True Confession

As a young teen I, along with my best friend, for some reason best known to ourselves, used to like to borrow Jilly Cooper books from the library across the road from our school.

Well, that’s what libraries are for aren’t they?

The thing is we didn’t do it the conventional way. We thought it much more fun to sneak in, nick a book without getting it stamped, read it and return it. I can’t honestly remember whose idea it was to do this but no doubt it was mine. We never ever kept a book, they were always returned in perfect condition, so it’s not exactly a crime is it? It felt naughty enough and gave a frisson of excitement getting past the reception desk and out again with no one spotting us. Far from on a par with robbing a bank but enough to make us feel a bit on the wild side. You can tell it was a long time ago…

I remembered this today when in the midst of clearing my old house I came across my riding hat. The riding hat reminded me of Jilly Cooper’s book Riders. We started with reading her books titled with women’s names, I can remember Imogen and that’s the only one that springs to mind but progressing to Riders some years later was quite an eye opener, the others were tame by comparison. Imogen funnily enough, happened to be a librarian, maybe that’s why it’s the only one I recall.

We took it turns to read the books out loud to each other in the common room, trying to guess what the characters would get up to next. They were a whole world away from our text book reads, dictated by the English teacher.

Surprisingly, it’s not Jilly’s racy imaginings that made me want to ride horses later on in life, that goes back to my childhood longing to be a cowboy.

Many years later I went to see Jilly Cooper give a talk at Jarrold’s in Norwich. I wanted to go and tell her the impact she had on me as a young teen but sadly I felt too shy. Besides, I still felt a bit guilty we hadn’t actually bought her books. I know now an author gets paid a little every time their book gets borrowed from a library but since we didn’t do our borrowing the official way, Jilly may not have been happy we deprived her of even that tiny income.

This week I revived my Linkedin account and out of the blue a complete stranger messaged me to say that even though it had been many years since she’d read my short story The Eight of Swords, and had read hundreds of books since, the story had stuck with her, she said it was wonderful and hilarious. I mention the last bit so you know that the story stuck with her for good reasons!

Her kind words made my day. All you want when you write something is for someone to enjoy it or/and identify. Writing is a very special connection and I am grateful to Jilly Cooper for her impact on me as a young teen, bringing back that lovely memory of fun teenage times, inspiring our imaginations and I’m thrilled that I impacted one of my readers that strongly too, in my own small way.

My new book of short stories is scheduled for launch on 14th February. A date you are not likely to forget! Look out for updates coming shortly.

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The Pirate Columnist

‘Aha’ said the newspaper man, ‘your name sounds like that of a pirate!’

I liked that. I guess he was thinking of Captain Kidd, the Scottish sailor who was executed for piracy. Well I do have something in common with him as my ancestry originates from Elgin but I’ve never done anything naughty on the high seas, well not yet…

My author name does go back to my roots as it is a derivative of my grandfather’s original surname Kiddy, while Petra is the feminine version of Peter, my father’s name.

I said in my previous blog that I live in a county that goes by the motto of ‘do different’ and there came a time in my life where I decided to do very different, well very different for me anyway. To go from an office job to the challenges of a market stall was, I have to confess, a fairly impulsive and in many ways crazy decision. So far my career had gone from retail, to academic publishing, to commercial advertising to being a PA in a small business. Upon my return to Norfolk from a year living in London I found myself somewhat adrift doing a variety of temping jobs. The last of my temping jobs landed me in social services which of course was an eye opener but sitting typing up notes and answering the phone to distressed families wasn’t something I could see myself doing longterm. I felt restless.

That was the end of my time in offices. I went home to my then partner and told him my crazy idea. To my amazement he thought it a great idea and with a mere £100 I set up a jewellery stall. In my red Volvo estate I arrived at a country town market and began trying to piece my stall together. I’d put colored dots on the bars to make sure they joined correctly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the fruit and vegetable guys rolling their eyes and muttering ‘here comes another one who’s going to last five minutes.’ How wrong they were, I lasted 12 years.

