NOTES ON MY LIFE AND SOME OF THE PEOPLE WHO TOUCHED ME – FOR GOOD OR FOR BAD - JUNE GADSBY

 

June Gadsby's Book Page

When I hear people complain how boring their lives are, I realise just how lucky I have been. My life, trials and tribulations all, has been at worst interesting – at best, fascinating – never dull.

Recently, I went on a nostalgic trip while downsizing the junk that was taking up far too much space in my office. With a few treasures, there emerged memories galore; some writers who had been personal friends or acquaintances; some non-writing people who had had a great impact in my life. The experiences I had with these people made me what I am. Without them I could have grown up to be the shy little mouse that I was, with her nose always in a book or a pencil in her hand. Some of them made such an impression on me that they later turned up in my novels. My grandparents – Granddad in particular; my three maiden aunts, sisters in their nineties – perfect material for secondary characters in my historic books – one of them was mortified to be fined at the age of 85 for driving too slowly. Then there was the nightmare marriage to my first husband who…well, you’ll find out all about him in my memoirs, if and when I write them.

Now, here are a few anecdotes about some of the other people who touched my life and who I feel honoured to have known:

ARTHUR APPLETON, sports journalist who wrote The Story of Sunderland - Centenary 1879-1979 but the book he was better known for was the story of the murderess, Mary Ann Cotton. I got to know Arthur when he was President of the Newcastle Writers’ Circle [N.E. England]. Over the years I attended his tutorials at Beamish Hall in Durham where he used to organise writers’ weekends. White-haired, softly spoken – he was the ultimate ‘gentleman’ and everybody who knew him, loved him. His experiences while researching for the Mary Ann Cotton book were not always pleasant as her descendants were reluctant to cooperate. The research took three years to complete, but he kept at it and succeeded in the end. Being a journalist and a writer wasn’t enough in this case. Arthur had to be a detective too, but writing this amazing story left its mark.

ROBERT HUGILL.

Another lovely old gentleman whom I met through the Newcastle Writers’ Circle. Historian and writer of books on pele towers and castles and a stand-alone book: “I Travelled Through Spain.” When I met him he was already 89

and had just published his first crime novel, “Said The Spider to the Fly”, which I enjoyed reading and was surprised to find some sexual content in the prose. Bob was hoping to have his second novel published, but unfortunately died before this could be achieved. He had a mind as sharp and clear as a thirty-year-old, but I remember him shaking his head and saying: “You know, June, old age isn’t so great. It’s the legs that go first.” How right he was, and this is especially true with writers.  I speak from experience.

GORDON PARKER is a British novelist and playwright. He has been a literary critic for Tyne Tees Television and BBC Radio Newcastle.

I met Gordon at a writers’ weekend at Beamish Hall, though I doubt he will remember going for a walk with me through knee-deep snow, talking about the difficulties of being a writer. Gordon was already published then. I was still a ‘wannabe’. He wrote somewhat controversial books about local politicians. His books, apparently, sold well in Russia at the time, but he could only spend his royalties there in Russia. It’s good to see that he is still writing and being published after all these years.

 

BENITA BROWN, best-selling novelist whose sagas were, and still are, loved by many. I met Benita through my husband, Brian, who had known her and her husband for some years. Their children and Brian’s son attended the same school. Norman Brown was a photographer and had photographed my husband [manager of Sir Peter Scott’s wildfowl park in Washington, North-East England] on many occasions. They became personal friends and Benita, encouraged me in my writing. She was the person who kept on insisting that I should join the Romantic Novelists Association, but I stubbornly refused as I never considered myself to be a writer of ‘love stories’. However, I finally gave in, joined the association and, with all the help and support of the many members, ended up writing my first romance and getting it published – though I sneaked in a bit of suspense. Benita was a great loss to the Association and to all her friends when she died a few years ago, but I see that her books still go on. Thank you, Benita, for giving me that very necessary push that led me to my own success.

