Archive for the ‘Debbie’s work’ Category

Tarantella – the art of the dancer
March 23, 2013

Having just blogged about burlesque and the art of person to person, body to body flirting that we seem to be losing in our digital age in my singles social blog ( ‘Have you got in touch with your naughty side recently?’), I thought I’d have a bit of a tinker with the start of the short story I entered for the ITV.com Racy Reads competition  about a month or so ago. No, I didn’t win – I wasn’t explicit, stemy or trashy enough – and I’ve never rally seen myself as the next Mills and Boon bodice ripper – or maybe now with the 50 shades advent; manacle gripper – but I did have fun writing something that would be more commercial than convincing.

Here we go then – the first 1000 words of Tarantella – do you fancy me completing it? If so, let’s have some naughty plotline suggestions please!

***

‘Carrie, come on – or management will be pissed with you.’ Danno sounded more than impatient, he sounded like management.

belly dancer for tarantella‘Coming.’

She pushed away from the spot-lit mirror and hurried up the stairs from the dressing room to the back of the stage. The noise and smells of the club greeted her, raucous and acrid.

‘They’re getting bored waiting,’ Danno chivvied her. She shrugged unconcernedly.

‘Then I’ll be all the more worth waiting for, won’t I?’ She hated this brittle bitch she had to pretend to be as ‘Tarantella’, but it was expected now. That was who she was to them all; a beautiful raven haired bitch, a tart without a heart. The private Carrie had got lost behind the public dancer. She wondered testily how they could be bored with so many other girls strutting and posing on the podiums around the club or desperately blagging dances in the VIP booths, but she knew what Danno meant.  They were waiting for her – for Tarantella, and the new club owner was there tonight too, wanting to see what he’d bought and what changes he might be making to it. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage to a mixture of cat calls and wolf-whistles, but a hush fell as she danced. In her private world she was Carrie, doing a job for money. On stage she was Tarantella, siren, charmer, beguiler, dancer; stripper. The chiffon layers slowly dropped away as she twisted and snaked, arching her back as her body undulated. The only sound was the music. The punters were mesmerised and she was glad the spotlight blinded her to them. She lost herself in the challenge to perform artistically, not simply strip. The music dropped as she slid the basque top away to show her small breasts, like ripe peaches, and the mood became more tense; sexual.

She didn’t like this part of the routine because it brought her too close to them and she could catch glimpses of the faces watching as she slithered and twisted. She reached the point in the dance where she had to face the audience and remove her g string, usually to deafening applause and shouts for more. She pulled the knot on the side but the sounds and the responses were lost on her as she met the piercing eyes she’d not encountered before – at the back of the audience, almost hidden. He looked smarter than most of the men there. He stood out from them for that alone. Maybe that was why she noticed him as she unintentionally glanced out at her audience?  His face was intent but not in a lustful way like the others; meditative – curious even. Who are you? It said. The bolt went through her like lightening. And who are you too?

She picked up her abandoned clothes and slipped quickly off stage.

‘Good stuff,’ Danno called after her. He was the nicer of the heavies and she called her thanks back – best to keep in with the bouncers. ‘The boss was up the back; the new bloke. Did you see him?’ She paused, pulling her clothes to her defensively; suddenly ridiculously shy at being naked now she was off-stage.

‘No, where? What’s he look like?’

‘Oh pretty non-descript, but smart-dressed, not like the other bums out there.’ So that had been the new guy, subtle, understated; but she’d sensed the power behind the quiet exterior. For the first time in ages her interest was stirred. She changed quickly into the cowgirl outfit she hated – all rhinestones and glitz. The hat was a monstrosity, but useful to play hide and seek with on-stage, gradually revealing the beautiful body she kept so privately to herself off-stage.

She didn’t hear him arrive as she strapped the tiny sparkling thigh holster on, stiletto boot braced against the vanity unit.Kinky boots

‘Ride-em cowboy!’ The voice was deep and smooth, like molten chocolate, but she was already anxious so she snapped a sharp response back without looking.

‘Oh get a life, can’t you?’

‘I already have a perfectly good one, actually.’ The reply came back quickly but mildly. She turned around in surprise to find him right behind her, so close her face was level with his chest and his musky maleness made her blood pulse faster. She looked up and met two amused blue eyes, crinkling boyishly at the corners. The same calm control and underlying power was apparent at close quarters too. She gasped under cover of stepping back to put some space between them before his proximity made her head spin. ‘I’m Jack Good, the new owner, and you, from the description must be Carrie – or Tarantella, by another name. Do you kill your lovers as well as your boss by paralysing them with your venom – or is that just a rumour?’ The barb was deserved but she couldn’t resist rising to it.

‘Only if they’re not clever enough to avoid it.’ She threw back her shoulders defiantly. The frail dark beauty became fire and fury. He raised his eyebrows.

‘I can see your spark isn’t just in your gun.’ He laughed and she felt put down. She didn’t like this man after all, but he disturbed her peace of mind nevertheless. He leant forward and whispered in her ear. ‘Dare you…’ So it would be a duel to the death then? She pulled the tiny gun from its holster and pushed it into his chest.

‘Bang, bang! You’re dead, Mister.’ She could feel the heat from his body and as she looked up their lips almost met. He smelt of brandy and the heady fumes mixed with her pounding blood.

‘Hey Carrie, where are you?’ It was Danno again.

‘Now you’ll have some fire in your performance.’ He breathed the words onto her lips. She trembled and he steadied her. What was this man doing to her? He surveyed her flushed cheeks and parted lips with satisfaction. ‘That’s what I like in my dancers…’

***

Images are:

1. Shakira at the Rock in Rio concert 2008 courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

2. Bondage by Raimond Spekking via Wikimedia Commons

Follow me on @Storytellerdeb

Facebook : http://www.facebook.com/DebbieMartin.Author

And my website www.debbiemartin.co.uk

In a box
February 12, 2013

I’m enjoying poetry at the moment – challenging to write about ideas and emotions, but truly satisfying when you manage to capture them in words. I’ve just finished editing Courting the Dark – the very first novel I wrote and which I have now reached version 4 with – that’s how many times I’ve changed it! I plan this to be the last time and in doing so, I added quite a bit more of the inner workings of my wicked teenage character Lily, who drives the plot and the narrative forward in the acerbic way only a sixteen year old could.