How I lasted I have no idea. It became a battle of wills: me and the elements, me being accepted by the seasoned traders, me persuading the customers, me determined to make this new life work come hell or high water. Both hell and high water did indeed come: I stood in horrific storms, high winds, snow and ice, and blistering heat. I bought a van which was reliable but had its fair share of dramatic breakdowns, once on a roundabout. My daily attire went from suits to ski wear. Everyday was a bad hair day. 5am starts, fifteen hour days, some days with no money taken. Four hours to set up the stall, a couple to break it down. The end of weekend leisure time. Some friends thought me bonkers, others would sneer, my mum begged me not to do it…did I listen? No!

I loved it.

I loved the traders who were all great characters, I loved their humour and ability to endure the toughest of times. I loved the customers (well most of them), each with their own stories and peculiarities. I loved being outdoors and the friendships I made. It was indeed different and it felt right for me. It wasn’t just a job, it became a way of life.

The storyteller in me came out to play and I started to write about market life. Then it occurred to me it would be good to write a newspaper column which might help promote the markets which were struggling somewhat because at the time they were no longer a fashionable place to shop. I contacted the editor of the EDP (Eastern Daily Press) and he agreed. So for the next eighteen months I wrote a weekly column and I actually got paid for it. For obvious reasons I decided to be anonymous and came up with the name Petra Kidd.

No one knew it was me but one day one of the traders came to see me and asked if I’d seen the column. Innocently I shook my head. He showed me my latest column and I went through the pretense of reading it. ‘Must’ve been done by a bloke, too intelligent for a woman,’ he said. This of course was a trap and I had to be careful not to react. ‘Yeah you are probably right.’ I made sure I sounded disinterested.

Another time the same trader made me read my column out to him claiming he’d forgotten his glasses. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d been rumbled or not.

Some years later I confessed to one of the market managers that I was Petra Kidd, the columnist. He laughed out loud and told me he had the columns pinned to his office wall. Bizarrely he’d had a friend called Petra Kidd who’d died and he told me it made him wonder if she’d faked her own death to write the columns.

The stereotypical view of market traders was that we weren’t bright enough to do anything else in life but that is far from the truth. The traders come from many walks of life and usually have many an interesting story to tell. And no, it is nothing like EastEnders, most of the dramas were caused by the weather.

It’s interesting that thanks to the Covid-19 pandemic, markets have become fashionable again. People are returning to the most traditional way to shop because it is now the safest. It makes me feel good to see this, despite it taking a horrible event in our history to make it so. Markets have always been important to communities, not just for the elderly but for everyone so hopefully people will continue to shop in this way even when this terrible virus eventually is controlled.

As for my market columns, I may publish a few on my blog so you can read them.

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Do Different

‘Do different’ is Norfolk’s motto and so it makes perfect sense to me that I have always felt so at home here because I have always ‘done different.’

I’ve never been one to worry about what other people think. My dad always taught me that it doesn’t matter what status anyone has, what matters is whether they are a good person and kind to others and that stuck with me. Wherever I went, wherever I worked, I never felt phased by the seniority or fame of anyone (well apart from Peter Cook). We are all simply human with different doses of luck and ability, no one is better than another, other than by how they behave.

Dad’s occupation was personnel officer for the Co-operative Society. He had a big whacky RAF style moustache, always wore a blazer or a suit, half moon glasses to read with and sometimes used his MCC tie as a belt and more often than not you’d see him with a big fat cigar in his mouth. People loved him. His father was a Colonel in the Royal Pioneer Corps who wrote novels, he was also a fundraiser and events co-ordinator with his own colourful history, my stylish Grandmother mingled in High Society. When their marriage broke up the wealthy lifestyle they had led came to a pretty abrupt end. Their story is worthy of a novel in its own right.

However, I should get back to the point of ‘do different.’ My father once said to me ‘tell me what you want to do and I will see if I know anyone who can make it happen.’ I didn’t know what I wanted to do. When the careers advisor at school asked me, I said the first thing that came out of my head ‘an actor.’ I didn’t want to be an actor at all and I have no idea what made me say it other than I’d heard other girls at school say they wanted to work in a bank, one wanted to be a tax inspector. Both those occupations sounded incredibly dull to me so maybe that’s why I said actor. I honestly don’t know why but I sat there dutifully while the careers master told me all about RADA. It sounded interesting but the thought of performing in front of anyone shrunk this shy young teenager back into the seat of her chair.