T. DAN SMITH:

T. Dan Smith aka ‘Mister Newcastle’ was a notorious councillor with a questionable past, but an admirable passion for his fellow Geordies and his town, Newcastle upon Tyne [N.E. England]. He had great charisma and was an undeniable enigma of a man, adored by some, hated by many. How I became his personal secretary at the age of 23 is a long and intricate story. He was a workaholic, totally dynamic, and I was expected to be ‘on-call’ 24/24 as part of a team headed by a man who later became Lord Mayor of Newcastle. He was famous, rich and powerful and Newcastle was a better place for him. He dealt with a variety of businesses, and fought for the ordinary people. He would  stop to shake hands with a lowly tramp in the street as well as have meetings with the then Prime Minister, Harold Wilson. He was a great orator and politician, but to me he was just a man who could sit and talk to me for hours about painting and poetry. I had already moved on when Dan was charged with bribery and corruption and, eight years later I found myself giving evidence for the prosecution at his trial. This was a pretty scary moment standing in the witness box looking at a grim-faced judge, a tiny man smothered in a long white wig and scarlet robe, who stared at me accusingly over his bifocals and ordered me to speak up because my terrified voice was so weak it was no more than a whisper.Microphones in court didn’t exist then. “You have nothing to fear,” he told me, then added: “Or do you?” Dan Smith pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 6 years in an open prison. The pleasant experience was how well I was treated by detectives of Scotland Yard. And when I was reported in the local newspaper as being the winner of the annual Catherine Cookson Award, Dan sent me a letter of congratulations.

The above biography was written by Chris Foote Wood, who came all the way to the Hautes Pyrenees in France in 2010 to interview me about my time, short though it was, as Dan’s secretary. I had plenty of anecdotes to relate, but after so many years some of my memories were a bit blurred around the edges. Still keeping to writing, I discovered that Chris Foote Wood was the brother of the lovely comedienne, writer and actor, Victoria Wood. I had already thought that if ever my book, When Tomorrow Comes, became a film, she would be perfect as my favourite heroine, Hildie Thompson. I sent her agent a copy of the book and was graciously thanked and she said she would enjoy reading it. But, of course, that can never be as she has recently died.

JONATHAN EDWARDS

Jonathan David Edwards, CBE is a British former triple jumper. He is an Olympic, World, Commonwealth and European champion, and has held the world record in the event since 1995. No-one, yet, has beaten this record.

Before he became known as an athlete, Jonathan, at the age of 19 came to work in the Human Genetics Department where I was P.A. to the world famous human geneticist Professor Sir John Burn. He was a laboratory technician, shy and retiring – and I was given the job of being something of a ‘mother hen’ to him during his first weeks. I’m so proud to have played just a very small role in this lovely young man’s life.

SIR PETER SCOTT:

Sir Peter Scott was the son of Captain Scott of the Antarctic. As a young man he was an expert skater, sailor and hunter, until he lost his taste for killing wildlife and became one of the most famous naturalists in the world, setting up the charity, Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust – and he was my husband, Brian’s, boss. Brian was the manager of the Washington [UK] branch of the trust where there was a hundred acres of wetlands, woods and lakes. We lived on site in an old farmhouse with 1200 endangered wildfowl for company.

His wealthy background allowed him to follow his interests in art, wildlife and many sports, including wildfowling, sailing and ice skating. He represented Great Britain and Northern Ireland at sailing in the 1936 Berlin Olympic Games, winning a bronze medal in the O-Jolle dinghy class.

Steam Gun Boat, MGB S309, under the command of Lieutenant Commander Peter Scott, underway at sea

During the Second World War, Peter served in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve. As a Sub-Lieutenant, during the failed evacuation of the 51st Highland Division he was the British Naval officer sent ashore at Saint-Valery-en-Caux in the early hours of 11 June 1940 to evacuate some of the wounded. This was the last evacuation of British troops from the port area of St Valery that was not disrupted by enemy fire. Then he served in destroyers in the North Atlantic but later moved to commanding the First (and only) Squadron of Steam Gun Boats against German E-boats in the English Channel.[7] He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for bravery.