Having two teenage daughters myself – both with quick, brains, quick wits and even quicker tongues, I’ve been on the receiving end of the acid many times – but teenagers also have a pure and true vision of themselves and life unaffected by the ‘baggage’ older adults collect en route to enlightenment (or not). If one could distill this clarity of thought in amongst their confusion with growing up and learning how to live life, I think their vision of the world would be pure poetry, so I gave Lily a voice to make some. Here are her thoughts on her unrequited love for Matt.

 

walking legs lonely I watch you walk.

I hear you talk.

You walk and talk with others, not me.

It hurts.

I sense your presence.

I watch you listen.

You share your presence and your attention with others, not me.

It hurts.

I look into your world from the outside,closed window

Like a tramp looking through a window.

You’re inside, warm and loved.

I’m outside, cold and lonely.

It hurts.

dropped rose I put my feelings in a box –

A box full of darkness,

Because along with the love and the longing and the wishing,

There’s pain too, and pain is dark.

Pain, and anger and rejection.

They hurt.

Valentine’s Day is here, and lost love – or lack of love, will affect many people on the 14th February. Life isn’t all about romantic love, it’s about the love between all people, so smile at that stranger as they pass by, in case they have some hurts tucked away in a box too. Smiles have a way of opening doors – and boxes …

Follow me on Twitter: @Storytellerdeb

On Facebook: www.facebook.com/DebbieMartin.Author

And have a look at what’s happening next on my website : www.debbiemartin.co.uk 

A writers group is hopefully underway shortly so let me know if you’re interested in getting your ideas into words too.

When I was out walking the other day
January 22, 2013

feet 1  When I was out walking the other day,

I met a woman along the way.

I smiled and nodded and asked how she did.

She smiled and nodded and said she was good.

She told me she’d been happy and smiled in her past,

She told me she cried and been sad, but that had passed.

She told me she’d learnt how to lose and still smile –

As you don’t lose at all, it comes back after a while.

She said she’d learned how to let go;

how to grow;

how to go…

She said she’d learnt how to say no – and mean it, also.feet 2

She said she’d learnt how to receive as well as give,

she said she’d learnt to let others live, live, let live!

She said she’d learnt the measure of control,

and how she’d learnt how to love from her soul.

She said she’d learnt how ‘I love you’ meant all,

but only if said with no expectation to pall.

She now understood the seasons’ ebb and flow,

and despite  being autumn,  there was still much, much more to know.

Nothing she’d lost was ever a waste,

because the fruit of her future was still there to taste.

feet 3

I smiled and thanked her, and said I was glad, at last,

the me from the future had met the me from the past.

Join in the chat on Twitter: @Storytellerdeb

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/DebbieMartin.Author

And on my website: http://www.debbiemartin.co.uk    

My Family – a poem
January 7, 2013

One of my poems – read out as a runner up in a local competition last year – and about my own family:

My family_

I see my family in colours…

red lipsMy older daughter is red, ruby red.

She flicks the crimson tip

of a wicked tongue across each lip.

Vamp, harlot, studious geek,

‘call me ‘Scarlet’,’ she will cheek!

And yet sweet sixteen is as wholesome too

as a red summer apple that is crisp and new.

Deep aqua, and moody.ballerina

My younger daughter,

inscrutable as China, mutable as water.

Like the pile on velvet, she’s deep like a sigh,

silk to the touch when her spirits are high.

Yet again then abrasive and contrary

When the adolescent nap is brushed the wrong way.

dog   My yellow dog,

a golden blur

of tail and fur.

Lolling tongue – a smiley face,

Smiles aren’t just for the human race!

Stretched out like a long yellow rug,

‘rub my tummy, give me a hug…’

Deep brown, my husband that was.                         2 leaves

Deep as the brown of the earth

the dust to dust, the dearth.

A warm autumn brown as the leaves’ hues turn deeper,

not harvested by the seasons, but by the reaper.

But always steady and solid in our past.

Love may die, but it will always last.

colours                  And finally me? What colour do I see?

The colour blue? Reflective, sad?

Deep as the sea, it’s good and it’s bad.

I’ve watched my family grow and evolve,

childhood’s have passed, and death’s forced its resolve.

Our lives continue, ebbing, flowing, like the sea.

I can only look forward to the colours still to be.

My first novel is released on Friday 18th January 2013. Chained Melody is possibly the most unusual love story you will read this year. You can find out more about it on my website and buy/pre-order here

Debbie Martin

debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

www.debbiemartin.co.uk

also on:

Twitter @Storytellerdeb

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/DebbieMartin.Author?ref=hl

Linked In: http://uk.linkedin.com/pub/debbie-martin/21/27b/3b4?trk=shareTw    

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6588010.Debbie_Martin

The Dinner Party
December 6, 2012

Christmas ain’t Christmas without a bit of a spooky tale, so here’s mine …

tableware for dinner party‘A dinner party? Can I bring a plus one?’ A frisson of something trembled in my soul.

‘Of course – do we know them?’ He just laughed. We were on the phone so I couldn’t see his expression.

‘See you later then.’ He sounded happy – certainly not how I’d expected him to be after Clem, but he’d gone and I was left wondering.

‘Was that who I thought it was?’ The voice was muffled from under the table. The owner’s prone legs were splayed across the floor, extending oddly from under the table cloth, as if a murder victim had just been hastily stuffed out of sight.

‘Yes, and he’s coming tonight.’

‘That’ll be interesting after all this time.’ The tone was sarcastic.

‘With someone.’

‘Oh.’ Silence, then more curiously, ‘who?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘In that case it’s going to be really interesting.’ The table shook as if the murder victim’s spirit was attacking it and then both table and legs settled into stillness. I waited for the body to rise from its last resting place, but table and legs remained motionless. It made me feel queasy but I didn’t know why.

‘Are you ok under there Alex?’ I asked, suddenly worried.

‘Yeah, just thinking.’

‘Thinking?’

‘About Jay and Clem and the way they just went – you know.’ Alex didn’t need to say any more. I did know. More than Alex did, in fact; but I was keeping that to myself.

‘Yes, well if you’re done under there, we should lay up now.’

‘Yep, all done, I’ve tightened up all the screws so it shouldn’t collapse under the weight of the food – or the conversation.’ The comment ended in muffled laughter and the table shook again. The legs wriggled out from underneath it, bringing the rest of the body with them.

