Plotting a Novel by Harry Riley

‘Plotting a novel or short story’

by Harry Riley

So you’ve decided to create a story. In front of you is a blank sheet of paper or a blank word doc on your computer. You have a general idea of the subject and have thought of a good title. This is your starting point. What next? Authors come in all shapes and sizes and from all walks of life but they all have one thing in common, an urge to write a book that will grab the reader from beginning to end, and there lies the rub: how to achieve this desired result.

My own, unoriginal method is to study the works that have already succeeded and stood the test of time. I have heard it said that Charles Dickens would not have been published today. The narrative style is out. We have to show not tell. Dialogue is king! This may be true of good dialogue but you can walk into any bookshop today and still find copies of the classics on the shelves. People love a good story. If these books did not sell they would not be there.

Like Dickens, Thomas Hardy studied the often self-destructive traits of human behaviour. His stories brilliantly reflect the twists and turns of life and outside influences and are as relevant today as when they were first written. He could depict the highs and lows and choices that we make to lift us up or plunge us into tragedy. His characters often have failings of pride and jealousy, hate and revenge. A good story is one that strings together many of these elements so that the reader is hooked from the beginning.

Dickens developed pathos, sympathy and generosity of spirit to great effect. That great author also used love, wealth and poverty to show life’s treacherous inequality.

I believe we can learn so much from reading the tales that have entranced generations of readers. This is a lifelong task and there are many thousands of writers out there trying to create the memorable story.

To my mind the one thing that sets human beings above the apes is our ability to make choices, it is this one factor that dictates our fate and choice is often the pivotal point of a great novel.

In ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’ a drunken Michael Henshard chooses to sell his wife to the highest bidder, an act that comes back to haunt him with devastating consequences for the rest of his life. With ‘The Withered Arm,’ again by Thomas Hardy, a man chooses not to acknowledge his son until it is too late.

As we grow older in our own lives we may lament: If only I had done this or had not done that. If only: choices, choices!

Also in a great novel there are often sub-plots to grab or divert the reader’s attention. One such device is an unexpected letter containing a verbal bombshell; Wilkie Collins ‘The Woman in White.’ A threat or revelation is used to great effect: as is a ghostly intervention in the novella ‘A Christmas Carol.’

Authors have their own favourite ways to throw in red herrings and confuse the reader’s train of thought, particularly useful in the ‘who-done-it genre.’

The good novel is never predictable and a twist in the tale helps to make the story a memorable experience.

Plotting by this format will not guarantee you a best seller as there are many more ingredients to put into place, not least being an easily readable writing style but that is another subject.

Weekend Soldier by Harry Riley

‘Weekend Soldier’

by Harry Riley

This is fiction and resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental

It was 1958 and Arthur my best pal, decided to join the army but I still had two years of an apprenticeship to serve so I couldn’t follow his lead. He had volunteered for the REME (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) and when he returned home on leave he was full of the excitement and adventure of it all. He would reminisce over a pint at ‘The Trip to Jerusalem’ Pub, about the great comradeship and talk about foreign travel after completion of basic training. He already knew he was going to Christmas Island. I listened eagerly but was stuck in a factory and couldn’t get away to join in the fun. So I decided to do the next best thing and become a part-time soldier. My plan was to join the Royal Artillery (My dad’s old regiment) There was a small Regimental Barracks within three miles of my home address and so I made an appointment and duly joined up for two years service in the Territorial Army. I had signed up for foreign-service duty if called upon and fully expected to do summer training abroad. There was talk we could be sent to Germany but it never came off.

It was now the ‘cold-war’ with Russia’s nuclear threat ever present: to vaporize us all at a stroke.

In the meantime Arthur sent back photos of himself lounging amongst the Pacific Island Palm trees, stripped to the waist and looking every inch the sun-tanned soldier. This was amazing because he was a ‘red-head’ like me and previously only ever went lobster-red and peeled

At least I was now getting involved in soldiering of a sort. I ought to have been grateful but my uniform was thick and incredibly itchy and the only chance I got for rifle practice was at the annual butts when we each had to fire old wartime ‘303’ bolt action rifles in order to qualify for the Bounty Payout.

Having a keen interest in motorbikes I had tried to become a dispatch rider but demand was high and so I chose to be a driver-wireless operator. Instead. Along with several others in our battery I would take my turn to crash the gears of a big truck as the instructor tried vainly to teach us to double-de-clutch up steep hills. It was all good fun but when I eventually became my Sergeant Major’s driver-operator he would only allow me to drive around the camp perimeter at five miles an hour, being doubtful of my ability to brake in an emergency.

