Time to get my brain into gear—Tricia McGill

 

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Sadly, the old brain is not so much letting me down but it seems more as if the silly old codger is not sure which direction to take. I have spent the past week procrastinating. Not something I enjoy. Have I simply run out of ideas for my next story? Second to historical I have always loved reading and writing time-travel, and always relished the research entailed in writing both genres. During this period of indecisiveness, I came upon one unfinished, unedited manuscript sitting on my computer that has been put aside over the years waiting for attention. Right, I decided, perhaps turn that contemporary romance into a time-travel. But no, not sure that would work. As it happens it was one of the first books I ever penned and subsequently has lain unworked on for a long time. Should I spend time resurrecting that, or should I start something new? There I go, procrastinating all over again. It was written so long ago that at one stage I had to scan the whole typed thing onto my computer. As you see, it was written in the days when manuscripts were typed up and a paper copy was then sent off to prospective publishers. Thank goodness for the internet.

I have the story line all set up, already have names for my main, and secondary characters, so what is holding me up. Perhaps it is awareness of how everything has changed since those far off days.  When I began writing in earnest, social media as we know it today—and at times hate it—was unheard of. There were few outside distractions. Perhaps I am showing my age, but I long for those far off days when life was so much simpler. Days when I spent many happy hours at the local library poring over research tomes for my facts.

In writing my current problem down I hoped for inspiration but I am no closer to making a decision. It is lunch time so I will go off and do some more procrastinating while munching on my sandwich and hope that something clicks in the old grey matter to send me off in the right (write) direction.

Building a story—Tricia McGill.

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It never ceases to surprise and amaze me, how my characters take over and make the decision over what will happen next. As sometimes happens, I get a short way into my story and realise one day that I am not happy where it is going, and even consider scrapping it and starting afresh. This unfortunate happening occurred to me a couple of weeks ago. I usually wake up one morning bright and early with at least a skeleton of an idea where to take my characters next, but sadly this was not to be this time. Everyday problems in our life crop up sometimes and annoyingly intrude on our ability to think straight.

Thank goodness for those characters buzzing around in our heads, not so much nagging us where to take them next but hinting that we at least need to give them the chance to get cracking. The moment I sat here at my computer and began typing everything took off, seemingly of its own accord and what happened in front of me next was that events that I had not even considered adding unfolded there before me on the screen.

I have always credited my Muse with assisting me in my writing as I am the first to admit that I am no Jane Austin or Emily Bronte, but simply a writer who likes telling stories. So now I have to wait and see where I will be taken next by this bunch of characters I created. 

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Of Myth and Legend—Tricia McGill

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Many well-known legends throughout history have been well documented. One thing I enjoy about researching at the start of a new book is finding facts about certain obscure characters throughout history that I haven’t come across before. Doesn’t mean that they are not just as famous. My next task when starting a new story, after deciding on the setting, is to find names for my protagonists. Once I have that clear in my head, I can more easily build their individual character traits (this part I love, so therefore spend a lot of time on). 

I wanted my convict hero to be of Irish descent, and so found the name of Finn easily enough. What I didn’t know was that this name was derived from an Irish legend known as the Fionn (or Fenian) Cycle. This original Finn was the son of one Cumhail who led a band of warriors who were chosen for their bravery and strength. They took an oath to fight for the king and defend Ireland from attack. When younger Finn took over leadership of the Fianna he was known as the greatest warrior of all. What a wonderful story for my character Finn to relate when explaining where his unusual name came from. Actually, Finn does not know if this is true of course, and who knows he might have made that name up for himself knowing it might make him appear braver.