‘Haha! Very funny.’ I turned away and went back to the kitchen to find the wine. Tuneless whistling floated in from the dining room and I guessed the table top was being transformed for the dinner party now it was safe to sit at again. I ignored the annoying whistling and turned my attention to the wine rack. I usually relished choosing exactly the right wine but my head wasn’t on it tonight. All I could think about was the plus one Jay was bringing – and what about Clem? I checked the clock. It was already seven-thirty. They were all due at eight. I called to the table and its legs.

‘If you’re done there, can you check the oven? I’m sorting the wine.’

‘OK.’ It was louder than expected and I turned in surprise as Alex appeared in the kitchen doorway, flushed and dishevelled from the table wrestling.

‘Maybe have a bit of a tidy up too?’ I added pointedly. Good humoured laughter bubbled around the hallway.

‘Um, I see what you mean.’ The reappearing vision was sleek and immaculate. I felt imperfect and uneasy. I pushed past into the cool of the hallway, assessing which me I saw in the mirror. I wondered what Jay would make of me, five years on. Five years – had it really been so long; since Clem had happened? I was startled out of my reverie by the doorbell jangling insistently.

‘It’s for you-oo,’ came light-heartedly from the kitchen, along with the smell of perfectly cooked Beef Wellington.

‘I’ve got it,’ I called back impatiently. I opened the door, the angry angst-ridden me well hidden under the hosts charming bonhomie. ‘Ange, Mike – how are you?  Ange enveloped me in a cloud of too-strong perfume and billowing chiffon.

‘Darrrling, how are you – it’s been ages.’ She was right – for all the overdone lovey-ness, it had been the same five years of ages as since I’d seen Jay or Clem.

‘We’re good, thanks Ange.’ I disentangled myself and Mike’s less flowery and more business-like hug was a relief. ‘Come on in.’ I turned to call out to the kitchen, but Alex arrived with drinks right on cue. Eventually the storm of hello’s, hugs and darrrrlings dissipated and we moved into the warmth of the lounge, warily convivial. The bell went again and I rushed to answer it, trying to quell the jitters that it would be Jay this time. It wasn’t. Agitation overcame courtesy with the Betterware woman collecting the catalogue she’d left earlier. I flung the unwanted package at her and slammed the door in her face. Belatedly a wave of shame made me redden. I re-joined the forced conversation in the lounge, knowing the only conversationalist I wanted to bandy words with was yet to arrive, but God knew who with. Unbidden, the old jealousy consumed me. I wondered if I could even be civil to Jay’s plus one. Trying too hard to concentrate on Ange’s gushing, I almost missed the third ring, but in the visceral depths of my gut, I heard it instinctively. I was beaten to the door. Momentarily I hated Alex with a hatred I’d felt only once before but I didn’t have time to dwell on when. The lounge door burst open and before I could prepare myself, Jay was standing in front of me.

‘Hey,’ he was embracing me and I was drowning in his sharp-spiced smell, his proximity, his warmth and the desperate yearning I still felt for him. My head spun and I held onto him tightly. ‘Such a long time.’ He breathed the words into my ear and they spiralled round my head like a tornado funnelling into oblivion. In the eye of the storm, was his plus one. As my head cleared and my vision settled, she stood quietly and ominously behind him in the dark hallway. I pulled away sharply, waves of fear travelling up and down my body like electricity, sparking, shorting, sparking; killing.  Clem from Dinner party

‘Clem!’ My exclamation killed all talk in the lounge. I sensed something behind me and found the lounge conversationalists had clustered there, mixing their sweat and perfume with my dismay. Jay smiled at Clem and beckoned her in. The clamouring bodies behind me parted like the red sea for the unexpected, and mysteriously, very alive, plus one.

She passed through us, as if we didn’t exist; or maybe she didn’t exist? I was starting to doubt my own senses and sanity now. Jay just smiled enigmatically, and followed her. From my vantage point obliquely opposite I observed her apprehensively. Exactly the same as the last time I’d seen that elongated bony face, with its too large eyes, black, black hair and white skin. Now if possible, the pale complexion had become almost translucent; unhealthily waxen, as if she really wasn’t there at all – the way I’d thought it was.

‘Who’s hungry? Shall we sit for dinner?’ The jovial enquiry broke the tense silence, and the buzz of who was sitting where eased us round the table. Legs sticking angularly out from a lifeless body as it sprawled out from under the table. I found myself directly opposite Clem and Jay; the last place I wanted to be.

‘Clemmie, darrrling; where have you been hiding yourself?’ Ange didn’t wait for a reply. She rounded straight on Jay. ‘We thought it must have been a crime passionelle when she just disappeared and then you went persona non grata too.’ I watched Ange preen herself for what she considered wit. Mike wriggled further back in his seat beside her, face closed, but body expressing his discomfort. I knew what was going on behind those blank grey eyes. I’d heard him explode at her once after she’d been particularly pretentious at one of our dinner parties long ago – Christ why were we having this one?

‘Crime passionelle and Jay? Oh, Jay would never hurt a fly. He wouldn’t be the one to be involved in a crime passionelle.’ Clem smiled icily and everyone froze a degree colder. Her eyes slid back to me. Jay interjected quickly.

‘We’ve been on a bit of a tour.’ Four pairs of eyes trained on Jay and waited for more. Clem remained supremely aloof, face shadowed, tensed, dangerous; in control. ‘Clem was a little unwell so we went some places to make her better.’ He flashed a brilliant smile at her and then at me, as if including me in the secret of the places they’d been to make Clem better. That last time, I’d left her, the skin had been pale as death, the face a mask, blood pooling stickily under her head.

‘You’re looking well now.’ Mike offered it up dubiously, and Clem nodded graciously at him. Ange looked at him as if he was mad – a green-eyed stare like a cat would give its enemy. Clem looked quiet and serious. A far cry from the lascivious woman who’d tried to steal greedy kisses from me just before I’d left her broken and lifeless.

‘The starter’s mushroom pate. I hope you all like mushrooms?’ Alex was valiantly trying to break the ice patina rapidly spreading over us.

‘Magic mushrooms, darrrling?’ Ange’s trill made the rest of us cringe.

‘Oh Ange, really …’ Jay patted her arm as if she was a naughty but delightful child. She tittered and combed her hair flirtatiously at him. Clem’s eyes swivelled back to her and the dark lights in their depths terrified me. Where had they been to make her better? How could you make a dead body better? 

