Anam Cara

   I get lots of questions about my books and the most asked one is, what’s the influence behind it?

Well, the influence behind Anam Cara is threefold: our fiftieth birthdays, my friend’s marriage breakdown, and a family member’s illness.

   Let’s start with our fiftieth birthdays. My husband Simon is six months older than me, and he dealt with the looming milestone with astonishing dread and panic. Age had never seemed to bother him before – it’s never bothered me – but this birthday carried such weight and anticipation. It wasn’t just a milestone – it was a death sentence. A this is it now, the beginning of the end, moment. I say moment – the build-up lasted a good two years! By the time Simon did actually hit fifty, we were all – the entire family – exhausted from the trepidation.

   I understand, I do. My father-in-law died far too young, at sixty-nine. His father too, and his father before him. And it was something that Austin (my father-in-law) focused on and talked about often. He knew he wouldn’t reach seventy. It was his destiny, his heritage.

 

Simon's parents in 1962

   And so, when Simon became fixated about hitting fifty, and panicking about dying before the last Harry Potter film was out, he managed to talk himself into an even earlier demise, with ease. Luckily for us all, the final Harry Potter film was out two months after his forty-eighth birthday. Thank goodness, I thought, this is the end of his irrational panic. But it wasn’t.

   He’s not an irrational person as such; he’s overworked and in his job as a nurse, sees a great many early deaths and cares for many patients in a bad way, much younger than us. So I can see how it happens. Whereas I have always worked with children. They keep you young. They don’t make you feel old – well, except for when they ask things like, , 'So what did you do in the second world war?' Or my favourite one: 'Miss, what sort of clothes did you wear in the Victorian days?'

   So we got together, the children and I, and planned a week away for Simon and myself, to celebrate his birthday. The obvious destination was Stratford-upon-Avon; it’s where the magic started all those years ago when we were drama students in our late teens. It’s always been our favourite place ever since. There, and the Lake District. Although, the Lake District is our family holiday haunt; Stratford is just for us.

   Three plays at the RSC booked, pubs earmarked, museums noted, and riverside walks plotted, it was set to be a birthday to remember for all the right reasons. And best of all, Simon had no idea about it.

The Royal Shakespeare Company theatre.

The Garrick Inn. The oldest pub in Stratford-upon-Avon, and a perfect place for lunch.

William Shakespeare's birthplace on  Henley Street.

Boats on the River Avon.

   I’d found a romantic cottage in the village of Wilmcote, just outside Stratford, known for being the birthplace and childhood home of William Shakespeare’s mother, Mary Arden. A short drive, or train-ride, from the centre, it was the perfect base. We’d done some of the touristy bits before over the years, with the children, but two places had so far eluded us: Mary Arden’s Farm and Anne Hathaway’s cottage. They were our first two destinations.

Mary Arden's Farm in Wilmcote

Anne Hathaway's Cottage and Gardens in Shottery.

   We fell completely in love with Wilmcote and have been back every year (until Covid happened), staying either at the cottage or the Mary Arden Inn. When I started writing Cobbled Streets & Teenage Dreams three years later, using Wilmcote as the home of my main character seemed the obvious choice.

The Mary Arden Inn, Wilmcote.

   And then towards the end of our holiday, we got the phone call nobody wants. My sister-in-law had been diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer. None of us were prepared for it – we thought she just had ‘flu. ‘What does Stage 4 mean?’ I asked. ‘I asked that, too,’ she said. ‘There is no Stage 5. This is it.’

And so we cried it out, we talked it out. We discussed who would look after my brother. What to do about their children – all grown up, but children, nevertheless. And life took a different turn. Simon and I came home from Stratford, determined not to waste another moment of our lives fretting about growing old.

   I wanted a ring to mark my fiftieth. Something with a Celtic design, preferably made in Ireland, to celebrate my Irish ancestry.

I trawled through the internet, with an idea in my head, and found the perfect ring – a delicate Celtic knot design of interwoven hearts and studded with diamonds – from a jeweller in Dublin called ShanOre. Not only did they have the perfect ring for me, but I found one for Simon too; a chunky silver one, bearing the words Anam Cara. Soulmate.

  I knew instantly that Anam Cara would make a great title for a book. All I had to do next was come up with a story to match the title!

 Not long after, a friend’s marriage broke down. It came totally out of the blue and very dramatically. She and I have been friends since before marriage and children, so it really threw me. It’s the unexpected things that change your perspective, change your life. Make you realise just how unpredictable it all really is, and how we should never take anything for granted. We should treasure what we have that’s good and shed what’s bad.

   And so, I combined the three separate situations – hitting fifty, dealing with an illness, and going through a breakup – and set about putting Anam Cara down on paper.

   The main character, Brianna Hillingdon, is a mum of three. She’s dealing with a new way of life now that the children have left home. She’s also dealing with that milestone birthday. We all deal with change differently but the shift from full-time mum to mum with an empty nest, is a pretty powerful one, and the emotions I went through when it was my turn, mirrored those of my friends and family in the same position, and that is reflected in how my character deals with it, too.

