Fowey Festival of Words and Music (formerly known as the Du Maurier)

Pont Pill

Last week I enjoyed a fabulous week at the Fowey Festival of Words and Music (or the Du Maurier Festival - as it used to be called). Can't think why they would need to change such an important international name. The Festival takes place each year in early May in Fowey, Cornwall, directed by Jonathon Aberdeen, but much of the work done by local volunteers.

It was wonderful to be back in Fowey, where we lived for 13 years, and where I ran a little gift shop on Fore Street. Good to meet up with old friends, and revisit favourite haunts, of which there are many in beautiful Fowey. My slot wasn’t until the end of the week so I could relax and enjoy the many events on offer at the Festival village, specially erected at the top of the town.

The first one of these was Liz Fenwick on Sunday afternoon. Liz gave an interesting talk about her journey to publication, and of her new title The Cornish Affair, which was most interesting. How she fits everything in to her peripatetic life style I cannot imagine.

Another fascinating talk was by Sarah Dunant, talking about her new historical novel on the Borgias: Blood and Beauty. As always, Sarah was bubbling with energy and enthusiasm, and full of fascinating and intriguing facts about this controversial family. I'm looking forward to reading it.

Judith Mackrell talked to Helen Taylor about the Flappers, a biography about six extraordinary women: Diana Cooper, Nancy Cunard, Tallulah Bankhead, Zelda Fitzgerald, Josephine Baker and Tamara de Lempicka. For anyone who loves the twenties, this book is a must have.

I also enjoyed Hilary Boyd talking about her unexpected bestseller, Thursdays in the Park. A love story that features a grandmother as the heroine, and is now to be made into a film. I think lots of women are now taking their grandchildren for walks in the park.

Lynne Gould gave a most interesting slide show on the settings for Daphne Du Maurier’s famous books, interspersed with snippets of information about her life and events that inspired incidents in the books. 

Ferryside where Daphne wrote her first books

Polridmouth (Pridmouth) Bay where the wreck took place that features in Rebecca, based on an actual event that took place a few years before she wrote the novel.

The next day we listened to Jane Dunn talking about the Du Maurier sisters: Angela, Daphne and Jeanne. Angela, the eldest, was also a writer, although not as famous as her sister, and Jeanne an artist who settled into the St Ives community. All three were passionate about Cornwall.

Other authors at the festival included: Joanna Harris, Michael Morpurgo, Piers Brendon, Ken Livingstone, Kathy Lette, Fern Britton, Robert Powell and many more.

David enjoyed Wendy Cope reading from her wonderful poems, and Simon Hoggart being witty about MPs. And we also saw two plays: The Little Hut by St Austell Players, and Memory of Water, by Troy Players. Both were of an excellent standard, and the former very funny indeed. And of course there are boat trips (the only way to view Fowey) plus many interesting walks and other events.

Enjoy a Wind in the Willows boat trip

We loved the musical evening with Cantabile, a quartet of singers who sang with harmony and humour. I’ve never seen anything like it, they were great fun, singing Lambeth Walk backwards, and another song like a stuck 78 record. Hilarious!

On the Saturday afternoon I gave my talk on my life as a writer set against the changes in technology. Though I'm not quite old enough to have used a quill pen, I did write my first novels on a sit-up-beg typewriter. I finished by discussing how the revolution in ebooks is changing the landscape for writers.

My talk took place at the town hall and yes, that is a bed behind me, not for me to take a rest but part of the set. It seemed totally weird to be standing on that stage again after all these years. The last time I trod those boards was as a spice girl (or rather old spice) in Sinbad the Sailor, the pantomime 'what I wrote' . Fortunately I only had to produce the basic script as the rest of the Troy Players chipped in with the jokes. Excellent teamwork and great fun.

I also might have made a passing mention to my new book:
My Lady Deceiver, which is set in Cornwall.

