Based on a true story

The second novel in the Garden Club series is with my beta readers now. I’m waiting anxiously to see if writing 86,000 words, then editing that draft down to 81,000 and then for a second time, to under 79,000 was worth it. The brief for my cover design is ready to go, but I need to complete the draft and finalise the pagination to ensure the dimensions of the spine are correct.

As with many books, this one wasn’t written from scratch. Over the last four decades, I have made notes whenever I’ve seen or experienced something that might be useful one day.

For example, my first time away with some good friends from Leicester was in Ireland. It was a fishing / golfing / walking week, and we were based in Ballinamore, a small town close to the border with Northern Ireland.

The hotel we stayed in had a great bar, and the breakfasts were very good, but the rooms left a lot to be desired - floor space, for example. Half a dozen single beds were crammed into one large double bedroom, which looked over the high street. A full cattle truck would drive by in the middle of the night and a motorcycle, which you could hear for a full two minutes, would roar by every morning at six o’clock.

Most of the lads went fishing. I was the only one walking and three of us golfed. Prior to the trip, I’d joked about the possibility of stumbling across a transfer of weapons from one car to another on a walk (this was around 1992, with the Troubles ongoing in the north).

It didn’t seem so funny as I walked down a hill on a narrow country lane in pouring rain with mist all around, and saw a large box being carried out of a cottage and loaded into the back of an estate car by three men. 

All three turned and watched me emerge from the mist and walk towards them, dressed in black waterproof overtrousers and a large-hooded black cagoule. Just as I was thinking my time was up and there was no escape, they seemed to have the same idea, closed the tailgate, rushed inside the cottage and slammed the door shut.

I didn’t even look their way as I trudged past, but I did glance inside the estate car and saw my box of weapons was, in fact, a coffin. Thinking of the weather, and the derelict church I’d passed near the top of the hill, I must have looked like the Grim Reaper.

I carried on to Lough Allen and found shelter from the worst of the rain close to the water’s edge, where I ate a soggy lunch. I was wet, miserable, and convinced that somebody with a large hosepipe was following me around. After an hour of relative dryness, I set off again, with no respite from the weather, but keen to get to Drumshanbo in time for my pre-arranged lift back to our hotel.

I was a touch early and mooched around the town to keep me warm. I passed St Patrick’s church, where a coffin was being carried from the church into the graveyard. At least, it was being carried until I saw the small entourage halt and look in my direction. I recognised two of the pallbearers from earlier, turned around as gracefully as I could, thankful my hood was still in place, and retraced my footsteps into the town centre and then out towards Ballinamore Road, where my ride was waiting for me.

Now and then, I wonder what those poor souls thought as Death checked first on the coffin and then the funeral itself.

I’d like to think that my memory was good enough to remember those details from over 30 years ago, but the fact is I wrote everything down almost as soon as I returned to the hotel, sat in the bar with an Irish coffee (although I assume that’s just a coffee in Ireland…).

That experience formed a key plot line in a novel called Absolution that I gave up on in 2016. Fortunately, I throw no work away, which is why elements of that event are resurrected in the new novel and will live on forever (ish).

When you read the new book, see how many you can spot! And if you would like me to let you know when it's out (and what it's called), just use the contact form and I'll be in touch as soon as I have the answers!