As my story is set in Australia (Tasmania to be exact), it seemed right to be researching the county’s legends more thoroughly. Everyone more or less has heard of Ned Kelly (certainly all Aussies know his saga well) but there are many other bushrangers and criminals who are just as famous here. I came across some previously unknown to me colourful facts about a bushranger named Martin Cash (1808-1877). Also born in Ireland (County Wexford) Cash was convicted in 1827 of housebreaking and was eventually transported to Sydney to serve his seven years, as many others were in those days. Cash’s story was that in a fit of jealousy he shot at a man who was embracing his (Cash’s) mistress. He claimed the ball wounded his rival in the backside.

Assigned to a George Bowman, Cash continued to work for him after receiving his ticket-of-leave. Once able to go wherever he wished he left for Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania) along with one Bessie Clifford. Two years later he was accused of larceny and again sentenced to seven years (Some people never learn that crime does not pay!). He escaped three times, at one stage evading capture for almost two years. He was returned to Port Arthur, Tas (where my story is set) with another four years added to his sentence. He soon eluded two guards with the help of two bushmen, Kavenagh and Jones, and the three began their bushranging career, robbing inns and the homes of well-to-do settlers. They used no unnecessary violence and thus earned the title of ‘gentlemen bushrangers’. 

Cash heard that his love Bessie had deserted him for another man so risked a visit to Hobart Town, where he was once again tried for killing a pursuer. A former attorney-general, Edward Macdowell was secured for his defense but Cash nevertheless was sentenced to death. At the 11th hour the decision was reconsidered and he then was transported to Norfolk Island for ten years.

His story did not end there by any means and before his death he narrated his life story to James Lester Burke whose edited version published in 1870 was perhaps more colourful than the truth and has been reprinted many times since.

https://www.amazon.com/Uncensored-Martin-Australian-Bushranger-Lester/dp/0949459437 

More on Martin Cash: https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/cash-martin-1885

Memories—Tricia McGill

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This is a reboot of a blog post I did years ago, but is probably more relevant today so I thought I would give it another outing.

What is it about getting older? I can remember my first day at school clearly yet can’t recall what I did two days ago unless I look at my diary to check. As we get older, we seem to dwell a lot in the past. I’ve never been one to live with regrets. We can’t do anything to change what has gone before so what’s the point.

My childhood was exceptionally happy, and I always say I am blessed for I have been surrounded by loving people as far back as I can remember. I was the youngest of ten and most of my five brothers and four sisters were adults or coming up to adulthood by the time I reached an age when I took notice of what was going on around me. My sisters taught me the alphabet and how to read well before I attended school. It pains me to hear that many children these days never read a book and in fact are not able to read or spell.

I was one of those children who happened to love school. I had one regret in my first term—we had a class band and all the children (there were probably about 40 five-year-olds in the class) got to play an instrument, but whether by design or something other I always seemed to get stuck with the triangle—and how I longed for just one go on the tambourine. Perhaps that is why to this day I cannot play any instrument.

My two eldest sisters treated me like a doll and as they and our mother were all handy with a needle and sewing machine I was donned regularly in pretty dresses and with a white bow in my hair was taken off to have my photograph taken (which was done in a photo studio in those days).

One of my early books, Remnants of Dreams is based on our mother’s life in that it follows the timeline of her life. She was born in 1895 and married our dad in 1914. Our dad went away to the war and our eldest brother was born not long after. Dad didn’t return until four years later, consequentially it was a while until the next child came along. But then there was mostly a one or just over a year gap in between. These children were reared during the hard times between wars. So therefore, I was the luckiest as by the time I came along things were a lot brighter all round. I grew up on stories of the difficult years told to me by my eldest sister who will soon reach her 100^th birthday. Sadly, she is no longer able to remember the past, but in her day read more books in a week than I ever could.

