Taking the plunge . . .

What a wonderful few days I recently spent in Port Isaac with my writing pals, having picked the best week weather-wise. Straight after breakfast and a walk every day along the coast, we came back to the cottage and got down to work. You could almost cut the atmosphere with a knife, we were concentrating so hard, heads bent over our laptops, tapping away, all writing very different novels. Then in the afternoons we’d congregate and one by one read out our current chapters, then talk about anything that struck us – how it could be improved, throwing out ideas to fill in a pesky plot hole, any info dumps, repetitions . . . the kinds of things that creep into the very first draft of a chapter.

The combination of work, fun and laughter, mixed with sea air and excellent food and wine is heady stuff, and although none of us was ready to go home when the time came, we all had the satisfaction that we were far better equipped to finish our novels than we had been when we arrived.

Dougie, my cat, greeted me enthusiastically. He never ignores me like some of my friends’ cats do when their owners come back from holiday. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the house was going on the market that week and we would be moving in the summer as he looks upon the garden as his territory and regularly sniffs every inch.

Everything happened so quickly. Russets is too big for me now there’s just me, but it’s a perfect set-up for a family with parents working from home. And that’s exactly the situation of the couple who made an acceptable offer on Easter weekend. They want to move fast to make the most of the summer in the garden. It really is a joy with its rolling lawns, wild areas and pond, wrap-around terrace, and a pergola topped by a lush grapevine producing delicious bunches of sweet grapes. Enjoying lunch beneath it on a hot sunny day feels as though you’re in France or Italy – especially when the wine is flowing! I know the new family will love it.

I’m planning to move to Ringmer, near Lewes, the town where my sister moved to nearly a year ago. She’s so happy there and I want a change so our plan is only a whisker away from fruition. Talking of whiskers, I hope Dougie won’t be too shocked with the change (smaller garden but I’m sure there’ll still be plenty of creatures to terrorise). I’m looking forward to being in a completely different area, and Lewes with its river and castle, and surrounded by the South Downs, is absolutely beautiful. Can’t wait!

My book news is exciting: The first one in the new series: The Bletchley Park Girls, called Summer Secrets at Bletchley Park, is out on 28th April. I loved following Dulcie (Dale)Treadwell’s journey as she steps through the door to the mysterious Hut 4 and uncovers some of its secrets.

Do take a look at it.

See you next month.

September 1939. London is in blackout, war has been declared, but Dulcie Treadwell can think only of American broadcaster, Glenn Reeves, who didn’t say goodbye before leaving for Berlin.

Heartbroken, Dulcie is posted to Bletchley Park, where she must concentrate instead on cracking the German Enigma codes. The hours are long and the conditions tough, with little recognition from above. Until she breaks her first code…

But when a spiteful act of jealousy leads to Dulcie’s brutal dismissal, her life is left in pieces once more. Is it too late for Dulcie to prove her innocence and keep the job she loves? And will her heart ever truly heal if she doesn’t hear from Glenn again…?

A new, inspiring wartime series set at Bletchley Park, perfect for fans of Nancy Revell and Donna Douglas.

Amazon UK   Amazon US    Apple     Kobo    Barnes & Noble (Wartime at Bletchley Park)

Quarter to midnight

Being a writer can be a lonely occupation – Ahhh – but I’m lucky enough to make up the fourth woman of two established writing groups. Suzanne Goldring, one of the authors, has a cottage in Port Isaac – you know, Doc Martin’s country – and invited our group down for our pre-Easter get-together. Oh, joy!

Though it’s not what everyone would consider a holiday. We’re very disciplined and when we meet we always put in plenty of solid work, but make sure we have regular walks along the coast, and wonderful meals both at ‘home’ and in the superb village restaurants. This is combined with much laughter and a slap on the wrists if we are slacking workwise.

We began making plans. Gail Aldwin and Carol McGrath, the other two authors, decided to drive down from their homes, but I chose the Riviera Night Sleeper from London to Penzance. I didn’t want to lose a minute of the first day by travelling.

I arrived at Paddington Station around 10.15pm and made for the first-class lounge. No sooner did I have a mug of tea in my hand, and a complimentary bag of roasted peanuts and biscuits (included in the ticket price) than the porter announced that the train outside the window was ours and ready to board. I knew it didn’t leave until much later, so I finished my tea, polished off a packet of biscuits and all the nuts (not having had any supper – too excited), and grabbed my suitcase and bag. It was time to find my coach.

I adore trains, especially those going on a long journey. And one leaving at a quarter to midnight . . .  Well, that just tops it.

You don’t want to take a suitcase larger than an in-flight bag as the corridor is only one person wide. But the staff were friendly and helpful. A gorgeous-looking woman wheeled my case to the correct cabin, then showed me all the intricacies of how it worked. The worktop hid a good-sized sink with plenty of boiling hot and cold water, a breakfast tray could be pulled down from the back wall of the bed, there was a shallow wardrobe and an abundance of light switches, including an overhead reading lamp, often not even found in a hotel. The bed with its crisp white cover and pillows looked so inviting, I was tempted to slip under the duvet there and then.