Once my exams were done, my plan was to escape to Greece. One of my English teachers had always been enamoured with Greece and listening to her made me really want to go. So instead of going straight to college to do my A’Levels, I answered an advertisement in the local paper and joined an Anglo Greek family in Athens for a year, which turned out to be of the best years of my life. It wasn’t so much a job (I was hired as an au pair to two lovely little girls) as like joining a new family. At first I was homesick and their Grandpa gave me whisky to cheer me up and it worked! I loved Greece, I loved the weather, the people, the beaches, the excitement of living in such an amazing ancient city and most of all I loved the family.

Then tragedy struck. I had known my father was unwell before I left but nothing could prepare me for him being diagnosed with dementia. I asked to go home but my mother assured me that there was nothing I could do and told me to see out my year in Greece. My father wrote me letters asking when I would come home. I was torn. My life in Athens was idyllic but I really wanted to be back with my own family too and my plan was to go back to college when I returned.

I saw out the year.
Typically for me, I decided to return by bus. My last little adventure before settling down back into what was supposed to be some kind of normal. I sobbed all the way out of Athens, I was only 18 and had no idea if I’d ever return.

My whole family came to greet me at King’s Cross station. I will never forget it. After an exhausting two days with no sleep, I stepped off the bus to embrace my father and he had no idea who I was. The Dementia had already taken hold. He stared at me with confusion and I felt my heart snap.

This man who had held me in his arms to comfort me so many times, who had been my buddy through all of my childhood, who had entertained us with his humour and funny ways simply stared at me with his now empty brown eyes. The thought of this moment makes me sob even now.

I went to college and got on with my studies. It wasn’t easy coming back after a year’s break but I enjoyed the studying and met my lifelong best friend there. At home my father’s health grew progressively worse and it became quite a challenge coping with his illness while trying to live the normal life of a teenager. I rarely had boyfriends and if I did, I met them at the end of the road so they didn’t see how my father was. One of my college lecturers unexpectedly turned up on our doorstep to give me a present for looking after his house while he was away. I grabbed the present and shut the door before he could see my dad who by now was constantly confused and always disappearing on long walks where occasionally he got into trouble because people didn’t understand that kind of illness in those days. Not that many do now but it is better known.

In a way we had to cut ourselves off from the outside world to cope with Dad’s illness. My mother became my father’s carer, to this day I think about how incredible she was. She had some help from my sister and I but she tried to protect us from it all, however, there came a time near the end when we had to step in and make sure she didn’t go under herself.

One of the things we share in my family is a wicked sense of humour and somehow it got us through all of this but as a young woman this whole period really took its toll on me. My father died on my sister’s birthday and just a couple of months before my 21st. I made a vow that should my mother ever need my care, I would step up and eventually I had to.

I hated my first job, it was part-time and I didn’t like the people. My mum came to visit me one lunch time and told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t like it I was to give it up because life is too short to be miserable. The assistant manager told me I’d never find another job (bitch), within in a week I was in a job I absolutely loved. That taught me never to be trapped where you don’t want to be. I learned the lesson with work but never in my personal life until much later.

While I always ‘put my all’ into any job I had, I also sought adventure. I married too young and lived to regret it. Eventually I escaped and lived in London awhile but Norfolk pulled me back with it’s wide open spaces, quirky inhabitants, incredible beaches and ancientness. It is where I feel most at home in the world and I’ve been fortunate enough to travel quite extensively.

Eventually the office jobs were stifling me so I decided to set up my own business where I definitely ‘did different’ and it is there a whole new story began but more of that another time…

‘…this corner of England which once it holds your heart is more lovely than any place on earth. Beautiful with a hint of secrecy which haunts it, as the memory of a dark and tender sadness clouds the brilliance of a summer day.’

Lilias Rider Haggard (Norfolk Notebook)

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A young Petra Kidd in Athens

Bert – My Imaginary Friend

I can’t remember why I called him Bert, but I can remember the first time I saw him.

A helicopter flew over our garden, my eyes squinted in the summer sun and my neck craned backward to get a better look. I raised a finger to point at the aircraft and said to my mother ‘that’s Bert.’

