JOY TO THE WORLD
This was our first ‘pass the parcel’ story. Each individual composed one chapter of “Joy to the World”. The story opens on Christmas Eve of 1946 when the vicar of St Saviour’s Church is preparing for Midnight Mass. As he stoops over the figure of Jesus in the manger he realises that the baby moves and it is not a doll, but a real live little boy. However no-one comes forward to claim him or to reveal that they are his mother or father.
The vicar and his wife call the little boy Noel and the story then takes us forward to the present day and we unpick the history of how Noel came to be left in the crib in the village of Middlethorp at Christmas. Ultimately we discover, through information gleaned by successive generations, who his parents are and why he was abandoned.
If you would like to read the whole story please read on. You can also find out a little bit about each author at the end of the piece.
Characters:
Rev Thomas Forbes Vicar of St. Saviour’s Church
Marjorie Forbes His wife
Ned Their eldest son
Noel Their second son
Holly Noel’s daughter
Abbie Noel’s granddaughter
Andrew Her partner
Margaret Higgins The Forbes’ neighbour
Charlotte Higgins-Smith Her daughter
Edith Charlotte’s friend
———oOo———-
A short biography of each writer appears at the end.
CHAPTER ONE
CHRISTMAS 1946
“Joy to the World” I hummed to myself as I walked down the pathway to my little church on Christmas Eve, 1946. There had been many times during the war when I wondered if I would ever feel like singing this celebration of Christmas again.
It had been snowing for quite a while already when I left the vicarage and crunched my way to the church door to open up for midnight service. I knew that the devoted few would not let a couple of inches of snow put them off attending Midnight Mass and, once I had made sure that everything was in order, the hymn books in place – although of course everyone knew the words of all the carols we would be singing tonight – the chalice and plate set on the the altar I could then carry out my favourite chore, lighting all the candles which decorated the church and the Christmas tree.
The good Lord had bestowed many bounteous gifts to those dwelling on the earth but heating in St Saviour’s Church had not been one of them so I shivered as I tied my scarf a little tighter round my neck. The devout would need their gloves tonight – and a drop of scotch as well if I knew Captain Hanbury!
By the time I had completed all the tasks to my satisfaction, I knew I could give some time to my own personal devotion so I made my way to the foot of the Christmas tree where the Holy Family were gathered. Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus. I was glad to see that the infant was well swaddled against the cold of the church. As I bent over the crib I could see my breath surrounding the baby’s head like a halo. It was whilst I was considering this strange phenomenon that I saw baby Jesus move. At first I thought that my eyes were deceiving me, but when I heard a faint mewling sound I realised that this was no doll lying wrapped in blankets at Mary’s feet, but a real live baby.
Very gently I leant over the manger and lifted out the baby, and after a little investigation into the swaddling I realised I was holding a baby boy. I held him close to me to keep him warm.
What to do? I thought. Who had left him and why? There had been no one in the church when I had entered but I realised that I would have to take the whimpering baby back to the vicarage with me and to hand him over Marjorie, my wife.
My darling emotional Marjorie would welcome him I knew, although I wondered how she would react. We had recently lost our only son, Ned, a test pilot, and it occurred to me that I did not know what the effect on her would be when a little boy child arrived in our home on Christmas Eve.
I stood at our big oak front door under the overhanging light and I had to rap on it hard as I could not open it myself without endangering the baby and as I stood there I
was reminded of the painting “The Light of the World” which hangs in our Sunday School Room. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock…..” and I knew with certainty that the door would be opened to us and that our Christmas would be something quite unusual.
Marjorie held us both close and I told her the story. There was nothing we could do that night. As all vicar’s wives tended to be, she was the prop and stay of the parish, the mother and toddler group flourishing under her encouragement. It also meant that there was a collection of baby’s bottles and other paraphernalia that we had secreted in my study so we could probably cope overnight.Looking into Marjorie’s eyes I could see that she was thinking of Ned’s baby clothes that she had wrapped in tissue paper in the bottom drawer of her dressing table, and I knew she was thinking that she ought to pass some of them on to our little visitor. Noel we called him between ourselves and he was about a month old Marjorie said.
I said nothing in church at the Midnight Service in case someone came forward afterwards with some sort of explanation, and since Marjorie had wrapped up a spare doll from our selection at home to put it in the crib, no-one was any the wiser. But nobody came forward to claim little Noel or to tell us who he was.