1905. Rosie Belsfield feels as if her life has ended when she is rejected from Ellis Island and put on the next boat back to England, leaving her family behind. But fate gives her a second chance when she befriends Lady Rosalind. Having boarded the ship with one identity, fate decrees that Rosie leave it with another . . . As Rosie arrives in Cornwall as ‘Rosalind’, she finds herself increasingly trapped by her deception and the cruelty of those around her. Her only hope seems to be the enigmatic Bryce Tregowan, with whom the promise of a new life beckons. As she falls deeper into love and lies, can Rosie keep up the act, or will her secrets reveal themselves? And to what consequences? 

Published by Allison & Busby
Available from Amazon

The week ended on a high with a fabulous one-woman show by Ruthie Henshall, international musical star of Crazy for You, She Loves You, and Chicago. What a wonderful voice she has, and a delightful rapport with the audience. A brilliant evening, and a brilliant Festival. Can’t wait for next year. Not only a fun event but the marvellous Fowey River and town to enjoy.

The Voyager cruise ship at anchor in Fowey River

Questions every Writer should ask over the main Character’s Journey

1. Who is your main Point of View character?

2. What is the inciting incident or problem and in what way does it effect her life?

3. What emotional state is she in at the beginning? And at the end?

4. What does she want? What are her aims and goal, and what does that tell us about her?

5. Many obstacles must stand in her way. What is her flaw that prevents her from attaining her goal, and which traits will help her to overcome them in the end?

6. What is at stake? How high are the stakes? What will she lose if she doesn’t achieve her objective?

7. Why should the reader care? They need to be emotionally involved, understand her flaws and be willing her to succeed. Motivation. Motivation. Motivation is the secret.

8. What does she learn along this hazardous journey? How does she confront her demons and develop as a person?

9. The darkest hour will come when it seems as if she has lost everything. This will be followed by the climax when, largely by her own efforts and certainly not luck or a Prince Charming riding to her rescue, she wins through.

10. How does her story end? Redemption and resolution. Major problem finally solved and a satisfying end for the reader.

A Sense of Place

There is no better way of getting the feel of an industry, occupation or area than to talk to the people who have lived it. Ask them about their routine: daily, seasonal, annual. How they got started? How did they acquire their skills? How have things changed? What are the problems and dangers in the work? Where did they ache after a long day?

Oral history tapes and transcripts in local libraries are also a useful resource. These sometimes have to be booked in advance. Most libraries have a catalogue or summary sheets of what is available so you can choose before ordering which you actually need to listen to.

I often interview people when I’m working on a book, and they readily find time to talk to me and share their memories of times past, the work they used to do whether in the mill or munitions, farming or forestry, in war or peace. I like to be able to properly describe some activity for my heroine during a particular scene or while a piece of dialogue is taking place. What special skills, hobbies and interests does she have? Is she being interviewed for a job in a smart London office, learning how to ski, mowing a suburban lawn, operating a machine or building a dry stone wall? Show your character at work. Nothing can give a better feel for the place.

One lady I interviewed was 92 at the time. She started in the mill as a doffer at 14, knocking off the filled bobbins, or cops as they were called, replacing them with empty ones. Her real name was Mary Ann but she was more affectionately known to her family and friends as Dolly because she was so small. ‘

'I were the scrapings up off t’mill floor,’ she told me, chortling with glee. ‘Eeh, it marvellous it were in t’mill.’

 Dolly wore a pinny, or apron, with a long pocket in front in which she carried the tools of her trade: sheers, for cutting the ends off; a piker, which was a long implement with a hooked end used to get the travellers out. She always carried a sharp knife to slip down the bobbin to get to where it was threaded. These were tied on to a string round her waist, or in her pocket, making her look permanently pregnant.

She wore clogs, of course. ‘You could hear them coming a mile off up from the mill. Clattering on the setts,’ she said.

If I’d asked her what she’d had for her dinner she might not have been able to tell me but she recalled her days at the spinning mill vividly. She took me through her day, how the cotton was spun, fleas and all, the heat in the mill, the constant danger of fire. Where and how they had their dinner. And any number of anecdotes about meeting Gracie Fields, singing in a band as Dolores, climbing down a drainpipe with her dance frock over her arm, which her mother made for her, and the tricks they used to play on each other in the mill, one being to roll a spindle on the greasy floor and send you flying.