‘How’s things in the psycho industry then Maz?’ He was talking directly to me. I pulled myself together enough to reply.

‘Oh, mad as ever.’ The laughter was appreciative and I breathed out, avoiding Clem’s black-eyed stare, wishing I’d never visited their house that day. ‘I dream about you day and night, Maz. I want you. I know why you are always round here, always offering to help, always checking in on Jay … ’ Her hands were clawing at me, grasping, squeezing, her mouth almost on mine, her heavy breath hot on my face, stealing my own away from me… ‘You know what they say about psychiatrists don’t you?’ I might as well play my audience for all I could if it would deflect that hateful stare from me. ‘You can’t tell them from the patients …’ Raucous laughter showed it had been well received and the wine choice I’d made had been a good one – one of the highest alcohol volumes I had, and chosen specifically for that reason, but not to promote gaiety, to promote softening. Jay’s softening, Jay staying, Jay, Jay, Jay. I tried to shut down the insistent voice in my head, but it was replaced instead by Clem’s,‘Maz, Maz, Maz.’ …

The memory of that last time I’d seen her couldn’t be ejected from my thoughts now. It had taken me over body and soul. She wouldn’t leave me alone; I couldn’t wipe the slimy disgust of her saliva from my lips or escape from her burning eyes, or the threat she posed … ‘Maz, Maz, Maz.’ … ‘Get off me you stupid bitch. It’s not you I come here for, but Jay.’ I flung her forcefully away from me and her head cracked against the table edge…

‘Do psychiatrists live in the real world, or their imagination, do you think, Maz?’ Clem was coolly vicious. The conversation around us flowed on, witticism, quip, joke, flirt, ‘more wine?’ No-one else heard her low-voiced question. They weren’t meant to. Only she and I were in this discussion.

‘This is real, so of course the real world.’

‘Is it?’

‘Is it what?’

‘Is it real?’

‘Of course it is.’ I looked at the exaggerated expressions on the other dinner party guests; wide-eyed, laughing, bored, polite, exasperated. I realised they weren’t talking to us and we weren’t talking to them. There was an invisible barrier between us – like we were in another world, alongside but not touching. Clem smiled mysteriously. ‘Are you dead, or alive?’ She tilted her head quizzically and my mind rushed back to that day again. Her face collapsed in on itself as if life had imploded as her head struck the table; first the surprised look, then the blankness of death. She tumbled awkwardly to the floor and lay there. The table wobbled and then was still. Her legs stuck out angularly from the lifeless body as it sprawled half under the table. Shock turned to nausea as I turned to see Jay coming through the door to the room. Could he forgive me?

‘What do you want me to be?’ I considered the question. The real answer was neither. Alive meant either I was going insane or she was some awful thing from beyond the grave. Dead meant she was some awful thing from beyond the grave or I was already insane. ‘Or more to the point, why am I here with you, and they can’t see me?’ I looked around at the four other faces. They seemed even more distant than before.

‘What is going on?’ I hated her. Now I remembered that hatred in fine detail where I’d only remembered it dimly earlier. I wanted to address Jay, but he was across the divide with the other dinner guests. It was only Clem and me here.

‘It’s confession time, my dear. Just tell them what really happened and we’ll leave you in peace.’ I didn’t want Jay to go, but I wanted Clem to. Greedy, demanding, disgusting, hateful Clem, who’d taken my Jay and made him infatuated with her. Greedy, demanding, disgusting, hateful Clem, who’d tried to kiss and paw me when the only one I wanted to do that was Jay. Greedy, demanding, disgusting, hateful Clem, who had Jay, and didn’t even want him. ‘I won’t go away until you admit you killed me.’

‘You fell.’

‘Fell?’ Clem’s voice was sinuous like a python coiling round me.

‘You fell.’

‘Why did I fall?’

‘You just fell.’

‘I didn’t just fall. Tell them, tell them!’ Her voice rose from its soft sibilance to a harpies’ shriek. I covered my ears in agony as her banshee wail made my head split apart and the blood pooled stickily under it.

‘I pushed you, OK? I pushed you off of me, you slut, and you hit your head on the table.’ My voice reverberated around the room as the dinner party froze, forks in mid-air, glasses poised to clink, heads’ thrown back in surprise. I catapulted back through the eerie barrier from Clem’s world to my own.

‘We said to absent friends, Maz.’ Alex touched me lightly on the arm, ‘and how sad it is Clem isn’t here anymore, but we’ll toast her anyway – across the ether.’ She turned to the rest of faces round the table, all looking oddly at me, and added, ‘to Clem – RIP.’ I breathed in the smell of fruity red wine and Beef Wellington, over-perfumed women and after-shaved men. Maz from the dinner party

I looked gratefully at my wife Alex. Jay and his new girlfriend looked back.

To me she still looked exactly like Clem.

Enjoy.

I’m @StorytellerDeb on Twitter

and http://www.facebook.com/DebbieMartin.Author on Facebook.

Chained melody final cover

If you fancy longer reading in 2013, my new novel ‘Chained Melody is out on 18th January and will be available then on Amazon.

Bold, Beautiful and Brave
November 28, 2012

I have just watched the BBC 3 Documentary ‘Transsexual Teen, Beauty Queen ‘ on i-player. For those of you interested in seeing it for yourself, you have five days and counting – and it’s worth the rush because this lady is exactly the way I describe her in the title.

Watch it here whilst you can:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00w09yg

At eighteen, Jackie Green has seen more trauma, confusion, bullying and torment than most see in a life time and yet she emerges from thirteen years of nightmare confident, serene and undoubtedly beautiful. Jackie is a new generation of transgender people, although she had to make a bit of history herself to pave the way for others. She went to America to obtain hormone blockers below the age they would be prescribed in the UK, which then enabled her to make her so successful transition to a young woman. Sadly, such treatment is far more difficult to obtain in the UK, meaning that for many the onset of puberty has already allowed the bodily changes that make authenticity difficult for them as transgender people. Jackie ‘passes’ perfectly for female – no it’s not a  derogatory term, it’s a phrase many trans people use to denote someone who is so authentic in their gender role, no observer would know there had ever been an issue – and it is what all aspire to, but not so many achieve.

But Jackie is more than that, she is a real girl and that became very obvious when, on her final attempt to make it into the Miss England beauty pageant finals, she specifically didn’t tell her interviewers in the ‘personality’ round that she was transgender and give them the benefit of her back story. She was just Jackie, and judged purely as a girl against other girls in the contest.