By Christmas morning when daylight came, we realised that the snow had stopped but the blizzard which had struck in the early hours had taken it’s toll. The heavy snow had brought all the power lines down, so no telephone either. The village was cut off from the outside world. However the sun was shining and everywhere I looked the snow lay, deep, crisp, even – and frozen.
On Christmas Day it was the tradition that our neighbour Margaret Higgins came down for a glass of sherry to wish us all a Merry Christmas. Margaret was also our daily and I knew nothing would prevent her from struggling along to the vicarage, leaving her brood behind to fight over their Christmas presents.
Promptly at eleven o’clock Margaret arrived and we explained the situation to her. The ladies hatched a plan of campaign which would embrace the whole village. Middlethorp had a baby boy to look after; our own little saviour perhaps, to bring hope and joy to our village where some families had known so much death and despair. We knew that we would not be able to leave the parish for some time because of the snow, but in the meantime the village had a baby to clothe, a baby to feed and a baby whose mother we had to find.
CHAPTER TWO
DECEMBER 2018
It was a crisp early December morning, a few white clouds sailing through a sky of wintry blue. Holly had even felt a little warmth from the sunshine through the windscreen as she parked in her usual place in the street outside her father’s house, but a chill wind made her shiver as she put her key in the lock. She pushed the door open, picking up the post lying on the mat. She hadn’t been for ages, the house was freezing, but she had made up her mind to complete the tidying up jobs today, then get the house clearers in before Christmas.
She quickly opened the letters – no bills, a few circulars, and an early Christmas card from someone called Charlotte Higgins-Smith, address Church Street, Middlethorp. Holly put the card in her bag to add to the list she had at home of people she still needed to notify.
Noel had been confined to the upstairs bedroom for his final months, so there was very little clutter left downstairs. Just a sideboard full of photos, one album of Noel’s tours and gigs in the days before Holly. More albums full of Holly from a baby, a toddler in the garden, grinning up at her glam looking mother. Gap toothed school photos, another in the garden, long legs in denim shorts and flip flops, sitting on the old bench with Mum in a big floppy hat. Then only Holly, and one or two of Noel when he let her hold the camera, tall and thin and striking, dark curly hair always needing a cut, large nose and those startling blue eyes that always seemed to have a haunted shadow.
Tucked at the back of one album were a few photos of a young tousle haired Noel with her Grandparents, Thomas and Marjorie. Holly didn’t remember ever meeting them, but as a child she had often looked at these photos and wondered – they seemed so elderly to be parents, and even without the dog collar they couldn’t be mistaken for anything but Vicar and Vicar’s wife – straight backed, calm faces, sensible clothes and hairdos, both rather short. Noel said little about them when asked, it seemed he didn’t want to talk about the past, and Holly learned to dampen her curiosity. Even so, she remained envious of any of her friends with wide reaching sociable families.
The later albums had photos of Holly with her daughter Abbie, as a baby, a beautiful impish toddler, smart schoolgirl, one in her brownie uniform. A couple of photos had been cropped with scissors, obviously Noel wanted keepsakes of Abbie’s dad about as much as Holly did. There were fewer of Abbie as she grew into her teens and wouldn’t co-operate for the camera – Holly remembered her spots being an acute embarrassment, then she was out all the time, and now, well, now she was off travelling and doing her thing. Holly shut the albums, quickly piled them into a box and shut the lid.
Now for upstairs – Noel’s clothes had already gone to charity shops, hopefully they would find good homes with people who liked bright colours and rather loud jackets. In the spare room were his three guitars, a few boxes with posters from old gigs, the CD collection, his pride and joy but what would Holly to do with them? She didn’t go much for heavy metal despite Noel’s taste being drummed into her. Perhaps Abbie might want them, Holly thought. She took her phone from her pocket, it was about time she gave it another try. Whats App video might be pushing things, she made it an ordinary voice call, and to her surprise Abbie answered after a few rings.
“Hi Mum” Holly sank to the floor, clutching the phone tight to her ear.
“Hi darling, hope you are well.” Keep it neutral, Holly told herself. ‘I’m going through Dad’s things. I thought you might like to keep his guitars and music?’
Silence, then “Cool. You’ll have to store them for a while, until I have space.”
“We could sort through everything if you come home for Christmas”, Holly almost succeeded in keeping out the wheedling tone.
“Actually, Mum, maybe you could come to me. I’ve got my own place now, and a job.”
“Wow. Er, yes, I would love to do that.”
“Cool. Come on Christmas Eve. I’ll send directions, it’s a little village called Middlethorp. And there is something I need to tell you when you arrive. Bye for now.”
