Scrapefoot #4

Hello! Hope you are doing fine. Thanks for dropping by to catch up with Part 4 of Scrapefoot. I thought it would only be four parts, but this story has other ideas! Thanks so much for reading.

This week, who exactly has broken in to Rebecca’s mum’s house?

SCRAPEFOOT #4

 For the first time in my adult life, I felt a bit blindsided. How on earth was I going to get him out?

    “If you don’t leave immediately, I’m definitely going to call the police and have you done for breaking and entering.”

    “I didn’t break anything,” he said. “I fix things.”

He nodded towards the table leg. He was crafty.

     “How exactly did you get in?”

He laid a finger aside his long, elegant nose and tapped it. “Ways and means, ways and means.”

    “What? Look, this is my mother’s home and-”

     “But she isn’t, is she?”

    “Isn’t what?”

    “At home.”

     “She’s in a home. Look, this is really none of your business.”

He put another log on the fire as if the words coming out of my mouth meant nothing to him.

      “I’ve cut some logs for her, out the back.” He dusted his hands together.

      “But-but she doesn’t need logs. She’s in a home, where she is being looked after.”

        “Looked after.” He repeated. “After. Doesn’t that word mean behind? Like something left behind, or a second thought?”

I was so angry I couldn’t reply. I glanced at my phone screen. Was calling 999 an overreaction? He didn’t seem dangerous, just…odd. I was just trying to remember the non-emergency police number when he stalked past me. I caught that sharp whiff again, the foxy, musky smell. I’d forgotten about the fox. Had it gone into the other room? That’s where he seemed to be going, the strange man, crossing the floor with long loping strides. Into the sitting room he went, and I followed him. He sat down in the big easy chair where Mum used to relax to watch Coronation Street and do her crossword. The memory made something go chink inside me, like a bit of ice breaking off. The man gave a couple of experimental bounces.

    “This is better, isn’t it?” He jumped up so quickly I backed away, but he came after me, took my arm gently, the way a spaniel picks up a feathery game bird. “Come on- you try it. Remember how this chair was really lumpy?”

    “No I don’t. This was my mother’s chair. I’m not in the habit of sitting in it and she never complained”

Reluctantly, I let him guide me to the chair and I sat down. The cushion moulded to my shape. Even though every sinew in my body was knotted with tension, I let myself imagine how wonderful it would be to let the softness of the cushion lure me into complete relaxation. Horrified, I sat bolt upright.

    “Is this a new cushion? What the hell are you playing at?”

The pale stranger plonked himself down on the sofa, did another couple of experimental bounces, and then moved to the wing chair by the window, the one that had been my grandmother’s. That chair, I recalled, was evil. It seemed to have springs pinging from its soul.

    “This chair is dreadful,” he said. “So hard and uncomfortable.”

     “Yes, you’re right. I’ve never liked that chair.”

      “And the couch- well, that is too soft.”

  I tipped my head in consideration. “I always quite liked the couch. I used to curl up there to do my homework.”

   “ Bad for your back. I bet you have a bad back.”

  “ I have sciatica, but that’s neither here nor-”

   “ So I found that cushion in the skip and now your mother’s chair is just right. She’ll be so happy when she comes home.”

He looks so pleased with himself, like a smiley collie dog, that I don’t have the heart to tell him she will never be coming home.

Thank you for reading!

While you’re here, please take a look at my novels and writing courses. I love to blend a little folklore into my novels, and from my interactions with readers, I know you like it too! If you can, please leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. With book shops closed, it would really help. Thank you in advance!

Sandra x

Scrapefoot #1

I’ve set myself a wee challenge. In an attempt to get my creativity back on track in the New Year, I’m undertaking The Artist’s Way with Dawn Geddes. Elizabeth Frattaroli and Gillian Duff. Thank you for the inspiration, Dawn! There’s no doubt that circumstances have taken a toll on our inner lives, so I’ve set myself the goal of producing a drawing a day for the next few weeks and as a little 2021 gift for my readers I will be serialising a short story!

Entitled Scrapefoot. this is a modern folktale set in a snowy Yorkshire wood.What is going on in the mysterious Eel Beck Cottage and why does Rebecca keep seeing a white fox? I have no idea, because I’m still in the middle of writing it! Watch it unfold RIGHT HERE. I will be uploading a new part every Sunday in January.

So grab a coffee, put your feet up and enjoy! Follow my WordPress site so you don’t miss anything.

Scrapefoot #1

Each crunch of my booted feet detonated in the silent winter wood. Fingers of snow dislodged themselves and showered my head, and underneath the white blanket, things cracked and creaked and stuck out at odd angles like broken bones. Those bits of sky visible through the black ribs of the trees were already navy blue.  My preferred type of snow was vast, smooth and well-curated; a short ski-lift ride from a smoking glühwein, but this was no holiday. I’d left it too late to come here.

I hadn’t realised how frail my mother had become. The care home seemed vast about her narrow shoulders, a large, bustling place full of strangers. She kept to her room as much as possible, emerging as requested to sit politely at the table three times a day. She ate like a bird, and she felt like a bird, stick-like bones beneath the ragged plumage of her best hand-knit. I held her the way you’d hold a fledgling, half-afraid of doing more harm than good.

