Snippets of French History: Jean-Paul Marat 1743-1793

Although Marat claimed to be a physician, he had no qualifications, and his reputation as a physician was born when he managed to cure his friend of gonorrea.  He was interested in medicine and in the sciences in general and worked as an unofficial doctor in London for several years, and then in France.

He has gone down in history as a journalist, the most out-spoken and inflamatory journalist of his time, a politician who vigorously supported the Revolutuion and a fierce advocate of human rights.  He was arguably the most radical voice of the French Revolution.

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People in my books: Kirsty

Kirsty was in her early-to-mid twenties, a post graduate with a degree in English.  She moved to Cyprus with Tom, also an English graduate and, like him, had been to some minor Uni somewhere in the Midlands.

She was a clever enough girl, but no intellectual.  She had acheived her degree simply by reading and writing the right stuff and, like her fellow post grads that hailed from the same – and similar – places, had no proper knowledge or understanding of English literature apart from the books that had been studied on her course.

But that was okay. She was sharp enough to know that it was a mediocre qualification and bright enough to know that, for her at any rate,  it really didn’t matter that much.  She claimed that most teachers were over-paid and over-qualified, but she had the good sense to enjoy the long school holidays and the relatively short hours without questioning too many issues.

She was pretty in a straight-forward and uncomplicated sort of way. She had a lovely figure and a natural manner.  She had a ready smile and was kind.  More than anything, she loved Tom.  She knew it wouldn’t last, and in some ways she broke her heart over it. She befriended Stella mostly because she felt sorry for her – Stella was a fish out of water and – worse – would be a fish out of water wherever she went and whatever she did.  Stella was one of those awkward people, a tall gangly woman who desperately wanted to fit in and to be feminine.  And Kirsty felt genuinely sorry for her.

When the police came to her door it all became obvious, appallingly obvious, but at the time, it hadn’t occured to her …

Extract from “The Man with Green Fingers”:-

It had all been so easy, so amazingly easy.

Stella stretched luxuriously. Well, of course, not many people would have been able to do it. Very few would have known where to even begin. So from that point of view it was ridiculous to say it had been so easy. In fact, it had taken six months, slightly more. The planning had been meticulous. Every angle of every possibility was studied. Every scenario examined. She had had to be absolutely certain, could risk nothing.

And she had pulled it off. Brilliant. Quite simply, she was brilliant. She lay back in her chair, her head resting against the wall behind her, and closed her eyes against the sun. She could hear the small movements of a bird on the roof and the background sounds of the city beyond the confines of her yard walls. A satisfied smile crossed her face. She would rest here a while, then have a beer or two before changing her clothes and wandering back out in to the town. These little sorties were almost daily and never ceased to send a thrill of anticipation through her. The entertainment value of it was massive. She was aware that one day it would quite possibly pale and become boring, but for now it was hilarious and she loved it.

The shrill ringing of her telephone jolted her upright. She pressed her hands on to her knees as she rose and, her feet bare on the scorching brickwork underfoot, she went rapidly indoors and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said in English.

“Stella – it’s Kirsty!” Kirsty had a delightful way of putting a touch of excitement in to her voice…

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist.  Her books are available from Amazon/Kindle or can be ordered from most leading books stores and libraries.  You can also buy them as e-books by clicking on the links below:-

https://payhip.com/b/tEva

https://payhip.com/b/OTiQ

https://payhip.com/b/BLkF

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Posted by Catherine Broughton on 14 July 2013

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People in my books: Pia's Grandmother

Pia’s grandmother had lived in Kelepetria all her life and had never had the slightest wish to even try living somewhere else.  Indeed, it had never occurred to her.  She had been born there in the village, been to school there – what little schooling she had – and had married there.  She was of healthy mountain stock, knew all the plant remedies, all the little paths through the valleys, and everybody for miles in each direction. She was quiet, simple, undemanding, honest.  Her numerous children were all born at home and she was bemused by Pia’s wish to go to the maternity hospital for the delivery.   She was, however, one of the first there when Nico was born, and one of the first Pia turned to, five years later,  when Stella strode in to their lives.

Extract from “The Man with Green Fingers”, a novel set in Cyprus:-

That night the house was strangely silent. John lay on his back in the bed he normally shared with Pia and stared at the ceiling. How strange life is! he mused. Turning his head to one side he could see the pale cradle, outlined against the window. Tomorrow a little baby will lie in there, he thought. My son. I have a son. He fell asleep eventually well after midnight and dreamt about Pia and the baby, comfortable dreams that woke him once, and he smiled quietly in to the darkness. But when he fell asleep again he dreamt of Stella ..… Stella running at the cradle ..… the cradle was lost in Paphos …… Stella had got blood on her legs, mountains, the woods full of bluebells, a miniature tree grown in half a grapefruit shell, and orchids in the shadows. Stella stood by the orchids and waved to him, a small sneaky wave that said “here I am dear”, and somewhere in the background a baby was crying.

http://www.amazon.com/Man-Green-Fingers-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475029411/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372342738&sr=1-3&keywords=catherine+broughton

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People in my books- Bubble-Gum Michel

The children nick-named him Bubble-Gum.  It was a good name because there was something about him that made one think of bubble-gum.  He was fat (but immensely strong), not very tall, jovial, noisy, messy, talkative.  He was very familair with everybody, even his boss, and had he not been such a likeable fellow, it would have been bordereing on rude.  He had an equally over-weight, but intensely morose, wife about whom he made crude jokes. He had nine children, most of whom worked at one stage or another at either Tulips or Chateau des Cypres.

Bubble-Gum was totally illiterate, and what he lacked in education he made up for in good sense flavoured with brash determination.  He was devoted to the family and had an especially soft spot for Debbie – though his own daughters were treated with that grim resignation one sometimes finds in poor men who have fathered a huge family.  He wheeled Bernie around in his wheel barrow and sent Max to (discreetly he hoped) fetch him a beer from the fridge.

He worked at Tulips for four years and then at Les Cypres for another five.  He was totally loyal but in the end he was asked to leave. As his weight increased, and he grew older, he steadily became dangerous and the more he was warned about safety – on ladders, the roof, bonfires, whatever – the more sloppy he became so that towards the end it was impossible to leave him in charge of anything in case he set it on fire or fell off it and broke his back.  He wept when he was dismissed.

http://www.amazon.com/Call-From-France-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475116659/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1371731045&sr=8-2&keywords=catherine+broughton

“A Call from France” by Catherine Broughton is a true story and considered a must-read for mothers young and old, especially mothers of teenagers.

Click here for grand’mere   (same book)

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