Dolly told me she learned to be tough because she was put on and bullied for being small and felt the need to prove herself. As a small person myself I can identify with that. And her attitude to the bosses was: ‘I wouldn’t ‘humble meself to ‘em. They were always saying - don’t do this and don’t do that - but we got them round to our way of thinking in the end. We larned em.’

She very generously allowed me to name the character in my book after her, as it seemed so appropriate. It is not her story, but I hope some of this fine lady’s spirit lives on in Dolly Tomkins.

Here she is in Watch For The Talleyman following the incident with the spindle:

Dolly stood at her frame, concentrating on the task of winding yarn from hundreds of spindle bobbins on to the larger cones. She was skilled at her job after two long years but it still required concentration to control the speed and make any necessary adjustments, if breakages were to be kept to a minimum. She was hot and tired and ringing wet, the air full of cotton dust, the atmosphere uncomfortably humid from the steaming water sprayed between the rows of frames to keep the cotton damp and pliable. A constant working temperature of seventy degrees or more was necessary as otherwise the cotton threads would tighten and break, which meant that time, and therefore money, was lost.

For Dolly it had been a long and difficult morning, trying to avoid putting too much pressure on her strained ankle and worrying over the situation at home. Even so, she loved her work and enjoyed a bit of a laugh with her mates. Not that many of them were laughing today, the first day back following the disastrous strike. Tempers were short and morale low, and no one was saying much to anyone, with only the singing of the spinning frames to be heard.

On top of everything, her cotton this morning was of a poor quality, filthy with fleas and, as the yarn twisted and drew out, these were caught up in the slender rope of parallel fibres which was the roving, and wound onto the cones. Later, they would be woven into the fabric and finally dissolved and got rid of in the bleaching process but she hated the feel of them on her fingers. The older women, Dolly had noticed, were adept at feeling the cotton and choosing the best quality for themselves, probably because they were more dependant upon the wages than young girls such as herself.

Except that in Dolly’s case this wasn’t true at all. The Tomkins family needed every penny it could get, since most of it ended up in the bookie’s pocket. Only when they were free of debt to the talleyman would she be happy.

She’d seen Nifty Jack standing at the door deep in conversation with Mam, handing over more money and a new card, indicating that this strike had cost them dear. And poor Ma Liversedge was to be buried on Wednesday, her unexpected death coming so close after Nifty’s last visit it made Dolly shiver.

 He’s after more than your money…

Dolly Tomkins knows what it’s like to live hand to mouth. In the mean streets of 1920s Salford, the only one making a decent living is the talleyman - and Nifty Jack has a moneybag where his heart should be. Dolly’s mam is in hock up to her ears, but when Jack offers to wipe the slate clean in return for Dolly’s favours, she just can’t bring herself to do it.

Instead, she takes him on at his own game, and in the process is in danger of losing the love of her life.



Amazon - currently number 4 in Historical, and in Family sagas.And thanks you to all my readers who helped it get as high as number 2.

Ellis Island

Ellis Island, the reception centre for all new immigrants to New York, newly opened in 1900 after the earlier wooden structure burned down. Ships arrived daily, filled with hopeful immigrants by the score, as many as 10,000 people to be processed. Russian Jews seeking escape from persecution, Hungarians, Slovakians, Poles, Italians, all speaking to each other in different tongues, eating strange foods, suffering the dangers and indignities of the crossing in grim silence. They came for free education, a free vote, low taxes, high wages, no religious repression, no kings or compulsory military service. They often left behind loved ones, poverty, starvation, unemployment, congested living conditions, oppression. In America they dreamed of living in a free land, with the hope of a good future.

