People in my books: Knooden

A large, heavy-set man, Knooden was honest and hard-working to the core.  Salt of the earth.  An uncomplaining, staight-forward man.  What you see is what you get.  He expected no truck with people and few people had reason to give him any.  He knew everybody and everybody knew him.

His mother had tried to send him to school when he was a boy, but he had bunked off almost every day, preferring to join his dad fishing – and his dad preferred it too, for there were a great many mouthes to feed.  He could write his name in a crooked, unsure way, and he recognized some of the letters and numbers he saw around him.  But he had no reason to read or count, he managed fine as he was.  He was sharp. No fool.  He saw things. Heard things. He knew stuff.

He chewed a bitter fruit he called a valledi.  It looked slightly like a large sycamore pod, and left Knoorden’s teeth yellow.  He barely ever changed his clothes and, indeed, owned only two or three T-shirts and shorts. He was always barefoot and had huge, flat feet with the soles like elephant hide. His hands were like great hams, tough as timber, calloused and covered in dozens of small scars.  His large jaw and small, sharp eyes, gave him a slightly dog-like look that was not unpleasant.  As a young man he had been considered good-looking by the local island girls.  He was not interested in that, however, but took a wife when he was nineteen and fathered a great many children.   He had a lot of siblings of his own, and his family stretched over the island, and over neighbouring islands, over five hundred of them in all, and all of them loyal to their elders. That was just as well under the circumstances.

Extract from “French Sand” by Catherine Broughton, a novel set in the South Pacific:-

“Which reminds me,” Melanie pulled her bag out from under the desk and took out some cash which she gave to Mat. “Your pay to date,” she said.

“You know where would be a good idea for you to go ?” asked Mat as he stuffed the notes in to a pocket. “The prison. No harm in it. You just say you want to see Delahaye – give the real reason if they ask you.”

Melanie thought for a moment.

“As you say – why not ? There’s nothing to lose and we might learn something.”

Noumea’s prison was situated next to the police station in the centre of the oldest part of the town. Looking at the sombre walls, it must have been one of the first buildings ever erected on the island. There were only seven cells. Tricot was not there, but Melanie was seen aimiably enough by a gendarme calling himself Berton. He explained that prisoners sentenced to more than five years generally got transferred out of Noumea to a more secure prison in Mayotte.

And that Delahaye was one of the men who was to be transferred. He had served only six weeks of an eight-year sentence. Berton didn’t ask why Melanie wanted to see Delahaye, but escorted her through the office rooms at the back of the gendarmerie and out in to a large courtyard walled-in with very high stone walling and barbed wire. Despite the heat, Melanie shuddered. Inside the prison block her eyes took a few moments to accustom to the sudden darkness. There was a strong smell of urine and black tobacco. The gendarme stopped at a cell on the left. A noise that sounded like some kind of snorting came from the cell beyond, which told her that only one other seemed to be occupied.

“Debout!” ordered the Berton in to a small dark window cut in to the door, “you have a visitor.”

There was a sudden rush of movement from within the cell and Melanie could hear feet shuffling rapidly along the stone floor.

“No, it’s not your wife! But it’s a lady, so be polite.”

Berton opened the heavy wooden door, beyond which was a set of bars.

Delahaye’s face appeared. Berton stepped to one side, his back to the wall, and indicated with his head that Melanie could speak. She had hoped he’d go away. Looking at Delahaye, his face expressionless, she saw a man in his early forties, his skin thick with sweat and grime that had mixed together, unwashed, for six weeks. His eyes behind the spectacles were dull and looked – hunted. His eyes in the newspaper had been those of a criminal – these eyes were those of a man whose life had been shattered. Melanie held up her photo of Greg.

“Do you know this man?” she asked bluntly.

“He’s dead,” replied Delahaye.

“I know. He was my husband. How did you know him? It is important.”

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist.  Her books are available from Amazon/Kindle or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  They can also be ordered as e-books from this site:-

https://payhip.com/b/tEva    “A Call from France”

https://payhip.com/b/OTiQ    ”French Sand”

https://payhip.com/b/BLkF    “The Man with Green Fingers”

https://payhip.com/b/1Ghq    “Saying Nothing”

“French Sand” from Amazon:-

http://www.amazon.com/French-Sand-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1470134497/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1375974844&sr=8-6&keywords=catherine+broughton

For more about New Caledonia:-

http://en.visitnewcaledonia.com/

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People in my books: Ashley

One of his girlfriends once described him as looking like a poet.  Ashley had liked that.  Indeed, he was fine to look at, bordering on good-looking if caught at the right angle … yet … yet there was something wimpish about him.  It was impossible to put a finger on.  It wasn’t because he was not very tall.  That in itself doesn’t matter any more.  Nor was it that he was not well-built.  And it certainly wasn’t his lack of hair though it would have been better had he shaved it off properly.  Yes, perhaps that was it – that he tried to comb his thin wispy hair over his scalp.  It was also in the drooping shoulders and the fractionally petulant expression on his face.  That was it.  Had he put his shoulders back and stood up straight, altered the expression on his face to one of positive cheerfulness, and shaved his hair off totally, he’d have been a good-looking man.