I get angry with young people who complain if their latest gadget is not performing well or feel hard done by if Mum and Dad won’t buy them just what everyone else at school is getting. We never had a telephone until our eldest brother had one installed. We lived in a six-storey house in North London. Our mother’s sister, her husband and two girls, had two rooms and a kitchen in

the middle, and one brother, his wife, son and daughter lived in the top two rooms with two attic bedrooms. We had the bottom two floors, so, when we received a telephone call (of course we gave out the number to our friends) someone would yell from the top of the house for us and we would then climb five flights of stairs to answer the call in their living room. No one thought this odd in the least, as our lives were so closely entwined. Our very extended family of aunts, uncles and cousins was spread far and wide, yet we kept in constant touch even before the telephone came along. There was such a thing as writing letters and waiting on the postman to call in those days, so we never missed a wedding or celebration.

For all our lack of amenities my childhood was full of happiness. It’s so true that what you never have you never miss. But I believe we were luckier by far. From an early age I was allowed to wander far and wide with my friends. We would be away from home for hours, only coming home when our stomachs told us it was time to eat. We played out all day every day, rain, sunshine or snow. We walked to and from school—a thirty minute walk each way in all weathers. Our world was small.

We had no idea what was going on in other countries or even in other parts of England, and ignorance is bliss. Most of our information and entertainment was gained via the radio, and then there was the cinema. We

never saw television until I was in my teens; and that was also my eldest brothers’. At times there would be about 15 of us crowded around his lounge room to watch this tiny black and white 9-inch screen—wonder of wonders! I remember vividly us all watching the coronation of Queen Elizabeth of England in awe on that far
off day in June 1953.

Now here I sit in 2022 at my all-in-one computer that I could not live without, and keep in touch with friends and relatives whose messages jump into my inbox regularly. Each evening I make myself comfortable in front of my flat screen immense TV watching my choice out of a million old and new of my favourite streamed shows, where I simply touch a button on my remote control to change channels of which there are many. I might receive a beep from my mobile phone to alert me to the fact that someone has sent me a text, or a call will come from a friend who lives miles away. Such is life! 

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Transportation and how it has changed through the decades—Tricia McGill

 

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Here I am again deep into research about certain aspects of the 1800s, especially Australia in the 1860s, and because of seeking a particular type of horse-drawn vehicle I became engrossed by the differing means of transport throughout the years and how it has changed. I grew up in North London, so our travelling from one destination to another was by the underground (what we called the ‘Tube’) or a good old double decker bus. I regularly used the underground and to this

day in my dreams where I often seem to be lost, I follow my mother’s advice
and search for the nearest tube station to find my way home. People who study the meaning of dreams no doubt have an explanation for that, but that’s something for another day.

In Book One of my Settlers Series, Mystic Mountains, I had my characters making the horrendous journey from Sydney to Bathurst in 1823 across what became known as the Blue Mountains, a journey that would take weeks instead of hours as today. At that time bullocks pulled the drays carrying the settlers’ belongings as well as the wool bales among other things. Of course horses went along on this journey, but the oxen were more sure-footed and reliable across rocky and unsafe territory.  

Horses pulled the various types of carriage, whether it be a two wheeled cart or a four wheeled carriage. The mail was delivered between colonies first by a horse rider and later by the mail coach, perhaps sometimes more reliable than the current postal deliveries. A man who was a’ courting would likely drive a one-horse jig or cart, its rate of splendidness depending on the owners standing in the society.

My mother was born before 1900 so would recall the horse drawn buses in London. I often wonder how she would cope with the traffic in this modern day and age. I find it depressing at times. Everyone is in such a hurry as they rush around in their huge four-wheel-drive vehicles which would have certainly made life a lot easier for the early settlers as they set out across unchartered territory. She hated motorbikes and it worked out that two of my early boyfriends owned one. Her warning as I left home to go jaunting with them was to ensure they did not speed while I was riding pillion.

I think I would have probably been better suited to those far off days, or perhaps not. No running water—especially hot when needed, would not sit well with me, or no proper sewerage system. But I could certainly cope with the idea of riding or driving a small buggy to the nearest store. In this current climate with the rising cost of fuel, who knows, perhaps we will eventually regress and return to horse transport.