Peter and his wife Philippa [who took the photograph for this book cover] often came up to Washington for meetings. I remember the first time I met them. I had rushed home from work [I was then a medical secretary for Newcastle University] and was changing my clothes – standing in my underwear – when I heard an almighty crash from the kitchen. A wall cabinet full of my precious collectable crockery had fallen to the floor, knocking over the kettle, which in turn knocked over a tea caddy and there was an unholy mess. We were still mopping the floor when the Scott’s arrived, but they were very sweet about it and Peter even found time to congratulate me on the painting of a bird I had done. Peter was quite a character, loved wearing bright red socks and often played practical jokes on people.

HRH PRINCE CHARLES:

Which brings me nicely to the end of my name-dropping blog. I met HRH Prince Charles, President of the Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust, on two occasions. One meeting on the coldest January day in the north-east of England when he came to open a new wing of the Washington branch. We were all frozen to the bone, waiting 45 minutes while the official photographers assembled us into the correct positions. I was first to be introduced [husband Brian is standing next to me in this photo] after Charles had signed the register. He muttered an aside in my direction, saying that he was having bother joining up his letters that day and announcing to me that he had caught baby William’s cold. I gripped his hand a little tighter than I perhaps should have, but I was perched on the top of a flight of stairs and my heels were hanging over the edge. All I could think of was “Please don’t let me fall and pull HRH on top of me!”

Our other meeting was at the AGM of the Trust in Slimbridge. We were last in the queue, waiting to be introduced, but were then told that there wasn’t time as lunch was about to be served. We were disappointed, but by some quirky act of fate we found ourselves alone with Prince Charles as the two men he had been in discussion with both left him standing there – unheard of! We put on a brave face, not knowing what to do and walked towards the prince, who spun around on his heel, smiled broadly and came to us, hand outstretched. Brian introduced himself and [we weren’t married at the time] simply introduced me as “This is June”. Prince Charles grasped my hand – he has a very firm handshake – and said: “Hello, June.” He had a few words with Brian, then turned to me and asked me what should be done about the north-east of England. “There’s a great lack of culture,” I told him. “They need more.” He looked thoughtful, smiled and nodded. I’d like to think that my remark had a little bit to do with the wonderful cultural place that the north-east of England has now become.

The three of us walked slowly towards the dining room, I by the prince’s side and Brian bringing up the rear. I had no idea of protocol and Charles knew that without being told. He placed his hand at my back, bent towards me and whispered: “You go first and I’ll follow.’ Any protocol I might have recalled went right out of the window as I simply whispered back to him: “Thank you!” The minute we reached the dining room all eyes were on me and my cheeks were burning as the ladies in their Ascot and Wedding hats crowded around, desperate to know what HRH had said to me. It was one of the most memorable moments of my life – a few personal moments with the future king of England.

Facebook Genius Reincarnate (with a Gold Aura!) by Gail Roughton

Hop on the Broomstick!

Am I the only one who's noticed? Either America's getting really dumb or really brilliant.  And I have an impeccable source to support that statement.  Facebook.  Think about it. Every other post is some little quiz claiming that only one out of ten people know the answer to all these questions, or only one in a hundred people can spell all these words or pick the proper usage/form of said word in a sentence. Now honestly, when you're not spelling a word from scratch but merely picking the correct spelling or usage out of a choice of three, does that even count as knowing how to spell? Or proof of knowledge of grammar rules in general? I think not, but that's just me talking. 

There are endless variations, of course. "Only a genius can get all ten questions right!"  Well, be still my heart, I must be a bona fide genius. I mean, nobody but a genius (except anyone who's finished elementary school) knows Thomas Edison invented the light bulb rather than  Dwight D. Eisenhower or Ben Franklin.  'Cause oh yeah--those little quizzes are multiple choice, too.  I mean, even if I didn't remember it was Thomas Edison, process of elimination tells me folks didn't go around flipping light bulbs on in the late 1700's and early 1800's so that lets ol' Ben out and Dwight Eisenhower was a World War II General/1950's U.S. President so it's not rocket science to deduce the correct answer.  We'd been using light bulbs a good long while by that time, after all. 