In a dream, Holly stayed for several minutes on the floor, asking herself if that conversation had actually happened, after all these months of stand off.
She stood and brushed herself down, the job she had started must be finished. Holly reached for the last box of CD’s, and found behind it a battered old cardboard suitcase, wartime issue, that she had never seen before. The layers of dust showed that it hadn’t been opened in a long time, and the hinges creaked as she slid the catches. Inside the lid was a stencilled name – P.O Edward Forbes. That was Noel’s surname, and Holly’s too before she was married, but she had not heard of an Edward. Was this an old uncle, or cousin? The mystery deepened when she looked at the meagre contents of the case – an old honeycombed blanket with a few speckles of what could be tinsel. A baby’s bonnet, badly knitted in what had once been white wool, with a tiny little peak at the front, and frayed yellowing ribbons at the chin. In the side pocket of the case was an envelope. Opening it, she found several sheets in old-fashioned handwriting, rather faded, but easy to decipher. Holly read the first line:
“Joy to the World” I hummed to myself as I walked down the pathway to my little church …”.
There was an address at the top – The Vicarage, Middlethorp.
Nervous introductions over, and suitcase and presents deposited in the hallway, Holly followed her daughter into a cosy little sitting room. To her surprise, in a tattered armchair there sat a shy looking young man, with a glass of wine in his hand.
CHAPTER THREE
CHRISTMAS EVE
Holly stood, feeling strangely nervous, outside the door of a little terraced house in Middlethorp. She had followed the directions Abbie gave her and now, here she was, with a suitcase and an arm full of presents. It felt strange to think of her little Abbie with a house of her own, and a job.
“This is Andrew,” Abbie explained, “we met in the local pub when I moved here. Andrew is part of the local history group in the village, and he’s writing a book about the characters who’ve lived here in the past.” Holly guessed this had something to do with what Abbie had mentioned on the phone.
Once they were all comfortably seated with drinks and nibbles, Holly produced the battered old suitcase she’d found in Noel’s room. “You might be interested in this, Andrew. I found it in my father’s room when I was going through his things. The surname in it I recognise of course, but I have no idea who Edward Forbes was. Any ideas?”
Andrew examined the case and its contents carefully.
After a few minutes he said, “I think I might have an inkling.”
Abbie smiled knowingly, “I knew Andrew would have some answers! Maybe we’ll finally learn something about Granddad Noel’s ‘mysterious past’!” Holly could almost believe that Abbie was excited. She seemed to have grown up so much since they last met. They both looked expectantly at Andrew to see what revelations he was about to expose.
He seemed to be enjoying this sudden sense of importance, and having these two women gazing expectantly at him.
“Well,” he began, “Abbie mentioned that she didn’t know much about her grandfather, except that he grew up in Middlethorp. I got nowhere looking up his details, so I decided to change direction a bit, and look into his parents.” Both women looked slightly perplexed now.
“How will that help? We know already who they were!” Holly interjected.
“Yes, but do you know much about them before your father came along?” Andrew asked.
He went on to tell them a bit about what he’d discovered. “You know, I’m sure, that your grandfather was the vicar here in Middlethorp for many years. Their house was that big place over the road. Did you know, though, that they had a son – before Noel – who was killed in a flying accident?’ Silence. Holly was stunned. She had never heard anything about another son her grandparents had had. Did her father even know he’d had a much older brother? They can’t have even met. It made no sense to her at all.
Eventually she asked, “Do you know anything about him, this other son?”
Abbie, who had been silent up to this point, now chipped in. “Andrew and I made some discoveries together when we went to the local library, didn’t we?” she replied, turning to Andrew for clarification.
He smiled, “Yes, and we went to the big library in the city.” They hold local papers and archive materials, including letters written to and from local residents of the village over the past couple of centuries. There were some in there written by the vicar’s wife, your grandmother, in which she mentions her son, Ned, a test pilot, and the pain of losing him in an air accident just after the war.’
Putting two and two together, Holly realised that Ned must be the Edward Forbes whose name was in the old case she’d found. Did this mean the baby clothes in the case had belonged to Ned, or to Noel? She knew her father’s birthday was December 24th, although, come to think of it, she’d never seen a birth certificate, or even photos of him as an infant. She had always thought the vicar and his wife looked too old to be the parents of a newborn. Then, a thought struck her like a lightning bolt.
