Outline of novel 'The Eloquence of Desire ', to be published by Sparkling Books
Extracts from novel 'The Eloquence of Desire '
Outline of novel 'A Little Rain Will Fall '
Extract from second novel 'A Little Rain Will Fall'
Extract from short story 'Windows that Sparkle'
Extract from short story 'Growing Pains'
Extract from short story 'The Zoo Keeper'
Extract from short story 'Three Cleaners'
Extract from Poem 'Eastern Influence'
Extract from Poem 'A Spanish Diet'
Extract from short story 'The Carving'

Outline of novel 'The Eloquence of Desire', to be published by Sparkling Books

Amanda unfolds a narrative set in the 1950s which is distinctly rhythmic in its delivery as she delves into the minds of George, his wife Dorothy and their twelve year old daughter, Susan. Their relationships are turned upside down when Dorothy discovers George's affair with his boss's daughter. George and Dorothy are sent to Malaysia while Susan goes to boarding school. Still ruled by Britain, Malaysia is in the throes of the Emergency. The intense tropical heat and her fear of the civil unrest turns Dorothy into a recluse. George embarks on another affair. He and his new lover befriend a Malay boy and his family who live in a kampong in the jungle. But the villagers are supporting the insurgents and it is Susan, over from England, who finds her father and lover in the kampong after an attack by Chinese Communists. It is only after this event that she discovers the truth about her parent's relationship and her psychological disturbance eventually forces her to see a psychiatrist in London. Richly descriptive and well researched; The Eloquence of Desire is a page turner where obsessive love, the terror of war and the lost innocence of childhood are explored in depth.
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' Now the glamour of chaise longues, the brocade settees, the Persian rugs, and the clinking of champagne glasses had been replaced by dust sheets and a family of beetles which had made their home in the corner of the doorway. Strange that he should be invited back again, under these so very different circumstances.' ...

...'she watched the shadows take over the garden, moving across the lawn, ready to engulf the house; the grass stripes created by Babiya, glistening like phantoms in the bluish light. It would be dark soon; already the moon was visible, slipping upwards and away through the trees.' ...

...'She turned to look out from the veranda at the stubbly grass, at a scrawny cat as it slept, at peace, sprawled out under a palm frond. Today, a sheet of clouds hung over the plantation, unmoving, as if held inert by invisible strings. Distant voices of the tappers meandered across to her in the windless heat and she saw Mr McPherson's tall figure appear in the distance.'
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Outline of novel 'A Little Rain Will Fall'

'A Little Rain Will Fall' contrasts the lives of four characters and the political and social constraints which influence their actions. It is located in an English suburban town and Addis Ababa.
An agony aunt, Marianne Dabrowski, thinks she is an expert at 'reading' people. A newly arrived refugee from Ethiopia moves in next door to her. Solomon, a former Human Rights Activist in Ethiopia, appears to be acting suspiciously. She wavers between distrusting him, self-disgust at her prejudices and an admiration for him which is fired by her sexual attraction to him. It is not until he is released from custody after being wrongly accused of serious assault that she admits to both herself and Solomon, her true feelings for him, which are reciprocated.
Solomon has a sister, Hana, who, with her seven children is being pursued by the authorities in Addis Ababa. Her husband was a political journalist who was killed by officials working for the Ethiopian government. Only able to take three of her children, she flees to Nairobi in the back of a truck, but discovers that the immigration officers are corrupt and expect her to bribe them for the exit papers that would allow her to travel to safety in the UK.
Charlotte is one of Marianne's problem page cases who writes via email. She is employed by an agency that specialises in charity advertising. Due to her inability to conceive, she feels inadequate and that she will never find happiness. Unbeknown to them both, Charlotte and Marianne live in the same town in the south of England. Charlotte occasionally sees Marianne in a café bar they both frequent, but chooses at first not to introduce herself until she 'rescues' Marianne from the drinking bout she indulges in after visiting Solomon in a police cell. Later Charlotte meets Solomon. Aided by an agreed compromise, she manages to persuade her wealthy husband to part with the funds that will enable Hana to buy her way out of Nairobi where she is working as a prostitute.

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'So will you be moving in to your aunt's old house?' Marianne asked.
The man's face peered in through her open car window giving off a sharp smell of pine after-shave. She assessed him, the small eyes of indeterminate colour, the broad nose. There was an air of solitude about him, a man with few friends. She imagined him frying liver and bacon for dinner, feeding tit-bits to his cat. What would it be like living next to this man?
'Oh no, I'm converting it into two flats. Got it all arranged. Auntie was going to move into a nursing home. The rent, you see, from the flats...' He had a number of chins which he now massaged slowly, with his open palm. 'It was all tied up and agreed two days before she died. Bless her.'
Harold. Last seen brushing his great aunt's path clear of leaves. Only two weeks since the ninety two year old had died, still missed by Marianne; Gloria Winslow the woman from next door who, always used to throw bread out for the birds.
He leaned further towards her. 'Auntie Glory always spoke so highly of you. Bless her.'
She grabbed the carrier bag from the passenger seat, opened her car door, told him that she had a pile of work to do, that she couldn't stop and chat.
'I'll be popping by now and again,' he called after her. 'Checking on the builders. So if you happen to be in…'
Once in her study, she looked out of the window, saw him drive away in a long black car and realised she was still clutching the carrier bag containing her present to herself. She unrolled the carefully chosen print assuring herself she'd made the right decision. Her choice of art. To put in the spot where an ex-lover's painting had hung: advice Marianne would give to anyone in her position. Already it was two weeks since Jethro had moved out.