Our regiment was equipped with 25 pounder-field-guns and a gun and ammunition limber would be hauled along behind a big vehicle to army firing ranges for weekend training. I soon made friends with a couple of lads who were not particularly educated or articulate but who were full of fun and always playing pranks. They were part of a field gun firing team, one being a Gun Layer and the other being a Loader. I would sit at my wireless set in the back of a jeep watching the guns from a distance as the four-man team swung into action. My two pals would swiftly complete their tasks and then kneel upright at attention with stiff, ramrod backs waiting for the signal to fire. My first close up experience of a ‘25 pounder’ shell being fired was never to be forgotten. There was a colossal bang and a sheet of flame leapt from the end of the barrel. Then the whole sky was filled with a mighty thunderous roar that threatened to split my eardrums as the shell passed overhead towards the distant target. I was scared witless and yet my two pals, right at the seat of the action never flinched, they were like stone statues until they swung into action again to set up for the next round. How they could stand this deafening roar never failed to amaze me. I swelled with pride to know such staunch warriors. These were the kind I thought who had helped us beat the enemy in the last war.

On another occasion I drove my officer to the observation post and sat in the hut along with the officers’ as a senior wireless operator sent down co-ordinates to the gun crew commander. With his crew he would then ‘lay the gun’ to these instructions and shortly afterwards if correct we would see an old tank explode. This was riveting stuff until the third round when we had a premature shell burst. One of the live rounds almost landed on top of us; the deep crater being only yards from our hut. We’d had a lucky escape!

It was a grim coincidence that as I returned home hot and exhausted after the weekend of training that the sad faces told me something traumatic had happened. Arthur my best pal was dead. He was only two years older than me and had survived the ‘H’ bomb tests in the Pacific and had then been posted to Germany. Being a heavy smoker it was thought that instead of sleeping in the tents he had chosen to spend the night in a truck loaded with tyres whilst on maneuvers, but in the night the truck caught fire and his remains were not discovered until the following morning. They said he must have fallen asleep in the back of the wagon whilst smoking.

My mind went back to that night at the pub when he’d come home on leave; we’d grown up together as brothers but he’d had a disrupted childhood after his mother died when he was only ten. From then on he’d been shunted about with relatives. At work he’d had a succession of jobs but then at the pub, eyes alight and proudly wearing his new uniform he’d confided to me that when he’d finally finished with the army he would have a proper trade to come back to. He would be a fully qualified ‘heavy recovery mechanic’ and could get a good job in a garage or even start his own business. It seemed so unfair and still rankles after all these years. I have often thought: why him and not me?

I spent four years in the ‘Terriers’ and enjoyed every moment of it, with lots of happy memories. Nowadays the Territorial Army trains and fights alongside the regular Army much more than we used to do and their weapons and skills are therefore geared to genuine battle conditions. We rely heavily on selfless volunteers like these in this dangerous, ever-changing world.

End.

Introduction to my mystery novel 'Sins of The Father'

Hello I’m Harry Riley

This is an introduction to my mystery novel called:

‘Sins of the Father’

(The haunted life of Doctor James Parker)

This tale concerns the lives of two young men whose paths were doomed to clash even before they were born, with devastating results for all concerned.

It is set in a small village in Northumberland, a village once considered to be the most dangerous place in England.

Now it is only the eerie call of the curlews and oystercatchers circling high above the river that pleasantly disturbs the clean air and tranquillity.

Nestling in a valley on the banks of a famous salmon fishing river…the River Tweed in the Scottish Borders, it is incidentally the village where I once owned a small cottage, I have simply made a few fictional additions such as a village pond and a Wesleyan Chapel to aid the storyline and changed the name of the village lightly, calling it Norbridge.

The ruined castle where John De Baliol, Lord of Barnard Castle was judged King of Scotland…swearing fealty to The English King Edward…the ancient church, still bearing the scars of Cromwell’s musket balls on its outer walls and where Robert the Bruce once sheltered…and the school in the village, really do exist, as does the old stone bridge across the Tweed…separating England from Scotland.

My story opens just after the end of the Second World War and progresses into the 1960’s; to a Britain still advocating the ‘hang-mans rope’ for the most wilful acts of murder.

