The Toowoomba Carnival of Flowers is held in September, and generally runs for ten days at the end of the month.
We visited the Laurel Bank Park, where there are beds of many colorful flowers,
open spaces,
statues,
an area set aside for not only tulips but a model windmill
and quite a number of hedge sculptures
There was also the opportunity to go on a morning or afternoon garden tour which visited a number of private gardens of residences in Toowoomba.
This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
See below for an excerpt from the book…
Coming soon!
An excerpt from the book:
When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.
Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.
It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.
Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.
But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.
His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.
At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.
For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.
Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.
Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.
Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.
It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.
It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.
Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.
Except, of course, when it came to Harry.
He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.
So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.
There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.
So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.
There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.
She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.
Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.
Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.
Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.
Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.
Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.
…
© Charles Heath 2019-2024
Day 147
Writing Exercise
…
We sat across the table, with six feet of air between us, staring each other down, like the old days when we tried outstaring each other.
Usually I lose, but not today.
There was nothing at stake here but pride, and over the last thirty-two years, I had mine trodden on, beaten out of me, and have people proclaim in no uncertain terms it would be my downfall.
My downfall had been the cruelty dealt me by an unforgiving and monstrous father, and equally as monstrous sister, every bit her father.
The lawyer at the end of the table didn’t want to be there.
I didn’t want to be here; only someone had to stop the evil witch from destroying everything my mother had created for us, and the world around us.
“You’re pathetic.” It was the tenth time she’d said it.
“You are a monster.” It was the first time I used it, but it was water off a duck’s back.
She would claim she’d heard worse, and I would believe her. I was not the only one who thought she had gone down the wrong path.
“Jesus, Henry, is that the best you can do?”
“No. But you don’t bring out the big guns until you have to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just sign the papers and consign the building and contents to the historical society. It was mother’s wish and we will be adhering to it.”
I had a brief moment, back in her room, on her deathbed, holding my hand and telling me that the house should not under any circumstances go to anyone but the historical society. That had been in her will, but our father had contested it and won. Now, he was consigning it to a bunch of country club charlatans who wanted a hotel, spa, and golf course.
I’d worked out a deal with the historical society, and as beneficiaries, all we had to do was sign it over. Harriet wanted to sell it, take her half, and go on a first-class tour of the world, among other things.
“She was as pathetic as you are. She had no idea what the worth of the place was, and how it would help us.”
“It won’t help you. Whatever you get, you’ll have spent in a year. Do the right thing. It’ll be the only thing left of Mother to remember her.”
“She wasn’t a mother to me.”
“You weren’t a daughter to her.”
She stood up suddenly, and the chair fell backwards with a crash. “Then I’ll see you in court.”
“You go out that door, I will, but not in the way you would imagine.” I stood too. “Please. I dare you.”
A dare would do the job. It was time for the big guns.
She crossed to the door and had her hand on the handle. The lawyer was looking out the window. He knew what was coming and didn’t want to be a witness.
“What have you got up your sleeve?”
I looked up my sleeve. “An arm. Why do you ask?”
She came back and sat down. Then her manner completely changed. Yes, I’d seen that before. My father was very good at playing the game; he might not know what was going on, but in the end, he’d wheedle it out of you.
Harriet was no different. Except this time, I was immune. It was my mother’s affairs, and she was watching over me.
“What have you got up your sleeve, young Henry?” The same tone and manner as my father, in fact, it was like looking at and listening to him.
“Clue: 2022.”
“You were a bigger nincampoop then than you are now. So?”
Clue: Fry.”
“What? Fish and chips. Have you gone completely mad?”
“Clue: $20,000,000.”
A flicker. Fry was the accountant she employed to syphon twenty million dollars out of the business account, ostensibly to invest in the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund in 2022, as part of a tax dodge. Instead, it went into an offshore account in her name, while the paperwork covered the tracks. Then in 2024, we received advice that the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund had crashed, and the investors were left out of pocket. Convenient for her. Hardly a blip on the horizon for the business.
Except it looks like she’s spent it all, and is now back for more. Except, I had a visit the week before from some very nasty people telling me if I didn’t pay up her debts, to the tune of ten million and rising at the rate of one million a month, then someone was going to get hurt.
No smart ass reply. Yet.
“Last clue: Benny. I’m sure you are aware of who Benny is, grating voice, several prominent scars, no manners whatsoever.”
“When?” A whisper.
“Last week. Came to my house. Scared the living shit out of Willie. What happened to the twenty million you stole three years ago? No one can spend twenty million in two years.”
“I have a lifestyle and image to maintain.”
“Tell me how that can happen after Benny and his friend cut you up into twenty pieces and drop them into the sewer?”