In my research into transgender issues and whilst writing my novel following the life and transition of Will – Billie, I read many things, spoke to various people in various stages of transition and came to understand some, but barely enough of what it is to deal with this complex, challenging – and for those of us who don’t know what it feels like – confusing, condition; gender disphoria.

  Some information from the NHS website is here:

  http://www.nhs.uk/conditions/Gender-dysphoria/Pages/Introduction.aspx

watch the whole video of boy to girl here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upPpNb846JE

and I have included parts of a moving plea from a US transgender website in the novel (Chained Melody – out January 18th 2013), which says this:

‘…I have had to surrender much of my life to the brutality and incomprehension of societal ignorance surrounding the phenomenon of transsexualism. That ignorance and prejudice costs lives is no new discovery, it is the bane of every age whether it shows up in war or in civil violence or in silent hatred and misunderstanding. In this case though it was my own life that has been bled away year by year in my efforts to correspond to what body may have indicated but my soul knew to be an alien fabric out of which I could never hope to weave a complete or a happy life. The only comfort I have for those lost days and years during which I was a stranger to myself frantically seeking to garb my soul in the personalities and expectations of others, is that I might be the last generation to know such pointless suffering. That is why I am writing today, to spare others lost years, lost hopes, lost lives…’

http://www.susans.org/reference/gfam3.html

What I have learned – and Jackie, and recently also Juliet Jacques, in her Guardian blog, have confirmed for me – is that anyone living through and coming out the other side of being transgender is certainly bold, beautiful and brave – whatever they look like.  Jackie, if you do compete in Miss England again next year, you have my vote!But one word of caution. Don’t think you are unfairly trading on your back story. It is what makes you a girl, but a very special girl and that story is part of what makes you special. Not because you are transgender, but because you’ve lived through the transition from male to female with grit, determination and dignity. You’ve risen above prejudice and openly been true to yourself in the face of opposition. That’s a story all in itself…

Some links of interest for anyone involved with this issue themselves or wishing to be supportive of those still struggling with it:

www.mermaidsuk.org.uk

http://www.gires.org.uk/transbullying.php (Guidance to Combating Transphobic Bullying in Schools is a publication from GIRES, the Gender Identity Research and Education Society, whose aim is to create supportive attitudes among those who can influence improvements in the lives of trans people and how they are perceived in society).

http://www.gires.org.uk/

http://www.beaumontsociety.org.uk/

http://gendertrust.org.uk/

More information about Chained Melody, it’s publication date and the location of book signings as they are agreed can be found on my website:

http://www.debbiemartin.co.uk/novels/

It is launching concurrently, and with the arrival of the ‘Living my Life’ exhibition in Bournemouth. Come and see the portraits, meet the people and chat to the author – 18th to 25th January. All details will be on the website shortly.

Follow me on Twitter @Storytellerdeb

And Like me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/DebbieMartin.Author

Interview with the Author
November 21, 2012

I’m being a bit of a narcissist here but I was very flattered to be interviewed the other day and here is the interview report:

Interview with Debbie Martin, author of The Strategy

Tell us about The Strategy.
A bit of fun, with a serious purpose. If you’re single and don’t want to be, how to make the most of ALL your opportunities to meet a mate and make it last – without going online or embarrassingly trying to sell yourself via an introduction agency. What am I talking about ? The Strategy: Single and Don’t Want to Be? All the directions and none of the detours … Now out on Kindle for a teeny tiny £2 and yet containing so many ruses, surprises and clever tips – right down to how to respond to a text for maximum attraction – and from some of the most up and coming dating guru’s too.

What genre is it?
Dating and relationship/self-help.

What would you say if someone asked what makes you an expert on this subject?
I found myself single again over 7 years ago and in that time have tried more or less everything there is – introduction agencies, blind dates, speed-dating, internet dating and ‘singles’ groups – in the misapprehension that you HAVE to be in a relationship. Of course you don’t – we would all just prefer to be, and for many, it is the difference between contentment and dissatisfaction. My experiences have led me to believe that the old fashioned way of things actually work best – meet, befriend and then get intimate. As a result I now also run a singles social events group on the south coast of England with over 2000 members and we socialise. Of course some date too, but they are dating people they’ve already got to know and liked first …

What kind of readers will it appeal to?
Young, old and in between, as long as they’re single.

Aren’t the techniques a single 20 year old needs to employ different from those a 40 year old might use?
In many ways, no; you have to be able to make contact, flirt, interact and sustain a relationship in exactly the same way but possibly the venue and environment that a 20 year old does that in as opposed to a 40 year old differs sufficiently to make their behaviour different.

For a 20 year old a relationship can start and end in a night and they are still testing the waters with love and dating so their relationships are often more experimental and more casual. For a 40 something, the element of security and reliability is more important, so their approach will be more qualitative than quantitative. However, all the techniques in ‘The Strategy’ would work for either age or sex.

People sometimes say that if you go out looking for love that is when you are least likely to find it. Is that a nonsense?
No, I think it is true. When you aren’t seeking to impress or put on a show, you are your most natural self and you are far more likely to attract someone who is interested in the real you than when you are putting yourself on display. Think of all your friends – how did they become your friends? Because you went all out to convince them? Or because they simply got to know and liked you for who you are? The same applies with romantic relationships.

There are more singles out there than possibly ever before in human history. Are we just forgetting skills that came naturally to our forebears?
There are several reasons for the numbers of singles out there now.
• Firstly there is choice and independence. Women are not now expected to marry and settle down. They can – and sometimes do – choose to put more into their career than their relationship potential.
• There is no longer the same expectation that marriage is for life and you have to stick it out whatever. If it goes wrong, couples now choose to separate and try their luck with someone else.
• The internet. Yes, there is no doubt it has affected our people skills. Whilst we think we are getting better at them, we are in fact getting worse. How many Customer Service operatives do you find rude and abrupt, rather than welcoming and helpful? How many people spend more time texting than talking? How many people opt to send an email to a phone call because it can be winged off immediately and the answer left in abeyance until it suits to reply? How many internet daters do you hear complaining about being ignored, cut off dead, two-timed or made to feel of less interest than the other ones on their prospective dates list simply because they ARE on a list? Unfortunately the internet – for all its usefulness and expediency in current society – does create an artificial barrier between people which makes it easier to treat each other with less humanity, courtesy and care than if we had to deal with those same people face to face. Consequently our communication and people skills have become less sensitive and empathetic since the internet has connected us globally. If you had to talk to someone face to face and tell them why you had ignored their invitation to chat, would you ignore that invitation quite so readily…?