Bert wasn’t just your regular helicopter pilot, he built houses too. I understand him being a builder, our neighbour was a builder so that part makes sense.

I wore a pork pie hat and dungarees to go and help Bert build things. We would while away the hours building imaginary places, driving fast cars and of course flying.

My mother wrote a story about him, at least I think she made the story up, sometimes my memory plays tricks and I can’t help but believe it really happened, I don’t remember the whole story but the gist of it was that my family would tease me over dinner about Bert and told me they could not believe he actually existed without proof so one night I arranged for him to tap on the bedroom window and to everyone’s surprise he did.

To me Bert was very real, to my family he was just another thing to tease me about. My brother and sister liked to tell me I was really a boy, a boy without a willy and the only person in the world with a belly button. They’d leave me by bushes and tell me the snakes would get me if I moved, as much as I hate snakes I gave up believing them and went home unimpressed. This makes them sound very mean but quite honestly I have always been grateful for all the teasing I endured in my childhood years because it never really hurt me, I knew they were just having fun and at one time I’d have been quite happy to be a boy, even without a willy. I liked doing what the boys did, I badly wanted to be a Cowboy, but preferred my bow and arrows to guns, I wanted boxing gloves and I loved playing football. So having builder Bert as my imaginary friend seemed very normal to me and I didn’t care if anyone believed in him or not.

My mother encouraged my imaginings. Sometimes I’ve come across parents who refuse to let their children believe in mythical creatures or fun characters as they believe everything must be ‘truth’ but I don’t believe that at all. Anyway Bert was my ‘truth.’ Our imaginations are an important part of who we are and how we grow up, they help us develop.

I don’t remember much about Bert now but I vividly remember the day he died. Maybe I was beginning to leave my tomboy phase behind. The clue could be in that the moment he died I was playing with a couple of dolls, a more feminine pursuit (or considered so in those days) or maybe I simply didn’t need him in my life anymore. Maybe a psychologist could work it all out. Suddenly I saw a mountain road, Bert was speeding around a bend in his red open top sports car, he misjudged the bend and flew off the mountainside crashing the car as he went. I clearly remember thinking, ‘Bert is dead,’ and feeling sad but I didn’t cry, I simply accepted it.

The thing is I didn’t consciously decide Bert had to die, it simply happened, almost out of the blue, much like when I create characters now. The weird thing is, I can’t tell you what he looked like, only what he did, apparently that’s not uncommon with imaginary friends.

When I make characters up for my stories, they become like my imaginary friends. I feel what they feel, see what they see, live through their experiences vividly, in my head. If my mother had quashed my imagination as a child and not encouraged it, maybe I would never have started writing. I don’t write much physical description as I like to leave that up to your imagination…

If you had an imaginary friend, human or animal, please tell me about him/her. I’ve not known many people who had one. I enjoyed the film Drop Dead Fred, it was the first time I found out other people had imaginary friends too.

Look out for my next post tomorrow, at 7pm.

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Character Creation

Every writer has a different method to creating their characters. I’ve read quite a bit on the subject. There are writing courses galore, software you can get to help you plan your protagonists, internet advice abounds.

You will see in novels a disclaimer that says, ‘no characters in this book were based on living people,’ or something along those lines.

Of course you can’t take someone you know and implant all their characteristics into one of your fictional characters because quite frankly, that character wouldn’t be fictional now would it? That much is obvious. And the last thing you want is a lawsuit.

All I can tell you is how my characters come about.

I don’t sit down and create a character by listing how they look, their age, their weaknesses, their strengths, their political leanings, their occupation etc. I don’t do this because for me it simply doesn’t work. I have tried it but by the time I come to put them into a story I’ve lost interest in them because I know all about them. It is like creating a robot you are going to control to the nth degree and from what I’ve read you can’t even do that with a robot.

If you are a writer reading this and do use that method please don’t take offense. I’m not saying you shouldn’t use that method, I’m purely saying it doesn’t work for me.

The idea for The Eight of Swords came to me from a newspaper article. Once I read the article I couldn’t get it out of my head. It isn’t uncommon for fictional stories to be created from real life events because how else would stories be created? They say truth is stranger than fiction and this is very much the case. However, in this instance I created something strange, dramatic and exciting out of something pretty mundane. I know it wasn’t mundane to the real life lady but the outcome was pretty mundane to my mind.