   Although we live in the seaside town of Bournemouth, I’ve always been in love with the Purbecks, in particular, the village of Corfe Castle. It’s picturesque, full of charm and very friendly.  The perfect location for my novel. It was our first outing beyond Bournemouth when Simon & I first arrived here in 1985. We took the open topped bus across the chain ferry, through Studland, and on to Corfe Castle. It was pouring with rain by the time we arrived, so we abandoned the castle grounds and camped out in the National Trust tea rooms, huddled by the fire, until the neighbouring pub opened. Yes, back then all day opening hadn’t been thought of yet. 

Corfe Castle, from God's Acre burial ground, West Street.

National Trust Tea Room, The Square (by the castle entrance)

   Corfe Castle became our go-to place, as did Studland, and it was always my dream to live in either village. But my dream house required a lottery win, which hasn't happened so far. So we made do with days out; activity days at the castle, Halloween trails on Studland beach, celebration treats in the National Trust tea rooms , and spending pocket money in the gift shops and village post office. As the children got older, our visits are more for long walks & hill climbs, and ice creams on the beach at Studland or by the river at Wareham. 

Studland beach looking towards Bournemouth & Poole

Studland beach looking towards Old Harry Rocks

Wareham Quay & The Old Granary

   The house I used as Brianna’s home on West Street in Corfe Castle, is real. It was on the market a few years ago for a tidy sum (more praying for that lottery win) so I was able to collate the information from Rightmove, adding my own imagination and plans of how I would change things if it were mine.

Brianna's house.

A walk down West Street, up to Corfe Common.

The Common at the top of West Street stretches across to Kingston

   The other main character in Anam Cara is Niall Feenan. His character came about after an interview I heard with the actor, Cillian Murphy. He talked about wanting to be a musician but opted for acting instead because he didn’t feel confident enough to pursue his dream career. It worked out rather well for him I think. I found it interesting to hear somebody so established, and so talented, talking about vulnerability and fear of chasing what he really wanted to do. That fear of failure gets us all, including the likes of Cillian Murphy. 

   I gave Niall the voice of Cillian Murphy and the ancestry of my family from Cork and Dublin. And his surname, Feenan, is one of my grandparents’ names – as is Murphy, incidentally. Brianna’s three children, Patrick, Sean and Kitty, are also family names.

   I chose to make Brianna American because my ancestors from Cork wanted to move to the promised land back in the 1800’s, but only half of them could afford it. The rest stayed in Ireland, some eventually working their way over to England but never reaching their dream of joining family in America. So I wanted to explore the idea of an American-born Irish woman leaving her homeland in pursuit of her ancestral roots.

   And Brianna’s love of the Famous Five books as a child – that was mine. The obsession with Julian – also mine. And that was partly why Simon & I moved to Dorset, to follow in Enid Blyton’s footsteps. She had a home down here and before that, would stay in Studland each year on holiday. It’s a beautiful place. The sun really does shine here … most of the time.

   

Anam Cara is available now from Amazon. 

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Punk & Prejudice

 

    If somebody had told me I’d hit fifty and then start chasing childhood dreams, I would have laughed but that’s exactly what happened. I had very simplistic aspirations as a child: get married, have children, be a writer. I did it in that order and as it turns out, it’s worked really well for me.
   I grew up in the thick of a large, Irish family in North London – our names of Murphy and Cody give an indication of how large – and emulating my grandma’s family values became my main focus in life; she influenced me from such an early age. Marriage and motherhood suited me, and living on the Dorset coast sets a particular pace; life isn’t to be rushed, dreams will be realised … one day. And then a wake-up call happened, giving me a suitably sized kick up the backside. It hit me that while I am perfectly content to bob along at my own speed, time isn’t so laid-back. It hurtles along, carrying us to the finishing line at an alarming rate, with people like me blissfully unaware of it. Our children have grown up: two at college, one at Uni and the eldest living in London since she finished Uni there a few years ago. They’ve all moved on and yet, I’m still dreaming that one day, when I grow up, I’ll be a writer.
   I’m from a long line of story-tellers. Most of us, I’m sure, have had to sit through Sunday lunch listening to a grandfather or great-aunt ramble on about a time gone by, and how things were so different then, and we don’t know how lucky we are.

My Grandma & her siblings at my parents wedding

   As I have pieced together my family history over recent years, and found contact with cousins who share the same Cody ancestors, it occurs to me how alike we all are in our artistic bent. We all have a drive to share stories, through writing books, writing songs and music, acting, dance, painting, photography. Any medium we can find to share our passion. Each generation has produced this talent, going back through the ages.

We found evidence from the 1870s of our great, great, great aunt, Ellen Wood, performing at Covent Garden as 'The Great Azella', before setting sail for fame & fortune in America. She sang, danced and performed acrobatics on a tightrope, creating quite a name for herself; though not quite in the same league as our more famous showman cousin, William Frederick Cody, aka Buffalo Bill.