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It was my neighbour that gave me your number. A friend of her gardener's she told me. Said you were reliable. Her little secret she said.. Before you started to clean my windows I lived in a dream, a false reality. I didn't think I had choices and felt guilty about my frustrations.
It was the squeak of chamois leather as you wiped my patio doors that made me look up, follow the arc of soap you drew on the glass. I caught a glimpse of your torso, as you reached high with your arms, saw the muscles contract, the sun glint in your hair.
'Any chance of a cup of coffee' you asked me.
I remember how you looked straight at me. Your eyes were the colour of sand after spring rain on an empty beach with the rollers riding, and the sky clearing. You were probably the same age as my son. I never knew where he was. He moved from town to town like a nectar collecting bee. My husband disapproves of him. He's a singer in a band. Sometimes he's on TV and I record him - in the privacy of the room where he used to sleep. We communicate by email, and once, when my husband was away on business, we had a drink together. We met in a bar where a DJ bounced and twisted behind his music machine. My son was distant, accusing, said I had mistaken my four wheel drive for freedom. I pretended I didn't understand what he was talking about. We parted on bad terms.

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The changes in her body were already taking place before Jeff left. She noticed her elbow joints were knobbly and there was a small protuberance from her left shoulder. But she put the skeletal projections down to a loss of weight. Usually her figure was soft and rounded - it was this that first attracted Edward then Dean. And it was partly her efforts to eradicate their memory that accelerated her transformation.
She worked as a temp. Her spelling was good and her legs were shapely. Her temporary employers all appreciated that. In her spare time she gardened, growing plants from seed, clambering up trees to prune their branches, slicing the tops of shrubs to titillate their growth. There was a vine that grew round the windows of her house. The more she hacked at the intrusive tendrils, the more they multiplied and clambered up her walls. On occasion, they appeared to be waving to her, even when there was no wind.
She was, by nature, a quiet woman, someone who observed, composted the world around her. This was surprising, as she was pretty with long fair hair and eyes, green, the colour of submerged pond plants. Her face was moon-shaped and her mouth wide. Only by sucking in her cheeks and painting them with blusher could she define her cheek bones. Rarely did she bother. Her faraway expression was one of her ways of dealing with the wandering eyes of her temporary employers, as they observed the curve of her breasts and her comely legs. And it was common for them to believe that because she was temping, she was somehow available as a plaything that could be discarded, and therefore be treated with an element of disrespect. They thought of her as a worker bee, flitting between sources of nectar, extracting pleasure when she saw fit. And in a sense they were right. Several men had passed through her life. None of them had hung around for long. Recently there was Edward from the accounts section of a car-leasing company where she worked as a receptionist. He was a man of extraordinary height. A calculator was a permanent fixture in his top pocket and he was proud of his ability to work out square roots in his head. But there was a problem. Like a shadow, an aroma followed in his wake: his feet remained odorous, no matter what. Kneeling to wash them, like some devoted disciple, she failed to dislodge the tang of foreign cheeses and boiled eggs. All attempts with peppermint foot spray failed. His feet were, as he pointed out, so far from the rest of his body, he was barely aware of their existence. He was sorry and commented on the common threads they shared, suggesting she might like to consider a holiday in Majorca, taking out a joint a mortgage, growing old together.
'I don't want any of that,' she said. 'I have a fear of settling down, of establishing roots in one place.'

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It was before dawn when the first growl wove through my dream. A few minutes later a roar startled me out of my sleep. I hurried over to the balcony that overlooked the park. It was the first night in my new apartment and it was the balcony with its balustrades and pots of flowering geraniums that had first attracted me to it. Chosen out of dozens advertised for renting in the local Spanish newspaper, the aspect was just what I was looking for. After I'd unpacked, I'd taken a walk round the park: a playground, a restaurant serving speciality dishes from that region of Spain, benches set in the shade of cypress trees, all this, yes. But no zoo. So on that first night I stood on my balcony and searched the moonless night. Globules of light from street lamps shimmered through the foliage. A distant howl bounced through the night. Shivering, I locked the balcony doors and hurried back to bed.
For the remainder of the night, I slept fitfully; roars and screeches entered my subconscious, disturbing my sleep. I pulled the sheet over my head, but the sounds penetrated the cover. The next day would be my first day of working in this easterly Spanish town where the surrounding mountains yielded snails for the local paella and there was a history of rebellion during the Franco years.
In the morning, I stood on the balcony again, stretched and gazed out towards the park. It looked serene, like any other park in the world: a space in which to relax. Joggers, mothers with babies in pushchairs, a couple of elderly men chatting as they leant on their sticks. It all looked normal, and part of me wondered if I had been mistaken, that the animal sounds I'd heard last night were all down to an overactive imagination, fed by the late night beers I'd drunk in the bar beneath the apartments. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. The man behind the bar had a moustache that was combed and waxed. It hung beneath his chin like a couple of black snakes. The previous night, I'd sat by the window, with door wide open and the cool evening air had massaged my skin. There were no zoo sounds then. I was sure of that.

