The Unwritten Writing on the wall.

Back in the 60s and early 70s, when we still wrote with quill pens and wove our own clothes, in that era before the national curriculum left no room for anything except qualifications for the labour market, I studied the British Constitution at O and A level.  Does anyone study it any more at school? Do any pupils other than Oxbridge students of PPE have any idea what our constitution is?

     It’s there. It isn’t written, but it definitely exists, embedded in statutes, traditions and legal pronouncements. Because it isn’t written, it tends to evolve – so at least we aren’t stuck with a fossilised 18^th century amendment entitling us to carry murder weapons. Is it evolving at the moment, in front of our very eyes? There’s nothing wrong with it doing so, if that is what we want, but shouldn’t we understand what it is before we started shredding little bits whenever we feel in the mood?

1215. Magna Carta: an awful lot of it is about who gets the income from weirs on the Thames and such matters, but the underlying idea that came out of it was the Rule of Law, meaning that everyone, from the lowliest dung-splattered peasant to the King in Westminster, was subject to the law of the land. There is no separate law entitling servants of the state to get away with what would be crimes for others. No specially oppressive laws applying only to those at the bottom of the pile. Everyone is under the law and everyone is entitled to its protection. No one can be held or punished without due process. No one can simply be “disappeared.” In theory. Theoretical or not, do we want the rule of law or do we want to replace it with something else? A system perhaps where someone in a position of power can act outside the law or change it to suit himself? We need to debate the matter before we chuck it away.

Parliament. Since 1265 we have had, on and off, an elected House of Commons as part of a Parliament to keep the King in check. Not that it meant much back then, but in Tudor times it began to be the really significant mover and shaker in the land, and a century later the country was plunged into civil war, deciding whether King or Parliament was dominant. By the end of the 17^th century, after one king was radically reduced in height and another was deposed, the principle of the sovereignty of Parliament was established. The power of parliament could not be curtailed by anyone or any body except itself. It did voluntarily curtail that power when Britain joined the EEC, with the understanding that it could, equally, revoke that membership.

     So if we now leave the EU, are we firmly re-establishing the sovereignty of Parliament or do we think something or someone else should be sovereign even over Parliament? Like the will of the people expressed in a single referendum? If we do think that’s an option, let’s debate it. Should sovereignty from now on be invested in the people by holding an endless stream of referendums (referenda?) to decide how we should be governed? It’s not impossible. Switzerland has them all the time. But if we think we might want that, let’s talk about it.

    It has been suggested that in the referendum, the people instructed Parliament to take Britain out of the EU. We have never previously been in a situation where Parliament has been subject to instructions. Do we want to change things? Traditionally, MPs have not been delegates, sent to Westminster as mere mouthpieces for their constituents. Instead, we have candidates in elections who put forward their manifestos, and we choose which one we prefer, on the assumption that the elected candidate will thereafter follow that manifesto, using his or her own judgement – and will have to answer for it at the next election. Do we want to keep that, or do we want our MPs to refer back to us for instructions on how to vote each week? It’s a valid option but one we need to decide.

Democracy. Is a referendum more democratic that electing MPs? What is democracy anyway? It has been defined as one man one vote, but let’s come into the 21^st century and say one adult one vote. We’ve had a Parliament for nearly 800 years but we’ve only had democracy since… well, all men over 21 got the vote in 1918. All women got it in 1928. Votes were only restricted to one per person in 1948 (before that, business owners and graduates had 2). Adults between 18 and 21 only got the vote in 1969 and the last lingering shadow of equating voting with property only really vanished when homeless people were given the statutory right to register to vote in 2000, so you could say that we have been a democracy for less than 20 years. Some have said that we have only been granted the right to vote because it’s meaningless and gives us a mere illusion of power. Other people have fought to the death to achieve it. Do we want it or not? If more and more people are deciding not to bother to vote, what are we going to do about it?

The separation of powers.  There are, theoretically three powers which govern our country: the legislature, which makes laws, the judiciary which enforces those laws and the executive which administers the country under those laws. i.e. Parliament (or to be formal, The Crown in Parliament), which makes laws, the courts which apply them and the government which makes things happen… or not. It is held as gospel that the three powers should be separate, balancing and restraining each other, which is obvious nonsense in Britain’s case as they are all intertwined. Until it was replaced by the Supreme Court, the top court in Britain was the House of Lords. Senior judges sat as law lords. At the top of the pile was the Lord Chancellor who was a member of the government. In our Common Law system, laws are made not only in statutes but in court judgements by the judiciary and in statutory instruments made by the executive. The executive, or government, is not independent of the legislature since it is formed by whichever party commands a majority in the Commons. And vice versa: except in remarkable situations where the Commons seize control, legislation is largely dictated by the executive.

