. I confidently replied, 'A poet.' Obviously, my
clarity impressed her as an English teacher and I was accepted. I definitely
got my love of Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas and Chaucer from her teaching. It was
such a shame that a couple of years later, the education system got turned on
its head and ****** our education. I didn't put much effort into my O Levels
and couldn't wait to leave school at sixteen.
Nicola and Dad sailing on the Ouse, 1971
[copyright O.Brydon, 1970 - photographed by N. Walpole]
4.
Does the place you live have any impact
on your writing?
I live in a village
in rural Suffolk and my writing is directly inspired by my location. I am
working on a collection of linked short stories centered on a fictional Suffolk
coastal town so I like to visit different locations around me for research.
When I'm actually writing, I need peace and quiet. I find external noises,
music, traffic, people around me, very distracting. The exception to this is me
sitting in a café, scribbling down snippets of overheard conversations or
descriptions of people or setting. I can be on holiday abroad and to continue
my writing, imagine myself in Suffolk.
Nicola's garden June 2025 [Copyright N Walpole]
5.
How would you describe your own writing?
My work has been
described as 'experimental'. I'll take that as a compliment. The style and form
I use depend on the needs of the story and very often stories present
themselves as a diary entry, a newspaper report, letters or interviews, or
sometimes even a conventional short story layout. My writing style is fairly
minimal. I'm not one who writes 5,000 words and has to cut it down to a 3,000-word
limit. I tend to allocate a certain
number of words for each section in my story and write to that.
I
guess the genre I mostly write is literary, if the definition of 'literary' is
character over plot.
6.
Are there certain themes that draw you
to them when you are writing?
It is only now,
looking back over my poetry and prose, that I can spot recurring themes of loss
and survival in my writing. I have learnt to recognise that there are some
autobiographical elements in my writing although I am never able to write
directly about my experiences.
The
death of a character often precedes the story and acts as a catalyst for the
protagonist to react in a particular way. Survival can be from a personal
tragedy or facing difficulties in the world around them. My characters generally
show resilience and determination.
When
I tell my husband about a new story, he always jokes, 'Who dies this time?' I
just accept that he doesn't understand my work.
7.
Tell us about how you approach your
writing. Are you a planner or a pantser?
During my Masters,
I planned religiously, even down to the likes and dislikes of some characters,
but I found that, when I started to write a story, the characters were like
inquisitive children, wandering off on their own and not on the path I had
initially intended for them. With confidence, I let go of the intense planning
and found that I got to know the characters better when they are in the scenes.
I now follow them about at a respectful distance, guiding rather than herding
them.
I
like to do a little research before I start, perhaps connected with a trade,
way of life, location, historical fact or dates. I have a lot of non-fiction
books on my bookshelves, particularly local history, that I refer to. It's
difficult sometimes to limit myself with the research as I get carried away at
a tangent with interesting facts.
8.
Do you have any advice for someone who
might be thinking about starting to write creatively?
Firstly, enjoy
reading books and try to take note of what elements make each stand out for you.
Why do you like/dislike the story?
Secondly,
just start writing and see where that takes you.
Thirdly,
if you feel you want guidance on the art of story writing, do some research for
introductory courses to get you started. Try to enrol on a course that offers
peer feedback.
9.
Are you, or have you been in the past, a
member of any writing groups, online or face-to-face?
I have been the
administrator for an online writer's progress group for the past few years. We
each send a piece of work to two members to critique each month and in return,
critique the work of two other members. I personally feel that receiving and
giving feedback regularly has helped immensely in improving my confidence and
editing skills.
I
also belong to an online writers group formed from the OU alumni from our
Masters course. The group have opportunities for critique of their work and
critique others several times a year in addition to in-house competitions. I
have made a lot of good writing friends in these two groups, people who I trust
to give honest feedback.
10. Have
you ever studied creative writing at university or any other courses?
I began to study
about twenty years ago at the University of East Anglia for a Diploma and then an
Advanced Diploma in poetry, run by the brilliant poet, Helen Ivory. In order to
further develop my writing, I realised I needed to understand more about the
English language and went on to study with the Open University, obtaining a BA
(Hons) in English Literature and Language and later a Masters in Creative
Writing. I think the sixteen-year-old me who left school with just O Levels,
and hating education, would not have believed this was possible.
