History
There is always a story behind every story - how an idea came about, how it developed into a book and what happened after that. DEEP AS BONE began like so many stories, as something completely different. When I began to write I had no idea of the person that my main character, Ilsa Joubert would become - that was something she managed to do entirely on her own and nobody was more surprised and intrigued than the author! I had originally intended writing a novel where the nanny sniffs out a murder and with great integrity and verve, brings the culprit to book. However, you will see when you read this deeply psychological and complex novel, that this was not the case. The publishing story however, was less exciting. DEEP AS BONE, under a different title, was accepted by a London agent who was extremely excited by the book and very positive she would find a home for it. Alas, this was not to be and the book came home to languish for years in a drawer until I discovered the Internet and self-publishing. Et voila! You now have the opportunity of reading what the agent called 'the best book we've ever had'. Please enjoy the excerpt below. |
Excerpt
Some weeks later, on my return from delivering Amy to school, I found Mary Alcock up to her elbows in flour in the kitchen.
“Cake?” I asked hopefully.
“Madeira for the trifle and plum pudding. And a loaf of wholesome, homemade bread.”
“You’re a national treasure.”
She laughed, wiping the back of her wrist across her forehead and leaving a smear of white powder. I slid into one of the chairs
around the table. “Do you need any help?”
“You’re a cook, are you?”
“I used to help my mother in the kitchen when I was young. We had a huge kitchen, old-fashioned, a gigantic coal stove coughing away
in the corner. It was amazing what we produced.”
“I expect you had to be self-sufficient, living on a farm. I know – my grandfather worked on a sheep farm in Yorkshire.”
“You’re from Yorkshire? You don’t have the accent.”
“I’m from a bit of everywhere, I suppose. My father moved around a lot, and my education was a bit checkered so to speak. I expect
that’s why I’m here. I started working when I was just sixteen. We called it going into service. I began work with Mrs Henshaw when I
was twenty-six.”
“Thomas’s mother?”
She gave me a glance, startled by my casual use of her employer’s first name. “Yes. I started when Thomas was six and Hector four.
And that’s a good forty years ago! I’ll be sixty-six come next month!”
I had to ask, “Forty years in this kitchen, then?”
“Oh, no. I was employed as nanny to the boys.”
I was disappointed. People who kept their nannies with them all their lives needed serious help.
She was rolling a mound of dough to biscuit level. “I left when Thomas was twelve or thirteen, I think. I went to work for Lord and
Lady Chesington. Do you know them? No? Well, I was there for the rest of my service years – first as nanny to their children and then
as cook. They looked after me very well. Gave me a good pension.”
“So you’re actually retired?”
“Yes. But I always kept in touch with the Henshaws because – well – I had a soft spot for Thomas. Such a darling boy. Not naughty
like his brother. I loved him dearly – and his mother. Lovely lady.”
I watched her in silence while she worked. She cracked another two eggs into a bowl, her movement fluid, practiced.
“So why are you back in harness again?”
“In service.”
“Yes.”
“Because of what happened to Mrs Henshaw.”
“Thomas’s mother?”
“No, his first wife, Caroline.”
I gawped at her. She was standing back from the table, a large spoon raised in one hand like a weapon. “I came back because
of the tragedy.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident. Caroline was killed instantly. Her brakes failed. Imagine that. Something so simple as a small mechanical fault and
it takes your life away.”
“That’s very sad.” I felt oddly cheated, as though this information had been deliberately kept from me. “So when did he meet Melissa?”
“Now there’s a story.” With some ferocity she shoved a baking tray into the oven. She straightened and gave me a long look. “Nothing to
do with me,” she said.
“You sound disapproving.”
“Just the time-span, you know.” She was discomfited but having ventured the information, she could hardly draw back. “Caroline,
God rest her soul, hardly cold in the grave and – ”
“A marriage?”
“Yes. He already knew Melissa, of course. She was his personal assistant. Went with him all over the place. So I expect it was inevitable.”
I could see where we were going. I shot the bolt home. “You think they were having an affair?”
She was horrified. “Oh, no! I would never say that. Thomas adored Caroline. We all did.”
“Is Amy Caroline’s daughter?”
Her expression softened. “No, she’s Melissa’s. Born within the year they married.”
She busied herself with tidying the table. The history lesson was over. I sat watching her, lulled by the smooth, almost liquid flow of her
hands over the table and the rise of delectable scents from the oven.