    Everything in our system is intertwined, but our influence on any of it is very limited. In our “democracy,” we choose the members of one half of Parliament (the Commons), but we have no say in the House of Lords, no say in the choice of judges and no say in the choice of government. Johnson has not been elected as Prime Minister by the country, but then neither has any Prime Minister ever. All we get to vote for is our local constituency MP. In the USA, they vote for their legislature (Congress) and they vote separately for their executive (the President). Since our Prime Ministers are becoming more and more presidential, should we be voting for our MPs and have a separate election to choose our Prime Minister? It seems that many people are happy with a Prime Minister who has lacks any support in the House of Commons, so do we want to change our whole voting system?

The Union. Not the European Union, the other one. Ours. We quaintly talk about four nations, England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, but except in matters of sport this is fairly meaningless. In 1800, we became the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and that was such a success that we are still mopping up the blood, leaving us with the rump of a divided Ireland.  These days we are the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. We are not the United Kingdom of England, Scotland, Wales and Ulster, nor are we simply England, though many non-Brits, presidents among them, think we are and many non-English Brits feel it's less of a union and more of a subduction zone.

     In the seventeenth century the Stuart monarchs had two separate kingdoms, Scotland and England. They were only united as one kingdom of Great Britain in 1707. Scotland cannot leave Great Britain. If Scotland splits from England, there will be no Great Britain, just Scotland and England with a side order of Celtic Fringe that doesn’t really count – as usual. Many Scots want the Union dissolved. Now many nationalist English do too. While we were all in the EU, it was fairly pointless.  Even divisions in Ireland ceased to matter so much, because the UK and Ireland were both in the EU so why kill each other over sovereignty? The Good Friday agreement became possible. But now that we are about to float off into the Atlantic and cut our mooring ropes to Europe, what do we want to be? If the Scots want another referendum on independence, do the English want one too? We are already divided down the centre by Brexit. Are we about to become the next Balkans? It might be nice to discuss it before it just happens.

Why Book Fairs?

Judith Barrow, me and a banner

Very soon, in little more than a month, I shall be attending Narberth Book Fair (28th and 29th September) which I have helped to organise, with fellow author Judith Barrow, for the last... lost count of how many years, but it has grown successfully from its early days in Tenby to become a two day book fest featuring over fifty indie authors and publishers from Wales and further afield, and one of them is me. Which is why I am updating a blog post from a previous era and explaining why I'll be there.

To stand at a stall, offering my wares, might seem a very medieval way of going about things in the days of internet ordering and e-books. Besides, what are bookshops for, if not to provide any book that anyone is looking for? Literary festivals like Hay, with big names addressing crowds of fans are all very well, but why bother with book fairs?

Narberth Book Fair 2018

The reason is that for most of us authors, such events are the only occasions when we get to meet our readers in the flesh, to discuss our work and hear their opinion. We write for ourselves, mostly, and perhaps to please a publisher or agent, but ultimately, since we choose to be published, rather than storing our work in notebooks under our bed, we write for “the reader” out there, who will devour our polished words. It becomes a somewhat surreal situation if our readers never materialise in the flesh. We need the contact to keep it real.

A fair also allows us to meet our fellow authors, in an atmosphere where everything is all about books, and sometimes it’s very healthy to escape the private isolation of writing and remind ourselves that we are not alone. There are other people as obsessed with writing as us.

Me. At the fair, last year.

For indie authors, who self-publish, and who want to rely on more than Kindle sales on Amazon, fairs can be almost the only way to put their printed books out there, for people to see. Many bookshops simply don’t stock independent authors. An ISBN number is not enough to get you on the “List.” And for us conventionally published authors, there is no guarantee that bookshops, even their local bookshops, will pay them any attention whatsoever. If you are lucky, you might find a copy of your book, buried in a dark corner, out of sequence, while the front displays concentrate on the highly promoted big names. If you are in the hands of one of the mega-publishing houses, which sees you as a potential block-buster in WH Smiths or on airport concourses, then they might send you off on tour round the country or the world, to meet your readers. They might flaunt your book cover on billboards for you. 99% of authors don’t get that treatment, so we have to put ourselves out there.