“Is that what he threatened?”
“No, that’s what I told him I would do to you when I saw you next. What the hell do you think he was going to say?”
“Just sell the place, give me my share, and I’m in the wind. You won’t see me again.”
“No. You’ll sign the papers to hand this place over to the historical society, I will pay the debt, and you will surrender yourself to the police.”
“Hell will freeze over first. I got away with that free and clear. No one knows.”
“I do.”
“And I’ll make sure no one else does. I thought you might have done something like this. Rhonda told me you were acting strange and asking all these stupid questions. Well, I took out some insurance, just in case.”
I looked over at the lawyer. “You can leave now. You don’t want to be here until after we’ve sorted this out. By the side entrance.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
“Now,” I said, “You can try to do your worst.”
She picked up her cell phone and speed-dialled a number. Nothing happened.
“There’s no service in this room.”
She got up and went over to the door and opened it. A second later, she slammed it shut and turned around.
“What have you done?”
“I told Benny we were settling your debt today, one way or another. I had your boyfriend and his mates arrested, attempting to kidnap one of my children. That’s low even for you, Harriet. You’ve been under surveillance for the last three months, but not by me. You seem to have some terrible enemies on both sides of the law. By the way, Dad knew you took the money. He thought it showed initiative. So did I actually.”
“I’m happy to go to the police and tell them you were the one who did it. My name is not on any of the paperwork.”
“No. That was a deft touch. Fry took a little convincing before he told us what you did. Any more surprises up your sleeve, Harriet?”
Yes, one. A gun. In her handbag. A gun that she pointed at me.
“So,” she said, “This is how this is going to go. We are going to sign the resort deal, and I’m going to leave with it, and you’re not going to stop me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll do what I’ve always done, and sign for you. You have the easiest signature to forge, Henry.”
The last piece of the puzzle, and the confession I needed. “But if you can’t take it, then I know I can’t either.”
“What?”
“It’s what my mother told my father just before he killed her. I was there, by the way, by accident. I had no idea what she meant, but apparently he did. The thing is, I killed him, and he died before she did, outlasting him by a day and a half. And now you have to die.”
It was hardly a sound, just a plop that could not be heard outside the room. Behind me, the shadow materialised into a human shape. My mother. She had not been killed, just badly wounded. She was not going to suddenly reappear now Harriet was gone; that was never her plan. The monsters were dead, and she could retire to a shack in the Bahamas. The business was mine.
I went over to Harriet, now a crumpled heap on the floor. Dead. It was not my sister; she had been murdered and substituted three years ago. We knew it wasn’t her because my sister would not have stolen twenty million, but that aside, Harriet was her father’s daughter, but with a little more compassion.
A nod to Benson, my mother’s bodyguard, who was also hiding in the room, and he took Harriet away, leaving the room empty except for the papers on the desk. I signed the historical society document, first as Harriet and then as myself, and called the lawyer back in. He checked the signatures and then countersigned as a witness.
Then I went out and handed Benny a check for his debt, with the threat that if I saw him again, it would be the last time he saw me. Benson saw them out. Given all that had happened in the last three months, Mother and I needed a holiday.
In a little shack in the Bahamas.
…
© Charles Heath 2025
I’m not a fan of romance novels but …
There was something about this one that resonated with me.
This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.
I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.
For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.
For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.
For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.
Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.
When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.
But is it all the truth?
What would we do in similar circumstances?
Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.
And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.
…
Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8
…
Have you ever heard of someone rabbiting on, you know, endlessly rattling on about nothing?
That’s just one use of the word rabbit.
The most obvious is the animal, a rabbit. You know, that burrowing, plant-eating, long-eared, short-tailed animal that goes by the name of Bugs Bunny, maybe.
Nearly every child has a stuffed, cuddly one.
Of course, it’s of some significance at the moment because it’s Easter, and there are countless chocolate versions of the so-called Easter bunny.
Then there is that 6-foot-high invisible rabbit called Harvey, or not necessarily a rabbit, but a pookah.
We use the expression rabbit ears to describe those old interior television antennas.
There’s rabbit stew, rabbit pie, and white rabbit beer.
But my favorite is when the magician pulls the proverbial rabbit out of a hat. It’s an expression we also use for someone who pulls off an impossible task.
Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4
…
With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.
Just in case.
© Charles Heath 2015-2020
Here’s an interesting question, where do you find the most comfortable place to write? Is it in an office, in a room overlooking the ocean, and basement where you can make it dark and creepy for atmosphere, is it at a train station, at work, which could end up presenting you with problems, or somewhere else.