But we find our books, our music, our groceries, our friends online – so why should our life partners be so different?
Because life is lived in the real world and whilst the internet is part of our real world, people and relationships are what add the star quality to it. Books, groceries, music are all commodities. Friends and lovers are not. And although there are now dating sites online where you can have a virtual relationship with an avatar of your choice – do you really want to?

I will just round off by saying that I had a lot of fun internet dating and I tell some of the funny stories, but also one or two more disturbing ones in my book Are You The One?

Is it true that you have to kiss a lot of frogs to meet your prince?
Apparently we have to meet at least 17 people before the odds are stacked in our favour of one of them being attractive to you. OK, 17 people – that’s not so bad, but of course, whilst they might be the one out of your 17 that you find attractive, you might not be the one in their 17 that they find attractive – and so it goes on. I’ll leave you to calculate the odds of success…

You write fiction as well. Does writing non-fiction require a different skillset?
Writing fiction is totally different in terms of content, but the discipline is the same. You have to have a plan, try to stick to it and write a little every day or every time you’d planned to write. Sometimes you get stuck – the archetypal writers block, but the more you write the easier it is. If I get stuck I tend to leave it to distil a little and a few days later a new idea or a new twist on an old idea will pop out like a sausage out of the sausage machine – quite amusing really. Fiction is my real love and I have too many ideas usually. I often have at least 4 or 5 novel ideas simmering away at any one time but I only work on one idea at a time. I am just completing my third novel which includes a throwback to the Salem witch trials, but already have the ideas and even some of the sentences forming for the second book in my box of darkness trilogy, the first of which, ‘Courting the Dark’, should be out next year. It will have to wait until after Christmas though when I have planned to have the first draft of the Salem book completed otherwise they will cross-fertilise and become confused.

My first novel will be published in January 2013 – ‘Chained Melody’, an unusual love and life story, and it will be available on Amazon and through my website so watch this space for it and many more.
Fiction tends to be more methodical in that there are a set of facts, principles and ideas that you want to get across in a coherent whole, but whilst also making it entertaining and engaging and that can be more difficult than writing fiction, which is naturally more interesting because it involves applying imagination, but that also makes writing a good non-fiction book a challenge, and I love a challenge!

How long did this book take to write?
About 3 months.

And what was the most challenging part of the process?
Actually, marshalling all the information – there is a lot of it!

Tell us a bit about yourself.
A child almost of the sixties, I’ve experienced a variety of careers and life. Now widowed, with two teenage daughters, living in a thatched cottage in Hampshire, I run a small social events business, work as a business event co-ordinator for the University of Winchester and have discovered I love writing. My first two works are non-fiction, the third a novel, which is coming out in January, 2013.

Have you got a blog where readers can keep up with your work?
Yes https://debbiemartin.wordpress.com/

And where can we buy The Strategy?
Amazon or via my website.

What’s next?
My novel, Chained Melody is due out in January 2013 and novel number 2, which is going to be the first in a trilogy – Courting the Dark will be following later on in 2013.

Thank you Indie Author Land

Please do follow me on Twitter @StorytellerDeb for my writing

@SocialsingleDeb for Singles that Mingle news

And come and like the pages on Facebook for special offers and news coming soon:

My writing page :          http://www.facebook.com/DebbieMartin.Author

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Beyond the page – Sandra’s revenge
July 12, 2012

… She’d joined a class, you see. The lure had been too much and once she’d started thinking about it, she couldn’t put the thought aside, no matter how hard she tried. She’d gone during the day when he was at work or on a Saturday morning when he thought she was doing the shopping. She’d practiced hard. She’d mastered the dips and the drops, the shimmering vibrations of the body layered ontostaccatomovements of the hips as they flicked and twitched in a wicked invitation to touch, no don’t touch! The fluid undulations and rotations, mimicking the impression of riding a camel, or some other beast, as her body circled and enticed, come here, join, entwine…Slow and tantalising, wild and whirling, graceful and floating, with a myriad of veils divested, one by one as the various layers of the human psyche are divested from the loftiest and most philosophical thoughts – the cool blue veil – to the earthiness of physical desire and need – the red veil . . .

She dropped the blood red veil to the floor in a swirl. The dance had finished. She breathed heavily. Yes, she would perform well tomorrow evening.

The whole secret gave Sandra such satisfaction. And it had insidiously changed so much for her too. Just the exercise itself had made her slim down, and that weight problem that he thought she had? Well it had simply melted away, replacing her low self-esteem with a sense of admiration, for her now sleek but voluptuous body, but also for having been able to master the subtle arts of the dance. Of course he didn’t even notice the change. He saw nothing but what he expected to see in front of him and she kept up the persona for him, refusing to share even the smallest part of her new self with him. He might share the same bed with her, but his hands never touched even the top layer of the shapeless old nightie she wore so even the most intimate moment they might share didn’t betray her.

The mantra of ‘stupid , fat and useless’ which he’d instilled in her over the years was replaced with ‘lithe, skilled and able.’ So, what else could she do?  Maybe she wasn’t so useless after all. She’d looked in the ‘sits vac’ column, something she hadn’t done in years. She’d ringed the ones she tentatively wondered if she could manage and been amazedly delighted when she’d been offered a job.  She started it next week.

The next evening she had to wait for him to go out before she could leave herself. She’d already carefully packed her costume in a bag and hidden it behind the shabby brown suitcase in the wardrobe. When she arrived at the venue, the other dancers were bustling around in the dressing rooms. Marie, the class teacher fell on her breathlessly,

‘Oh Sandy, thank goodness you’re here now. I was starting to worry…You’re our star… Everything is alright, isn’t it?

Sandra smiled at her. ‘Just a little delayed.’

She slid into her costume and swiftly completed the transformation. Looking in the full length mirror, she barely recognised herself. Not fifty, fat and frumpy as she’d used to joke ruefully to her friends, but a sibilant siren, skirts slipping softly to her ankles, swishing as she slid gracefully onto the dance floor. It was a ‘hafla’, a Turkish dance party, with other troupes and classes joining in the demonstrations and the audience made up of the class members, their friends and partners. Her class was hosting it. The audience sat at tables around the dance floor, cabaret style.

