Thursday, May 25, 2017

How visiting another country helps me write historical romance

I’ve been back from America for two weeks now.
Every year I go across the pond for a month. This time I went via Dublin, and I was away from home for six weeks. Coming home is always nice (tea!) but it does help me to get out of my rut, to experience a different way of life.
So how does that help me write my historical romances?
It’s the getting-out-of-the-mindset thing. Living in the States, especially when I visit friends, watching American TV (like ours, some good, some bad), forces me to look again at the way I live and the things I take for granted. My expectations, in short.
So what would it be like to live in a time when transport was so much more difficult, relatively expensive and time-consuming? When it could take a week to travel from London to your home in Yorkshire? And how about no light at the flick of a switch? Not being able to switch on the TV and find out what is going on in the world?
True, these things were available to me in the US, but other things weren’t. Even something as simple as a meat pie (they have something called a pot pie, but meat pies and pasties are nowhere to be found).
The shift I have to make helps me to understand the practicalities of living in the past. The way my assumptions are shaken encourages me to think again.
When I sit down to write, there are too many things I take for granted. I try to learn the way people acted and thought every day, and sometimes I’ll write an ordinary diary entry for my main characters, before they get caught up in the story. I do my best to make my heroes and heroines people of their time, and not 21st century people, with the same attitudes and thoughts. And yet, we still have a lot in common. Emotions haven’t changed, although the causes might have done. People still feel love, hate, jealousy and anger. I can contact my characters through that, and try to connect them to the readers.
The people of the past didn’t think of themselves as “quaint,” they just lived their lives the best they could. They were different, only because they had different assumptions and expectations, but underneath, they were just the same as us.

Saturday, May 20, 2017

A short history of P

Nicola here. This is a blog about P. Not the letter of the alphabet but the other P. Today I am lowering the tone of the blog by talking about some of the use to which urine has been put throughout history. There are very few substances as versatile and useful.

The English language has developed many words to cover the action and the place where one might have a pee. The word urine comes from Latin urina and Greek ouron and its first recorded usage was around 1325 although the verb to urinate was not formed until the late 16th century. I much prefer the Old English word “lant” which was in use from about 1000. Unfortunately, in pee as in many other things, Norman French overpowered native English and lant fell out of use although a few odd references remained: Bess of Harwick is recorded as owning a silver lant pot and comb. It may be that she used urine as part of a dyeing agent to maintain the red of her hair.

In Scotland the word “wesche”, later wash, was another word for urine. 15th century Scottish poet
Robert Henryson recommends the following cure for insomnia: “Reid nettill sied in strang wesche to steip, for to bath your ba cod.” – Steep red nettles in strong urine and bathe your naked scrotum in the mixture. Worth a try?

The phrase “to take a leak” sounds relatively modern but was in fact in use in Shakespeare and makes an appearance in the 1796 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue by Francis Grose. Interestingly, the word “addled” meaning confused or slow-witted also originally derives from urine. Who would have thought that phrases such as “addle-pate” in Georgette Heyer’s books originate in the Old English “adela” meaning a pool of urine? The implication here is that the person who is addle-pated is not quite all there or only “half-baked” or “half-washed” and it refers to the use of urine in woollen industry (see below!)

Here are a few historical uses for urine:

Harris Tweed: I have a lovely vintage Harris Tweed jacket that I inherited from my husband’s grandfather. It’s warm, windproof and looks great. However occasionally when I wear it I get a faint but unmistakable scent floating up from the material that speaks of its origins. Until the end of the 20th century, the pee-tub was an integral part of the process for making Harris Tweed. The tub was a big wooden barrel with an iron lid, and chamber pots were emptied into it daily. The urine helped to fix dye colours to the wool. It was also used later in the process to remove any lingering oiliness from the woven fabric and to shrink it to the correct size. The woven tweed was soaked in a barrel of urine and stamped upon, an activity known as “waulking” and from which the surname Walker derives. Elsewhere in the UK this part of the weaving process is know as fulling or tucking and is again the source of a couple of surnames.

 Alum: Urine was also an essential part of the English alum industry up until the late nineteenth
century. Alum is a mordant used to fix dye to fabric. Ships carried coal from Newcastle or Sunderland, off-loaded it at Whitby, filled up with alum, took the alum south and exchanged it for barrels of urine that had been collected from London street corners, which were taken back up north.