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Extract from short story 'Three Cleaners'

I can hear chanting again, a deep, melancholic sound; it mixes with the smell of incense drifting through my open window. The ceiling fan spins above me, shunting air across my hotel room. I check my mobile. Nothing. The chanting changes key, a downwards movement, still minor, and a gong sounds three times.
I switch on the TV and watch the news. The war that started a month before I left the UK, is ongoing and the corpses are being buried in mass graves. The news camera trails the mourners, women in yellow, red, orange, the colours of the desert that eats its way across the land. My mind meanders; it recreates the flash of your camera, sees bullets searing through your flesh. I imagine your face, ashen, your eyes searching for your scattered cameras, as you lie wounded, waiting for help.
Breakfast is usually with backpackers, on a gap year, or just travelling for the hell of it. Already, I've been here the longest. Waiting. This time, you're the latest you've ever been. I've told a few about you, about the arrangement we've made, the unpredictability of your work, how my job, a freelance travel writer, fits neatly into yours, like a walnut fits its shell.
Today, I am eating alone. A white-water rafting trip has been organised. It left at dawn and it seems everyone is on it. I decide to return to the temple I found yesterday. I had been searching for a flower market, and it was the perfume of incense that led me to it. The aroma snaked down the alleyways and drifted into the tea-shop where I'd stopped to cool off.

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Extract from poem 'Eastern Influence'

A carnival you'd said, I'd worn my brightest top,
a sparkling scarf from an Indian stall, the two matched in lip-stick red.
Musk oil touches on wrist and neck. Waist length hair hanging loose.
Standing in an alien street. With
men from another land observing my pale freckled skin.
You laughed and said I was being vain.
Your fancy camera hung from your neck,
a duty free remnant from the East.
Like a travelling photographer,
you pulled a face, made me grin.

Jubilance of pulsing music, floats packed with laughing girls,
Women parading in fancy feathers,
profiles strong against the summer light.
Hearts in equal cadence to the drums; reggae beat and bands of steel.
Recollections of ocean air, heady sun,
colours that shimmer, rhythmic song,
troubles vanquished with hashish or grass.

Thirsty, you led me to a pub; squashed and clammy,
spices, and honeyed perfume
Our bodies moved, responding, swaying in time.
Hips and bottoms touching, arms around.

We laughed our way along the street. I didn't want it to ever end.

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Extract from poem 'A Spanish Diet'

Yesterday I over-ate,
Paella. Cooked in stock of Spanish origin.
Crisp green peppers chopped,
tomatoes softened.
Washed down with fruit; fermented,
from fine French roots.
Today I must suffer.
A punishment most severe.
Nil by mouth.
Stomach in full time siesta mode.
Café espresso on tap
to deaden
the lurking hunger pains.
Along the Barcelona avenidas.
Plane trees thick with pollen.
Passing panadarias,
bread sticks, golden
plaited loaves
fresh from the oven.
A baker opens the door. He beckons.

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Extract from short story 'The Carving'

Marjory was playing solitaire in the sitting room when she heard the car drive off.She knew her father was away, maybe until tomorrow, and the house was a gentler place without him. Marjory stashed a bundle of clean clothes underneath her favorite palm and ran down to the garden gate. She didn't know where her amah was, so she moved quickly, not wanting to be missed.
Marjory made her way though the dripping jungle. Hearing footsteps behind, she turned around, but all she saw was a yellow tufted bird, picking in the undergrowth. Her pace was slower now, the sun was rising in the sky and perspiration started to trickle down her back. She spun around at the sound of treading leaves behind her.
A cicada started its chirping at her shoulder, and a bird shrieked high up at the tops of the trees. She reached the river and saw Raffy across on the other side of the water. He was chopping wood. She watched him silently until he looked up and smiled. She tucked her blue pinafore dress in her knickers and waded across to him. The shallow water only reached her knees.
Raffy sat on his haunches and watched her as she climbed up the steep bank towards him. He had a basket of berries next to him 'Eat, I pick them for you.' He said. Marjory sat on the ground, cross legged, and started to eat the berries. Raffy was looking intently across the river, Marjory looked too, but she couldn't see what he was staring at. He picked up a knife and started to carve a small piece of wood, blowing the peeled wood away as he cut. Two thick legs started to emerge from the wood. He carved individual toes into each foot. Marjory looked on, transfixed.
The crackling of broken branches from across the river made them both look up in time to see a white flash of clothing which caught the sunlight as it retreated down the path. Raffy put the unfinished carving on the ground. 'You go home now' he said. Marjory stayed sitting for a while before she reluctantly went back through the jungle.

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All work has been registered with the Writers' Copyright Association. Registration No. C103158