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A little more about the 1860s in Australia. Tricia McGill

 

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In these weird days where thoughts of Covid lie heavily upon us, and technology changes by the hour let alone by the day, we spare little thought about the struggles and lives of the ones who came before us—those heroic souls who forged a life for themselves and others in the early years of settlement. Of course, I am concentrating on this fledgling colony of Australia. By the 1860s most major towns had been settled. Being an avid researcher I am now deep in this time period. Men set out in search of gold as well as land to call their own. It seems the 1860s was dominated by the struggles of small land holders (called selectors), along with the miners. These settlers were intent on persuading the government to gain control of the land from the squatters who had occupied large areas of Crown land either under a licence or lease. They believed it was time to make this Crown land available for farming. These selectors faced much resistance from the squatters who had found ways to keep the most fertile land for themselves.

Thus, this high demand for land caught the eye of those interested in exploration of the more regional and remote parts of the continent. They set out to find rich pastures for farming along with clean and fast-flowing water. Better routes between colonies needed to be established, and to better serve this an Overland Telegraph Line was essential. Explorers like Charles Stuart, Robert O’Hara Burke and William John Wills led expeditions to discover arable land. It was these intrepid explorers and others who mapped routes between the far-flung settlements. To cross this vast continent for the first time was a dangerous quest and proved to be fatal for some.

Burke & Wills were the first Europeans to cross Australia from south to north. This expedition is probably one known by most Australians, perhaps because of its sad ending. Both were inexperienced—Burke being a police investigator and Wills a surveyor and meteorologist. Burke was chosen to lead the expedition across the inhospitable interior so that Victoria could win a reward posted by the government, who wanted to build a telegraph line from Adelaide to the northern coast of Australia. Their party left Melbourne on August 20, 1860, with horses, Indian camels and 3 drivers. They followed the Darling River and then headed north to the Gulf of Carpentaria. The expedition included John King, Charles Gray, and William Brahe. Brahe remained at a base camp at Cooper’s Creek waiting for more men, who were delayed by months. Quarrels between the men over bad timing and spring rains marred the trip. They reached the mouth of the Flinders River (at the Gulf of Carpentaria) on February 9, 1861. Low on supplies they turned around. Gray soon died from fatigue. Burke, Wills, and King were very weak when they returned to the camp at Cooper’s Creek on April 21, 1861. Heading home hours behind Brahe, a group of Aborigines gave them food and water. They later were forced to kill and eat their last two camels. After more than a month of traveling since leaving Cooper’s Creek, they had wandered back to it. They missed Brahe, who had returned to the camp to check for them. Burke, Wills, and King again wandered off, but Wills became weak, so they left him with some of the food. Soon after that, Burke died (June 20, 1861). King returned for Wills but found him dead. On September 18, 1861, King was rescued by Alfred Howitt and his party who had searched for the lost expedition.

Charles Sturt led an expedition down the Murrabiggee and Murray Rivers and his exploration is considered one of the greatest in Australian history. The expedition disclosed extensive areas of land for future development in New South Wales and South Australia

He later led an expedition north from Adelaide to the edge of the Simpson Desert. Although he discovered no fertile land and was eventually driven back by heat and scurvy, his party was the first to penetrate the centre of the continent.  

New industries such as pearling began in Western Australia and a centre in Broome was established. The cities in all colonies grew and the arts flourished with the publication of books and poems about Australia by native-born Australians; artists born overseas and the native-born drew the Australian landscape and colonial personalities. Albert Namatjira was one of Australia’s greatest artists. Blending traditional use of colour with Western-style landscapes brought him fame and citizenship in a time when Aboriginal people had few rights. His early works transmitted the same spiritual connection with the land as more traditional Aboriginal art, and he represented his love of trees through lovingly rendered portrait-like paintings. Tragically he was just 57 when he died.