“Wait a minute,” Holly said “Let me get this straight in my head. Are we saying that the vicar and his wife might be Noel’s grandparents, rather than his parents? Could Noel have been a posthumous son of Ned’s? I always thought my grandparents – or great grandparents – looked a bit too old to be the parents of such a small baby. Do we think Ned had a wartime bride or sweetheart? Why did we never hear of Edward Forbes before?….” All this came out in a great big rush, as Holly’s thoughts ran ahead of her, and she struggled to keep up with these possible revelations that had just bombarded her confused mind.
“This needs a lot more investigation!” Andrew replied.
CHAPTER FOUR
1946
Edith Shaw leaned into her typewriter, she‘d felt a fluttering inside – was this the ‘quickening‘ her friend Charlotte had told her of? It was certainly a new feeling, but then every feeling was new and wondrous as her pregnancy progressed.
Edith and Charlotte had been colleagues working at Bletchley Park during the war and had become close friends too. Charlotte was married to Bill, they‘d been trying to start a family for a few years and finally, when they thought it would never happen, Charlotte became pregnant – baby Emily was born in January 1946, a beautiful, much longed for child.
Bill had introduced Edith to Ned, a pilot. During the war years he had been based at Biggin Hill flying in missions against enemy planes, narrowly escaping disaster on more than one occasion. More recently he had trained as a test pilot, but in February1946 Ned tragically lost his life in a freak, flying accident.
For Ned and Edith it had been love at first sight; Ned with his dark curly hair, tall and lanky – almost too tall for the cockpit of the fighter planes! Edith slight and pretty, dark curls too, unruly under her delicious little hats. They‘d spent as many days off, evenings and nights together as possible, knowing that time was precious – nobody knew how long the war would last, and if they would both survive? They‘d seen too many friends lose family members in this never ending war, and wanted to make the most of their time together. They‘d talked of marriage and were planning to visit Ned‘s parents in Middlethorp in the Spring. His father was the vicar; both parents were pillars of their community and much loved by all around. Edith remembered the curious surprise in discovering that Charlotte‘s parents also lived in the little country village of Middlethorp, though Charlotte herself had left home many years ago feeling the constraints of country life.
It was only after Ned was killed that Edith discovered that she was pregnant. Her feelings were of confusion: shock, disbelief, grief, joy, fear….. She arranged to visit Charlotte, who had left work just as the war ended in September 1945 and returned to Middlethorp; dependable Charlotte would be able to calm her fears and advise her.
Charlotte was not quite as sympathetic as Edith had hoped though, in fact she was furious with her friend. “What do think you‘re going to do? Ned‘s parents will be devastated, don‘t you know his father‘s a vicar, don‘t you realise the shame this will bring on them?!“ Edith was stunned, Ned had told her that his father was a vicar but it hadn‘t crossed her mind that her pregnancy would bring shame! She left Charlotte‘s flat with the words SHAME ringing in her ears; she knew she would never be brave enough to tell Ned‘s parents.
And now, in the July heat of 1946, sitting at her desk in the large airless office at Bletchley, Edith knew she had some serious decisions to make. Up until now she had managed to hide her little bump, but daily her waistline was expanding and it wouldn‘t be long before others around her would take notice. Her friendship with Charlotte had become frosty although she had, for the sake of the unborn baby, offered Edith advice; ‘the quickening‘ was one little milestone.
There were so many other women experiencing fatherless pregancy and childbirth – widows and sweethearts – men who never came back from the war, who would never see their unborn children; so much sorrow and grief in the land. But Edith felt she wanted to create a home for this new being growing inside her, to honour her love for Ned, to somehow find a way for this child to know his or her grandparents – her own parents had been killed in one of the bombing raids over London in 1941. She had been at work when it happened, doing an occasional night shift in a factory. That was five years ago. Now she pushed her sadness away once more, as she tried to think her way through her situation. With Charlotte being distanced from her there was a growing need to find someone who would support her through the final months until the baby was due to be born in early November.
Gradually Edith withdrew from the social life of her office colleagues; she arrived at work early and left late. Her loose clothing and claims to have put on weight with the relaxing of rationing rules – eating too much bread lashed with butter and jam – gave her more weeks of anonymity as an unmarried mother to be. Her little flat at Loughton, a bus ride away, was her retreat from suspicious eyes. She had always been fairly frugal with her needs and had managed to save enough money to buy a crib for the new baby as well as a few clothes and a couple of honeycombed blankets – she‘d tried knitting too, a couple of bonnets – they would be fine she thought as she attached pretty yellow ribbons (her favourite colour). After the death of her parents she was surprised and gratified to discover that the flat had been bought outright, in her name, an act for which she was daily thankful to them.