Conditions on board had been deplorable, but arrival would surely end their agony? Unfortunately a new one almost instantly began. Thousands of people jostled ashore. Rations would run short, children crying, weather conditions, whether too hot or too cold, making the waiting almost worse than steerage, and anxiety was high. Uniformed officials alarmed those who had escaped from a military regime back home. Often they were brusque and rude, shouting and swearing at the frightened immigrants. They too were tired, hot and hungry, as well as overworked, often having done a 12 hour shift on low pay. Patience was short.

Immigrants arrived laden with sacks, carpet bags, small trunks, rolled-up bundles tucked under their arm or balanced on their head. Luggage would be stowed on the ground floor while they proceeded up the stairs.

Everyone must first walk up the stairs to be inspected. Children over two had to walk unaided to prove they weren’t disabled. Anyone limping or short of breath was hauled out of line for further health checks. Anyone too carefully watching their step was suspected of having an eye problem. Fractious children or sulky teenagers could be pulled out of line and given a test for the feeble-minded. These stairs came to be known as ‘the six second exam.’

When they reached the top they would indeed catch their breath in amazement at what they saw. A huge, grand, high-ceilinged hall divided into railed channels along which they were herded like cattle.

After that came the inspections. There would be a long wait in a queue, often for hours. Some would strike up music on an accordion or banjo, and do a little impromptu dance, while waiting. At the end of each line a doctor, dressed in the blue uniform of the US Health Service, carefully scrutinised every man, woman and child for physical or mental defects. Hair, face, neck and hands were closely examined, including the scalp for ringworm. Coats were unbuttoned to check for a goitre or tumour, or pregnancy.

There would follow many more tests in which the immigrant would be asked for the details as outlined in the manifest: Name, age, sex, marital status, nationality, occupation, last residence, destination in America, how much money they had, and whether the immigrant could read and write. Also, had they paid their own passage, and did they have tickets through to their final destination. Had they ever served time in a prison or poorhouse, or suffered from any deformities or illnesses. A lone female, unless met by a man, would be returned from whence she came, although sexual favours could gain admittance to the US. If she was suspected of being a prostitute she would be forced to endure a bodily search by a female attendant.

There were any number of reasons for rejection. If the person failed any of these rapid and perfunctory inspections, or gave the wrong answer, a chalk mark was placed on their back. C for conjunctivitis; Ct for trachoma; K for hernia; L for lameness; Pg for pregnancy; S for senility; and many more. One in five failed. These people were pulled out of line, even if wrongly labelled, in a most callous and impersonal manner, and made to wait in a special holding area, namely a detention pen which was enclosed by wire screens. Then they would be sent back from whence they came, often alone, on the same ship which had brought them to America, and was now obliged to take them away for no extra charge.

Rosie Belsfield feels as if her life has ended when she is rejected from Ellis Island and has to return alone to England leaving her family behind. But having boarded the ship with one identity, fate decrees that she leave it with another. The promise of a new life beckons, one of riches and even a title in beautiful Cornwall, but it is also one fraught with danger as she becomes caught up in a web of lies not of her making.

Rosie Belsfield feels as if her life has ended when she is rejected from Ellis Island and has to return alone to England leaving her family behind. But having boarded the ship with one identity, fate decrees that she leave it with another. The promise of a new life beckons, one of riches and even a title in beautiful Cornwall, but it is also one fraught with danger should her deceit be discovered.

Amazon
In ebook and print.
Paperback published April 29
 

The London Book Fair 2013

David and I attended the London Book Fair this week, and what an amazing experience that was. It was much larger and busier than I had expected, and you could positively hear the hum of deals being done. Up in the International Rights Centre where I went to meet my agent, the entire room, which was of gigantic proportions, was laid out with tables and chairs, each one partially partitioned from its neighbour. Across these deals were done.

View of Court One from the Terrace Restaurant

Authors have not normally been welcomed at the LBF, but this attitude is changing with the increasing acceptability of self-publishing. I attended seminars in the Thames Room, and downstairs in the main courts was the Author’s Lounge where industry managers and PR experts also gave talks, some of which were very interesting. The only problem with this was that the Author Lounge was far too small for the numbers who wished to sit there and listen. I felt sorry for those stand holders who could hardly be seen for the crowds hovering outside to listen in. Hopefully, this problem will be addressed in future.