Originally the alum industry used urine collected locally in Yorkshire but as demand outstripped supply it had to be shipped in on “lye-boats.” Most highly prized was the urine from teetotallers, followed by that of beer drinkers. Only as a last resort would the urine of upper class wine-drinkers be used. It is rumoured that this transport system was the origin of the phrase: “taking the p***.”

Bringing the House Down : One of the great grievances of the early 17th century was that the “petremen,” men who were tasked with collecting saltpetre to use in the making of gunpowder, had the right to come into people’s houses and dig anywhere they thought they might find supplies. Saltpetre derived primarily from the action of animal urine on soil so people who kept animals in their cottages frequently had their earthen floors dug up. King Charles I was petitioned by homeowners complaining about having their stables and barnyards ransacked and their houses destroyed when the walls fell down because the petremen had dug up the foundations. 
To counteract the public dissatisfaction with this, Charles agreed to a different approach to the production of saltpetre, using neat human urine and mixing it with soil. In 1625 he granted a patent to Sir John Brooke and issued a royal decree stating all men should “keep and preserve in some convenient vessels or receptacles fit for the purpose, all the urine of man during the whole year.” Animal urine was to be collected too. This proved unworkable since there simply were not sufficient receptacles available for the entire British population and their animals to pee into for a whole year and the Crown was forced to go back to the original form of collection. It was Oliver Cromwell who finally ruled in 1656 that petremen could not dig in people’s houses without permission.

Pass the Smelling Salts: Smelling salts or sal volatile were much in use in the 19th century for
arousing consciousness. The newly formed police force in Victorian Britain even carried smelling salts to revive fainting victims. Smelling salts were made originally from ammonium carbonate, derived from urine, and they worked when the smell irritated the membrane of the nose and lungs, triggering inhalation. However, ammonia is extremely powerful. Too much sal volatile could kill you!

A few other random facts: The first striking match was developed as a result of the scientist Robert Boyle isolating phosphorus from boiling down his own urine and then heating the residue to very high temperatures. Phosphorus, which he named “icy notiluca,” was extremely dangerous for matches and it was only in the 19th century that safety matches were commercially produced instead.

Forgers would give coins a suitably authentic looking patina by burying them in earth sprinkled with urine. This would turn silver coins grey or black and bronze coins brown or green depending on the sort of urine used and its quality!

Anyone like myself who has ever suffered from kidney stones will know how excruciatingly painful they can be. Fortunately these days they can be removed. Martin Luther almost died as a result of his. The Catholic monk turned Protestant reformer was treated by doctors who gave him as much to drink “as an ox” in order to try to wash the stones out. This treatment was unsuccessful and he became so bloated with the liquid that there was nothing he could do but travel home to die. Fortunately jolting about in a carriage on a rough road shifted the stones - and Martin Luther almost drowned in the ensuing flood.

Samuel Pepys also suffered from kidney stones and his were operated on to remove one as large as a tennis ball. In the absence of anaesthesia it took four men and a rope to restrain him but he later declared it was worth it to be rid of the stones.

And finally! In the Middle Ages, urine was used to “quench” (the rapid cooling of red hot metal) swords. It as said to be the best way to forge a sharp blade!

Monday, May 15, 2017

Ickworth House - how the servants lived.

Kitchen dresser
 Last time I visited Ickworth house we couldn't look inside as it was closed. This time after being sent on roundabout route by my sat nav we arrived in plenty of time to see the whole house, galleries, as well as eat a delicious lunch.
Bedroom for visiting gentlemen valets.
I often write about the servants' quarters, domestic offices, et cetera but had never been fortunate enough to actually visit one. The first thing that struck me was the size, like a rabbit warren beneath the main reception rooms. The second was that the flagstone floors and lack of heating would have made it unpleasant to wander about – mind you – the servants were not dressed in the skimpy clothes of modern times so perhaps did not feel the cold.
I was impressed by the size and luxury of the bedrooms and sitting rooms put aside for the upper servants use. Upper servants would include valets, personal dressers, housekeeper and butler. The bedroom for the visiting gentlemen valets was considerably larger than my own and was very well appointed. We were told there would have been two beds in there back in the day.
Kitchen sink in servants' hall.
Upper servants sitting room.
 One of the guides told us an amusing story about the butler that was there around nineteen hundred, Mr Royal, who was too fond of tasting the master's alcohol. When he was discovered drunk one day he was sacked without reference.
In the basement there were also preserving pantries, the hall boys' room, a finishing kitchen plus the wine cellars and a room put aside specially for storing trunks and suitcases. This had a dumb waiter so these items could be packed in the bedrooms and then be transported to the basement and out to the waiting carriages.

