Katherine and her husband
******
Here
is an extract from Katherine’s novel Home Truths With Lady Grey,
published by The Conrad Press in 2022
Background to set the extract in context:
When
normally capable, career-minded Jennifer crumbles under a debilitating disease,
she struggles with no longer being in control of her life. In the meantime,
Mona, a family oriented mother of Iranian heritage discovers that her husband
is gambling and hiding the truth from her. Mona meets Jennifer when she goes to
work for her as a carer.. This extract begins with a dream sequence that zones
in on one of Jennifer's childhood experiences in Dubai and segues into an
interaction between her and Mona.
Home Truths with
Lady Grey - novel extract
I’m twirling and
stamping through the tiled floors of my parents’ house in Dubai. I recognise
the colour of the tiles and the cool hardness of the stone under my bare feet.
At my insistence, Mustafa has left out a man’s thwab and red and white checked
scarf for me to try on and I’m enjoying the thrill of the costume. I bow
theatrically at myself in the full-length mirror on our hallway, a moustache
and a day’s stubble painted on my face using Mummy’s kohl.
I suddenly become aware that I’m being
watched. Mustafa’s five-year-old boy has slipped into the house, and I can hear
him giggling as he watches me preen. Self-consciousness runs its clammy fingers
down my face, and I lower my head and walk back into my room. My feet stumble
over a loose tile and I lose my balance and flail my arms as I clatter onto the
hard tiles, scraping my knee and leaving a bloody mark on Mustafa’s thwab.
As I lie on the tiles, my body feels
heavy as though I’m being held down by a deadweight, and the bedroom fills with
water seeping in from all walls and under the door. My heart pounds as I
realise I’m at risk of drowning because I can’t move. Panicking, I turn my head
upwards to maximise the breathing space. The room fills and fills, and my
terror rises and rises. I try to scream and realise that no sound is coming
out….
My eyes shoot open. I’m inhaling hard
and my heart is pounding like a bass drum. Mona is in the chair just opposite
me. As I wake up, she steps over and presses the lever to raise my armchair.
For the first time, I notice a swelling in her abdomen. The shape of her belly
button is visible underneath the line of her T-shirt and I can see a hair band
tied around the button and the buttonhole of her jeans.
“You’re not wearing your uniform
today,” I say carelessly, not wanting to ask her whether she’s pregnant in case
I get it wrong. A chill runs down my spine as I consider what this means to me,
then push the thought to one side.
“No,” she says, not giving me an
explanation, but pulling down her T-shirt to cover the hair band.
“I just had the weirdest dream,” I
muse. “Only the first part wasn’t a dream at all. It really happened. It
brought back such strong memories of my youth – I was right there. But then I
nearly drowned so it became a nightmare and I’m pretty sure that didn’t
happen.”
I had already told Mona some stories
of my youth in Dubai and in the boarding school. She sucks up stories like a
child, hugging her knees close to her – very unprofessionally of course, but I
don’t comment - her face going all wistful
and dreamy.
“That must have been terrifying,” she
says, sitting down in the chair next to mine and reaching out to hold my hand.
It’s late November and Mona has been
my carer for about a month. We’ve got used to each other by now. She’s getting
the hang of when to draw close and when to hold back, when to provide physical
assistance and when to allow me to have a go. And I, well I’m enjoying her
company like that of a familiar friend, even if I wouldn’t want to admit it to
her. She reminds me a little of the person I would have been if I hadn’t….
Hadn’t what? I don’t want to blame
any particular event or circumstances on the person I am today. I’m me and
that’s all there is to it.
“I’m afraid of being trapped inside
my body, unable to move,” I confide, my words seeping out unbidden. “I’m more
afraid of that than of dying.”
“That’s totally understandable,” Mona
says. “I think I would feel the same way too.” She pauses, then runs her right
hand lightly down the curve of her abdomen. I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s
so obvious now that I think about it.
“Do you have any sort of religion or faith that gives you a perspective
on all this?”
“Not really,” I say. Not at all, but
I don’t want to be too cutting in my response. Mona’s a sensitive soul and a
Muslim.
“I’ve always been taught to believe
that there’s a purpose in suffering, that a way can be found through to a
greater understanding of God, and that this life is not all that there is.”
I keep quiet for a moment, mulling
this over. The ‘I’ve-always-been-taught’ comment irritates me – hasn’t she
thought any of this through for herself? But the overriding thing that strikes
me is her sincerity of heart. I was bought up at in close quarters with devout
Muslims such as Mustafa, but my parents always had a very distanced, almost
anaemic response to religion and that must have rubbed off on me more than the
religious worldview.
“That’s beautiful,” I say. If only I
could believe the same thing.
“By the way,” she says, chewing on
her bottom lip then looking up at me, “It’s pretty obvious by now - or it will
be soon enough – I’m pregnant.” She must have seen me gawping at her belly.
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed,” I
say, lying shamelessly. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” she says, giving me a slow
smile. She must know that this is not exactly great news for me. What will I do
when she’s gone on maternity? “I’m currently around fourteen weeks, which means
that I’ll need to go on maternity leave – all being well – in twenty-two
weeks.”
“When is that exactly?”
“At the end of April,” she replies.
I do a rapid calculation. That’s just
six months away. Six months which I need to cling onto with all that I have.
***
A few days later,
after my afternoon nap, Mona is helping me to sip on my cup of Lady Grey.