And that’s what book fairs are for. So do come. We're a rare breed and well worth gawping at.

Space, the final fictional frontier

We are celebrating a memorable event: the Moon Landing. I remember it well. It was thrilling, it held us spell-bound and it seemed to herald an exciting new age, even if it was just a yah boo interval in the Cold War.  I have heard it repeatedly described as Man’s greatest achievement. Is it? A man steps on a bit of dusty barren rock that isn’t the Earth and that outranks everything else we have done on this planet?

I think our exploits in space did achieve something truly awesome. It gave us an off-Earth view of our own planet and taught us that of all the lumps of rock and swirling gas that make up our solar system the only one of unbelievable beauty and worth is the one we are already on.

Our planet has water, an atmosphere, everything required to sustain life, and it has us. Not just our bodies but our minds, with our ability to imagine, to create fiction. Only from our own planet can we conjure up beauty out there. We glory in, even worship, the sun when it’s a life-giving source of light and warmth that slips with reassuring certainty across our blue sky. In reality, it’s a lump of hot plasma, engaged in nuclear fusion. We gaze adoringly at the eerie loveliness of the white moon in our dark night. In reality, it’s dead rock, nothing else. What is more beautiful than the evening star, a low bright pageboy to the sinking sun… It’s Venus, and in reality it’s a boiling image of Hell under clouds of sulphuric acid.

 Mars, the red planet in our imaginations is the home of aliens, Martians, who can both fascinate and terrify us – except that in reality if there ever was any chance of life on it, it has long gone, with its atmosphere.

Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune are balls of gas. Their moons are rocks. They might be volcanic. They might even harbour water.

Scientists get excited about this and so should we all. It is exciting. But not as exciting as the volcanoes on earth, reminding us, whenever they erupt, of our own limitations as masters of the universe. Not as exciting at the vast oceans of water that cover Earth, with depths that we have yet to explore and life forms that we have yet to discover.

That is not a bad thing, at least for novelists. The unknown opens up an endless source of speculation and possibilities, which definite answers will only spoil. From Earth, our imagination opens up Space in a way technology never will. We can do the impossible. NASA may be able to lift a bit of metal out of Earth’s gravity and dump it on the Moon, but in our imaginations we can travel faster than light and visit distant galaxies. And we do it on the most perfect planet there is – unless we manage to mess it up.

Find my earth-bound books at my website

convincing dialogue

I write in the morning, first thing, before getting out of bed. But much of my thinking about what I am going to write is done on a walk after dinner. This isn’t a matter of striding out across the moors, or along the foreshore in the moonlight, you understand. I live 300 yards down a private lane. Don’t get ideas of a gated drive leading to a Palladian country house. It’s a Pembrokeshire farm lane, owned by our farmer neighbours who never use it, and my evening walk consists of marching up and down between towering hedgerows, occasionally diverted by birds in the overhanging ash trees, or the sight of the first snowdrop, but mostly I’m just stomping along, back and forth, working out the next day’s writing session.

Being of a certain age, I tend to do my thinking out loud. Even when shopping at Tesco’s, which has begun to lead to anxious mothers steering their small children away from the strange woman who’s complaining loudly, to no-one in particular, about the lack of Typhoo tea and lime juice.

However, when I’m taking my after-dinner walk, I can be certain of being safe from any audience, which is very liberating. I can keep conversations between my characters going for half an hour without interruption and it does help to make dialogue more realistic. What I hadn’t appreciated was that I must do quite realistic tones and accents while I’m at it, because today, as I reached the farmyard turning point on my walk, in the middle of a violent argument between a brother and sister, I found I did have an audience – my neighbours, staring at me in alarm, and peering beyond me, in search of the drunken thug who was obviously chasing me.

I am not sure that saying ‘Hello, lovely evening, isn’t it?’ in my best Lutonian accent (despite the drizzling rain), really persuaded them that all was fine. They were exchanging worried looks as I wheeled back down the lane. But at least I’m fairly sure that my brother/sister argument is reasonably convincing.

Living in Interesting Times

There is nothing quite so interesting as being on the very brink of signing a contract with a publisher for a second book, only to discover that said publisher has just gone into liquidation.

Actually, there are probably quite a lot of things far more interesting, but this was sufficient for me.