But Ashley had never been overly concerned about his looks.  Clean, clean clothes, ironed clothes, clean finger-nails, order and organization. That summed him up.

Had anybody predicted what was going to happen he’d have laughed.  That was not his kind of thing at all. Not at all. No way.  He hated anything like that. All that messy stuff, the intrigue, the ducking and diving, hell – the blood, the running and hiding.  That was not his kind of thing at all.  Never, ever would he be involved in that sort of thing …

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

“She gave me this,” said John delving rapidly in to his shirt pocket and producing an envelope, “forty pounds – she wanted to pay you anyway and she apologizes.”

The monk, his mouth open still, took the envelope from John’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said. “May I ask – are you a friend of Mrs Platt? She seemed so eager to rest here a few weeks. In fact,” he reached in to a drawer – “ a letter has arrived for her.”

John took the letter, trying hard to not snatch. He instantly recognized Kirsty’s handwriting.

“I’ll give it to her,” he said.

The monk seemed to hesitate, his hand still poised in mid-air, fingers slightly apart where the envelope had been, then shrugged slightly.

“Very well,” he conceded.

“Goodbye,” said John a little curtly, and turned from the monk back towards the car park. The monk didn’t reply.

Back in his car he ripped the envelope open.

“Dear Stella,” it read, “I hope you have a lovely rest. Don’t worry – I won’t turn up! Thought a letter would cheer you along, however. If you do decide to pop off to England do please please phone me because there are several things you could bring back for me – if you don’t mind, that is. Anyway. See you next term. Love from Kirsty.”

Stella would have murmured “sweet child” but John found the card irritating and tore it in to several pieces. Revving too hard, he reversed quickly and drove away back down towards Paphos, taking the bend rather too fast. In his rear-view mirror he could see the monastery recede in to the distance, its imposing stone walls and pine-encrusted mountain backdrop like a scene from a picture post-card. He sped rapidly down past Kamares – he had once toyed with buying a villa here – and on to the Limassol road just north of Paphos. Here he pulled in next to a bin where he threw the torn shreds of Kirsty’s letter. Tourist traffic was building up and John was glad of the air-conditioning and the blue-grey shading of his windows. Above Paphos he skirted the centre, taking the Ktima road and reaching the dual carriageway further east. He eased on to it, swearing under his breath at other drivers. He was glad to get away from the Paphos area and the past two weeks had, for the first time, seemed very long. Was he perhaps tiring of Stella ? The very thought was alien to him…………. yet he could not deny that it was on his mind.

He picked up speed once on the main road, his teeth grit and his fists clenching the steering wheel, and sped the half hour to Limassol where he veered left above the city and headed off in to the mountains. The buildings and the glaring city fell away behind him and, a little at a time, first the low hills and the brown and shallow valleys, the mountain scenery encompassed him, and his shoulders relaxed and his grip on the steering wheel began to loosen. Not till he reached Trimiklini did the sensation of irritation and impatience totally leave him, replaced almost instantly with a feeling of peace and tranquillity; he slowed his speed and meandered confidently up the mountain pass, smiling slightly in to the hills, noting the flora as he passed, and looking forward to seeing Pia.

order your copy as an e-book here:-

https://payhip.com/b/BLkF

or from Amazon/Kindle here:-

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Man-With-Green-Fingers/dp/1475029411/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1375183722&sr=8-2&keywords=catherine+broughton

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The Atlantic Wall in the Medoc

I took this photo near the holiday village of Montalivet (not particularly recommended!) a few weeks ago.  It shows one of many concrete and steel bunkers erected, as part of extensive fortifications, by the Germans during World War II between 1942 and 1944.

We go to this particular beach almost every year for a week, where we meet with fellow campers and old friends.  The beach is glorious and stretches for many miles.   There are three blockhaus there, at first up on the dunes and, each year falling a little more, now in the sea.  The tide washes in and out, sometimes submerging them almost totally, and sometimes revealing them … carcasses ? Memorials ?