In September she would be leaving work and now she was counting the days and congratulating herself that she had covered her secret. She arranged to visit Charlotte once more – her own litle girl was such a delight, laughing, crawling, becoming quite a little character. Edith had sensed a thaw in the relationship with Charlotte – much to her relief – as her own pregnancy advanced. She had come to a decision about the baby, in case anything happened to her, and she needed to reassure herself that Charlotte would agree to her wishes.
CHAPTER FIVE
DECEMBER 2018
Abbie and Holly were sitting together in the living room cradling their cups of tea and feeling somewhat deflated. The Christmas tree twinkled with coloured lights in the corner, surrounded by a modest but beautifully wrapped selection of presents, and a tin of biscuits languished, untouched on the coffee table in front of them.
Andrew had called back within an hour of leaving saying that he had finally managed to find Noel’s birth certificate online, however, both mother and father names were listed as ‘unknown’. They had all jumped to the conclusion that Noel was actually Ned’s child, born after he had died, and that Marjorie and Thomas had been his grandparents, not his parents. Surely, if this were the case Ned’s name would be on the birth certificate, as well as that of the mysterious mother who had subsequently vanished.
Holly’s thoughts went back to Ned’s old cardboard case containing baby clothes and a blanket, which she had found in Noel’s house. It had contained an envelope containing several handwritten sheets of paper – could they provide the answer? Holly’s tea sloped over onto the table as she slammed it down and rushed upstairs exclaiming, “the envelope, I had forgotten all about it.”
She had read the first few words, “‘Joy to the World’ I hummed to myself…” and then put the sprawling script back into the envelope to look at later when she had finished sorting out her father’s home.
Holly and Abbie deciphered the fragile sheets together, snuggled closer together than they had been for many a year. Holly reflected that she had not coped well with Abbie’s tempestuous teenage years and felt blessed to now be close enough to feel the warmth of her daughter’s body and inhale the coconut scent from her hair. They read the last line out loud together: ‘…but in the meantime the village had a baby to clothe, a baby to feed and a baby whose mother we had to find.’
“So Noel was a foundling and adopted by your grandma and granddad, no-one ever knew who his parents were,” mused Abbie, “and whilst this explanation from Thomas answers some questions, it still leaves the mystery of who his parents were and why he was abandoned.”
“Noel must have helped to fill the gaping hole left in their lives when they lost their own son, no wonder they were keen to adopt him. I wonder if they ever found out any more about where he came from?”
Holly sat quietly for a minute feeling emptiness inside at the loss of her beloved father and a sense of both wonder and shame that there was so much she did not know about him, and now it was too late to ask. Was there perhaps a clue in the sheets they had just read? She picked them up again and saw the name ‘Margaret Higgins’. Of course, she sat up, Higgins-Smith was the name on the back of the card she had picked up last time she was in his house.
“Charlotte Higgins-Smith, she sent a Christmas card to dad, it’s in my bag. She must be related to Margaret, it can’t be a coincidence, and she lives here in Middlethorp.” Holly scuffled amongst the make-up, keys, papers, snacks and other debris in her voluminous bag and triumphantly brought out the card, which simply wished Noel a Happy Christmas.
Fifteen minutes later, coats, hats, scarves and mittens protecting them against the chilly December afternoon, marvelling at their audacity, they had walked past the pond to the other side of the village and were lifting the large brass knocker on Charlotte Higgins’ imposing black front door.
A petite, frail looking woman who must have been well into her ninetees peered anxiously around the door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, I’m Holly, Noel Forbes’ daughter and this is Abbie, she is my daughter.” Holly’s voice tailed off, she should have planned what she was going to say, why had she been so hasty? Would she now have to blurt out to a stranger that Noel had died and how could she then launch into a bizarre tale of intrigue and adoption?
Charlotte made it easy for them, “Holly, Abbie, I am so sorry, I heard about Noel’s passing just a few days ago. Please accept my condolences and come on in.” She backed into a long hallway with diamond shaped black and white tiles on the floor and a plethora of family photos adorning the buttermilk coloured walls.
“Do come into the lounge.” She directed them into a large and cluttered room with three floral sofas forming a horseshoe around the hearth.
A few minutes later they were comfortably seated in front of a roaring fire, sipping sherry and nibbling on mince pies. Explaining the mystery they were trying to unravel Holly read the contents of the fragile sheets they had found in the old suitcase, Charlotte’s eyes not being up to deciphering the script. The last words still hanging in the air she looked expectantly across the room.