In short, if the quality of education in America has truly sunk to such a level that anyone who knows the plural of deer is deer, that a group of crows is called a murder, a group of cows a herd, or that the correct spelling when referring to the head position of a school is principal and not principle is classed as a genius, or conversely, sunk to such a level that most people don't know most of the answers to all those quizzes--don't tell me. I don't want to know.

I've sworn off most of those quizzes; being a certified genius (per Facebook) I know they're mostly click bait to ascertain which ads to inundate your spam folders and Timeline with, but I'm only human and I love to be entertained, so I still occasionally fall victim to the quizzes that promise to tell you where you should actually live (though I don't think anyone should put much stock in a quiz that told me, poster child of the Deep South, I was only fifty percent Georgian), the true color of your aura, how old your soul is, what you really were in a former life and how you died. If you don't believe in reincarnation, you can find a quiz that'll tell you what type of ghost or angel you'll be (even though technically, I think some scholars believe that you don't become an angel after death because angels are arguably a separate species and you're either created one or you're not.) 

All I can say is I must have an extremely temperamental aura because that sucker changes color from one quiz to the next like a diva changes clothes. It's been every color in the rainbow, which is a very unreliable trait in an aura if you ask me. I'm a very old soul, and that actually stays pretty consistent.  I've been everything from a queen to a witch (and tell me honestly, what woman alive isn't sometimes a queen and sometimes a witch in her present life?) to a bank robber in the old West, I've fallen off cliffs and been shot by the law while trying to escape. I'd be a guardian ghost and a warrior angel. That's provided of course I don't get reincarnated again and human souls do (or can) turn into angels after death (see above discussion on angels.) 

Like I said, it's entertainment, and I'm sure that's all any of us take it to be.  And speaking of entertainment (and reincarnation and angels), there's this little series I wrote a while back wherein my poor heroine discovers she's actually a reincarnated witch who just possibly has a celestial familiar...

Take a ride on War-N-Wit, Inc.'s broomstick, why don't you? Start with The Witch and stay on board for Resurrection. 
Then hop on your Harley for Daytona Bike Week in The Coven.  Finish up with an out of this world tour in Mean Street, LLC.  And please check back in for more tongue in cheek blog posts from this writer, the 6th of every month. In the meantime, one of the Books We Love authors is up for your entertainment right here every day, same time, same channel.

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Web-Blog Writin' With Southern Stylin'!

Rosemary Morris shares some of her routine and process of writing her historical romance novels

Click here for More of Rosemary's Books and Buy Links

Some people imagine that novelists either live in an ivory tower or in a garret a slave to the muse. In fact, all the authors I know are dedicated to writing but neither they nor I are cut off from the world.

On the 29^th of August, I woke at 6 a.m. very relaxed because I finished writing, revising and editing Wednesday’s Child, Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week, Book Four.

Until 8.30 I read and replied to e-mails instead of keeping to my usual routine of writing from 6 a.m. until 10 a.m. with time out for breakfast.

Rob, my gardener arrived at 9.30 a.m. and weeded my mini-orchard of plums, pears, four apple trees and a cooking apple tree. We collected the windfalls, and picked six pounds of ripe apples and two pounds of plums.

While working in my organic garden in which I grow herbs, soft fruit, stone fruit and vegetables, I experience a connection with past times when people ate local produce in season. Delicious produce uncontaminated by artificial fertilisers and pesticides.

At 10 a.m. my seven-year-old granddaughter arrived to spend the day with me. She ate two apples, played on her i pad next then with playdough. I sorted out the apples, kept some to eat and made juice with the rest. Afterwards, I picked the last of the French Beans and prepared them for the freezer.

At eleven o’clock the three of us had a break. I made hot chocolate for my granddaughter and tea for myself and Rob, who shares my interest in history and is also a member of Watford Writers, which meets on Monday evenings.