Endeavour Press published my fourth novel, Shadows, last year. I was on the point of signing a contract for a second when word came through that Endeavour had gone into liquidation. Which was, I thought, a little bit of a nuisance.

Fortunately, it turned out that the liquidation was voluntary, which meant no one was going to lose their royalties and could keep their titles ticking over, if they so chose. The directors of Endeavour were going their separate ways and authors could choose which one to go with. I've gone with Endeavour Media, which will continue to publish Shadows as an e-book and I have now also signed a contract for the e-publication of its companion, Long Shadows.

However, I thought I would use the opportunity of total chaos, to rethink the paperback publication. Endeavour concentrates on e-books and deals brilliantly with them, but though they offer a paperback option, it is available solely through Amazon. I may be wrong, but I suspect that a lot of people who prefer paperbacks to Kindles would really like to buy from good old-fashioned book shops, while they still exist. So, heart in mouth, I have decided to bring out the paperbacks myself, through FeedARead.com.

It does mean that my books are now both conventionally and self-published. I wait to see whether I've opted for the best or the worst of both worlds. Am I mad? Probably, but I am willing to play with fire, and since one of the bonuses of self-publishing is that I can choose my own covers, here are my brand new paperback covers.

  

and to compare and contrast, here are the Endeavour covers for the Kindle versions.

     

I shall not ask you to vote, but the books are available here.

Shadows 

Long Shadows paperback

Long Shadows Kindle

Christmas at Castell Mawr 1938

Just to get in the mood, with memories of a time when several households could mingle at Christmas, here is an extract from A Time For Silence:

Christmas, 1938 at Castell Mawr.
© Thorne Moore 

Gwen has been busy because it’s second nature, she cannot be still. There are plates to carry, cups to wash and she must help, that is only right. But there are more than enough George daughters and George aunts and cousins to do all that is required, and Betty John has been firm with her. ‘Go and sit down, Gwen. Rest your feet. You deserve it.’

So she is doing what she has almost forgotten how to do: nothing at all. She sits, out of the way, soaking up the warmth and the exotic experience of being still, watching the scene with a sense of faintly wicked contentment. The children of Ted Absalom, one of the Georges' hands, are huddled nearby over the unspeakable luxury of an orange. Gwen leans down to help them with the peel, the small business helping to assuage the sinfulness of being idle.

The smell of orange. When did she last savour that? Christmases of long ago, happy faces that have vanished forever, her mother, her brother before the TB, her father still hale …All recaptured by the sweet sharp spicy warm smell of Christmas at Castell Mawr. The frosts have set in with a vengeance, but inside the old farmhouse, all is cheerful flickering warmth. A monstrous fire flames in the huge hearth, roaring up the massive open chimney. The oak beams are festooned with greenery and paper chains made by the children. Candles twinkle on the Christmas tree and the sideboard is groaning under the spread of hams and mince pies, cakes and cheeses and preserved fruit.

Rosie and Jack are red-faced with pleasure and overeating, romping among the other children with squeals of delight. Tom, smallest and slowest of the Absaloms, triumphantly bolts down the last of his orange and struggles over to join them.

Light and warmth and laughter. The resinous smell of greenery, flickering flames, a feast for the entire parish. The Georges are as careful with their money as their neighbours, but maybe that is why they can afford this annual prodigality.

It is all a far cry from the spartan Christmas chill of Cwmderwen, though Gwen has done what she can, saving up spare coppers from her housekeeping, and attempting rashly to roast a scrawny old hen, past laying, that should have had two days slow boiling in the stock pot to render it edible. They ate it regardless and the children had presents.

Not toys. John would never tolerate that sort of thing. Their gifts from the Chapel tree on Christmas Eve, dispensed by a Father Christmas looking strangely like William George, disappeared within hours of their return home. Jack’s tin trumpet was confiscated as he came through the door and Rosie’s bead necklace was gone by bed time. Toys have no place in the house. Rosie’s doll, Maggie May, survives only because she lives secretly in an old biscuit tin concealed just over the garden wall. But John permitted the mufflers, mittens and tam-o’-shanters that Gwen has knitted out of old wool and he accepted the new boots that Rosie must have for growing feet, with the old ones falling to pieces. He sniffed in disapproval at the sprigs of holly Gwen brought in from the woods to brighten the hearth. Christmas is a time for chapel and reverence, not for bawdy frolics and pagan merriment.
His disapproval, she notes, is reserved for the hallowed soil of Cwmderwen. No such censure for the celebrations here at Castell Mawr, but then who would dare criticise with Mrs. George presiding over the revelry from her rocking chair? One glance at her solemn bulk strapped into her best black satin will dispel any idea that there is anything ungodly about this gathering.