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Man’s endless search for wealth—Tricia McGill

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My current work in progress is set in the town of Ballarat, north of Melbourne, around 1860. My main

characters are not miners, but store owners, lodging house owners and traders—just as essential in a miner’s day to day life, for he spent endless hours in the search for riches. The gold rush to Ballarat began around 1851, and the greatest yield for one year was in 1856, when almost 95,000 kilograms of gold was extracted from the diggings. Until researching I had no idea how many methods were used in the search for gold. Most gold in the Ballarat district came from deep lead mining.

Some of the methods used: 

Deep Lead Mining—Sometimes, gold deposited in creek beds was covered by lava from nearby volcanoes. This lava hardened into basalt and deep lead mining involved digging through these layers of basalt to reach the gold buried in old creek beds. 

Surface Alluvial Mining—Over time, weathering breaks quartz rocks down into sand and gravel, freeing any trapped gold. This gold, which is called alluvial gold, remains close to the surface where it may be washed down and deposited in nearby streams. As gold is six times heavier than most gravel and stones, it rapidly sinks to the bottom of any stream. 

Reef (Quartz) Mining—This involved digging to find the gold bearing quartz reefs, which had been formed long ago in the cracks and crevices caused by earth movements. The methods of alluvial and deep lead mining created the gold rushes. Any man in good health could take his chance at finding a fortune. All he needed was a pick, a shovel, a gold panning dish, a tent, some bedding and a few cooking utensils. This method relied upon the fact that gold was heavier than the sand, gravel and clay and so sank to the bottom of the creeks. A miner would separate the gold from the wash dirt using a pan, cradle or sluice box. In the early days, before creeks were “panned out”, the miners would simply proceed up a creek, washing shovelfuls of clay and gravel taken directly from the banks or bed of the creek. Although this gravel contained some gold, the really rich washdirt was to be found in the old creek beds that had been covered by basalt from volcanoes. To reach these, the miners often had to sink shafts through the overburden using a windlass, or in the case of deeper mines, a whim or a horse-drawn whip. Cradling panning was slow, back-breaking work, so the next development was the cradle. The cradle consisted of a box, fitted on rockers, so that the operator rocked it to and fro. Inside the cradle were two sloping shelves with thin strips of wood fastened across them. These were called riffles. On the top of the box part of the cradle was a sieve made of metal plate with holes punched in it. The gold-bearing gravel passing through the sieve was washed down through the shelves and any gold present was caught in the riffles, while the gravel was carried through a chute back into the creek.

The windlass—these were used in shallow shafts to lift dirt to the surface. They required very little skill

to build, were made from simple materials and could be easily moved. In the beginning, the windlass frame would be flat on the ground. Waste material brought up to the surface in the bucket, would be tipped in a pile around the shaft. As the pile grew higher around the shaft the windlass moved upwards. Thus, the windlass was soon on a hill created by mining. The windlass was only effective to a depth of approximately 40 metres. Successful miners who had sunk shafts on good, paying washdirt were able to spend some time making their working conditions a little more comfortable by building a shelter over their shaft. This meant that the man operating the windlass, and the miner down in the shaft, filling the buckets for the other to wind up, were not as exposed to the weather.

The Whip—Only a miner, or group of miners who were wealthier than most, could afford to use a whip because of the cost of the horse. Horses were both expensive to buy and feed. A whip meant that a mine could be 80 metres or more in depth. The horse was walked out along a straight walkway. When the bucket reached the surface, the rope was unhooked from the harness, the horse turned around, rope hooked onto the front harness, and the horse walked back down the whip path. For still deeper shafts, the Whim was used. These were expensive. A whim consisted of a large drum with a few turns of cable wound on it. Both ends of the cable were left free to run over pulleys down the shaft. A bucket (kibble) was attached to each end of the cable. As the horse walked around, the drum revolved and one bucket would be lowered down the shaft as the other was raised.