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/the-atlantic-wall-in-the-medoc/

People in my books: Ignacio

Marie-Carmen’s father said she quite simply fell in love with the first handsome young man that walked in the door.  And there was some truth in that. Not that he minded. Better by far that she fall in love – and marry – a young man who was in the right place at the right time, than leave things to chance. As it was his life was too full of chances.  Every step he took, every corner he turned, was another risk, another inch to where he shouldn’t be.

Ignacio was the new chief of police at Lima Police Headquarters, young for the post, strong, highly intelligent, sharp, fundamentally honest – and ruthless when he needed to be.  We was a good man, would be good to Marie-Carmen, loved her too. What more could a father ask?

Ignacio saw through it all at an early stage.  The wealthy businessman he found as his father-in-law was already well-known and linked to a great many dark dealings. But that was OK, for it was the case with the vast majority of wealthy people at that time, Ignacio included.  He was a multi-millionaire in his own right and didn’t care to question where his money – all inherited – had originated.  He adored Marie-Carmen.  Ten years older than she, she was like a fluttering bird his his arms, a porcelaine, white, silken beauty, untouched by another man.

He badly wanted to create a new world for his country, for her, for all of them.

He also knew, from an early stage, that it would probably all go wrong.  Unless he was exceptionally lucky, outstandingly smart, unless he could outwit and outrun the sharpest of the sharp, they would come to grief.  Perhaps the mistake that he made … if it was a mistake … was that, although he was strong, both mentally and physically, he was not as strong as he thought.

Extract from “Saying Nothing”, a novel set in Spain, by Catherine Broughton:-

Marie-Carmen tipped forwards slightly on the back seat as the taxi driver swore under his breath and halted at the San Pedro junction.  It was most unusual these days to see a donkey and cart on the road, and this donkey and cart trundled along slowly slap bang in the centre of the road. The driver’s head, even from behind, looked proudly defiant.  In front of it was a tractor.  Both looked totally incongruous on the paved and palm-lined streets.   Farms in the hills were common enough, and to see farm workers here on the coast took the local people back to the old days, and some old folk stood and watched, nodding to themselves as they remembered the times fifty years ago.

“It ought to be forbidden!” spat the taxi driver.

“He has to go somewhere,” said Marie-Carmen reasonably, remembering  that she was to speak in English only.

“Well, he should go some other time – not at peak traffic time!”

The driver was bordering on rude but Marie-Carmen was aware that the rudeness was not directed at her.  Of course, she reflected, he wastes his time sitting behind a donkey.  She had never worked.  Her mother had never worked.  In fact, it was slightly shocking to think of her mother working!  Both Ignacio and her father had always been involved in politics and the police.

She watched silently as the taxi driver waited for his moment to overtake.  He revved the engine up, impatient, slipped into first, second, then back into neutral with another little expletive under his breath.  The man with the donkey seemed not to notice, or, if he did, he didn’t care.  The sun beat down onto the top of the tattered straw hat he wore, and he sat hunched forward over the reins, making little clicking sounds with his tongue.

Looking out of the rear window, Marie-Carmen saw that a line of cars was building up behind them, with another line moving in, hooting now, from the right which led up to Estepona.  In the other direction, traffic was moving swiftly and it was impossible to overtake.

The driver growled that they would be late in Malaga.

“No importa,” she replied – ‘it doesn’t matter’.

To her left people sat drinking at a pavement cafe, watching with mild interest the fracas that was building up at the junction.  A couple of drivers leaned out of their car windows to shout at the man with the donkey.  She longed for a cold juice.

In Peru, they often – almost always – carried cold water in an “eski” in the boot.  Prisca used to put it there.  Of course, there were not the bars and cafes where one could stop so easily and more often than not tap water couldn’t be drunk anyway.  She remembered her mother was always dubious about eating or drinking anywhere other than at home, though standards had improved, of course, and in recent years there was a really attractive place on the paseo where they would often stop for a coffee.

Marie-Carmen gazed absent-mindedly out of the taxi window, her eyes scanning lightly the brown mountains against the blue sky; there were little white farmhouses dotted in the hills, just visible beyond the buildings of San Pedro.  Tall palms waved lightly in the sea breeze and she noted vaguely that there were no seagulls – she had disliked intensely the squawking, screeching cries of the seagulls in Brighton.  When was that?  Months ago now, a day trip while they were staying in London.

In some ways she’d have liked to go somewhere rather more sophisticated than the south of Spain.  New York, Manhattan would have been great!  They had friends in Manhattan.  Wow, the Americans know how to do it!  Paris, perhaps, or London, Vienna, but Ignacio was right, they could mingle in here with no trouble; they were not discernible in these crowds.