Upper servants sitting room.

There was a spacious sitting room which also included a dining table and chairs also for the use of these upper servants. They would eat their main course in the servants' hall with the lesser mortals but then retreat to their private space where they would have their dessert and tea served.
Kitchen range -circa 1900

Servants' Hall

The bells that servants had to answer.
As you can see from the sadly out of focus picture there was room for fifty or more in here. After they had eaten and everything had been cleared away by the scullery maids they would play cards, bagatelle, or in the case of the women get on with their own sewing.

There was a row of bells that would have been connected to the main reception rooms and bed chambers. Each one was numbered so whoever ran to answer it could tell immediately who was summoning assistance.
I think it would probably have taken at least ten minutes for anyone to make their way from the basement to the upper floors as the house is so huge.
We also looked around the first floor and the ground floor but I will save that for next time.
If anyone is ever in the vicinity of Bury St Edmunds, in itself a city worth visiting, I can highly recommend Ickworth House. The grounds are beautiful, the house and family portraits interesting and the restaurant excellent. A bit limited in choice, but all home-made.
When I was a teacher many years ago we used to judge the course we attended by the quality of the food we were served. Not much has changed there, then.

Fenella J Miller
£2.99/$3.99 Amazon.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Dr Foster went to Gloucester - Melinda Hammond talks Mud, Meanderings & Inspiration

Anyone remember this?

Doctor Foster went to Gloucester
In a shower of rain;
He stepped in a puddle,
Right up to his middle,
And never went there again.

I used to recite this well known rhyme to my children and thought nothing of it, except that it was plain silly, puddles were never that deep.  Now, however I am not so sure…..

Walking my dog around the Yorkshire hills this winter I have noticed a change in some of the bridleways, which has given me more food for thought about how people travelled in the past.  This is a picture of what is locally known as Stony Lane.  It used to be like this for most of its length, and as you can see from the close-up, there are lots of small stones packed together to make a good surface.

 Local historians tell me this bridleway forms part of an ancient trackway stretching across the country and possibly providing a route between religious houses from Europe to Ireland.  It formed part of the old packhorse trails that used to crisscross the country and when the mills were built in the valleys during the Industrial Revolution, many of the workers lived on the hills and the quickest way to work was straight down, cutting across the old tracks.  There is still evidence of this around, if you look closely. This opening in the stone wall now has a modern wooden stile, but you can see the way the stone is worn away from the hundreds of boots or clogs that made the daily journey to and from the mills.

Just for interest I have added a picture of the stile on the south side of the lane (a stone one, built in a more modern wall). The fenceposts in the picture below show the line of the track that leads the quarter of a mile or so to the valley bottom. Nice to walk on a sunny morning, but imagine having to toil back up in the winter, after a hard day's work.

So back to Doctor Foster. Part of Stony Lane now is just mud. Packed hard, it is fine in dry weather, but very slippery and uneven when wet. Where the stones have gone I have no idea, but if they are buried, they are a long way down. This next picture shows it on a relatively dry day, and you can see the darker patches where the mud is still wet. 

It is thick and gloopy and can come up at least over your ankles if you stand on the dark patch to the left of the picture. However, if you put your foot in the patch on the right, it would keep on going, as a friend recently discovered, up to the knee!  The last time I pushed my stick into that patch I stopped at 18" (45cms) but I hadn't reached stone, and  with the continuing rains it might go deeper still. The picture below shows it in more detail.

I am sure someone knows the reason why there are these deep pockets of muddy gloop – possibly a different type of soil, maybe the constant pounding of feet, I don't know. What I do know is that in the past when hard-packed stones were the only form of road surface, this type of problem must have occurred all the time. Local landowners were responsible for maintaining their section of the highway, some better than others, and in periods of bad weather the road surface could be washed away just as it has in the next picture. A couple of seasons without repair and a highway could easily become almost impassible by a carriage. Unfortunately these photos cannot do justice to just how uneven and rutted this is.

As another little aside, I am told that there used to be a small ale house beside the lane here, where the track widens.  The farmer who now owns the field has found stones from an old building there, so at least the weary travellers could find some refreshment during their journey.