For those who do not know this northerly clime it is a land where the smallest whisper of wind blowing gently over the hills and glens awakens the sleeping ghosts of history, and where the mighty clash of battle from two ancient armies still rings loud and clear.

Ruined castles spring up abundantly around almost every bend in the road and large fortified stone houses with high towers bear witness to the protection once needed from the ‘Border Reivers’ those lawless bands of raiders who crossed the borders mounted on swift horses to hack and wreck and rob and plunder, showing no mercy to man or beast. It is a special land that has produced and inspired some of the world’s most gifted writers like Sir Walter Scott with his classic ‘Marmion’ James Hogg (the Ettrick Shepherd.) with his many plays, poems and novels, John Buchan, he of ‘The Thirty Nine Steps’ and latterly Nigel Tranter, with his brilliantly researched historical adventure novels, plus artists such as L.S. Lowry with his iconic paintings of Berwick Upon Tweed and the poet…the National Bard of Scotland; ‘Rabbie Burns’ who upon crossing the bridge at Coldstream in 1787, alighted from his horse and recited part of ‘The Cotter’s Tale’ before walking over to the English side. The bridge bears a plaque commemorating his visit.

I have chosen the beautiful Coldstream Bridge between England and Scotland for the cover of my novel as it spans the winding banks of the silver River Tweed and is evocative of that fabled land; now thankfully at peace with itself after centuries of violent turmoil.

In my story Billy Turpin is a big strong orphan with a secret hate that sits on his broad shoulders like an invisible monster screaming revenge into his tortured brain. By a stroke of good fortune and evil cunning he acquires great wealth and builds a successful business empire. Slowly and with infinite patience he destroys his victims one by one until he has his main target-James Parker, securely in his grasp.

A long way from home and in a very bad place; the unadventurous James Parker tries to forget his troubles as he conveys the love of his home country to Carl Brandon, his new American friend in adversity. Such is James Parker’s passion for the fresh clean air and the small friendly communities of his native land that the sad and lonely American from The Bronx listens fascinated and becomes filled with a desire to see it all for himself. If only with his failing health he could survive the cruel treachery of the Congo Jungle.

Someone recently likened this melodrama of mine with its twists and turns and suggestion of ghostly intervention, as akin to ‘The Woman in White’ by Wilkie Collins. I did not know that story but have since listened to a version of it on audiotape and am surprised at the points of comparison. In my story I have an enchanted graveyard and a white angel and I make use of the device of important letters. I put James Parker, my main character, into life threatening situations that are almost impossible to escape from. I also bring in a sub plot or two to create mischief and muddy the water. There is Billy Turpin, a powerful friend who is really a vicious enemy burning up with hate and eventually there is the underlying suggestion of strange spiritual activity going on in the background. Doctor James Parker has often suffered from depression and at times of extreme stress he has been known to hallucinate. It is at these times that his mind seeks the comfort of the supernatural and conjures up visions of lost friends and family and in particular of Rosie, his dead and beloved younger sister. They say every story needs a hero but James Parker is not cast in the heroic mould and if there is a hero to my story it has to be the awesome historical countryside of Northumberland and the Scottish Borders and in particular the majestic winding River Tweed.

The author will be pleased to sign and dedicate books directly purchased through him-email: harry@harryspen.co.uk

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‘The Strange Whistle’

by Harry Riley

“But I don’t want to, I’m scared mum…”

“Don’t be silly, there’s nothing to worry about, death is something that comes to us all Edgar. Just go in there and do as he says, he has something for you, never mind the smell, it’s only medicine and stale tobacco. They haven’t had the windows open for a day or two whilst he’s been so ill. And listen…don’t go showing us up and doing anything silly, they’ll all be watching you!”

“But I can’t…can you come in with me?”

“No, there are too many people around his bed as it is, the doctor won’t allow it, and I shall wait in the front room with your dad. We are not far away so no screaming or shouting remember, he’s dying so you have to whisper.”

Two minutes later young Edgar Watson stood at the bedside as the doctor left off checking the old man’s open pyjama front with his stethoscope and made way for the awkward looking boy.

“You can have two minutes, mind and no longer” said the tall stern faced physician as he glared down disapprovingly at the youngster, “we can’t afford to tire him too much…he hasn’t got long.”

Edgar wondered why the doctor was so concerned, ‘what did it matter if he spent two or even twenty minutes or a whole day with his granddad if he was going to die anyway. And why had the nurse been tidying the sheets so carefully, she didn’t have to do the washing! Mum was right though; the smell was horrible.’ He felt like gagging.