After all, they have spent most of the day at prayer, up at six, chapel at Beulah, then at Caersalem over at Felindre, then back to Beulah for the children to recite the pwnc and be catechised. And now the minister is come, to prove that all this feasting and laughter in a God-fearing house is perfectly righteous.

Mrs. George’s eldest daughter, Annie Lloyd and her sister-in-law Evelyn are organising the children into a choir. Hymns and carols around the Christmas tree, while Annie plays, thumping on the piano with joyously inaccurate goodwill. Rosie’s little voice rings out clear and pure above the others. Mrs. George looks across to Gwen, with a nod as if to say, ‘I told you so.’

The gesture of approval is dear to Gwen, but she does not need to be told that Rosie has musical talent. Of course she would have, with a singer like John for her father. It is his turn now. He is standing solemnly in the background, hands clasped behind his back, aloof even here, but they are having none of that, summoning him forward.

The Reverend Harries claps his hands. ‘Yes, come now, Owen. Let us have some sacred music worthy of the season.’

John demurs and then complies, standing dignified by the piano as Annie anxiously leafs through the music. Should Gwen offer to help? There is no need. John’s repertoire, which she knows by heart, consists mostly of hymns that Annie mastered years ago, and a few pieces from the great religious oratorios.

Calon Lân to start with, because Annie can play it with her eyes shut. John begins and his audience joins in, a quiet accompaniment at first and then a rising crescendo of hwyl. Then The Messiah. Every valley shall be exalted. The roof timbers are ringing, threatening to exalt themselves into the night sky. John is in truly wonderful voice, his breast swelling, the liberated spirit within him finding its wings and soaring as only music allows. He finishes amidst a roar of applause. The Reverend Harries beams round proudly as if this prodigy of Beulah Chapel were his very own creation.

A pause. They are debating. Some Bach? Annie is not sure she can do it justice.

The Reverend looks up suddenly, in Gwen’s direction. ‘But of course, we mustn’t forget Mrs. Owen. Quite a reputation in her youth, so I’ve been told. Is that not so, Mrs. Owen?’

Gwen smiles and shakes her head, eager to divert their attention. The smile is a mask concealing a sudden flutter of pain. In her youth. When was that? She is scarcely into her thirties and her youth is already something barely remembered, a dream of long ago from which she has woken with a vengeance. ‘Oh no, don't think of me, I haven’t played for years.’ When was the last time she had been permitted time to play, on her fleeting visits to Penbryn? She cannot remember.

They are not listening to her objections. Evelyn and Annie and her sister Betty have gathered round, cooing and twittering and insisting that Gwen must perform too. She can accompany John. What could be more appropriate than that?

‘I really don’t think—’
‘Play us one of your father’s hymns,’ suggests Mrs. George, and no one dares to argue, least of all Gwen.

Tentatively she seats herself at the piano stool. Perhaps she can no longer play. Her fingers ache from scrubbing and boiling and mending and milking and the onset of rheumatism. They cannot possibly move smoothly enough.

But they do. They awake, at her command, as if they had been waiting. She plays, one of her father’s best compositions, and it all comes back as if she were practising still at her old instrument in her room over the grocer’s shop.

She is the focus of all attention. It is not right; she feels a guilty twinge. They should not be minding her. That had not been her intention when she had agreed to play. She had expected John to sing the words, but he has not understood her intent and is silent, so she plays while the others gather round in earnest admiration, humming along, the Reverend and Sidney Lloyd finally adding the words.

It is such a pleasure, to be playing again. She had forgotten how overwhelmingly pleasurable it was. Annie has her hands clasped in ridiculous admiration and William applauds loudly, though Gwen realises, with an inner smile, that he is not just complimenting her, but currying favour with Evelyn Lloyd, whose enthusiasm is gushing.

‘Why, Gwen! I didn’t know you could play. Play some more. Here, let me see.’ While Evelyn is rustling through the papers, others crowd round in ungrudging admiration, but Gwen barely notices them. It is Rosie she sees, Rosie sitting still with the other children but suddenly apart in spirit, thumb dropped from her mouth, eyes wide with astonishment that her mother can do this thing. It is Rosie’s poised expectant eagerness that persuades Gwen to go on, quickly, into a silly little song that instantly has the children jigging and dancing. Rosie laughs with delight.