The flying harness worn by Ellen 'Azella' Wood

   As cousins offered their insights into our family history, replicating my own knowledge, it became apparent that those lengthy lunchtime stories held a weight of truth - not just embellished rumours as I had thought - and our ancestors had successfully preserved history, passing it down by word of mouth. And although the tales from Ireland were of unbelievable hardship, starvation, loss of family and being forced to leave their homeland in order to survive; and of our Yorkshire grandfathers, drovers by trade, facing the arduous, dangerous journeys to London with their livestock, there was always a sense of achievement, of triumph, of spirit. As it turns out, my great aunt was right: we really are lucky and we can’t possibly truly comprehend what it was like back then. We can only imagine. And keep the stories alive for the next generation.

   Although my father’s side of the family dominated my early childhood, my Swedish mother’s side played an important part too and memories of sun-soaked summer holidays by the lake, still crowd my mind. Each July we would embark on the journey across Europe, crammed into a hot car that smelt of melting vinyl and cigarette smoke, to spend the summer months with my grandparents. The road trip was a huge adventure for us - well, for my brothers and me at any rate, not so sure about our parents - and the well-travelled route across France, Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, Denmark and finally, Sweden, filled us with mounting excitement. The promise of two months of freedom was almost too much to bear; endless swimming and rowing on the lake, eating strange food and salt sweets, and being utterly spoilt by doting aunts and uncles, was always heaven.

My grandparents house backed onto Lake Drevviken, south of Stockholm

   But growing up within the two cultures was also confusing; I could never quite decide on my identity. We moved to Sweden when I was nearing the end of primary school, then my brother and I moved back to England to live with one of my dad’s cousins, half way through secondary school. By then, childhood idyll was a thing of the past and teenage angst had taken over: identity crisis set in. In England, I was the Swede with the funny-sounding mother; we were the Catholic kids who got picked on (and frequently beaten up) by the C of E kids. In Sweden, I was the prim and proper English girl who was good for help with English homework. And then, back in England again, I was the Swedish girl with trendy drainpipe jeans, when everybody else was still wearing flares. I never quite fitted in. I decided early on, I could either give in to the angst and endure the torture or I could make myself happy. Find my escape, my happy place. My bubble.
   Yes, of course I rebelled, but on a small scale compared to some. It was the era of punk rock; I endured ulcers in my cheek from futile efforts to push a safety pin through it. I left it half hooked in for a couple of weeks until the pain became too much. Long enough to prove a point, I felt. I smoked and drank before legally allowed, which enabled me to fit in, to go with the crowd, but my salvation lay elsewhere. In music and books. I arrived in England with a state of the art radio, which became an extension of my left arm. The size of an A4 folder, I cradled it in the crook of my arm and fed my fingers through the handle. Why it didn’t occur to me to simply carry it by its handle, I shall never know. Much cooler to have a permanently bent arm, apparently. It gained me friends and kept me company 24/7. It never left my side and I slept with my ear pressed against it every night, drifting off to the sounds of Radio Luxembourg. School was much more lax in those days and we were allowed to discreetly crowd round my radio in morning registration, eagerly waiting for our favourite hits on Radio One, the DLT show. Obviously, I had to turn it off during lessons but it remained on the desk, amid my school books, pride of place.
   I stumbled across the village library one day, quite by chance, en route to a friend’s house. I’d been living in the village for a year and had no idea it even had a library!  Reading had always been my escape but the books I had brought over from Sweden had been read over and over, and outgrown, so I was keen to find something new. As I worked my way along the shelves, I immediately spotted a title I recognised: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë. My mother had had a copy by her bedside for years when I was younger. I’m not sure she ever completed it; she had been given a collection of classics by one of my many great aunts, in a bid to help her learn English. I know she appreciated the gesture but it probably wasn’t the best way to learn how the natives spoke in the 1960’s.
   Full of nostalgia, I borrowed the book and instantly fell in love; with the story, with the landscape and most importantly, to any romantically starved fifteen-year-old, with Mr Rochester. I went on to read the other Brontë books the library had and fell in love with Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights. Working backwards on the shelves, I discovered Jane Austen and – as you probably guessed – fell in love with Mr Darcy. By now, the local lads didn’t stand a chance with me. How could they? Nobody compared to my new heroes.

I read Brontë and Austen on a loop, totally hooked. In an effort to remain cool, I always borrowed a couple of naff romances (which I usually read as well), claiming the classics were for an elderly neighbour. And so, at the weekends I would take my neighbour’s dog – a gorgeous Golden Retriever named Henry – for long walks along the top of Ironbridge Gorge, armed with my radio, my library book and my Players No 6 cigarettes. We would tramp through mud and bracken to sit under our favourite tree, where he would sprawl across my legs, keeping guard, while I lost myself to Mr Rochester. Or Heathcliff. Or Mr Darcy. And that is how I survived my teenage years, with my sanity intact. Relatively.