The article described an immigration officer who came home to find her house overtaken by gypsies (well they may simply have been squatters I can’t remember now but I decided in my story they would be gypsies). In real life, the lady in question used the law to have them evicted within 24 hours or maybe even sooner. I’m a little hazy on the details because I didn’t keep the article and we are talking nearly ten years ago.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it for some time. Then out of the blue I was struck down with Pleurisy and became very ill. I didn’t realize it was Pleurisy, I just thought it was a bad cough. After a few weeks I went to see a doctor who suggested I buy myself some flowers and chocolate and to prepare myself to put up with it for six weeks. My protestations that I had a business to run fell on deaf ears. I ignored her advice and tried to carry on with my daily life but I became more and more poorly and suddenly experienced sharp pains in my ribs so sharp I could barely breathe. I went to see another doctor who told me I’d probably cracked a rib coughing. By the next day I knew I was in serious trouble, not all of my ribs could be broken surely?

By now I wasn’t really well enough to leave the house but another doctor told me to get in a taxi and visit a GP who specialized in respiratory matters. He at last told me I had Pleurisy. This time I went home to my bed and stayed there. I couldn’t just lie there and try to get better, my body might have been in trouble but my mind needed to be kept busy, so everyday I dragged myself into my office and I started to write about an immigration officer who came home to find her home taken over by Romanian gypsies.

I became Jayne Patchett, I could imagine how she might feel, a woman perhaps my own age, coming home and not being able to get through her own front door. Unlike the reality of the article I had read, Jayne had far more trouble dealing with the intriguing family who now inhabited her home. The characters all came to life vividly and the story progressed as if it were actually happening to me in real time. If I had been reading the story instead of writing it, I would not have been able to put it down and that’s what pretty much happened when writing it, I struggled to leave the keyboard until the fatigue of my illness forced me to.

The gypsies were addictive to me, I loved learning everything about them: their way of living, their attitude, their beliefs, and mystique. I researched how Romanian gypsies lived and Jayne became as intrigued by them as I was. In the story she gets drawn into their world and begins to question her own.

So my characters developed organically if you like. They came out of nowhere and took over my mind and my story. I found them leading the way. My decisions on what would happen next belonged entirely to them. I could never have planned the story from start to finish. I had no idea how it would end, what would happen to Jayne or any of them and exactly the same thing happened when I came to write The Putsi.

And again, with my new book of short stories, it is the characters who have dictated how the stories unfold. I don’t think I have ever started a story knowing where it will end up. Perhaps that’s why writing is as much a pleasure to me as reading is. I love to be surprised.

I know I am fortunate to have such a fertile imagination. It developed as a young child. My siblings were much older than me so for much of my childhood I entertained myself and lived in my own head and for a while alongside my imaginary friend Bert, who I suppose was the first character I ever made up.

That’s pretty much all I can tell you about how I develop my characters. The truth is they develop themselves. They are real to me even though they are entirely fictional.

Tomorrow I will tell you more about my imaginary friend Bert, who has a story all of his own.

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The Creative Mind

Good evening and welcome to today’s blog post. If I sound a little like the late David Frost I make no apology!

Jack Frost (completely different character) has been nipping at us all for the last few days and while I enjoy being out on frosty bright days, I’m not so sure about the aches the cold brings.

During the first lockdown I disciplined myself into daily yoga sessions via YouTube (I can recommend Adrienne) but that was summer and now the mornings are colder and darker so I have to fight with myself to get up. At the moment I am winning again but that is after a couple of months of lagging in the exercise stakes.

Happily I live in an apartment that has very impressive sound proofing so if I want to dance to loud music, no one complains. Exercise has been incredibly important in keeping my mind focused, as has meditation. If you haven’t tried meditation before I heartily recommend it. During the more stressful times in lockdown (like when my mum ended up in a Covid ward for a week although thankfully she wasn’t suffering from it, just displaying symptoms), I relied on daily meditations to get me through. I don’t do them so often now but I should, it especially helps when writing and your mind is jam packed with ideas.

