How the The Broken Horizon came to be written

 

When Davie Reid gets a girl from another island pregnant, and brings her to his home, Chrissie is devastated. It was understood that she and Davie would be married one day, and he has already taken her innocence.

In despair, Chrissie turns to Davie’s violent brother, Jack, who has always coveted her. However, his nature does not lead to a happy marriage. (Follow the Dove)

Follow the Dove was meant to be the first in a trilogy and Isa's story, but Chrissie evolved into the stronger character and demanded a book of her own.

The Broken horizon is Chrissie's story.

After a brutal attack which leaves her concussed, Chrissie mixes poison in Jack's whisky.

Next day she only remembers snatches of what happened, but she does remember her intentions all too clearly. Jack has gone, there’s a fresh grave in the byre, she has dirt beneath her fingernails and on her boots. She has actually done it. But she must never tell a soul. Let the islanders think he has been lost at sea.

Over the years, she forms a close attachment to the young, dashing Charlie Rosie and eventually falls deeply in love with him.

Fourteen years since Jack’s disappearance, Chrissie receives a letter signed, Jack.

Read all about it in The Broken Horizon. On sale today and all this week, for 99p

This Year's Writerly Weekend.

Another writerly weekend. This time in wonderful weather, blue skies and little wind. After an amazing meal in Café Andaluz, Glasgow, and a couple of drinks, we retired to our rooms in the Premiere Inn.

Next day was spent checking in and meeting up with friends in the Westerwood Hotel, Cumbernauld for the 48^th annual conference. 

Prize winners. My trophy is invisible because it's glass!

The schedule for the whole weekend, starting with dinner on Friday night, is full. A lot of organisation and hard work by the committee of S.A.W.

I imagine that, unless someone proves me wrong, we from Caithness travel the furthest to attend this weekend of talks, competitions, workshops and socialising.

But true to form, our small writer’s circle do well.

I won the Barbara Hammond trophy for the best self-published novel with Isa's Daughter and Morag Oag won a second for her non-fiction children’s novel, Living with Sheep, and a third for her under sevens' story, Boogie the Centipede.

All in all, it was a successful and enjoyable weekend.

 

all the trophy winners

Operation Snowdrop

'There's going to be a blizzard.' my father said, and I watched as he brought in extra drinking water and coal and a large shovel. I didn't worry over much. whatever happened my parent were there and they would keep me safe.

The following morning, I woke up to a silent darkness. The house was encased in snow. My father was already tunnelling his way to the byre to tend the animals.

He also tunnelled a path upwards, and once the blue sky could be seen, us children, decked out in wellingtons, hats coats and scarves, clambered out. only the top of the roof and the chimneys were visible.  The large drifts made excellent sledge slopes. We could tunnel in and build caves, then fall back indoors with freezing feet and fingers, desperate to warm up and get outside again. The fact that our snow caves could collapse and bury us never entered out heads. 

When we ran out of water, my father brought in tin pails full of snow and put it on the stove to melt. Several of our sheep wandered over the cliff edge and fell down, sinking in the soft snow. My father tied a rope around his middle and rescued them. Trapped in their freezing bubble, all had survived. 

Unfortunately for us children, being snowed in did not last long. I well remember the disappointment when I woke up one morning and the snow had almost disappeared. 

We perhaps fared better than many of our mainland neighbours, since those who relied on electricity had to do without. We relied on bottled gas and solid fuel and still had warmth and light. 

http://www.britishpathe.com/video/operation-snowdrop-aka-operation-snowdrop

snow in Caithness

Almost a disaster (Another Tale from Stroma)

It was a dark and stormy night -- yes, honestly, I just wrote that.

As you already know, I was brought up until the age of nine on Stroma, an island in the Pentland Firth. Our transport to and from the island was a yawl, not more than eighteen feet long.

My mother and I had been in Wick for the day and were homeward bound in our small but sturdy craft that had weathered many a storm.  The light was fading, but we should have made it before nightfall. Suddenly, the engine died and we were plunged into darkness. 

Now, the back-up plan for any boat in trouble, would normally be hoisting the sail. Not only would this give us wind power, but islanders, seeing a boat under sail, would be alerted that something was wrong.  Unfortunately, my father cleaned out the boat that day and the sail was back on the island in the sail-shed.

The tides in the Pentland Firth are pretty strong, and with no power we were being swept towards the notorious Boars, a place where several currents meet causing whirlpools and high lashing waves. As we were dragged nearer, we were tossed around.

Luckily my mother had bought torches that day -- a present for my cousins who lived on the island. With the light, my father struggled to get the engine going again.

I was scared, crying. They put me under a tarpaulin and the spray rattled like hail above my head as the boat bucked and rose on the waves and plunged into the troughs.

Meanwhile, my grandmother, carrying my baby sister, continued to look out the window, searching the firth for any sign of the boat. In the darkness, we were invisible, the tiny torches not able to carry enough light to send a signal.

Finally the engine spluttered to life and we fought our way from the lashing waves back to calmer waters.

I don't remember the welcome we must have got that night as relief flooded the family. But, as I had been taught, I did say my prayers and thanked God for delivering us from the jaws of the ocean.