“I’m afraid I can’t solve your mystery for you, although I did know Noel very well. My mother, Margaret Higgins, was good friends with Thomas and Marjorie and Noel was a similar age to my eldest daughter, so they used to play together when they were young. I was very fond of Noel and so always kept in touch, although normally just birthdays and Christmas.” Charlotte’s words were calm and measured but she was eyeing the clock on the mantelpiece rather than looking directly at them. Holly suspected that she was not telling them everything she knew, but she could hardly accuse this polite old lady of lying.
When they finally stood up to leave Holly was determined to spend some more time with Charlotte and see if she could break down her reserve. Holly had planned her speech before delivering it this time.
“It has been so lovely chatting to you, perhaps you would like to come and visit us at Abbie’s before I leave. I have some old photo albums and you may be able to enlighten us about who some of the people are. Would Wednesday afternoon be OK for you?”
“That sounds delightful, I will look forward to it my dear” Charlotte was also putting on her coat. “I must be leaving too now, I’m going to visit an old friend who is in a nursing home and I said I would be there in time for afternoon tea.” She picked up her handbag, which was nearly as voluminous as Holly’s and ushered them back into the hall.
Holly reached the front door first, opened it and stepped back out into the chilly afternoon when the urgency in Abbie’s voice made her turn back.
“Mum, look, there’s a photo of you here when you were a teenager.”
“Oh no dear, that’s not your mother, that’s just an old friend of mine.” Frail and petite though she was, Charlotte almost pushed Abbie out of the door, closed it firmly behind her and headed off down the path. Holly and Abbie had no choice but to follow her back out to the pavement and make their way home.
———-oOo———-
Charlotte bustled into the stuffy nursing home with its Christmas decorations and went straight to Edith’s bright room.
“How are you my dear?” she said, “that’s a lovely broach you are wearing,” and she warmly smiled as she bent to kiss her old friend on the cheek.
“I’m coping well enough, considering the news. Marjorie and Thomas were wonderful parents, but Noel was always my son and his death hurts no less for me having had no part in his upbringing.” Edith’s eyes misted and her veined and liver-spotted hands gripped the sides of her chair as she tried to bring her emotions under control.
“Perhaps there is still time for you to be part of his family,” said Charlotte quietly.
“Earlier this afternoon, I was sorely tempted to break a promise I made to you seventy-five years ago, but I held fast.” She took her friend’s hand and went on to recount the visit she had received earlier.
“How would it feel to finally meet your granddaughter and great granddaughter?”
Charlotte sat back and waited as Edith contemplated her reply. She looked so frail, Charlotte was sure this would be their last Christmas together. Edith’s head lifted and her lips curved into a smile as she replied.
“That would bring me all the Joy in the World.”
The End
TELL ME A STORY………
As a writing challenge, five members of torringtonwriters dreamed up the idea of composing a composite Christmas story. Each chapter of “Joy to the World” was written independently, the first writer emailing the next writer on the list with a master copy of “the story so far” and so on. The result is the story you have just read. Part of the challenge was that no contribution should be more than 1,000 words.
This has been adhered to by and large although some additional words were necessary in the last chapter to tie up loose ends
A SHORT BIOGRAPHY OF THE WRITERS
Stephanie Easton
I didn’t begin creative writing until I was 60 – so bearing in mind the current Covid climate it may make you realise that when you write for pleasure you’re never too old to start. I am not the sort of writer “who has a book in me.” I enjoy composing short stories, monologues and poetry of the Pam Ayres type!.
Janet Sharp
An inveterate bookworm, I love the power of words on paper (or screen). It gives me a great sense of achievement when (rarely) I write something I am pleased with.
Nikki Whiting
I have always loved creative writing, and been blessed with a vivid imagination. I can escape through my writing, and explore new places, characters, and ideas.
Fran Lovett
In the late 1990s I joined a creative writing group and we wrote mostly poetry. I loved the edginess and humour of performance poetry which is mainly what we were aiming for. I took part in a couple of ‘gigs’ too. Since then I’ve written some lines of poetry which are kept in various diaries and journals. One day I may even bring them all together into one collection.
Maggie Saunders
I abandoned the corporate world and moved to Devon in 2018 with my partner, and set up a luxury holiday cottage and B&B business, Ebberley Escapes. Now, with some spare time, I have finally been able to start writing and am in the process of editing my second book. I love living in North Devon with its beautiful views and friendly people.
torringtonwriters 