My daily blog posts are going to be a mixture of how my self publishing is going and day to day writing, publishing, photography and sketching adventures. Of course I am going to be mentioning the pandemic but I will try to focus on the lighter side of everyday living with Covid-19 floating around us in its weird and threatening invisible aura. We all know the dark side, so I don’t need to dwell on that.

You see I mentioned photography and sketching as well as the writing and publishing above. I am also a photographer and I like to sketch when I can. My Grandfather, who was a far superior artist to me in every way, used to love to sketch everyday folk and I have picked that up genetically from him I guess. As it happens, the sketches will work well with my new book of short stories so I will use them to illustrate them.

My blog posts will also feature some of my photography, street photography is what I suppose some would call ‘a guilty pleasure,’ which it is in some ways but capturing people unawares is the only way to make sure their expressions are completely natural. I think I am a kind shooter, I don’t take advantage, I simply document characters and life on the street as I see it. There you go, this is only my second blog post and I am already letting out my dark secrets. Check out my images via @ZingleEye on Instagram.

My characters are completely fictional. I’m lucky in that I have had many jobs and the varied businesses I have worked in have featured all sorts of different characters so while none of my characters are ever based on anyone in particular, I suppose my subconscious computes personality traits and behaviours which then go on to become fully formed fictional beings who you can empathize or identify with in some way. At least I hope so.

I’ll write more about how my characters evolve another time.

Like most creative types I guess, I easily get distracted. I can be walking along thinking about a story and the next minute I am transfixed by a scene that I want to photograph or I might see someone who would make a good sketch or I see through a window and imagine the lives of the people within. Ideas come all the time and one of the big problems I have in life is filtering them and trying to choose which to pursue. Having so many ideas can be both a blessing and on occasion a curse.

The other side of me is that I am pretty practical. My head may be full of ideas and imaginings but I am able to do a bit of plumbing when it’s needed, cut hair, change the oil in a car, cook, bake or create a piece of jewellery – all a bit random but that’s me. If I don’t know how to do something I’m all for finding out how to do it rather than relying on someone else (which of course has to happen from time to time). In fact, I should pass more jobs on to others but my curiosity usually gets the better of me. I don’t see myself as a Jack of all trades and master of none but more a curious human.

This is what happened in the summer. When I had an idea for a book (as it happens not the short stories this time) I decided to learn a publishing program and I am still learning as I go.

My blog post tomorrow will focus (hey get me, I’m going to focus on something) on character creation and I will tell you how The Eight of Swords and The Putsi came about.

7pm, don’t be late!

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Introducing Petra Kidd (Again)

Well hello, it’s been quite some time since I blogged, so thank you for visiting to see what I have to say.

Nearly ten years ago I published The Eight of Swords and The Putsi and posted on this site pretty regularly but life got in the way, I had a business that needed my full attention and my mother certainly needed it too.

Then I moved into a business which demanded less of me physically and thanks to Covid-19 (it has to be good for something) I got my writing bug back again and spent the first lockdown writing a new book of short stories.

I’ve always been fascinated by people and how they deal with certain situations, if you read The Eight of Swords you will meet Jayne Patchett who has a very tricky situation to deal with. When you read it, you are bound to ask yourself how you would react if you were her.

When Covid-19 turned up without much warning and presented us all with a whole new and unprecedented way of living this reminded me very much of The Eight of Swords, but in this case all our worlds were turned upside down, not just the life of one woman (although her drama proved comparatively brief).

I moved into a new riverside apartment just a couple of days before the first lockdown. Luckily I didn’t have much to move as I downsized. Suddenly life became much calmer, more peaceful and the simplicity of my modern apartment seeped into me. Instead of having to race around I could reflect, I had time to think and observe the city around me uncluttered with people. While I am a social person, I am also very happy alone and in my own space so this new way of living did not particularly frighten or concern me.

Having said that, I am not only responsible for myself, I have an elderly mother who has a multitude of health conditions to care for and during the first lockdown I suspended her care agency and looked after her full time myself for three months. Although I’d already spent a fair amount of time with her, caring for her all the time brought a routine that probably helped me cope with the weird way the outer world was transmogrifying.