A talk about to start in the Authors' Lounge

I came across several members of the RNA including Julie Day, Alison Morton, Liz Fenwick, Henriette Gyland, Rachel Gore, and Lynne Connolly. You can see Lynne here with her publisher, on the Ellora’s Cave stand where her new titles were displayed.

Did I gain much from it? A great deal. As well as speaking with my agent, and publisher Allison & Busby, I spoke with Amazon, Kobo and Gardners, about the success of my ebooks. I also found a company who print and distribute self-published titles. Seeing some of my Out of Print books back in print is a dream I may well pursue. It was exciting to be a part of something as large and vibrant as the LBF, and seeing the size and importance of the book industry in the UK.

The Street of my childhood in the fifties

I have fond memories of the street on which I lived as a child, and have used them in many of my books. My favourite shop was the bakers where there was always that tempting smell of freshly baked bread, a delicious array of cakes, muffins and currant tea cakes. A custard slice for our tea on a Saturday was our weekly treat, following a hot meat and potato pie, the pastry rich and crisp, the smell of it so intoxicating I can recall it to this day. The baker also sold cold ham, roast beef and tongue, potted meats, polony, raised pork pies, and sausage rolls. Queues would form outside the shop every lunchtime in eager anticipation of a delicious snack. Tuesday was roast pork day. I would ask for a quarter, thinly sliced, and the baker’s wife would take the chunk of pork over to the slicer and quickly carve some off then wrap it in greaseproof paper. She never weighed anything, except in her hands.

My grandparents ran a hairdresser’s shop. Grandad was one of the first to do permanent waving, building his own machine which was clamped to the lady’s head with curling grips. What would have happened had there been a fire I dread to think. Women saved up in a club for a perm, queuing up the stairs for their turn.

The ironmongers smelled of paraffin, varnish and firewood. There you could find everything from candles and scrubbing brushes to knitting wool, shoe polish, glue, torch batteries, bicycle pumps, and any size of screw and nail you might ever need. It was owned by a big, jolly man whose eyesight grew so bad over the years that he would have to hold the screw right up to his nose to judge its size. He wore a khaki apron that reached to his ankles and would take infinite care to find just the right size of screw to fit your bolt, or weigh out your pound of one inch nails till it bounced on the scales.

Jolly Mr G- and plump Mrs G- ran the little grocer’s shop. Grocers wore long white aprons, were very civil to customers if not always to children. If you happened to be in a hurry then you would just have to wait because he took his time as everything had to be cut and carefully wrapped. Butter would be cut in slabs and patted into shape with long wooden bats, then wrapped in grease proof paper. If a man was in a hurry, however, he would generally be served before a woman, even if she was there first. Her permission for this was never asked. Children were frequently overlooked completely. I was generally ignored until everyone else in the shop had been served, then Mr G- would give me a few currants as if to reward my patience and say: ‘Now, Freda, I have some nice sliced ham your mother would like.’ Even mum had to be grateful for whatever he offered, so I never refused. I was great friends with their son who spent much of his time sulking in the back room, though he was a useful friend to have as he could provide a ready supply of sticks of liquorice and Coltsfoot rock. He was also allowed to stay up late and listen to the radio, and later a twelve inch television set, which we didn’t have. I was hugely jealous.

The milk cart called every morning. You knew the milkman was on his way when you heard the rattle of wheels and the clip of the horse’s hooves over the setts. He wore a trilby hat pulled right down over his ears, and he would call out in a loud voice, ‘Muilk, muilk! He ladled this from the big metal churns into the jugs the women brought to him. I certainly remember running to the back of his trap with my jug and watching as the frothy fresh milk was poured in, no doubt unpastuerised. Coal, fish, fruit and vegetables and many other things were sold in the same way. The horses were always trimmed up with bows and ribbons on May Day.