As soon as she was on the dance floor she spotted him. He was sitting on the far side of a table towards one side, trying to be insignificant, yet watching the movements of the dancers with hard, hungry eyes. She felt a moment of panic as she felt his eyes slide over her. Not yet, not now, she silently prayed. The eyes stayed on her, but not out of recognition, out of desire. He shifted his position, straining forward to get a better look from his deliberately slightly obstructed view – probably cursing he’d chosen this half-hidden seat now.

She stood in position, shrouded in the seven veils of her dance, eyes masked with vibrant, sumptuous sequins and feathers so only her full mouth could be seen, curved slightly in a mysterious smile. Cool spiritual blue was the top layer, peeling down through turquoise, green, yellow, orange, cerise to deep pulsating red; the red of blood coursing through a body that was revealed in its transformation from spiritual to sensual as each layer enveloping her unfurled, coloured the room and dropped like shimmering pool to the floor; another layer of herself had been discarded. All restrictions removed. Sandra whirled and  gyrated, entreated and enticed, withdrew – and the metamorphosis happened  in front of their eyes – from a cool blue nymph to a scarlet siren, climaxing by throwing herself in abandon across the floor with a gesture that flung her body open in its’ entirety to any would be possessor – ‘take me . . .’

The room was transfixed, and so was he.

M/F

Sandra escaped to the dressing room, exhausted with the effort of portraying the emotions as much as following the right choreography. The class crowded round her, congratulating her, expressing their delight in her, and the class teacher was enraptured, holding onto her hand and grinning like a clown. The bustle swathed her in a sense of having finally arrived. Her exhaustion dissipated as their energy and enthusiasm trickled into her, until all of a sudden, the moment was now. Now was right. She allowed them to lead her back into the dance arena for a general round of applause for the whole class for having put on the show, and then she was being whisked into the crowds to say hello here, have her hand shook there, be introduced to this person or that.

‘I must introduce you to Frank,’ Mandy said, ‘you know my . . .’ Her voice trailed off, as she made a coy gesture indicating ‘my lover’ but not actually saying it. ‘He’s always a bit derogatory about belly dancing, but he won’t be able to be now he’s seen you dance.’

Sandra smiled and turned to look into the ashen face of Frank.

The chapter ended there, and Mary rested the book back into her lap. Frank – father’s name was Frank. Was the book telling her something? Had father treated mother this way? She concentrated hard on reviving the sense of her father in her mind. The way he’d stood – the sag of his shoulders mimicking the droop of his moustache, eyes dulled and defeated. Then by contrast mother sitting in her chair – this chair – ram-rod straight, cold, brushing Mary’s hair so hard she felt sore afterwards; not a soft atom in mother’s body, ever. No, fathers’ whole demeanour told her that he was unlikely to have been the aggressor. Mother on the other hand . . .

More to follow next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are going to be published.

Debbie Martin

Beyond the page – Chapter 3 starts here …
June 28, 2012

Chapter 3 starts Mary’s journey proper as she opens the book again…

 

Chapter 3

Without even realising it, exhaustion had overcome her and she had fallen asleep on the chair. Disturbing images of her father sobbing nagged in her head as she drifted, and then diffused into her dreams. Muddled scenes of men and women in shadowy and indistinct conflict flicked in front of her, one after another like the pictures in an old cinemascope. Silhouettes, posed mannequins in a staged set, one begging for – what? She didn’t know: another raising an arm – to hit or hold? A woman flinching as she anticipated a blow: and yet one more, that turned and smiled at her, swiftly turning away again, knife raised high to plunge. . . She woke with a jolt. The woman’s face was hers.      The book was in her lap again. She picked it up and rolled it over in her hands.

‘What is happening to me?’ She said it to the book itself, although she knew it was just an inanimate object, but yet it seemed to be inextricably linked to the odd experiences and memories that were swamping her, one after another. She leaned back against the chair again. It was still rough and uncompromising against her back.

‘This has got to go!’ Was she saying it to the book or the chair, she wondered ruefully. Both disturbed her in different ways – the chair because of its associations with mother – the book because, well, why the book? She fingered the scrollwork on its cover. It was fine filigree, and beautiful – she hadn’t noticed that until now. Her fingers lingered on its smooth leather. It was softer than the leather usually used to bind books. It had the softness of chamois, yet the depth of dark brown velvet with its plush pile. It fitted snugly into her hand as if it was melding with her. She realised that the ‘got to go’ was definitely for the chair. It was awful, and she wondered why she’d not got rid of it – got rid of the whole suite that actually she saw now she’d always hated – when mother had died. It rubbed against her shoulder blades and she flexed them, stretching and arching her neck to tease out the stiffness in it that sitting so upright in the chair caused. In doing so she looked directly at the door again and the thought of her sad-faced father standing hesitantly in it all those years ago upset her. What on earth had been going on between him and mother to have caused such a rift? Her imagination started to range through different scenarios – distrust, unfaithfulness, disillusionment – anger, yes anger because mother had been so brutal with him. Why was she so angry with him?

Her palm prickled and she realised she was clutching the book hard in her right hand, squeezing at it so the binding stuck to her. The continuing sense of confusion made her head feel woolly. Too many emotions were flitting through her and she felt unsteady, even though seated. The book, what was it about it? Automaton like, she flicked it open, letting it settle randomly at the start of another chapter. Chapter 9: ‘In the belly of the whale’.  Mary re-read the title and then let her eyes get drawn into the first line of the chapter…

‘. . . Sandra glowered at him with hatred, but he didn’t see her venom. He was buried in his damn Telegraph as usual. ‘Blah, blah, blah . . .’

More to follow next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are published.

Debbie Martin

Beyond the page…
June 21, 2012

and so it continues…

There was nothing near her feet – it must have fallen when she dropped the book. It wasn’t obvious on the floor close by either so she stood up and laid the book on the seat of the chair and scrabbled around carefully under it, reaching gingerly as far as she could reach. She felt nothing as far as her fingers could reach. The knife must had bounced underneath the chair, just out of her reach. She moved the chair completely to one side, sweating slightly with the exertion of pushing it because it was old and heavy – solid oak and with threadbare tapestried upholstery. The floor under the chair was bare apart from a thin layer of dust and crumbs from years of the hoover only reaching to the front of the chair, and no further.  There was still no knife to be seen. She was puzzled. It must have slipped down the side of the seat cushion then.