I started to write a diary, the kind of diary where thoughts simply pour out of your head from your daily observations. It became a kind of therapy and I couldn’t go to sleep without having written down the days happenings. The realization that we are all living through a pandemic that will become a part of the history books made me think of future generations of my family and how they will want to know what it was like first hand from the people who actually lived through it. My Aunty Maureen wrote about her experiences in the war and I had only recently read her notes and this inspired me to write about lockdown and Covid-19 so that my great nephews and future great great nieces and nephews will have first hand experience of a family member going through it all.

The diary isn’t what I am going to publish (well not for now). The diary led me to muse upon what might be going on behind all the closed doors I passed on my lockdown exercise walks and cycle rides and my imagination went into overdrive and created twelve new short stories.

As it has been many years since I last self-published I am going to take you with me, you are very welcome to join me on this latest literary adventure. Whether you are an avid reader or a writer yourself it might interest you to know a little about the process as I go through it again.

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’Til tomorrow…

The Eight of Swords

My short stories The Eight of Swords and The Putsi have been reduced on Amazon to the new low price of £1.02 until the end of September.  It is a rare thing for me to reduce my prices or do free giveaways so go get ’em!

Both stories will get you gripped and are perfect for commuters or those on the go who want a compelling read that will last long enough to enjoy but doesn’t go on too long.

You can read an excerpt here: The Eight of Swords 

If you do read them, please leave a review – your thoughts are always of interest to me!

Please follow me on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/petrakiddwrites and on Twitter @PetraKidd and if you like what you read, please like and share so other folk can enjoy my stories too. Thank you!

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The Eight of Swords

A difficult day turns into a nightmare when Jayne Patchett returns home to find her house occupied by Romanian gypsies.

The irony of the situation isn’t lost on Jayne, who works in immigration. She is used to dealing with illegal immigrants at work but when she finds them sitting at her dining room table, drinking her wine, eating her food and wearing her clothes, her reaction surprises even herself.

(53 pages)

 

The Putsi

The Putsi

If you have something special belonging to someone else, what happens when they want it back?

Eighteen years have passed since a family of Romanian gypsies invaded Jayne Patchett’s house. In that time her life has changed remarkably, she is a successful artist, happily in love, living in an idyllic country cottage. But all those years ago, one of the gypsies gave her a lucky pouch, the putsi. Now, one of them wants it back. Drama returns to Jayne’s life as secrets are unveiled and she begins to wonder who she can trust.

(42 pages)

You Are Not Alone

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You are not alone

 The old lady lay crumpled in her hospital bed.  Her neck bent forward, the tip of her nose almost resting on the swing-across table.  All she’d had was a bite of her sandwich before nodding off.

Someone came and took the sandwich away.  The old lady didn’t notice, she continued to sleep.

Visitors came, gathered around beds, laughed and joked, ate chocolates, fetched and carried for their loved ones.

The old lady roused herself, fluffy white hair dishevelled on her shrunken skull, her eyes made a weary survey of the ward, barely able to keep them open her head slumped forward again.

A son reached forward to kiss his mother’s cheek, a niece held a cup to her aunt’s lips, a daughter tucked a fresh nightie into her mother’s bedside cupboard, a grandchild pushed a lovingly scrawled picture beneath his grandma’s nose.

A plump woman in a grey uniform called out to the old lady.  “Cup of tea?”

Her red eyes opened, she nodded and smiled.

“Sugar?”

The old lady smiled the same smile.

Visitors noted the time on the large clock on the wall at the end of the ward, gathered carrier bags, kissed cheeks, promised to be back soon and departed.

The old lady watched them go.  Her head slumped to one side, her mouth fell open showing a few yellowed teeth.

Time passed.

The curtain swished shut around her bed, she woke to see two doctors standing by her side.  The older of the two men gave her a bright cheery smile.  “Hello Mrs Abbott, how are you today?”

The old lady’s eyes stared at him, unseeingly.  “Alright.”

“Jolly good.  Can we examine you?”

A short while later the curtains swished open and the men marched away.

Teatime came.  The old lady opened her eyes to see a bowl of soup steaming on the swing-across table.  She lifted her hand from beneath the covers, sought out the spoon placed next to the bowl, dipped it into the soup, raised the spoon and tried to deliver the soup to her mouth.  Her shaky hand spilt orange liquid all over the bedcovers.  She stared at the mess a moment, put the spoon back on the table and shut her eyes.