‘You are going to play the Bach accompaniment for John,’ the minister reminds her.
Of course. The Bach. She looks at John.

He is standing, stony faced, waiting, and her innards freeze. Has she done something wrong? She senses his petrifying displeasure, but his audience is impatient, the minister is nodding and she must play and he must sing.

Gwen turns back to the keys with a shiver. Beautiful sacred music that must be treated with respect, and she plays with greater care, giving it its due, waiting for John to share with her.
But something is wrong. Is it her playing? He sings, but they cannot keep time together. He has to keep correcting, missing, slipping, and it all goes awry. He stops in mid-phrase, hand to his throat, coughing, and immediately they are all consternation. He should not have exerted himself, not after so much singing in the chapel. He must rest his voice.

Quietly, Gwen rises from the stool and accompanies Betty into the kitchen to fetch tea and a spoonful of honey for the cracking voice. It is enough. Nothing they say will persuade her to return to the piano. Besides, their idle hour is done, they must be going. No help on the farm tiding things over in their absence, and they have chores to do, the cows to see to. Everyone understands when John abruptly announces that they must leave.

Gwen gathers up the children, bundling them into coats and scarves and gloves against the biting winter chill. Jack is a sturdy little boy, thank God. He’ll manage most of the walk back to Cwmderwen on his own now, although she’ll have to carry him if he is too slow. She has just time to smile at the company, her arm patted in benediction by Mrs. George as she follows John out into the frost. The little Absalom faces, glowing with food and excitement, peer round the matriarch's bulk at her, a picture of warmth in contrast to the needle-sharp bite of the night air. In contrast to the beds the Owens are returning to. No roaring fire awaiting them at Cwmderwen. Gwen will have to heat the stone bottles as soon as they get in, or the children will be all night shivering.

Too dark to cross the fields on a December night, the mired footpath too treacherous with ice. They must climb to the road. Their breath clouds in the cold air, their boots ring out on the cobbles of Castell Mawr yard. She hurries the children along because John is striding ahead, not waiting, and he will not have them dawdle. They must keep up. The track up to the road leaves them panting, and Gwen has to carry Jack in the end. Rosie trots along, gripping her hand.

At the gate, John stops, turns, waiting for them impatiently. She can see the anger still simmering in him. Why? All she did was play the piano.

‘Are you content, then, woman?’
‘Content, John?’
‘Putting yourself forward like that.’
‘I did not mean to put myself forward, John.’
‘Flaunting yourself!’ He turned away. ‘Showing me up in front of my neighbours.’
‘I’m sorry that I played badly.’

He does not hear her apology. He has already gone on.
Resigned, she follows. What has she done that was wrong?

Out in the open on the road, out from under the trees and the shelter of the valley, the sky arches over them, ink black, and strewn with a billion diamonds. A lid lifts off her world and her understanding. The stars twinkle with piercing clarity in the frost, so bright they cast dim shadows. A different light. A new comprehension. Revelation.

John is jealous.

The ice-cold knowledge washes over her. John Owen, her John, walking tall, upright and proud along the road, is a small man. Small and mean.

Immediately she pushes the thought to one side. It is not permissible, she must block it out, too humiliating for words. She cannot allow for the futility of it all, if that terrible thought is true. But for a moment it has touched, settling, searing onto her brain, a black treacherous scar that will not fade. He is not worthy of her.

Put it out of your head, Gwen, before it destroys you.

A Time For Silence. published by Honno 2012

Judith Barrow coming full circle

I have written four novels and each has been independent - different settings, different characters, different themes - but I have begun to feel the allure of keeping a story going, beyond the last page of a book. I have written short stories that accompany my novels, but I've never yet been brave enough to take on a whole series.
That is what Judith Barrow has done, with her Howarth Family trilogy, covering the decades from the Second World War to the late sixties, and she has completed it now with a prequel, A Hundred Tiny Threads, covering the early decades of the 20th century. I am hugely impressed.

Pattern of Shadows is the first of the Howarth family trilogy. Mary is a nursing sister at Lancashire prison camp for the housing and treatment of German POWs. Life at work is difficult but fulfilling, life at home a constant round of arguments, until Frank Shuttleworth, a guard at the camp turns up. Frank is difficult to love but persistent and won't leave until Mary agrees to walk out with him.