I thought of Melissa’s cool, calculating eyes, her air of confidence and control. She would have been the perfect secretary to Thomas;
immaculately groomed, ultra-efficient. Thomas had been primed and conditioned. What would be the obvious career move for a
woman like that? It came into my mind – because the dark side of anything is always more interesting – that Caroline Henshaw’s
death would have been most convenient for Melissa.
###
Some weeks later, on my return from delivering Amy to school, I found Mary Alcock up to her elbows in flour in the kitchen.
“Cake?” I asked hopefully.
“Madeira for the trifle and plum pudding. And a loaf of wholesome, homemade bread.”
“You’re a national treasure.”
She laughed, wiping the back of her wrist across her forehead and leaving a smear of white powder. I slid into one of the chairs
around the table. “Do you need any help?”
“You’re a cook, are you?”
“I used to help my mother in the kitchen when I was young. We had a huge kitchen, old-fashioned, a gigantic coal stove coughing away
in the corner. It was amazing what we produced.”
“I expect you had to be self-sufficient, living on a farm. I know – my grandfather worked on a sheep farm in Yorkshire.”
“You’re from Yorkshire? You don’t have the accent.”
“I’m from a bit of everywhere, I suppose. My father moved around a lot, and my education was a bit checkered so to speak. I expect
that’s why I’m here. I started working when I was just sixteen. We called it going into service. I began work with Mrs Henshaw when I
was twenty-six.”
“Thomas’s mother?”
She gave me a glance, startled by my casual use of her employer’s first name. “Yes. I started when Thomas was six and Hector four.
And that’s a good forty years ago! I’ll be sixty-six come next month!”
I had to ask, “Forty years in this kitchen, then?”
“Oh, no. I was employed as nanny to the boys.”
I was disappointed. People who kept their nannies with them all their lives needed serious help.
She was rolling a mound of dough to biscuit level. “I left when Thomas was twelve or thirteen, I think. I went to work for Lord and
Lady Chesington. Do you know them? No? Well, I was there for the rest of my service years – first as nanny to their children and then
as cook. They looked after me very well. Gave me a good pension.”
“So you’re actually retired?”
“Yes. But I always kept in touch with the Henshaws because – well – I had a soft spot for Thomas. Such a darling boy. Not naughty
like his brother. I loved him dearly – and his mother. Lovely lady.”
I watched her in silence while she worked. She cracked another two eggs into a bowl, her movement fluid, practiced.
“So why are you back in harness again?”
“In service.”
“Yes.”
“Because of what happened to Mrs Henshaw.”
“Thomas’s mother?”
“No, his first wife, Caroline.”
I gawped at her. She was standing back from the table, a large spoon raised in one hand like a weapon. “I came back because
of the tragedy.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident. Caroline was killed instantly. Her brakes failed. Imagine that. Something so simple as a small mechanical fault and
it takes your life away.”
“That’s very sad.” I felt oddly cheated, as though this information had been deliberately kept from me. “So when did he meet Melissa?”
“Now there’s a story.” With some ferocity she shoved a baking tray into the oven. She straightened and gave me a long look. “Nothing to
do with me,” she said.
“You sound disapproving.”
“Just the time-span, you know.” She was discomfited but having ventured the information, she could hardly draw back. “Caroline,
God rest her soul, hardly cold in the grave and – ”
“A marriage?”
“Yes. He already knew Melissa, of course. She was his personal assistant. Went with him all over the place. So I expect it was inevitable.”
I could see where we were going. I shot the bolt home. “You think they were having an affair?”
She was horrified. “Oh, no! I would never say that. Thomas adored Caroline. We all did.”
“Is Amy Caroline’s daughter?”
Her expression softened. “No, she’s Melissa’s. Born within the year they married.”
She busied herself with tidying the table. The history lesson was over. I sat watching her, lulled by the smooth, almost liquid flow of her
hands over the table and the rise of delectable scents from the oven.
I thought of Melissa’s cool, calculating eyes, her air of confidence and control. She would have been the perfect secretary to Thomas;
immaculately groomed, ultra-efficient. Thomas had been primed and conditioned. What would be the obvious career move for a
woman like that? It came into my mind – because the dark side of anything is always more interesting – that Caroline Henshaw’s
death would have been most convenient for Melissa.
###