Until the end of the 18th century travelling by coach must have been a slow and uncomfortable business, bouncing along on badly made roads and possibly even breaking a wheel in a deep rut.  And as for Doctor Foster, I can well imagine that if the muddy tracks around here are anything to go by, it is quite possible that he stood in a puddle up to his thighs, at least.

I have used carriage accidents and bad roads in many of my books in the past, and in the latest story I have just written a scene in a lane very much like Stony Lane for an encounter between my main characters. Complete with mud!

Happy reading

Melinda Hammond / Sarah Mallory

Friday, May 05, 2017

Inspiration for Spring

Last week I went to Kew Gardens with a friend. We’d just had a week of cold weather, so it was a real pleasure to arrive on a warm spring day when everything was fresh and green, even if it was still a touch grey.


Magnificent cedar

Kew Gardens in spring is the place for inspiration. I found myself thinking about the hero of a book I'd thought about but never actually written: His name is Hilarion de Vere Sangrail (I can go OTT with names, given half a chance) and he’s dark, brooding, sexy and dangerous – I’m sure you know the type. Hilarion is like the cedar above: splendid, lord of all he surveys, etc. – but alone.


View from the bridge over the lake

My heroine, Hannah Gray, has had a rough time with men in the past and has more or less given up on them. When the story opens, she has decided to devote herself to Good Works. She cannot help feeling that there is nothing much in her life – like the view over the lake. It’s tranquil – but dull.


The bluebell wood

As I walked round Kew, I imagined what the various views might contribute to Hilarion and Hannah’s story. In the woods it’s bluebell time and their scent fills the air. It is impossible not to feel that the scene in front of you heralds the promise of renewal. Here, I imagined, Hilarion’s normal vein of sarcasm could fail him, and Hannah cannot help but respond to the beauty all around her. Tentatively, they both begin to drop their guard.


The drinking fountain

It’s hot. The satyr’s face above the spout seems to leer at Hannah and she avoids looking at the cupid below. But she is thirsty; and then Hilarion cups his hands to give her a drink … I’m not quite sure what happens here; Hannah cups her hands round his, perhaps. Something shifts… 


Formal bedding with the Victorian water tower in the background

Hannah is more than half-relieved to get back to the formal bedding where everything is carefully confined, but part of her is unnervingly aware that something important happened by the water fountain and that drinking from Hilarion’s cupped hands was an act of curious intimacy. Shockingly, she wants more.


The temple of Bellona

Hilarion is looking thoughtfully at the water tower. He needs an ‘eek!’ moment, so I send him off to the temple of Bellona (the Roman goddess of war) where he tries to beat these new, unaccustomed softer feelings into submission. The sky is clouding over. Possible cue for an adventuress - always helpful for raising the tension. 


The Broad Walk: tulips and copper beech

The Broad Walk, I thought, might be a suitable place for Hilarion and Hannah to come together. The tulips are looking beautiful and the copper beech is allowed to grow naturally. They complement each other – just as Hilarion and Hannah do.


The Long Vista

The Long Vista ends my story. It’s a broad avenue with a variety of trees and plants. In the distance, a couple are walking side by side. They look relaxed and happy in each other’s company. Perhaps, in a moment, they will slip into an arbour for a private moment ...

I’m lucky to be within reach of Kew Gardens; but all over the country there are beautiful parks, gardens and wild places just waiting to drop their pearls of inspiration into a writer’s mind. I’m sure you have your favourites.

Elizabeth Hawksley

Sunday, April 30, 2017

Past Times and Pubs with Fanciful Names

One of my joys with research is Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, of which I have two copies. One is pretty old, though not a first edition. The other is more up to date, acquired from WH Smith in the 70s or 80s, I think. It says it’s a facsimile of the 1894 edition, so mine may be earlier as close examination finds differences in the text.

One of my favourite digs in these tomes is to find unusual pub names to use, and the pages devoted to this are a delight to me, with stories or origins of the names and unexpected finds. A few examples I’d like to share here.

 The Bag o’ Nails is a corruption of the “Bacchanals”. You might guess it from the inn sign, which certainly looks Bacchanalian. But its meaning has changed over time. Grose says this: “He squints like a bag of nails; i.e. his eyes are directed as many ways as the points of a bag of nails. The old BAG OF NAILS at Pimlico; originally the BACCHANALS.”