I
taught a creative writing club with 10/11-year-old gifted children for a while
which was great fun. However, the headteacher felt my skills and school time should
be spent to support children with writing needs at the other end of the scale
(also very rewarding).
11. What
do you think about getting feedback on your work from other writers and/or
non-writers?
Feedback is
essential at some point in your writing journey, even if you have no desire for
a wider audience. Without feedback, how are you ever going to improve? You
might not agree with the comments a reader makes, but nevertheless, I feel it
makes for a better writer if you consider the reader's perspective. After all,
if your intention is for others to read your work, you have to allow the reader
to have their own impression (which might not be the same as yours).
At
the beginning of my formal writing journey I felt very precious about my work,
but regular feedback has strengthened me and I'm much more open, even though I
might not agree with the comments.
I
feel it does help if the feedback comes from a writer in the same genre; we
have a similar understanding of the style. However, I welcome all feedback on
my work and accept that not all readers will enjoy, understand or appreciate
what I have written, just as I don’t enjoy, understand or appreciate all
writing.
12. Where
do you get your ideas from?
Ideas come from
everywhere - history, my own experiences, imagination, newspaper headlines,
overheard conversations - the list is endless!
I wrote 'High
Tide', about a marriage break-up, which was inspired by a true story in a
published book of a missing child in the nineteen-eighties. Another story began
life in response to a radio programme about
Victorian baby farming.
13. They
say that successful writers need to be selfish. How far do you agree with
this?
All my adult life,
I have had a caring role, whether it is with my own children, elderly family
members or the children I worked with. Even now, in retirement, the caring role
is still present and has to take priority.
I tend to write best in the early morning, when the house is quiet, often getting up around 5am if I have woken early. I can't bear to lay awake in bed feeling idle. I don't manage to write every day. Funnily though, when I was going to work and had more tasks to juggle, I was writing more frequently!
When
I get the pull of inspiration for a story, then I find every moment I can to
write, or at the very least swirl the thoughts
around in my head until I can write them down. I think this is why
poetry and short stories appeal to me so much, they are precise enough to keep
the idea percolating in my head.
14. Beyond
your family and your writing, what other things do you do?
I belong to a very
professional amateur theatre group who tour two or three times a year with
'interesting plays' in the area. My role is costumier and projects have included
designing and making (with assistance) the entire costume haul for Macbeth;
making Prospero's gown for The Tempest (twice); designing and hiring
costumes for Top Girls, and costuming the latest production of Romeo
and Juliet, set in the 1950's. There have been many, many more over the
past thirty-five years.
I also
belong to a ladies’ craft club which is a chance to make new friends, have a
laugh and learn new skills, and sometimes gain inspiration for a new story!
I
also enjoy walking and discovering the unknown on my near doorstep. I have
taken more travels abroad since retiring and enjoy planning trips with a
specific art or historical focus. Gardening is also an important past-time. The
cliché is true: being outside with nature definitely boosts your mental well-being.
15. Would
you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person?
'Cultured' is not a
title I would give myself. It is often linked with pretentiousness and can get
in the way of appreciation, particularly with art, but I do enjoy visiting
theatre and art galleries regularly. I am lucky that we have several good local
theatres and galleries in the area but I will go to London a couple of times a
year to see a specific play or exhibition if there is something that pulls me. It
certainly won't be a musical.
I
like to visit galleries when I'm abroad and discovered the amazing work of Niki
de Saint Phalle in Aix en Provence this year. I am looking forward to visiting
David Hockney 25 exhibition in Paris soon.
I'm
patient with new film releases and watch films screened in local village halls,
negating a fifty-mile round trip to the larger cinemas and the extortionate
costs involved.