Playing at the back of her mind now was the fear that there was a murder weapon here, in her home – one it seemed she’d used – or had she? It was like a dream, or was it real? Whatever it was, it had been there and she’d been grasping it and it had been sticky with a dead mans’ blood and she had to find it. Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest and she felt the trembling rising in her again. She was afraid now. After half an hour of searching everywhere she could think of, in and around the chair, sliding her fingers carefully down the crevices in the upholstery and grimacing with disgust at the crumbs and sticky patches she encountered – this had been the chair mother had huddled in during her later years, and the accumulation of spilt meals and drinks probably accounted for the unpleasant detritus that Mary found – she admitted defeat. She plonked back into the chair and sat confused and uncertain what to do next.

It had felt so real, yet had she actually been the person acting out the drama, or had she imagined it all? Now the events that had unfolded were becoming a blur for her, just leaving the unsettling emotions she’d experienced buzzing at her like angry bees. She couldn’t even be sure of the sequence of events now – maybe there hadn’t been a knife, or had there? Had she stabbed – no, the woman – Belle –the man, or had she, or had it not happened at all? The more she tried to rationalise and document the events in her head, the more unclear they became, until eventually she wasn’t sure whether any of it had happened at all. She sunk into the chair and settled against the hard, high back of it. She was conscious of its rigidity and it was uncomfortable. Odd how, in all the years she’d sat in this chair, slyly when her mother was alive because it had always been mothers chair, and then by right when mother had died, almost like slipping into her mothers’ place without noticing, she’d never remarked on how uncomfortable it was. Now it felt hard and uncompromising against her shoulders and she shifted against it, wondering whether to move – but to where? The other chair in the room was not only similar, but also placed in the more drafty position – mother had always insisted on being out of all drafts. The settee – well that was just part of the set, and lower backed so it was not only hard and lumpy with its’ worn stuffing, but also left your head swaying around unsupported on a tired neck when you just wanted to relax. An odd thought strayed through her mind,

‘why don’t you get something much more comfortable then? She can’t stop you now…’

And she found herself agreeing with it – then pulling herself up short – now she was talking to herself too! Thinking about mother slipped her almost seamlessly into childhood memories – mother standing over her as she ate the ‘greens’ she so hated, mother brushing her hair hard with the stiff bristled brush so her scalp tingled, mother sitting prim and tight lipped on the edge of the same chair as father walked out of the door…

Now she was really shocked. When had father walked out of the door? Father – father? She couldn’t even remember him. He had died when she was very small and it had always been mother and her, in their routine. Get up, scrub her face with icy cold water because mother said you didn’t need hot water to wash in, clean her teeth, pull on her pinafore and blouse, dark wool tights – even in summer, and pull her hair neat and straight with the small white clip in one side – the only token gesture to femininity that mother had allowed.

She’d followed that routine into her teens, only varying slightly when going to work, to drop the pinafore and replace it with the skirt and blouse or skirt and jumper mother had applauded as looking ‘business-like’. Never walk around bare foot, or just in stockings – ‘you’ll catch your death’ – and everything had its place. Now father’s face was distinctly out of place, but she could picture him as clearly as if he was standing in front of her and she was mother perched on the edge of the chair as he was just walking out of the door, casting a pleading glance back at her.

Mary dredged her memories for an explanation – when was she remembering him leaving the home? Why? How old was she? Why did he look so sad? The droop of his full moustache added to the miserable expression, but his eyes were sad too, looking wistfully at…at her, no, at me – he was looking at me, not mother!   But I am mother – aren’t I? Mary concentrated hard, drawing the memory of the man back into the room, and there he was – almost as real as Belle had been.

‘You can go, I don’t want you here.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I want you to go, Frank. I don’t want you here anymore.’

‘Are you crazy, woman? I’m your husband.’

‘Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I have to have you here – sweating and upsetting my nice clean home, wanting to paw me in bed, expecting me to cook and clean for you. I hate you – I hate all you men. You disgust me, and I don’t want Mary warped by you either. ‘

‘Warped by me? What have I done? I am her father – I haven’t done anything wrong at all. I work all day at the bakery, I come home tired and all I want is a good hot meal and some affection from the woman who calls herself my wife and I’m told I’m a disgusting pig and I ‘paw’ you – I ‘paw’ you! You’re my wife and I’ve always shown you the utmost respect.’

‘Respect – pah! It’s no respect to have to do what a man wants me to. If you don’t go I’ll say you tried to paw Mary too and then they’ll make you go.’

‘Etta, Etta – what is wrong with you? Why this hatred of me – what have I done wrong? I don’t understand?

‘I don’t want a man here – any man here. I want you to go and I shall make you go.’

‘Etta…’ his face was pinched with surprise and pain. I knew from his slack stance that he was amazed and confused by mother. I looked from his face to mother’s.

‘Alright, you can stay here but I won’t have you anywhere near me and you must stay away from Mary. You can sleep in the spare room. I will leave you a meal for when you get in, but I don’t want to spend any of my time with you. If you don’t abide by my rules I’ll say you’ve touched Mary.’ She emphasised the word ‘touched’ but as Mary noticed it, she also realised the words were almost coming from her, and she was the icy cold, cruel woman damning the sad man lingering uncertainly at the door to a life of misery here or rejection away from them.

‘I’m sorry, Etta, I can’t live like that.’

‘You always were weak, Frank.’

‘Not weak, Etta, but that is no life – nor is it for the child.’

‘The child will do what I tell her to. So will you.’ The pronunciation was chilling, because I could see in father’s face that he realised he had no choice but to accept it. He was banished – however or whatever form it took – he was banished. He repeated his sad plea,

‘Etta, I can’t live like that – and why should Mary not have her father here? What have I done wrong – I don’t understand why you hate me so.’

‘I don’t want you here.’ The tone was implacable.

‘And what will you live on?’

‘You will send me some money every month.’ The tone was flat but dictatory.

‘I will… why would I do that when you banish me like this?’ It was the first time Father’s tone had grown harsh.

‘Because if you don’t I will tell Mary you are a monster and I will tell everyone else you touched her.’

Father just stood at the door, half in, half out of the room, just as he was in our lives. He was expressionless for a moment and then he sobbed. His face crumpled and he sobbed. Mary had never seen or heard a man cry before.

 

More to follow in chpater 3 next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are published.

Debbie Martin