These days I find the phrase has come to mean everything is in disarray. In the sixties The Bag o’ Nails was a music club in London boasting the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Georgie Fame and Eric Burdon.

Here we have The Blue Pig, a name I used in The Deathly Portent (my second Lady Fan Mystery). Another corruption, this time of The Blue Boar, which Brewer tells us is the cognizance of Richard III. A cognizance, in Heraldry, is “a distinctive emblem or badge formerly worn by retainers of a noble house”. Not sure how Richard would have felt about the pig!

Speaking of pigs, I was amazed to find that The Pig and Tinder Box (for which I could find no pub sign image although there is one in Tamworth apparently) is, according to Brewer, a colloquial name for The Elephant and Castle, “in allusion to its sign of a pig-like elephant surmounted by an erection intended to represent a castle but which might pass as a tinderbox”.

To my regret, I could not find a single pub sign with an elephant that looked like a pig, but this one is, I think, rather entertaining.

The Cat and Fiddle, which I thought had something to do with the nursery rhyme and the cow jumping over the moon is disappointingly a corruption of Caton Fidèle, “i.e. Caton, the faithful governor of Calais.” I cannot find any reference to Caton, the brave governor of Calais being John de Vienne who was one of the 6 burghers – the subject of Rodin’s sculpture - to give themselves up to Edward III.

However, Brewer goes on to say that La Chatte Fidèle, a pub in Farringdon (Devon) commemorates a faithful cat. Or, he claims, it could also simply mean “the game of cat (trap-ball) and fiddle for dancing are provided for the customers”. Which seems only too likely to me.

The Hole in the Wall, which we now know as a place to get cash, was originally so called “because it was approached by a small passage or ‘hole’ between houses standing in front of the tavern”. Which makes one wonder how on earth you ever found the place. This sign seems to bear out the explanation though.

The rather charmingly named The Swan with Two Necks is correctly Nicks from the “nicks” cut into a swan’s beak to mark ownership. Two nicks belonged to the Vintners Companies’, while five meant the swans were royal. “Swan-upping” is “the taking up of swans and placing marks of ownership on their beaks”. This was done annually down the Thames evidently, and perhaps it still is. The Swan with Two Necks pub was, in the Regency, one of the main London stagecoach starting points, and it thus features in my Fated Folly when our heroine is trying to find out if her brother has eloped with her friend.

Sadly, I couldn’t find any images for The Iron Devil, which sounds like some kind of medieval instrument of torture, was in fact a corruption of Hirondelle, French for swallow.

But I could not end without mentioning The Man Laden with Mischief, rather uncomplimentary to the fair sex (how surprising!), which was a public house sign in Oxford Street, said to have been painted by Hogarth, “and shows a man carrying a woman and a lot of other impedimenta on his back”. I leave you to judge of the justice of this commentary.

Elizabeth Bailey

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Wild Lavender

Wild Lavender is out! This is both a good and a bad thing, since it is the last in the Emperors of London series. I’ve had a ball writing the series, and I am sorry to leave it behind. However, the characters who have yet to find their true loves will feature in future series.
Helena is the daughter of a careless father and a scheming mother. Her mother has decided that Helena is to be the single daughter, the comfort and companion, but Helena’s brother Julius is determined not to let that happen.
Helena, meantime, has met and fallen in love with the most unsuitable man imaginable, the son of her family’s direst enemy. It’s a Romeo and Juliet story, one of my favourite themes. I’ve been working towards this ending the whole series.
When I start a new series, I generally know where it will end. I knew that I’d end this one with Helena and Tom, although many readers thought it would be the kingpin of the Emperors, Julius.
Knowing how a series climaxes helps me to keep the books in focus as I tell each character’s story.
But I get to revisit the characters with the new series, The Shaws! These characters are just too interesting to leave behind!

Buy the Book and read an extract:
Amazon USA
Amazon UK
Barnes and Noble Nook
Ravishingly beautiful and accomplished, Helena has her pick of suitable bachelors—and because she is the daughter of a powerful duke, her mother is determined she makes a good marriage. But Helena won't marry any of them, because she is in love with the son of her family’s most dangerous enemy. Though she has now been rebuffed by her beloved, she is resolved to win him back—no matter the cost.Tom’s forbidden love for Helena has only intensified over the years of their separation. But the discovery of his true roots has changed everything. His secret spells danger for his family and everyone he loves. Devoted to Helena, he will sacrifice anything—even his one great love—to keep her safe. And soon, caught between warring factions and hounded by a deadly assassin, the couple will be swept back together in a fight for their lives, and their destiny…

Thursday, April 20, 2017

The Silent Companion!