Thank
goodness for IPlayer and streaming services as my life is not predictable
enough to watch tv at set times. I like watching psychological dramas,
historical dramas and films, but to relax, my tv comprises of Bake Off, Sewing
Bee and Grand Designs type programmes, something that doesn't
overstimulate my brain. My idea of comedy is Blackadder, Taskmaster and Mortimer
and Whitehouse Go Fishing.
As a teenager, I couldn't understand why my
parents wanted to watch Poldark rather than Monty Python
(actually they wouldn't let me watch Monty Python, so I had to be sneaky
and I bought a Monty Python LP). It's scary; these days, I can't
understand what is appealing about many contemporary TV shows, they're so loud
and shallow. I guess age has a lot to do with it!
16. Are
you interested in history and if so does it impact on your writing?
History has a huge
impact on my writing, whether it's family history from a generation or two ago,
local, national or global history to inform a character's decisions, or a story
that centres on a specific event. I like to get my facts straight with any
story and will Google specific days of the week or events for a particular date,
whether it's historic or contemporary.
Lack
of specific knowledge of a subject doesn't deter me from writing –
if it's an area I'm
not familiar with, but sufficiently interested in, I'll research. For example,
part of a story I wrote involved a character visiting the site of a crashed
Zeppelin and helping to dig graves during World War One. My knowledge came from
published non-fiction, newspaper articles of the time, a visit to a steam
museum and also diary entries from my grandfather's war diary from 1917 where
he referenced my grandmother visiting the site. It was his diary that initially
inspired the story.
17. There
is a lot of talk at the moment. in the publishing world and elsewhere, about
political correctness, the Woke movement, cultural appropriation, ‘cancel
culture’, ‘trigger warnings’, sensitivity readers and the importance of
diversity. What are your thoughts on this, with regard to writing?
Regarding
'political correctness', surely respect is the key. I don't think it is right
for people to get away with denigration, however famous they are.
I
think writers should definitely be able to write outside of their cultural
norm, but with accuracy and honesty, and if that means hiring sensitivity
readers to check, then that's what should be done. Using stereotypes in any
character situation can be accredited to ignorance, poor research and lazy
writing.
I use
trigger warnings on my stories where appropriate in order to give the reader a
choice as I know how easily past trauma can be triggered.
18. Where
would you place your own writing, on a continuum with PURE FANTASY at one end
and COMPLETE REALISM at the other?
Pure fantasy
doesn't feature hugely in my library now although I will occasionally sit and
enjoy a James Bond or Sci Fi movie on TV and I have been known to go to the
cinema for Star Wars or Mission Impossible!
I
admire fantasy writers for creating new dimensions and, although it's not a
genre I have entered yet, I might be inspired in the future. I think all
fiction has an element of fantasy in it – surely the dreams and aspirations of
a character are fantasy until realised?
Nicola in Arles, Provence May 2025 [Copyright N Walpole]
******
Thank you very much, Nicola, for such an entertaining and insightful showcase.
******
In September, I will be showcasing
another fabulous writer:
Wendy Toole
Not to be missed!
******
So far in this series, I’ve showcased the following writers:
Ruth Loten – March 2023
Jane Langan – March 2023
Beck Collett – April 2023
Ron Hardwick – June 2023
L.N.Hunter – July 2023
Katherine Blessan – August 2023
Jill Saudek – September 2023
Colin Johnson – October 2023
Sue Davnall – November 2023
Alain Li Wan Po – December 2023
Lily Lawson – January 2024
Philip Badger – February 2024
Glen Lee – March 2024
DHL Hewa - April 2024
Tonia Trainer - May 2024
Mike Poyzer – June 2024
Judith Worham - July 2024
Chrissie Poulter - August 2024
Adele Sullivan - September 2024
Lin De Laszlo - October 2024
Wendy Heydorn - November 2024
Elisabeth Basford - December 2024
Karen Honnor - January 2025
Sharon Henderson - February 2025
Gae Stenson - March 2026 [collaboration]
Dr Trefor Stockwell - March 2025 [collaboration]
Karen Downs-Barton
Pavitra Menon
Suzanne Burn
Cinnomen Matthews
Mai Black
Nicola Walpole
[32 so far]
You can find all these showcases by scrolling back through the material on this blog.
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