Sporadically, she wipes my chin with a dish cloth. I’m not so far gone with my
condition that I can ignore the sensation of uselessness that presses against
my chest.
It’s nobody’s fault though. I must
not take it out on Mona. It wouldn’t do to push her away. While she helps
me drink, she tells me, “Oh, a couple of your colleagues turned up to see you
while you were asleep. Tina and Charis are their names – I think. I told them
that you were sleeping so encouraged them to come back another time. They left
you this…” Mona scurries into the kitchen and returns with a vase full of
purple and white orchids. She places them on the mantelpiece and continues with
pressing the drink to my lips. The tea has gone tepid.
“That’s enough, thank you,” It’s the
first visit I’ve had, and it warms my heart to know that I’ve not been
forgotten. I’ve always liked orchids. Did I tell Charis that once? I really
don’t remember.
Mona puts down the partially finished
cup, and picks up her own, which I imagine has gone cold. She curls up on the
sofa and watches me thoughtfully. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but I’ve
been wondering why you never got married?”
An ungracious response crawls across
my mind: not everybody needs to be married to feel complete! But I
suppress my inclination to sarcasm, and form my thoughts carefully before
speaking. It’s going to take me a while to shape my words, but better that
than….
“I never felt the need to,” I start.
“I had some negative experiences with men too, which kind of put me off being
tied down. Also, I’ve always liked my independence, which is ironic to say the
least now.” I raise my eyebrows, and she smiles at me, giving me a quizzical
look.
“Were they white men?” she asks,
blinking hard as though trying to remove dust from her eyes.
For a moment, I’m completely taken
aback. I can’t believe she’s raised the race issue when I’ve not said a thing
and I sense her question as an affront gently pricking me in the core of my
being.
“Err… actually two of them weren’t.”
With some difficulty, I find myself spilling out the stories of my experiences
with both Tarek and Fakhir, and I’m surprised to find myself spitting out
saliva along with my words.
“Sorry,” I splutter as Mona comes
over and wipes my chin again.
******
And finally we come to The Big Interview, where Katherine kindly answers
writing-related questions and lets us into some of her
writing secrets...
Tell
us about the books and writers that have shaped your life and your writing
career.
Some of my favourite novels as a child have been hugely influential on
me – for example, The Narnia Chronicles shaped my journey as a reader,
they shaped my faith journey and they influenced (though not in terms of genre)
the way in which I approached my writing. I was also deeply influenced by the
Laura Ingalls Wilder memoirs, which inspired my study choices (American Studies
at university) and my thoughts about what it means to be a pioneer. I’d also
credit three novels – Jane Eyre, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Memoirs
of a Geisha- in terms of the courage to write about challenging social
issues in a way that inspires hope rather than nihilism. I also took a
fascinating module at university focused on literature and totalitarianism and
I suppose that interest – in particular Orwell’s starkly relevant 1984 -
has influenced my recent foray into writing dystopian fiction.
Does
the place you live now, or any other places you’ve lived, have any impact on
your writing?
Place is a very important aspect of writing fiction. All my novels have
been set somewhere I’ve lived, visited or spent a lot of time in (Phnom Penh,
Cambodia, Sheffield and South India). It’s very difficult to write
authentically about place without having a personal experience of it, I think,
as sounds, smells and sights are all part of the experience of making a place
feel real to the reader. Unless the world is a completely imagined one, in
which case authentic world building is all part of the writing process.
How
would you describe your own writing?
My own writing is disparate in terms of genre – I have
touched on women’s fiction and YA dystopian as well as historical fiction in my
screenwriting (which I may adapt into a novel at some point). Yet, I would say
that my USP as a writer is that I love to write stories that touch on social
issues and explore the space where cultures cross.
Have
you studied creative writing on a formal course?
I had not taken any formal writing courses before writing my first
novel, but had studied Literature and read very widely. However, I started
taking short writing courses and reading magazines like Writing Magazine
etc after getting published! In addition, I trained as an English teacher so
have taught Creative Writing to children. I have also run creative writing
workshops and retreats for adults and love to share my expertise in this way.
In 2018, I embarked on an MFA in Creative Writing, but my main motive for this
was to give me the time and space to focus on a TV pilot I wanted to write,
which was set at the time of Emperor Nero in Rome. I knew little about this
time period and knew historical research would be essential. The MFA was a
helpful starting point for my TV pilot journey, but I didn’t complete it in the
end, because I felt that I could get better value feedback and support from
industry professionals rather than academics. I do see the value in academic
study, but for me at this time, with an MA in English Literature and a PGCE in
Secondary English already up my sleeve, I am more interested in just writing
and getting published rather than in paying for another expensive course. There
is always more to learn, however, and I never feel that I have reached some
pinnacle of perfection in my writing. It’s just that I’d prefer to learn in
different ways than through formal study.
What
do you think about getting feedback on your work from other writers and/or
non-writers?
Feedback from other writers or trained readers tends to be the most
helpful in terms of feedback regarding story content, characterization and
structure. However, getting feedback from subject specialists is also
invaluable. For example, I got some feedback from a medical specialist about
the accuracy of the symptoms and treatment of my character Jennifer who suffers
from Motor Neuron Disease, and I asked a South Indian friend of mine (who’s
Hindu, unlike my Christian husband) about the accuracy of the details of the
Indian part of my novel T for Tolerance. I don’t act upon every single
note given, but will certainly ponder every suggestion and make changes when I
can see the value of the changes suggested.
Gromit and Frank getting to know each other