Nicola here. If, like me, you don't like waxworks or dummies, one of the scariest things that can happen when you visit a historic house is unexpectedly coming across what is known as a "chimney board." I'm not of a particularly nervous disposition but if I wander through the deserted rooms of a stately home and catch a glimpse of a still figure staring at me I do find it slightly creepy!

The dummy board or chimney board is a life-size, flat wooden figure painted and shaped in outline to resemble a real person. They come in all shapes and sizes - solders, servants, children, even animals. These first silent companions as they were also known, were produced in the 17th century and were intended to be decorative jokes. There are stories from the period of telling of how, for example, one gentleman placed a wooden maidservant at the door of his salon and everyone found it highly amusing when one of the guests tried to tip her. No doubt such impostures were easier in the days of poor lighting! In 1777 Miss Sally Wister of Philadelphia wrote in her diary that the cut out wooden figure of a British
grenadier, six foot tall and looking very fierce, startled a nervous visitor to the house who ran away thinking that the British had arrived. Wooden grenadiers were also on guard at the Tower of London as early as 1700 and it was a feature of tobacconists shops in the years of the Jacobite rebellions to have cut out figures of Highlanders! A newspaper of 1745 commented: "We hear that the dapper wooden Highlanders who guard so heroically the doors of snuff-shops intend  to petition the legislature that they may be excused from complying with the Act of Parliament with regard to their change of dress," this being the time that the wearing of the kilt was forbidden. In 19th century North America carved figures of Red Indians were adopted by tobacco stores in a similar manner.

A secondary use for such wooden cut outs was to act as a firescreen. Although some were used to shield people from the heat, this did cause the paint and varnish to warp, and where they were made of paper stuck onto the wood there was a double danger that they might catch fire. The figures were better used to mask an open fireplace during the summer months.

There was a huge variety of different types of figures. Servants, particularly maids with brooms, were very popular. A maid peeling apples sits in the hall of one National Trust house whilst male servants are depicted ushering visitors into rooms. Pairs of children with pets and toys were also popular. Figures of soldiers were used to guard doorways in private houses, inns and military establishments. As late as the 1870s soldier figures were popular decorations at provincial tea gardens!

Some animal figures from the past few centuries also survive, including cats, particularly tabbies, dogs, pigs, parrots and rabbits. Whilst many of these boards were created by sign-makers, some were designed by established artists.

There was a rumour that Van Dyck had painted a board that resembled a maidservant at Lullingstone
Castle when she tended him through illness there. Gainsborough created a wonderful half-size figure which he set up on his garden wall to the surprise of passers by. It was known as Thomas Peartree!

Have you seen any "silent companions"? Do you find them fun, attractive or creepy?! Would you have one in your own home?

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Blue Skies & Tiger Moths - Ellen's War - new WW2 series
Pre-order link.

It is always exciting for a writer to start a new series - at least it is for me. I have completed two WW2 series, Barbara's War (3 books) and Victoria's War (2 books). I am writing the fourth book in a Regency series, The Duke's Alliance, and there are two more to go. I completed a three book, At Pemberley, series of Jane Austen variations last year. I have just sent the third book in a Victorian series, The Nightingale Chronicles, to my editor and the fourth and final book will be written next year.
Ellen's War will have three books, the second, An ATA Girl, will follow her during her life as a ferry pilot. Strange that there were only two fiction books about ATA girls when I started writing mine but now there are at least two more that I know of about to be published. 
I love the cover (J D Smith) it was shot for me so there will never be another one the same. I had the images for the other books done at the same time as well. Having unique covers makes me fell a very grown up writer. All my covers are wonderful and original, but I as we use stock images I often see the same model on other book covers.

Here is the blurb and the first page to give you a taster. Hope you enjoy it. I can't wait to get back to Ellie and write the next installment despite the fact that my desk will be piled high with research books/notes etc whilst I'm writing as I have to constantly check facts. I'm hoping this will be THE book and launch my career into the stratosphere. I can always dream - even after 60 books, that I have  written a mega-best seller.