 The Chinese men who came to the district played a large part in the mining industry. Around 1860 their population was well over 7,000. These young Chinese who came to Ballarat were sponsored by a businessman from their village back home. When successful, the gold was sent back to this sponsor. The Victorian Government soon realised that so many Chinese were having success at mining, it was decided to set a levy of ten pounds for every Chinese miner. These incomers had purchased their travel ticket for ten pounds. They came ashore in South Australia and then had to walk to Ballarat. By the 1860s there were three Chinese villages in Ballarat, each with a main street named Canton Street, where their shops, businesses, and gambling houses could be found.

Coming in February 2022

The time for traditions--Tricia McGill

 

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Well, most of the celebrations are probably over with by today so all that is left is the tidying up. I sincerely hope everyone had the best time possible. In these strange times, it is difficult to know what is normal any more. No matter where you are in the world all we could hope for right now is that you were able to connect with your loved ones.

Most restrictions have been dropped in my part of the world—at least for the foreseeable future. However, who knows what is around the next corner. Personally, I am not one for making New Year resolutions as many people do. I tend to face life one day at a time nowadays, which seems to be the best solution in a world that is changing day by day.

The thing I like best about this time of the year is traditions that have stood the test of time. I am not sure if mistletoe is necessary amid the decorations any more—such as a tree with either a star or a fairy on its top, Santa visiting on Christmas Eve to bring goodies to those children who have been good, but it was a well-worn tradition in my household when I was young.

Depending on where you start to look for information on the tradition of kissing beneath this parasitic plant that grows on trees and is poisonous, it seems to have been started by the Druids. Long considered to be a symbol of vitality with uncertain special curing properties, the earliest mention of its romantic powers was from Pliny the Elder, a Roman natural historian. He scoffed at the Druids notion that mistletoe when taken in a drink would aid in fertility.

Later the romantic association was expanded upon by the Norse in the story about Baldur’s mother Frigga, goddess of love. Legend had it that she ordered the plants and animals to promise not to harm her son—all plants except mistletoe. So, good old Loki, god of mischief, then killed Baldur with a mistletoe spear. Frigga’s tears turned into mistletoe berries that brought Baldur back to life, thus making Frigga declare mistletoe as a symbol of love.

Phew and here was I thinking it was a British Christmas tradition whereby if lovers kissed beneath the hanging sprig it ensured everlasting love. But it seems they didn’t start hanging mistletoe until the 18^th/19^th century. Mistletoe was also mentioned in Charles Dickens’ Pickwick Papers where he had young women screaming and struggling until they finally found it useless to resist the lure of being kissed beneath the mistletoe. Woe and betide any girl who resisted being kissed beneath it, for they would meet nothing but bad luck.

Mistletoe is still believed to contain healing properties by some, but there is little evidence to prove its worth as a herbal remedy. Sadly, the American Cancer institute has proven that there is nothing to suggest it contains an extract that will help the body’s immune system to fight cancer.

So there you have it—if you paused to kiss a lover or even a friend beneath the sprig of mistletoe this holiday season, you are almost certainly about to have the best of luck this coming year—or perhaps not. In any case, I wish you all that you wish yourselves in 2022.

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Time for a story--Tricia McGill

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Deep into research and planning for my next book, I realised that time had run away with me before I decided on a topic for my latest post. I hope this short story that I wrote many years ago will suffice. Sadly, it says a lot about the state of some of our children in these times, and the poor conditions thrust upon them. It is called The Kitten.

The demons were at his heels. He was panting when he reached the house. It stood, dark, forbidding. He knew it was empty. For the past two years since the Grimwalds had moved out no one had been brave enough to occupy it, even for a night. 

           He climbed through the hole in the fence that was well known by all the local kids. He had come here once with the Wells Street gang, but had heard they never used it as a meeting place any more. He was an outcast now, belonging to no gang. His mum was always bad-tempered and drunk most of the time; had been since his dad went away. What was it about grown-ups that made them take all their problems and misfortunes out on their kids?