Some people have an office, mine is a converted garage, and the walls are lined with books. It isn’t the greatest place though. There’s a smart alec cat always on my case.
There’s a couch in the living room where, late at night, I sometimes sit and ponder over about a thousand words of whatever the current story is in my head. Cat withstanding.
It could be a cafe or restaurant, where it starts out as notes on the ambiance, the food, the people, then a little more, and gets me into trouble with my dining companions.
They should not have created writing programs for mobile phones. Or for that matter, allow the phones to get smarter than their users.
But…
That’s a whole other story.
So having found that special or nonspecial spot in the house, or out there in the universe, how do you become creative?
Is it you’ve been carrying the ideas around in your head for a while and you just need somewhere neutral to get them on paper, or in that pesky smartphone?
Is it sitting by the window with a cup of coffee and a mice cream-filled cake, when something catches your eye, and instantly the words begin forming?
Are you with someone, a muse, a partner, a spouse, a friend, a secret friend, or just a stranger, and you start getting the wrong ideas? Or the right ideas if it’s a different sort of book.
Sometimes I move seats and sit opposite the writer’s chair to take a good long hard look at the person, the so-called writer, conjuring up in my mind, if I was someone I’d just dragged in off the street, what would I ask?
They, no doubt would be cynical.
Why bother when there are a million others out there trying to do the same thing?
That’s the easy question. Every story is different. Why? Because every writer has a different point of view, a different set of experiences, a different personality, different friends, this could go on forever…
Here’s a test, outline a story and give that outline to ten different writers. You’d get ten different stories.
Where do you get the motivation?
Don’t know. Some days I don’t want to get out of bed, others, I can’t go to sleep until the words have stopped. Go figure.
What do you do for inspiration?
Inside, outside, upside down, everywhere and anywhere.
Just remember, always have a notebook and pencil on hand. Why pencil, I never have any luck with pens.
Talk fast, and hope like hell!
…
Oh, to be back on a cargo ship with three other crew members and a robot that wasn’t trying to destroy ships and murder crew members.
On the cargo ship, the captain could hide in his or her cabin behind the bridge and never come out except to tell the robot he or she was doing a good job.
Sometimes you’d see the crew in the mess hall.
No major life-changing decisions. It was point A to point B without drama, hold-ups, or anything really.
Not like being the captain of a brand-new class of explorer’s vessels with over 2,000 crewmen on the outer edges of our galaxy, on the verge of being destroyed.
“So, for the benefit of a human without the resources of countless generations of knowledge, and experience of countless alien entities, who or what are you that can make such a life-changing decision? Especially after you said that we would be safe.”
“If you are inferring that I am a robot programmed to not look rationally at the pros and cons of any case you put to me, or that I am devoid of any empathy, you’re wrong. That I should make such a threat, in our experience, you humans tend to do one of two possible actions, you retaliate with violence, or you make a rational argument. As for who I am, I have a living body that requires nourishment and ages not unlike your own, hosting a fully cognisant member of our race. The only difference is that I do not appear in my true form, in deference to making your interaction simpler. I could take any one of a hundred different forms, depending on whom we hold discussions.”
That cleared several questions that had formed in my mind. This race was very advanced, being able to put their consciousness into another, or any, body. Did that mean they never died? Not the time to ask. The fact they had found a way to assess human reaction to stress, or life or death situations so simply showed they had been observing us a long time.
“We chose not to shoot first. You will see we might be at a battle state, but that’s only for our protection. You cannot hold us responsible for the actions of that other ship because as far as the whole of our planet is concerned, we were the first to come here, and as the first, our mission is not to shoot first and ask questions later, as much as it is to explore, and learn. The keyword is learning.”
“These are words, and our experiences with humans have taught us that what you say and what you do are quite often two entirely different things.”
My experience too, and it was an all too familiar scenario. I suspect that the motives of my masters might equally be received with some skeptics, because not everyone in the alliance was on the same page, and decisions were sometimes based on possible shifting alliances.
Space travel still had a gloss on it, and everyone was looking to get a seat at the table. I had no doubt my new friend, I’d I could call him that, would be equally aware of the situation, as it appeared he did, and it spoke volumes about the levels of their penetration in our world.
“I think, then, our best course of action is to prove we mean what we say. You were chasing that other vessel, the one you say the occupants committed crimes upon people in your galaxy.”
“They did. We were, but there was a measured reluctance on the part of the other crew members to pursue them beyond the limits of our galaxy. Exploration is one thing, an offense that might cause conflict is something else.”
So, they had problems with being the instigators of actions that might be misinterpreted.