Several uncles and aunts reluctantly made way for him as he entered the room clattering over a bed-pan in his clumsy way.

Remembering his granddad was deaf the ten year old boy shouted loudly down his good left ear.” It’s alright granddad, it’s me Edgar and mum says you’re to give me a present before you die.”

A bony hand reached out from the covers and grabbed the lad’s wrist in a grip of iron. Edgar was pulled down towards the frail figure in the bed by the surprising strength of his grandfather’s withered arm. Then his face was within inches of the old man’s slobbering mouth. He could hear the hoarse death-rattle in the sick throat as strangled words were forced out from between the broken gravestone of a tooth “Good-lad, don’t be scared, we all have to go, I’ve had a long innings…just open the top drawer in the cupboard over there and…and take out the silver whistle…it’s yours.” The dying man relaxed his grip and his head fell back on the pillow with a deep sigh as the effort took its toll on the shattered body.

Importantly: as on a mission, Edgar did as he was bid; hearing the whispered curse from his Uncle Roland as he trod on his foot in his rush to get at the old wooden chest.

“That whistle was meant for our George, mother, and this little tow-rag will have it now, it’s not right!”

Edgar couldn’t help hearing the hushed comment and noticed Uncle Roland’s face was puce with hardly concealed anger.

Opening the drawer the boy retrieved the whistle complete with silver chain and waved it over his grandfather’s face staring hard into the yellow rheumy eyes. “Can I keep it granddad?”

“Well done lad…now remember…always wear it round your neck…only blow it when you’re in real trouble.”

Unceremoniously Edgar was hustled away by the nurse as he shouted his goodbyes.

Three years later Edgar Watson was crossing the stepping-stones of a brook dividing two fields when suddenly he was set-upon by a gang of louts from his school. He was ruthlessly pushed to the ground and within seconds smothered in mud. His new Scouting Uniform was torn, he had a bloody nose from the beating the gang leader had dished out and his knees were grazed from the fall.

“Give us your money and your phone Watson or you’re dead meat!”

Painfully he dug his right hand into his trouser pocket and then remembered his whistle. He wore it round his neck but it had lost its pea, probably after his mum had sterilised it. He’d long since given up on trying to blow it as nothing ever happened. Now in distress he blew on it hard as the leader made a grab for the chain.

The little glass covered compass; set in the top of the whistle spun round dramatically as Edgar closed his eyes and puffed with all his might.

In the fast flowing stream the gang leader struggled to keep his head from being pushed under by the stranger holding him down. The rest of the gang had fled as the big tough looking gypsy with the wild hair and bulging biceps toyed with their mate. They wanted nothing to do with him. He was well out of their league. The man kept their leader’s head down until he was within an inch of drowning before releasing his grip and allowing the choking bully to sit up. Not a word had been spoken but the frightened lout scampered away with his tail between his legs and the gypsy vanished as quickly as he came.

Back at home Mrs. Watson was amazed to see her son home so early and looking like a drowned rat. Edgar gabbled out his story, omitting to say how the whistle had saved him. That was his secret.

End.

A Spiritual Experience by Harry Riley

‘A Spiritual Experience?’

by Harry Riley

First of all let me say that I was baptised in the Church of England but have since acquired no great religious leanings or spiritual convictions. If there is a God up there I cannot think why he would want to concern himself with our short little lives.

My mother was of Irish Catholic extraction and eloped from a nunnery to marry my father, the son of a Methodist Lay Preacher in a small Derbyshire village.

During the summer of 1982 when I was fit and in my early forty’s I was recruited as a salesman for T. C. Thompson, a large Manchester Engineering Works manufacturing the Thompson Crown and Regal lithographic machines. Then supplied with a new company car and a set of road maps I was told to go to it and bring in lots of ‘serious customers’ for on-site factory demonstrations of the many virtues of the British Printing Press. My working day was to be a mixture of fixed appointments and some cold calling.

One day I was in Stoke on Trent, one of the English Staffordshire ‘Pottery Towns’ on business and with a free couple of hours, having already fulfilled my quota of appointments, I decided to hunt around for printing works in the backstreets of the town. To me this was the fun part of the job, never quite knowing what I might turn up and if this day might bring me the ‘Big Order.’ I had never been to this region before and had no connections, friends or relatives living there, it being a good many miles away from my hometown.