I remember the lady in the draper’s shop at the end of our row. She was a thin, very proper looking woman with tightly permed hair and a slight lisp. She sold ribbons and laces, knitting patterns and wool of every colour and hue. Her shop always smelt new and exciting, and she could measure a length of tape or blue ribbon without recourse to tape measure by stretching it from the tip of her nose, along the length of her arm to her fingers.

As for the man in the fish and chip shop, he was fat and blubbery in a soiled apron who fried the fish and chips to perfection, crisp and delectable on the outside, piping hot within. His head was bald and gleamed as if greased from the fat on his hands, and he never wore any other expression but a grin on his round face. He was called Charlie. Everyone would go to Charlie’s for their fish and chips.

Now Mrs A- at the toy and sweet shop had the patience of Job. She’d stand for half an hour while a child agonised over how to spend their Saturday penny. And there was a great deal to choose from. Gob stoppers, dolly mixtures, aniseed balls, pear drops, Pontefract cakes, rose creams and Sarsaparilla. Her shop was filled with treasures. Foreign stamps from countries with mysterious names like Mauritious, Aden and The Gold Coast. Dinkie cars, farm animals, plastic water pistols, marbles with swirling patterns on them, tops and whips and skipping ropes with coloured handles. She also entered into the community spirit by stocking a library of romances for overworked mums. For a penny you could borrow the latest Ethel M. Dell for a week. Perhaps this was my favourite shop when I was very young. Later I peferred the record shop where you could stand in a booth and listen to the latest Elvis Presley number played to you before you bought it. But whatever my age, shopping in our street was always a joy.

In 1950s Manchester, folk are just emerging from the shadow of the war. Money is still tight, and the bustling market is a source of tempting bargains – as well as the local gossip.

All human life is here in Manchester’s Champion Street Market. Whether you want one of Patsy’s hats or a bag of Lizzie’s chocolate truffles, Molly Poulson’s pies or a rum and raisin gelato from the Bertalone’s ice cream parlour, you will get a good helping of gossip with your purchases …

The stall-holders and customers of Manchester’s Champion Street market are a lively and varied bunch. Find out more about their lives and loves in Putting on the Style, Fools Fall in Love, That’ll be the Day, Candy Kisses, Who’s Sorry Now and Lonely Teardrops.

 

Flying Ducks

Enjoyed a most inspiring meeting at the Smiths Arms, Beckwithshaw, near Harrogate, with the Flying Ducks. We’re a group of writers who have been meeting for at least 15 years, supporting each other through the ups and downs in the publishing world. Whether it’s advising a new writer what to do about a rejection, or an established writer seeking information on research, promotion or self-publishing, this is the place where one can be sure of getting the right kind of help. It’s a great resource and support group.

On this occasion inspiration was the theme of the meeting, and we heard all about the spark that had inflamed the idea for a book, quotes that kept people going through the tough times, must-buy books to turn to when needed. It was all fascinating and most useful.

And of course we were able to share our latest news, whether it was a new release or new contract, we could all join in the celebration. Ken McCoy was actually celebrating publication that day of his new saga Perseverance Street. Well done, Ken! Leah Fleming told us of the number of German copies of The Captain’s Daughter that had dropped through her door because it went to 9 reprints. Brilliant! Julia Stagg was celebrating her new book The French Postmistress, which has a lovely cover. And these were just a few of the success stories.

Here we all are, about to be served lunch, in a higgly-piggly collection of tables in an attempt to fit us all in. A few are out of camera shot, unfortunately.

And here is the little poem I offered which had been my own inspiration when first starting out back in the early 80s.

Success
I will succeed I simply cannot fail.
The only obstacle is doubt.
There’s not a hill I cannot scale
Once fear is put to rout.
Don’t talk defeat, don’t think defeat,
The word will rob you of your strength.
I will succeed, this phrase repeat
Throughout the journey’s length.

The moment that ‘I can’t ‘ is said,
You slam a door right in your face.
Why not exclaim ‘I will’ instead,
Half won then is the race.
You close the door to your success
By entertaining one small fear.
Think happiness, talk happiness
Watch joy then coming near.

Anon.