            The house loomed before him, dark windows glaring down like black glass eyes. Did he have the courage to go inside? Well, there was only one way to find out. A gust of wind sent a carton flying about and it caught him on the shins, scaring him, making him shudder. He felt as if he had stepped into a movie he watched once, where a werewolf lived in the cellar of a house just like this one. His teeth chattered and he shivered wildly. What was he doing here? He must have gone mad.

            Mad or desperate? Where else could he go? His mum had a new boyfriend with her—some pathetic creep she'd picked up. Greg, his best friend, had been ordered to keep away from him. Funny ideas some grown-ups had. They could only get together at school now. Of course he could go and hang about near the station, but all the druggies got there. He didn't fancy getting mixed up with that lot; he'd managed to keep out of their way up to now.

            He wasn't welcome with the gang any more, since he'd refused to take part in their shop-lifting caper—to prove his bravery, they'd said. What was brave about nicking a few silly bars of chocolate and some cigs?

            He reached the tree where he knew he could get into the house through the upstairs window, and began to climb. He reached the second limb up when a pitiful sound stopped him in his efforts. "Meow...." it came again.

"Where are you? I can hear you, but I can't see you," he called in a loud whisper, and received another yowl in response. Up another foot he went until he could get a hold of the branch hanging over the balcony. A scruffy ball of fur began to hiss at him as he sat back on the branch, and he saw a small dirty-white kitten further up, its coat all wet, its eyes wide and staring. It hissed again and he chatted to it for a few minutes in what he hoped was a comforting tone. He didn't know much about animals, for he'd never been allowed to keep a pet, but he felt a strange empathy with this little creature. It looked just like he felt. Lonely. Sad. Miserable, and confused.

            "Come down then and you can come inside with me," he called, and to his surprise the kitten obeyed, dropping onto the branch beside him. "Wanna come into the house with me?" he asked, and it began to wipe its wet nose on his hand. It sniffed at him a bit and then jumped onto the top rail of the balcony, making a sound in its throat as if calling to him.

            He tentatively crawled along the branch and followed the kitten as it jumped down. It turned to make sure he followed before disappearing through a gap in the double doors.  He pushed the gap a bit wider and went after it. The room was so gloomy that he couldn't see the kitten, but then felt it smooching about his ankles. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was able to follow it to the door, which creaked as he pushed it open. The wind whistled mournfully down the passageway. Strangely, he didn't feel so frightened now he had the cat to keep him company. Stealthily they went down the stairs, and then he heard the strange noise. His flesh began to crawl, goose bumps rising on every inch of his body.

            "Who's there?" he whispered, his voice coming out odd and shaky. He'd heard of knocking knees but until that moment hadn't known just what it meant. "Come out, if you know what's good for you," he cried, not having a clue what he would do if a man came out carrying a gun or some other weapon.

            A funny scuffling sound was followed by a dragging noise and if the cat hadn't decided at that moment to smooch round him again he would have fled. His feet felt as if they were glued to the floor. As if in a dream where you couldn't move he watched as the door to what he guessed was the kitchen slowly opened. A scrawny hand appeared around its edge, the fingers bent and twisted, like talons.

            He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a small yowl just like the cat had made. A face, a terrible face, all lined and flabby, with skin hanging in folds beneath each eye followed the hand. The hair surrounding it was like the strings on the filthy mop that his mum kept outside the back door.  He managed a scream then, but before he could turn and run the thing had moved to clamp those long talon-like fingers over his arm. In terror he shrank from the vile smell coming off what he now saw was an old woman.

            "Let go of me," he ordered with as much bravado as he could muster.

            "Not until you keep quiet, silly little dope. What d'you want to do, waken the dead?" she asked, giving an unearthly cackle that made him shudder anew.

            "Are you dead?" he asked croakily as she released him. He thought of running but decided to stay and see what happened. She certainly didn't look like a ghost, and ghosts didn't stink, did they?