But it was only quarter to eleven. The space was too cramped to unpack, and we still had an hour to go. I decided to wander down to the bar. My stomach was protesting but all they had in the savoury section were packets of crisps. Luckily, I had my emergency oatcakes with me. I settled in a comfortable chair at one of the tables and the smiling girl behind the counter brought me a quarter bottle of Prosecco (not included in ticket price!) and a small glass with ice. Although I had my book with me, I got chatting to a very nice woman across the way. Dead on quarter to midnight the train began to move.

I love that moment. It’s spine tingling. You feel you could be taken anywhere. All you have to do is sit back and relax – or in my case, find your cabin again, get into pj’s, make-up removed, teeth cleaned, and hop into the narrowest bed ever, but with an excellent mattress. Lie back and allow yourself to be trundled through the night.

Well, that’s the idea. But a poor sleeper like me doesn’t stand a chance, even with the gentle rocking which should have lulled me off. The train was quiet of human voices and the engine was the merest gentle background hum, but my brain was over-active. I did drift a few times but was relieved when 5.30 rolled round and I could open the blackout blind to watch the delicate pinks and oranges of a stunning sunrise.

By the time I was washed and dressed there was a knock on my door.

‘Breakfast, madam,’ the young man said, thrusting a paper carrier bag in my hands.

Inside the bag I found tea in a styrofoam cup (with lid!), a glass of orange juice and some airline-style bits and pieces I didn’t really fancy. Next time I shall go for the porridge.

It was a scramble to alight at Bodmin Parkway. The same young man came to grab my small case and gestured me to hurry down the long corridor. He set the case on the platform, warned me not to fall down the gap, jumped back in, slamming the door shut, then shouted goodbye. The stop was no more than a minute.

But I was here! There was Dave, my driver, waving from the entrance of the station and soon I was settled in the back of his cab, on my way to Port Isaac. I kept my eyes peeled as the film crew were scheduled to be here at any time. We arrived to find the sea showing only a hint of frilly white edges, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The picture postcard village was slumbering in the early morning sunshine.

‘It wasn’t like this last week,’ Dave said with a grimace. ‘You couldn’t move in the centre for filming.’

Seems I’ve timed it just right.

Now the real work begins.

Changes on the horizon…

Photo of white cat called DougieWell, we’ve made it through grey January and already in foggy February. But as I write this and look out of my cabin window, I can see a part cloudy, part blue sky through which a weak sun is shining. But it’s enough to cheer me up, especially when we only have a few weeks before nature bursts into life. I’m hoping at the same time that Dougie, my rescued cat, will also burst into life. He’s been comatose practically all winter, sleeping 22 ¾ hours out of 24. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s part hedgehog.

This month, I will be completing on a property I’m in the process of buying in Ringmer, a village just outside Lewes – the town where my sister moved only months ago and loves. Although I won’t be moving until summer, I’m getting quite excited about beginning a new chapter in my life. I come from Norfolk originally but have lived in various parts of the Tunbridge Wells area for the last 40 years, after working in different countries abroad, so this is going to be a real change. But when I told Dougie we’re going to move he put his paw over his ear as if to say, ‘I like it here, thank you very much, Mummy.’

Beginning a new chapter leads me to update you on my new Bletchley Park series called The Bletchley Park Girls.I’m thoroughly enjoying writing them but my goodness, what a lot to learn. I’ve visited Bletchley Park four times during the last 20 years – once being last year and I’m due to go again at the end of this month. There are several questions I need answering, so I’m hoping I’ll get to talk to one of the historians who will hopefully be on hand. I need to take notes of the particular section of codebreaking work carried out in the Huts pertaining to my stories, and refresh my memory of the general layout of the Huts and buildings and lake to the Mansion. Then there are the books on the subject. You should see them all spread out on my cabin worktop and sofa, with some lurking on a bookshelf, not to mention a couple more that I’m rereading in the sitting room indoors. There are more than 20 on the go!

Summer Secrets at Bletchley Park comes out on 28th April, and I am chuntering towards the ending of a very rough first draft of A Winter Wedding at Bletchley Park, due to be published in November. And between now and then I should be well into the first draft of a third book, title yet to be agreed.

I’d better get cracking to meet those deadlines! See you next month

Molly Green

Looking forward to a happier 2022 and new books!

Well, it’s the start of a brand-new year. The vaccines are successfully battling Covid, including the new Omicron variant, thank goodness. I’m a ‘glass half full’ woman and feel sure that a little further into the year we’ll be able to live a much closer-to-normal life. How I’ve missed meeting friends at the cinema and theatre. Casual nights out we took for granted. I can’t wait to attend all of them again, but without the dreaded mask.