The old lady heard the footsteps of visitors arriving, their voices noisy and friendly.  She heard other patients calling out ‘hello’ in greeting.  She opened her eyes, the soup had gone, only stains on her nightdress remained.  For a while she watched as the visitors sat on the beds of the patients, played word games, brushed hair, stroked hands, wiped lips.

The nurse came.  “Just need to check your blood pressure Edie.”

Edie held out a bruised arm.

“You got any children Edie?”

Edie shook her head.

Night fell.

The visitors left, blowing kisses, waving, promising to return.

At eleven the lights went out.  The ward lit only by the white lights in the corridor. Edie sat herself up a bit and started to fiddle with her hands, her lips moved and her brow creased with concentration.  Her fingers looped imaginary thread through imaginary material.  She murmured to herself.

As the sun rose and flickered through the blinds, Edie fell back to slumber.  Someone slapped a bowl of cornflakes swimming in milk onto the swing-across table.  Edie briefly opened her eyes and groaned.  A few minutes later her fingers reached for the spoon, dipped it into the bowl, lifted it to her mouth.  The spoon grazed her cheek spilling milk and golden flakes of corn down her chin.  She chewed at nothing for a while, then tried again only to gain the same result.

“You need any help Edie?”  A nurse stood at the end of her bed.

Edie smiled.  The nurse left, promising she’d be back ‘in a minute’ to help Edie.

Twenty minutes passed.  Edie fell asleep.  The bowl disappeared. The nurse had been distracted by someone ‘needing the loo.’

The morning passed in a haze.  People staggered by Edie’s bed on sticks, nurses took blood, dispensed pills, wheeled people to the bathroom, wrote on files.

At lunchtime a plate of roast chicken with vegetables and a glass of orange juice were placed on the swing-across table.  Edie opened her eyes.  She liked chicken.  She gathered up the knife and fork and tried to cut into the white meat.  Her arms felt weak, her wrists flopped down, her fingers ached with effort.  The knife dropped into the gravy splashing it over her nightdress and onto the blanket.  Edie groaned.  She lay down the knife and fork and picked up a carrot between her forefinger and thumb and tried to shove it between her lips.  She chewed for a bit then nodded off.

When Edie woke up, the plate of roast chicken had gone and a mound of red jelly flanked by bright yellow custard had taken its place.  Edie reached for the spoon, lifted it into the bowl, pushed the jelly around, then gave up as weariness overtook her.

The visitors woke her up.  A child screamed for its toy, a woman with a loud voice laughed hysterically at a man telling jokes.  Teenagers nodded their heads, white blobs stuck in their earholes.

Through the window, Edie could see grey swathes of rain.  Her lips trembled and she began to cry.  Lightening ripped open a gash in the greyness; the white light followed by a massive rumble.  The visitors stared through the window too.  Edie cried harder.

One of the visitors noticed Edie crying and came over.  “Hey, don’t be afraid, it’s only thunder.”

Edie stared at the unknown face a moment.  “Is there thunder?”

“Oh,” said the visitor, “I thought you were crying because of the thunder.  What’s the matter?”

Edie shook her head, “I don’t know where I’m going to stay tonight.”

The visitor thought for a moment.  “You’re safe, you’re in hospital, you have people all around you.  You are not alone, don’t be afraid.”

Edie nodded her head but still tears rolled down her face.

 

Short story by Petra Kidd © 2013

Also by Petra Kidd

The Eight of Swords

The Putsi

What Lurks Beneath

Sequel to The Eight of Swords – The Putsi

The Putsi

If you have something special belonging to someone else, what happens when they want it back?

 Eighteen years have passed since a family of Romanian gypsies invaded Jayne Patchett’s house.  In that time her life has changed remarkably, she is a successful artist, happily in love, living in an idyllic country cottage.  But all those years ago, one of the gypsies gave her a lucky pouch, the putsi.  Now, one of them wants it back.  Drama returns to Jayne’s life as secrets are unveiled and she begins to wonder who she can trust. 

Available as a short story ebook via Amazon & Smashwords