Beyond the bar, a man came out of a small side street where she could see the police station.

For e-books click below:-

https://payhip.com/b/tEva    “A Call from France”

https://payhip.com/b/OTiQ    ”French Sand”

https://payhip.com/b/BLkF    “The Man with Green Fingers”

https://payhip.com/b/1Ghq    “Saying Nothing”

From Amazon/Kindle click below:-

http://www.amazon.com/Saying-Nothing-ebook/dp/B007X2K396/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1375817074&sr=8-3&keywords=catherine+broughton

- See more at: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/people-in-my-books-ignacio/#sthash.plDdvGnV.dpuf

Bullying

All three of my children suffered bullying at school, though mercifully in moderate forms.   All three were (and are) strong personalities who were able to step aside from it to an extent.  All three also kept it more-or-less to themselves for a long time.  This told me two things – one was that there was an element of fear in that, if they told, the situation would get worse and two, that they felt issue could not anyway be resolved.  I tried to comfort myelf with the thought that if it were that bad, they’d react … but unhappily it doesn’t work that way, and a long time can go by before a parent realizes their child is being bullied.

The fact that bullies are invariably “inadequate” people is no comfort at all.

Our case was exaccabated by two things – I was a working mother and, although I was devoted (and still am!) to my babies, I was nonetheless very very busy. Secondly, the staff at the respective schools had not only not noticed anything but also didn’t care at all.

For this blog in full and more please see: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/bullying/#sthash.qLfBSluH.dpuf

People in my books: Marie Carmen

Despite losing her mother at a very early age, Marie-Carmen had a previleged childhood.  Born in to a wealthy family, an only child, and raised by her adoring father and devoted maid, Marie-Carmen had a wholesome, happy and fulfilled childhood.  Not particularly pretty as a child, she grew in to a stunning-looking young woman.  She was fit and cheerful, rarely ill, tolerably serious about school work, surrounded by friends and the families of friends.

She didn’t shine at anything in particular.  She enjoyed horse-riding, and had her own pony by the time she was five, but she never became an adept horse-woman.  She learned to play the piano when young, but was not especially talented, and the same could be said of her performance in ballet, art or sport.  She was a good all-rounder in  a modest sort of way.

She was generous and kind-hearted and, thanks largely to her maid, knew and understood all about the poor and, in the early days of her marriage she organized many fund-raisers for various causes, sometimes raising stunning amounts of money.  Her maid would have liked to have seen her married and having babies by the time she was seventeen – and she made this very clear on many occasion.  She didn’t wait a great deal longer than that, anyhow, and her papa said she had simply fallen for the first good-looking man to come her way.  There was some truth in that.

Had she been asked what her papa did for a living she’d have said he was a business man.  That is all.  She was sharp enough to know there was more to it than that, but not sharp enough – or interested enough – to query any further.  Her papa loved her and looked after her, and there was no need for her to look any deeper.  She was to never know that her father’s dying wish was that she never be told the truth.

- See more at: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/people-in-my-books-marie-carmen/#sthash.UAojIok4.dpuf

People in my books: Greg

Greg was a man’s man.  He liked boats, engines, tractors, fishing nets, wet and oily things.  He was serious, but brilliant at telling a joke.  He was hard-working but enjoyed a couple of drinks with his friends.  He was honest, but open to ideas for making a quick buck.  The cold didn’t bother him and he had spent many an hour working on a car engine in some frozen Sussex garage in the depths of an English winter.  Likewise the heat didn’t bother him and he was totally at home under the South Pacific sun at the hottest time of the day.  He didn’t burn, he enjoyed working up a thirst. Mosquitoes droning around his head at night didn’t bother him.  It would never have occurred to him to be afraid of a snake … or a dog … or a shark.

Tall, strong and good-looking, he had had plenty of girl friends.  But when Melanie announced she was pregnant, he married her with no hesitation, the way one did in those days.  He accepted his lot reasonably graciously, barely noticed the advancing pregnancy except when he wanted to have sex with his wife, and was most certainly no where near the hospital at the time of the birth.

Baby matters were no concern of his, but he was proud of his little son and, asked if he loved him would have said yes, of course.  Or perhaps he’d have felt awkward and said that he didn’t go in for all that lovey-dovey stuff.  It was way too late in the day when he realized just how much he loved Melanie and the child. Way too late.

- See more at: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/people-in-my-books-greg-2/#sthash.r5z6PH4S.dpuf