Our boat, The Tern, in calmer waters.

My writing journey

Mary Rosie’s War is the direct continuation of The Broken Horizon. When the story opens, Chrissie and her family have moved to the mainland to live in John O’Groats and Mary is seventeen years old. War is breaking out in Europe, and Britain is on high alert. Today I am 30,000 words into the story. I aim to do at least 1000 words daily. I do not know how the story will end. (I’m still unsure how I will begin it but watch this space for a sample coming soon.)

Outside the sun is shining, but it is deceptive. The wind is bitter. I have to steel myself to face the cold, otherwise my two dogs will not be walked, and I will not have any exercise either. I will spend my time sitting at the computer (not always writing)

 You can order any one of my books from Amazon or message me directly

 www.catherinebyrne -author.com

Extract from Mary Rosie's War.

From the distance came the deep drone of a solitary plane.

‘Doesn’t sound like one of ours,’ said Sally, pulling a moue of distaste. ‘Could that be Jerries?’

The girls looked at each other, smiles slipping, their hands clutching their cups. At dusk on 16th March an attack had been made on Scapa in Orkney by fifteen enemy bombers. Four officers had been killed, and four officers and three ratings wounded. And that event, though many miles to the north, had brought the war to their door.

‘I’m not sure…’ Rita’s voice was lost as the thunder of the plane came so near it could have been right outside. The girls rose as one and crossed to the window. ‘Bloody hell, that’s close,’ said Sally.

Suddenly the world around them seemed to erupt. Cups rattled in saucers, the building trembled.

Customers leaped to their feet and ran out of the door into High Street, desperately looking for a safe haven. A pall of black smoke rose from the direction of the harbour as another explosion rent the air  flashes of fire, smoke, thick and black belched from down river.

‘On my God,’ someone screamed. ‘They’re bombing the town.’

A woman dropped her shopping basket and ran past the girls. ‘Ma bairns,’ she screamed, ‘I left them playing…’

Everything seemed to happen at once. The clanging of the fire engine’s bell, children crying, people running around like confused ants as the managers of shops and banks with cellars, herded them into relative safety.

Another Tale from the Islands

I was four years old and I saw tiny horses galloping over my bedspread. My mother put a cool hand on my head and announced that I had a temperature. Then I began to feel so ill I thought I was dying. Granny came in with a basin of water and bathed me. I was no longer in my cot, but in my parents' bed. At some time during my sleep the curtains had been closed, like they did when there was a death. I wanted my mam.

‘She’s gone away for a new baby,’ Granny told me.

I knew then, for certain, that I really was dying. Mam had already gone for my replacement. The curtains were already pulled in preparation. I started to cry and sank into another hot stupor.

I must have been very ill for about three weeks as, living on an island, mothers were taken to the mainland to have their babies. They left before their due date, especially during the months of winter when there was a possibility of being storm stuck. (this was November) Also, the lying in period after childbirth was two weeks.

I don’t remember much about having measles. I know now that both my brothers had been struck down at the same time. 

As well as running her own croft single handed, my granny had to look after three sick children and attend to the animals on my parents’ croft. 
My father had several other jobs on the island, and also spent time with my mother and new daughter on the mainland.

By the time my mother returned I felt a lot better, but was still kept in isolation in case my germs harmed the baby. I was only allowed to see her by standing at my bedroom door while an adult held her up in the doorway of another room at the end of the passageway.

Little flashes of memory forever ingrained on the mind.

My little sister and me on a day trip back to Stroma.

Hiding from the wind.

Here in the long grass there is no wind. I like to hide from the wind. I look up at the sky, a bonny blue with white steamy clouds scudding across it. I am lying on my back in the hay field and the breeze through the grass is like rushing water climbing up the shoreline and fading away, the sound the sea makes when Mam takes us to the beach. I mustn’t go alone though. There are otters there that’ll crunch my bones until they hear the crack. Mam told me and she knows best. She says that all the time.

  A sea-maw flies above and it swings about in the wind. Mam shouts for me from the door. ‘Yer tea’s ready.’

  She’ll think I’m lost. She’ll worry. She might even come looking for me. I don't answer.

  ‘Scrambled eggs,’ she shouts.

  My stomach grumbles. It’s been a while since dinner and that was lentil soup with boiled beef, which I hate. I love scrambled egg and buttery toast with hot milky tea. I still say nothing.

‘Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to the dog,’ she shouts and goes back indoors.

  She’s not worried about me. She doesn’t care if I’ve gone to the beach and been eaten by otters. She doesn’t care if I’ve fallen in a hole. Well, I'll just hide here until it grows dark, maybe I'll die of cold in the night, then she'll be sorry, they'll all be sorry.

The house where I was born

But I'm hungry and the thought of scrambled egg and toast finally gets the better of me and squashes my mini rebellion. I stand up, shake the grass from my skirt and go indoors where it's warm and the kettle sings and the table is piled with eggs, toast and bannocks. The news is on the wireless and my brothers are eating and arguing over a comic.
'Eat up before it goes cold,' Mam says. This time, she doesn't need to tell me twice.