As I parked up and walked further from the centre I saw the streets were lined with rows of neat back-to-back houses. Turning a corner I became rooted to the spot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a cold chill running down my spine.

Looking to one side my gaze was drawn to a small red brick terraced house with a grey slate roof that showed no outward signs of having been modernised, unlike some of the others in the street. I instinctively recognised this dwelling as familiar. ‘I knew this house!’ The feeling was so intense it was déjà vu. Yet in truth I also knew I had never been to this town before. The building was so welcoming that I had the strongest urge to open the plain front door and walk right in. I had to literally drag myself away. This false memory, weird experience, hallucination, call it what you will, has lived with me since then. I hasten to add I am not of a nervous or excitable disposition and have never returned to that spot.

Science has given us many answers but it cannot explain away everything; for instance we know that gas and electricity are around us but we cannot see either. I have since learned, that over half the population have had this phantom feeling of déjà vu at some time in their lives. With some folk it has happened as a repeat conversation and with others it has been just like mine.

As it was a very personal sensation I was totally perplexed, unclear what to make of it, if anything at all, but the memory of that house just got stronger as the years went by and so to exorcise the demon and to try my hand at something entirely new, I eventually decided to write a novel that I called ‘Sins of the Father’ whilst building my own experience into the plotline.

The main character of the story is James Parker, a young doctor who feels very close and protective towards Rosie, his crippled younger sister. When she becomes hooked to a man the doctor believes to be a psychopathic killer he is terrified for her safety and yet no one else believes him. He is very intense and there are times when he hallucinates; he knows he doesn’t have all the answers and that some things remain a mystery even to modern medicine and so he questions if ghosts exist. Rosie is eventually killed and Brother James takes his own form of retribution for her untimely demise that lands him in the death cell awaiting the hangman’s rope. It is then that he seriously considers the merits of spiritualism as Madam Gloria, a Psychic Medium and relative of his cell guard, smuggles a note into the prison stating he will not hang. At a time of great stress he begins to believe his dead sister is watching over him.