Nothing was more depressing on New Year’s Day than to see a thousand people at the magical New Year’s Concert in Vienna’s Musikverein hall all having to wear face masks to be admitted. The musicians of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra only removed their masks they’d worn at every rehearsal for the big day itself. This is all a sensible precaution, but may the day soon come when we can see people’s faces and more importantly, their expressions.

The nights are drawing out! Pulling the curtains at four-thirty, you might think this sounds premature, but every day from now on we get an extra two minutes of daylight. By mid-February this rockets to a heady three minutes! And they add up. That’s already 24 minutes as I write this. And by the time my next book comes out in April we should at a rough guess be enjoying around four extra hours of daylight, speeded up by putting the clocks forward an hour at the end of March.

Talking about the next book, I have an exciting announcement to make for a brand-new series called: The Bletchley Park Girls. The first title is Summer Secrets at Bletchley Park, to be published by Avon HarperCollins on 28th April this year and the second title: A Winter Wedding at Bletchley Park follows in November, in good time for Christmas.

The two heroines couldn’t come from more differing backgrounds and each has her own problems. But the one thing they have in common is that they are determined to do their bit for  the war effort. At the start of the war in 1939, Dale Treadwell in Summer Secrets is a junior reporter on a London newspaper and Rosie Frost in Winter Wedding works in a factory in Norwich, Norfolk. Neither girl, along with practically every member of the public, has any knowledge of the secret goings-on in a certain mansion in Buckinghamshire – that is, until fate takes their hand and leads them to Bletchley Park.

I hope you’ll join these two valiant heroines as they struggle to crack the German and Italian codes as well as juggling family relationships and friends – not to mention secrets, betrayals and romantic suitors.

A Happy New Year to you all and see you next month!

Where do those ideas come from?

1931 advertisement (Public domain)

Readers are always asking where I get my ideas. Well, I have to confess that the setting for the first trilogy would never have been my immediate thought.

This was a request by Avon HarperCollins who’d just offered me a 3-book deal! In fact, they gave me four words to write these three books: Dr Barnardo’s, Liverpool, orphans, and WW2.

After the initial euphoria I had a complete wobbly. The only recognisable request was the period. That was fine. But I knew little about Dr Barnardo, only that he was more than just an observer of society in the 19th century, and especially of children, but set up a home to take in homeless boys and give them a chance in life. Well, I guessed I could do some more research on him. But three books set in a Dr Barnado’s home – filled with children?

I don’t have any children and am rarely around them. How would I know how children felt, spoke, learnt, misbehaved, interacted – and orphans would have many more problems to deal with. Lastly, I’d never been to Liverpool, and to be honest it didn’t really appeal. I was beginning to think my dearest wish of being published by my dream publisher was doomed before it had even taken off! Anyway, they left me to think about whether I would accept the offer to write The Dr Barnardo’s Trilogy.

Fortunately, my small group of writing friends brought me to my senses and made me ring the editor immediately saying I’d be delighted. I now had to find out everything I could through books and a visit to Liverpool. To my amazement I found Liverpool a fantastic city with some of the friendliest people I’d ever come across. But since the city was the most heavily bombed after London during the war, much was destroyed. However, enough buildings remained for me to take notes of the places where my heroine grew up, and the museums were invaluable to capture the period.

Liverpool 1946 Public domain (https://www.britainfromabove.org.uk/en/image/EAW001918)

Back home, I watched old films to see the way children behaved and spoke, but mostly I wrote almost instinctively, imagining I was that child.

The next trilogy was entirely my own idea. I wanted to write about three sisters doing completely different jobs in the war effort. I knew them quite well as characters but had no idea what they would set out to do. Then I watched a TV programme about Mary Ellis, at 101 years of age describing her time as a pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary, delivering aeroplanes, including Spitfires, to the fighter pilots. Perfect for independent Raine, the eldest sister!

The middle sister, Suzanne, was musical, so I knew she would join ENSA – that’s the Entertainment National Service Association – and like my heroine, Vera Lynn, would sing to the troops abroad.

The idea for the youngest sister, Ronnie, a tomboy, came late in the day. I wanted something unusual and came across an article about young girls and women carrying cargo from London to Birmingham on the Grand Union Canal in the Second World War. Apparently, the work was so backbreaking, only about 40 of them ever did this work. It would be just up Ronnie’s street.

To complete the family would be a prickly French mother who the girls called ‘Maman’.

Now I’m writing a new series. A tingle shot right through me as my editor said the words ‘Bletchley Park’. I jumped at it. I’d been to Bletchley Park three times over the last 20 years, so it wasn’t unfamiliar territory. However, I knew it would be difficult for me to get to grips with all the code-breaking, but the many books I bought and borrowed played a huge part in my research.

In between the current pandemic restrictions, I managed a day trip with a historical tutor, and this propelled my new heroine to life in that most secret of buildings. More next month about The Bletchley Park Girls!

On that note, I do hope the New Year has all good things – including plenty of fabulous books – in store for you