    “I’m fine,” she would reply to all of my questions, and I had many, many questions. I hadn’t seen her in person for so long. She didn’t perform well on Facetime. Like a child, there was something about the screen that confused her and she couldn’t get emails, of course, unless the manager printed them out for her and even then she couldn’t see to read them. I tried to remember to use a bold font, but often I’d forget. I’ve never hand-written a letter in my life. I think we’ve come too far to go back to that. We might as well return to the quill.

Do you like it here? Is the food good? Are they kind to you? Have you made any friends?

  “I’m fine,” was all she would say, and then she’d smile, leaving me none the wiser. She never asked for anything either. I brought her magazines, chocolate, a hand-held fan in case it got too hot, fingerless gloves in case it was too chilly. She accepted them all with grace, but she never asked for anything. Until this morning. The request I’d been trying to avoid, even though I knew it was on the cards.

   “One thing you could do while you’re here, Rebecca.” She rested her hand over mine. It was dry, and insubstantial, like an autumn leaf. “I’d be really grateful if you could go up to Eel Beck. Nobody has been there for so long, and I’m worried about it.”   

  “Yes, of course I will.” I squeezed the crinkled leaf of her hand. My gut shrank a little. Eel Beck may have been my childhood home, but I was in no rush to go back. I’d struggled so hard to be free of it…

Check back next Sunday for Scrapefoot #2 ! Until then, stay safe, my friends…

The excitement is Bone Deep!

20180613_212743At last! Bone Deep is here. Many writers will tell you how tricky that second book is, and to some extent that’s true, although for me the writing was the easy bit. I adored creating Bone Deep; I love Lucie, and Mac, and I have a big soft spot for Arthur. I miss those guys! I’m hoping that my readers will love this story just as much as I do.

And THAT’S the tricky part- the nail-biting, gut-clenching wait for the REACTION!

My second book hit the shelves on Thursday, and I’d love to share with you some of my favourite words and images so far.

IMG_20180706_203444_131I’ve just poured myself a large gin and tonic, but before I take one more sip of mother’s ruin, I want to say a BIG thank you to my amazing agent Jenny Brown– the best in the biz- and to all the team at Polygon. You’ve done, and continue to do, a wonderful job- Neville, Alison (glad you liked it!), Julie (Master of Suspense), Jan, Kristian, Vikki, Jamie…I’ve probably forgotten someone, but thank you all!

Raising my glass also to all the bloggers, reviewers and journalists who have been in touch, and to our lovely booksellers and librarians, and to my awesome fellow writers. Now please pour yourself a wee tipple or a nice cuppa and grab a copy of BONE DEEP. Cheers!

Parker the Puppy couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into this juicy novel, and ‘Hank’ from John Smith’s Bookshop, University of Stirling, needed to cool off afterwards…

‘Bone Deep is a taut, contemporary thriller about love, betrayal, female sibling rivalry and bone-grinding, blood-curdling murder.’ – Sunday Post.

‘A siren-like read, the storyline simply swallowed me whole…I could not stop reading!’ – Lovereading UK

‘…atmospheric, with a delicious build up of tension, and beautifully observed throughout. An absorbing read.’ – Michael J. Malone, author of House Of Spines.

BONE DEEP has been sold in India (Bee Books), Germany (Penguin) and the US (Gallery, an imprint of Simon and Schuster) but who knew it had sneaked into Russia….?

IMG_20180706_205321

BONE DEEP enjoying St Petersburg, courtesy of Elizabeth Frattaroli

‘Stockbridge Gothic’

When The Scotsman dubbed Beneath the SkinStockbridge Gothic’ I was highly delighted. Gothic is definitely my go-to zone when I’m dreaming up the mad, the bad and the dangerous!

Those of you who have already read the book  may have noted a few nods to my all time favourite Frankenstein. I won’t give any games away, but if you have spotted the clues, then feel free to start a conversation! This has made me think about my own relationship with the Gothic, and how it has influenced my writing. For me, I suppose the defining element of the genre is setting, and the development of architecture and landscape as characters within that context. I’m thinking about the labyrinthine Castle of Otranto, the windswept bleakness of Wuthering Heights, and the haunted attic of Charlotte Bronte’s lesser-known Villette.

In Alys’s Stockbridge villa, the damp basement, the creaking staircase, the cramped attic all take on a life of their own. There is a sense that the house is less than welcoming, resistant to the notion of being a family ‘home’. We might call such an atmosphere ‘uncanny’, a concept which, interestingly, stems from  the German Unheimlich, best translated as ‘un-homely’.

In his treatise on the Uncanny, Freud quotes the philosopher Schelling: ’Unheimlich is the name for everything that ought to have remained hidden and secret, and has become visible.’cobweb-handle

All that stuff we carry ‘beneath the skin’ perhaps…

I’ll leave you with an appropriate quote. Walt, just out of bed, makes his way to the kitchen…

‘…the hall felt somehow odd. It took him right back to being a kid again, when you come back from holidays and the house feels cold and damp…has a distance about it. He remembered how his mam used to stand in the porch, sniffing, in case she’d forgotten to chuck out the milk, or the cloths had rebelled in her absence and gone sour. And here he was, sniffing,like his mam used to do. A house with a kid in it shouldn’t feel this way.’

From Beneath the Skin (Polygon) 2016