            She took out a piece of rag from the pocket of her cardigan and blew her nose noisily. "Not me. Want a bite?" She offered him a piece of bread. "Nice house isn't it?" she asked companionably. "You must have been mighty desperate to come in alone boy. Tell Old Jane your sorry tale and perhaps I'll let you stay."

            She picked up the kitten and stroked its wet fur before sitting down on the floor. He joined her, feeling safe now as he took a bite of the bread.

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A loyal Friend—Tricia McGill

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In these uncertain times, it is our family and our friends who see us through. For those of us who live alone, most of the time it is our pets, be it dog, cat, rabbit or horse, who help us to cope. In my case it is my remaining dog, Candy, who you can he sure is always there at my side. She follows me from room to room, and although now completely deaf knows the moment I move. Don’t ask me how she does it for she most definitely cannot hear me but her sensory organ or whatever alerts her to my movements, can bring her from a deep sleep, head tucked down, to a wide-awake watch-dog, ready for anything.

I have had many pets in my lifetime and although of varying breeds and colours they had one thing in common—their loyalty. Nothing equals the welcome we receive no matter how long we have been away. There they will be at the window waiting patiently for your return. My love of animals is common knowledge—you only need to look at my Pinterest page to understand my infatuation with all creatures great and small. A dog, cat or horse or at times all three appear in most of my books. I recently realised that I do not have one in my current work in progress so that inconsistency will need to be taken care of very soon.

A few of my favourite doggie quotes:

We give dogs time we can spare, space we can spare and love we can spare, and in return dogs give us their all. It is the best deal man has ever made. M Facklam

I have found that when you are deeply troubled, there are things you get from the silent devoted companionship of a dog that you can get from no other source. Doris Day

Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole. Roger Caras

My goal in life is to be as good a person as my dog already thinks I am. Anon

If there are no dogs in heaven, then I when I die I want to go where they went. Will Rogers.

For me a house becomes a home when you add one set of four legs, a happy tail, and that indescribable measure of love that we call a dog. Roger Caras.

Some of our greatest historical and artistic treasures we place with curators in museums; others we take for walks. Roger Caras.

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Procrastination is a dirty word—Tricia McGill

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Never have I had so much time on my hands, and never have I wasted so much time by literally wasting time. I am now feeling ashamed that I have admitted that. In the past when people asked me if I ever got bored my immediate response was, “Never. There is always so much to do”. I guess you could say that I have a good excuse. Here in my home state as well as most of the other Australian states we are currently in lockdown for the—I’ve lost count—time. This brings on a state of lethargy unknown to me previously. I can go to the shops—if I have a valid reason for doing so. I can attend my doctor’s surgery, and walk with one friend for daily exercise, as long as it is within 5 kilometres of my home, but to add to our misery we are under curfew. I have not been out after dark for many moons, but now that I have been advised (read that as warned) not to do so for fear of incurring a massive fine, I have this sudden urge to do just that.

Deep down I know that there is another valid reason for this depressed state of lethargy. Last week I had the unenviable task of taking my beautiful foxie boy to the vet clinic for the last time. This morning I received a beautiful letter of sympathy from the clinic’s amazing staff about my gorgeous boy and their knowledge that he will be sorely missed. There are varying degrees of sorrow, and only other pet lovers will know just what I am going through right now. I was hoping he would go while sleeping out in the sunshine on a day like today, as Tiger the dog did in my latest book, but that was not to be. My remaining pet, my Shih Tzu girl is still looking for him, especially around meal times when he was prone to sneak up on her and pinch whatever food she had left. Being an adopted dog I have the knowledge that the last ten years of his life spent with me were the best by far.

The world is in such turmoil right now that I guess it is immoral of me to spare so much of my sorrow on one small dog, but as I say, there are degrees and my heart aches for all those now in dire circumstances, either through war or this vile disease sweeping the globe. It is time to do as my mother advised and pull my socks up and get on with it.

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