Ellie Simpson is a flying instructor and good at her job but war is coming and when it does she will no longer be able to do what she loves most -fly. The arrival of flying officer Gregory Dunlop, and the nephew of her boss, Jack Reynolds, in her life only complicates matters. When she can no longer take to the skies in her beloved Tiger Moth she decides to join the WAAF. Then tragedy strikes and she has to rethink her life.

July 1939, Essex

'Well, Miss Simpson, what do you think?' Joseph Cross asked as he pointed to the de Havilland 60 Moth that stood proudly on the worn grass outside what served as a hangar.
Ellie wanted to hug him but thought he might not appreciate the gesture. 'I love it. Is it dual control?'
'No, but it has the usual two seats so can take a passenger.'
'Good – I've got more than enough pupils to teach. Since the Government subsidy last year every Tom, Dick and Harry wants to learn to fly.'
'I hope you don't expect me to pay you any extra, young lady. I reckon you owe me far more than your wages would have been for all the lessons and hours you've spent flying my aircraft over the past five years.'

She put her hands on her hips. 'Giving my brothers and me lessons at your flying club couldn't have been as much as the rent you would have had to pay to use my father's barns and fields.' He was about to interrupt but she continued. 'Not forgetting the fact that Dad bought the first aircraft and both Neil and George acted as instructors until they joined the RAF.'
He scowled but she wasn't fooled for a minute. 'The cost of one lesson is usually two pounds – the three of you never paid a penny…'
'Joe, I don't want to stand here arguing anymore. I want to take her up before it gets too hot. Are you coming with me or can I go solo?'
'Circuits and bumps only, my girl, no flying off into the wild blue yonder. There are three new enquiries to be dealt with in the office – I want you to sort those out this morning.'
The other aircraft the flying club owned were a Swallow and a Gypsy Moth. Both were fitted with dual controls. Joe had several clients who liked to go up on their own and poodle about until the fuel ran out. This de Havilland had been bought to satisfy those clients.
Sidney, the ground engineer, and the only other full-time employee, wandered out from the hangar. 'Nice little machine, Ellie, sweet as a nut. You going to take it up for a spin?'
'If that's all right with you, I'd love to. I'll not be long – I just want to get the feel of it for myself.'
'The bloke what brought it said it flies like the Gypsy only a bit faster. You'll have no problem – you're a natural. I remember your first solo flight when you were no more than a nipper…'
Joe poked his head out of the office. 'No time for reminiscing, Sid, let her get on with it. Just had a bell and we've got a new pupil coming in an hour.'
'Sorry, guv, I'll not hold her up.'
She collected her helmet and goggles and scrambled into the cockpit. Even though the weather was warm she needed her flying jacket on over her dungarees. It got a bit nippy a thousand feet above the land. After doing her preflight checks she taxied into position on the grass runway and took off.
An uneventful forty-five minutes later she landed smoothly and headed for the office to catch up with the paperwork. The new pupil, a middle-aged bank manager, decided after a couple of circuits of the field that he didn't want to learn to fly after all.
As they'd only been in the air for a quarter of an hour there was no charge. By the time her last pupil left the airfield it was almost six o'clock. Often they had to work until it was too dark to fly but tonight they'd finished early. Ellie left Sid to lock up and jumped onto her bicycle. At least in the summer Dad didn't come in for his tea until late so she wouldn't have missed her meal.
She pedalled furiously down the track, swerving instinctively around the dips and ruts, covering the mile in record time. She skidded into the yard, sending half a dozen chickens squawking into the air in protest, and tossed her bike against the wall.
With luck she'd have time to wash before her parents sat down to eat. It had taken Mum months to get used to seeing her only daughter dressed in slacks or dungarees. She might be a farmer's wife now, but she'd come from a grand family and had very high standards.
The fact that Mum had been disowned when she'd married a farmer should have softened her but instead, according to Dad, it had made her even more determined to bring her children up as though they were landed gentry and not the children of a farmer.
After a quick sluice in the scullery Ellie headed to the kitchen – she was about to open the door when she realised the voices she'd heard were coming from the seldom used sitting room. Mum insisted on calling it the drawing room, but no one else did.
This must mean they had guests. She looked down at her scruffy oil-stained dungarees and wondered if she had time to nip upstairs and put on something more respectable. Unfortunately, her mother must have heard her come in.
'Ellen, you are very late this evening. Had you forgotten Neil has a twenty-four hour pass?'

Fenella J Miller