Sequel to Pattern of Shadows, Changing Patterns is set in May 1950, Britain is struggling with the hardships of rationing and the aftermath of the Second World War There are many obstacles in the way of Mary’s happiness, not the least of which is her troubled family. When tragedy strikes, Mary hopes it will unite her siblings. Will the family pull together to save one of their own from a common enemy.

The last of the trilogy, Living in the Shadows is set in 1969. There are secrets dating back to the war that still haunt the family, and finding out what lies at their root might be the only way they can escape their murderous consequences.

And so to the prequel: A Hundred Tiny Threads: Winifred is a determined young woman eager for new experiences. When her friend Honora - an Irish girl, with the freedom to do as she pleases - drags Winifred along to a suffragette rally, she realises that there is more to life than the shop and her parents' humdrum lives of work and grumbling.
 Bill Howarth's troubled childhood echoes through his early adult life and the scars linger, affecting his work, his relationships and his health. The only light in his life comes from a chance meeting with Winifred, the daughter of a Lancashire grocer.

For the record, in my opinion, this is a great book, that places two people in the midst of some of the most earth-shattering and horrifying events of the early 20th century but shows it all through their very individual eyes, coloured by their own uniquely troubled situations. And, of course, knowing how it ends in the following trilogy adds a piquant regret to the tale.

Judith, like me, has lived in Pembrokeshire for many years and, like me, came here from a distant galaxy long ago and far away - Well, Yorkshire in her case and Bedfordshire in mine. Here, she tells how she came to Pembrokeshire.

We found Pembrokeshire by accident.

With three children under three, an old cottage half renovated and a small business that had become so successful that we were working seven days a week, we were exhausted. David, my husband, thought we should get off the treadmill; at least for a fortnight.

Pre-children, cottage and business, we always holidayed in Cornwall. But we decided it was too far with a young family and an unreliable van. We’d go to Wales; not too difficult a journey from Lancashire, we thought.

Once that was mentioned, David was eager to see Four Crosses, near Welshpool, where his grandfather originated from.

‘We could stay there,’ he said.

‘But the children will want beaches,’ I protested. ‘And I’ve heard Pembrokeshire has wonderful beaches.

We agreed to toss a coin and Pembrokeshire won. We’d call at Four Crosses on the way home.

I borrowed books on Wales from the library and, balancing our 8-month-old twins, one on each knee, I read as much as I could about the county. It sounded just the place to take children for a holiday. We booked a caravan and, when the big day came, packed the van to the hilt with everything the children would need, remembering only at the last minute, to throw a few clothes in for ourselves.

It took 10 hours.

In 1978 there was no easy route from the North of England to West Wales.

We meandered through small lanes, stopping for emergencies like much needed drinks, picnics, lavatory stops and throwing bread to the ducks whenever our eldest daughter spotted water. I’d learned to keep a bag of stale bread for such times.

The closer we were to our destination the slower we went. In the heat of the day the engine in our old van struggled; we needed to top up the radiator every hour or so. For the last 50 miles we became stuck in traffic jams.

We got lost numerous times.

All this and three ever-increasingly fractious children.

We arrived at the caravan site in the middle of the night so were relieved to find the key in the door.

The owner, a farmer, had given up and gone home.

I woke early. Leaving David in charge of our exhausted and still sleeping family, I crept out.

The sun was already warm; a soft breeze barely moved the leaves on the oak tree nearby. Skylarks flittered and swooped overhead, calling to one another. 

Although the caravan was one of four in the farmer’s field, we were the only people there. It was so quiet, so peaceful.

I walked along a small path. Within minutes I was faced by a panorama of sea. It seemed so still from the top of the cliff, but the water blended turquoise and dark blue with unseen currents, the horizon was a silvery line.

Faint voices from two small fishing boats carried on the air.

The sandstone cliffs curved round in a natural cove. Jagged rocks, surrounded by white ripples of water, jutted up towards the sky.

I fell in love with Pembrokeshire.

I’d always liked living so close to the Pennines. The moors, criss-crossed by ancient stone walls, were glorious with wild rhododendrons in summer, heather in the autumn. Even when brooding under swathes of drifting mist or white-over with snow, I was happy there.

But Pembrokeshire has a powerful glory of its own.

Within months we’d thrown caution, and our past lives, to the wind and moved here, much to the consternation of our extended family; as far as they were concerned we were moving to the ends of the earth.

But it was one of the best decisions of my life.

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