To recreate the past in my novels, I read historical non-fiction which often gives me ideas for my novels. Rob and I discussed my recent purchase is Set in A Silver Sea, Volume One of Arthur Bryant’s History of the British People. When Rob left I gave him some plums, apples, tomatoes and a large courgette, as well as homemade creamy leek and courgette homemade soup from the from the freezer.

For lunch, we ate sandwiches that included home grown cucumber and tomatoes while sitting outside in the garden. Afterwards we planted her broad bean plants. The two she sowed at school looked dead but she told her teacher that her green-fingered grandmother would save them.

She went home at 2 o’clock so I put my feet up, caught up with more e-mails for an hour, read a chapter of The Silver Sea, then watched an episode of Borgia on Netflix. At five o’clock I made a spinach, peas and curd cheese curry and chapattis for my granddaughter, her fifteen and twelve-year old brothers. It’s one of their favourite meals. (I included the recipe at the end of my novel Far Beyond Rubies set in Queen Anne Stuart’s reign, 1702-1714.) For dessert, we enjoyed mangos.

In the evening, I dealt with some writing related business matters, revised, and edited Chapter One of my new novel, Thursday’s Child, Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week, Book Five. On Monday evening, I shall read it at Watford Writers and receive constructive comments from members.

Almost time for bed, I watched another episode of Borgia on Netflix. It’s more sexually explicit than anything I usually read or watch but the history is interesting.

So, this typical autumn day in my life proves I neither live in an ivory tower nor a garret.

Monday’s Child by Rosemary Morris

All my historical novels have strong themes with which modern day readers can identify with. In Monday’s Child, the tension mounts as war with France becomes inevitable.

At heart I am a historian, so Monday’s Child is rich in historical detail.

Back Cover

In March 1815, Napoleon Bonaparte escaped from exile in Elba. In Brussels, eighteen-year-old Helen Whitley, is aware that war with France between Britain and her allies, is inevitable. A talented artist, Helen is aware of the anxiety and fear underlying the balls, breakfasts, parties, picnics and soirees - held by the British. In an attic, she paints scenes in which she captures the emotions of daily life during the hundred days before the Battle of Waterloo.

While Helen lives with her sister and wealthy brother-in-law, Major Tarrant, she waits for Major, Viscount Langley, to arrive in Brussels and ask her to be his wife. Langley, who serves in the same regiment as Tarrant, is her brother-in-law’s closest friend, therefore she assumes her sister and Tarrant will be delighted by the match.

She is grateful to her brother-in-law for including her in his household. Nevertheless, Helen regrets being dependent on his generosity, so she’s looking forward to being mistress of Langley’s heart and home.

Before Langley leaves England to join his regiment, he visits his ancestral home, to inform his parents that he intends to marry Helen. Yet, when he arrives in Brussels to join his regiment, he does not propose marriage to Helen, and her pride does not allow her to reveal the misery caused by Langley’s rejection

Review by Juliet Waldron

Regency Addicts Rejoice. Everything for the Regency addict here, with a heroine of great beauty but small fortune, all the strategies required for keeping one's place in the "ton," and plenty of interfering relatives. Taking it a little further afield than Jane Austen did, this story is set in 1815 Brussels where all the eligible young men are soldiers in Wellington's army, awaiting an attack by Napoleon. Despite the wartime tension, there's still plenty of time for balls, visiting, and morning gallops. The author knows her stuff--from clothes, to the many strictures of proper behaviour, which seem to us today as limiting as the ladies' underwear. Not only the detail but dialogue too shows a lively understanding of the period; I didn't see a single teacup laid out of place. While this book is a Regency delight, it's no fantasy confection. Class differences and gender relationships are portrayed realistically, sometimes jarringly so, with no candy-coating. I was particularly pleased by the marital choice made by Monday's Child--aptly named "Helen." It left me with no doubt about her HEA.

Novels by Rosemary Morris available from your online bookstores and in ebook and print

Medieval.

 Yvonne, Lady of Cassio.

18^th Century

 Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess

Regency

 False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week.

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary-romance-historical-uk/