“Then let us apprehend them, and we will render the justice together. I have no trouble bringing people who have criminal intentions to justice. I would prefer it to be ours, but for the sake of creating at least an initial relationship between our worlds, I will accept the responsibility.”
I could see Nancy looking at me with a look that would kill mortal men and understood her concern. This was going to be a tough sell all round
“It would be acceptable as a preliminary basis for discussions. My people would consider your input if or when any or all of those responsible for crimes were arraigned.”
Good enough, for the moment.
“Excellent. Now, could you lift the block you have on our communications so I can get the first officer on to finding where their ship is “
“You may have a hard job catching them. Their ship is, as far as we are aware, the fastest your galaxy has.”
“Not quite, but that’s a discussion for another day.”
The green bar on my communicator returned.
“Number one.”
A moment later he came back with, Sir, you are OK?”
“Fine. Have you been monitoring that Russian vessel?”
“Yes, sir. It’s about a half-hour from here.”
“Good. Ready the ship for pursuit. We have a few questions that need answering. I’ll explain more when I get back.”
“You can come with us, on our ship, or in yours. I will communicate your existence with my superiors, just not the fact you’ve infiltrated us in deference to your people if you want to get them out, or declare their presence, a situation we can control if you agree to sit down and talk about it. I suspect that they’ve been helping more than hindering, other than just keeping you informed of our progress.”
I didn’t get a smile, but that invisible change in expression was an interesting indicator.
“I’ll stay, we’ll follow discreetly. Your actions will be judged, Captain.”
“No pressure then. Could you send the names, or if not, photos, of the offenders? How many are there?”
“Six. We shall. Good luck.”
The next instant I was back on the deck of my own ship.
…
© Charles Heath 2021-2022
This is what we saw driving along the Coquihalla Highway in Canada, a rather infamous stretch of road featured on the Discovery Channel, and yes, we saw a number of cars and trucks off the side of the road, and not in a good way
The road was iced over in place, and driving was difficult, but on the plus side the scenery was spectacular, and it was hard not to be distracted when driving.
But, inspiration for a story? It might go something like this:
…
Arty was adamant that he knew the best where man in the business.
That might gave been true if he was in the middle of the city where there were endless tests and turns that could be used to lost chasing police vehicles.
But that didn’t apply to the open road, and one that was think with ice and snow, even if it had recently been cleared.
But that wasn’t as bad as the fact that we had got free of the city, lost the pursuing cars, changed vehicles, and got away free.
All he had to fo was follow the road.
Except Arty had a temper, and getting stuck behind an old van going ever so slowly on the road, caused him to first blast them with horn, then start doing dangerous accelations up behind them, and then attempt to overtake on a bend in the road.
That might not have been so bad if there had not been an oncoming car, but there was.
Even that might not have been so bad if the car had not been a police vehicle.
But the real kicker: Arty lost control of the car and we went sailing off the edge of the road into a ravine, landing on soft ice which after a minute started cracking and then gave way.
The last place I wanted to be was to be sinking into a freezing cold river, but there we were, all frantically trying to get out.
Fortunately, I did, but not before I was soaking wet, and almost frozen. The rest didn’t make it.
Day 146
Seeking answers in writing stories or novels
…
Would I? Yes.
I am in the middle of researching my family history. For a long time, I didn’t have any interest. My parents never talked of their relatives, and the only relatives I remember seeing are my mother’s mother, one uncle, my mother’s brother, and vaguely, my father’s older sister.
I knew that my older brother was dabbling in the family history over the last 40 years, and got to meet and talk to a lot of people I never knew existed.
Then he sent me some family trees, and I was hooked.
There was stuff my paratns said, perhaps when they never realised we were listening, that my mother had an older sister whm she was extremely jealous of, and I think I met her once or twice, that my mothers father had committed suicide and his son found him, still alive, and was traumatised beyone imagination.
I could believe it. We stayed with my grandmother in her country house, and it was an oasis away from my normal life, and it fed an imagination that inspired many stories. And that I began to live in lots of different worlds, any world but reality.
But…
My father’s mother! Wow!
What 25 year old girl, in England, who was not wealthy, and in the year 1914 whe the world was in upheaval and war clouds were gathering, left her safe job as a milliner in Gillingham, Dorset, to get on a ship with 1,300 other strange souls to spend a month with, and come to of all places Melbourne Australia.
This was my grandmother, the adventuress!
There’s a story to be told, and I’m writing it.
So yes, I will be writing the story, based on fact, but a little embellishment, but someone I never knew, and I think if I’d ever realised who she was, I would have talked to her about it. I was sixteen when she died, and I never really knew her, or rarely saw her.
If I only knew then what I know now…
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 