I have just finished writing an anthology of short mystery and ghost stories, ‘Captain Damnation’ and other strange tales, exploring the paranormal theme in many different ways, suggesting ghosts or spectres really do exist, if only in our minds. This book will be released for paperback publication on 28^th. May 2010 by Pneuma Springs

~~~~~~~~~

A reader’s review of Harry Riley’s: ‘Sins of the Father’ Pneuma Springs Publishing.

A brilliantly executed murder mystery novel which is ideally suited to reading whilst either lounging under the hot summer sun or curled up in front of a fire on a dark winters evening. A book that is riveting and kept me engrossed with its sinister plot and many twists and turns. Set in the beautiful countryside of Northumberland, in a typical village close to the River Tweed the story sets a fast pace from the outset. The leading characters are believable and the author manages to draw the reader into the dark depths of the psychotic and terrifying mind of Billy Turpin. A strong and at times, enigmatic character, evoking varied emotions from sympathy to outright disgust. The other main man, Doctor James Parker is a complete opposite and one with which the reader can probably identify and sympathize. To begin with he comes across as an unassuming and timid character but his strength and tenacity shine through as the novel takes the reader first to the Congo and eventually to New York. There are numerous murders some of which are surprising and the plot keeps the reader on tenterhooks right up to the last page. I now await with eager anticipation a sequel featuring some of the other minor characters from the village of Norbridge. Review by Heather Webster.

‘Is Writing a Spiritual Experience?’

by Harry Riley of Nottingham England.

First of all let me say that I am Church of England and have no great religious leanings or spiritual convictions.

My mother was of Irish Catholic extraction and eloped from a nunnery to marry my father, the son of a Methodist Lay Preacher in a small Derbyshire village.

Apart from the fact that my mother was very superstitious I think I may have had a reasonably normal childhood.

During the summer of 1982 I was recruited as a salesman for a large Engineering Company making Printing Presses. Then supplied with a new company car and a set of maps I was told to go to it and bring in the customers whilst working from home.

One day I was in Stoke on Trent and decided to hunt around for printing works in the backstreets of the town. I had never been to ‘Stoke’ before and had no relatives living there. As I parked up and walked further from the town centre the streets were lined with rows of neat terraced houses. Turning a corner I became rooted to the spot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a cold sweat running down my back.

I gazed at a small house and instinctively knew I had been there before. The feeling was so intense. Yet in truth I also knew I had never been to this town before. The house was so familiar that I wanted to open the plain front door and walk right in. I had to literally drag myself away. This false memory, weird experience, hallucination, call it what you will, has lived with me since then, getting stronger as the years have gone by.

We try and find our answers through science but science cannot explain everything. We know that gas and electricity exist but we cannot see them.

I couldn’t bring myself to write this down at the time as non-fiction, as it was a very personal experience so in order to try and exorcise the demon I eventually decided to write a novel called ‘Sins of the Father’ whilst building this experience into the plot.

The main character is James Parker, a young doctor who feels very close and protective towards Rosie, his young crippled sister. When she becomes hooked to a man the doctor believes to be a psychopathic killer he is terrified for her safety and yet nobody else believes him. He is very intense and there are times when he hallucinates; as a doctor he tries to find his answers through science but science cannot tell us everything and so he questions if ghosts exist. Rosie is eventually killed and Brother James takes his own form of retribution that lands him in the death cell awaiting the hangman’s rope. It is then that he seriously considers spiritualism as a Psychic Medium smuggles a note into the prison stating he will not hang. His dead sister is watching over him.

I have just finished an anthology of short mystery and ghost stories, ‘Captain Damnation’ and other strange tales, exploring this theme in many different ways and questioning if ghosts really do exist, if only in our minds. This book will be released on 28^th. May 2010

A reader’s review of Harry Riley’s ‘Sins of the Father’

A brilliantly executed murder mystery novel which is ideally suited to reading whilst either lounging under the hot summer sun or curled up in front of a fire on a dark winters evening. A book that is riveting and kept me engrossed with its sinister plot and many twists and turns. Set in the beautiful countryside of Northumberland, in a typical village close to the River Tweed the story sets a fast pace from the outset. The leading characters are believable and the author manages to draw the reader into the dark depths of the psychotic and terrifying mind of Billy Turpin. A strong and at times, enigmatic character, evoking varied emotions from sympathy to outright disgust. The other main man, Doctor James Parker is a complete opposite and one with which the reader can probably identify and sympathize. To begin with he comes across as an unassuming and timid character but his strength and tenacity shine through as the novel takes the reader first to the Congo and eventually to New York. There are numerous murders some of which are surprising and the plot keeps the reader on tenterhooks right up to the last page. I now await with eager anticipation a sequel featuring some of the other minor characters from the village of Norbridge. Review by Heather l. Webster. Nottingham.

A personal book introduction from Harry Riley to 'Painting and Poetry' by Don Brown

‘Painting and Poetry’

(a new lease of life)

by Don Brown 2010

ISBN: 978-0-9563030-3-5 paperback edition

Published by smileawhile-enterprise@hotmail.com

I have travelled the length and breadth of Britain during my work selling printing machinery to industry, large and small, and have met many hundreds of clever people but I can truly say hand on heart that the ones that have really impressed me would be very few. I am proud to say Don Brown is amongst those people, for he is an engineer with a terrific imagination and a love for his fellows creatures.

Don was born in 1925 and is still with us, fit and extremely active, with a wonderful zest for life.

I have only known Don a short time, since I joined the Eastwood Writers Group but in that time I have begun to see what an extraordinary chap he is with his diverse interests. In this true story of his humble beginnings in a Derbyshire village he gives us a glimpse of a time we shall never see again. He writes of Eastwood and Heanor, Langley Mill and surrounding area, of the family of David Herbert Lawrence the world famous Eastwood Writer, of other characters, of local sporting clubs, schools and colleges, of the war years and of Christianity, his own close relatives and of his likes and dislikes, with a frankness rarely seen in these days of clever hype and cynicism.

It is in his poetry and paintings that he bares his soul for all to see and lets us into a world of modest heroes (he was a distinguished fire-fighter) commended for rescuing three residents from a fearsome death in an horrendous house fire. Not once but three times he ran back into the dense, smoke-filled building to bring out the occupants. He has had a very incident packed life as his story so graphically illustrates and has known deep tragedy and severe illness along the way, especially with the sad death of his wife. But to really get to know the man you have to view his paintings and read his poetry. This is a great book and I feel it is the small things that bring it to life, for instance he tells us that apples are his favourite fruit and this strikes a cord with me, as I also am an unashamed apple cruncher.

There is so much more that makes this man tick, far too much for me to include in this brief introduction but if I had to pick out one thing that makes him so memorable I believe it is the infectious grin that rarely leaves his face. Read the book and I defy you too not to raise a smile or two.