by Vicky Adin
“Who’s that, Granna?” asked Katie, knowing she wouldn’t be able to make sense of the answer, if one came. Part of her wanted to find out about the people Granna talked about, but none of it mattered. No one else cared about Granna or the past, and since Katie had no plans to marry or have children there’d be no one to care in the future either.
“My Janey is so special,” said Granna continuing her conversation with no one in particular. “Those designs are superb. Oh my... is this for me?”
After Katie’s grandfather died roughly twenty years ago, her grandmother continued to live in their substantial and beautiful villa for over a decade, before it became obvious she could no longer live alone and moved into Katie’s family home. But her mother’s overworked heart couldn’t cope with the stress of trying to hold her own family together and looking after Granna for the best part of the next decade as her mind slipped further away from reality.
Oh, why had nobody noticed, Katie lamented.
But Katie noticed things these days. She noticed the delicate bones in Granna’s fingers, and the soft, papery skin riddled with dark lines under the loose flesh. Those once strong fingers had been so creative and so gentle. Now they looked as if they would break if you touched them, except Granna was nowhere near to breaking – at least, not physically.
A bird tweeted out in the garden and Granna turned her head towards the sound. Her dark velvet eyes glanced across Katie’s face as she turned and momentarily held her gaze. Eyes that shone with love and purpose. In days past, you could get lost in those eyes, drawn in under their protective warmth, now, the depth that lived within them belonged to another era.
Putting Granna into the rest home had been the most difficult decision Katie had ever made. Her father had wanted ‘nothing to do with the batty old woman’ he’d said, and washed his hands of the whole affair. Katie had no such choice. Left with sole responsibility when her mother died, she could see no other option. Granna’s safety was paramount.
Every available surface in Granna’s room was covered with her grandmother’s cherished photographs. When she’d first moved in, the managers tried to persuade Granna to keep them on one shelf and limit the number, promising to change them regularly, but Granna was having none of it. She didn’t say anything, but simply took them from the drawer and put them back in view. At one time, they tried taking them out of the room, but Granna had thrown such a hissy fit, they gave in.
One photo in particular always drew Katie’s attention. The sepia tones had faded but the clothes and hairstyles worn by the two women were unmistakably early Edwardian. One of the faces looking back at her was her own. The resemblance was uncanny, but there was no name on the back to tell her who she was. Granna called the older woman something that sounded like ‘Moh-ree’ but Katie had never heard Granna call the other woman by name.
She made a mental note to look through her mother’s collection and see if she could find anything with names on it. She’d put off going through the house and sorting her mother’s possessions but the time had come. Her father had a new love now and the woman didn’t want the old stuff around.
“You should see those costumes our Janey used to make,” said Granna. “Mam said the fabrics were glorious, but she wasn’t allowed to go to the theatre to see them on the stage until she was much older. Moh-ree was strict about that...” and off she’d go again telling a story half in the present and half in the past about people Katie didn’t know and whose relationships didn’t make sense. She was sure half the time Granna confused the generations and Katie hadn’t been able to work out which name belonged with which era. She couldn’t even put a name to Granna’s ‘Mam’.
For some inexplicable reason, her grandmother knew who Katie was although she didn’t recognise anyone else. Born on the same day as her grandmother sixty years later and named after her, they’d had a special relationship until Katie had gone off to university. Now Katie wished she’d paid more attention to her mother and grandmother, but she couldn’t undo the past.
The nurse came in. “Hello dear, how are you today?” she asked Granna.
Granna turned her head to look at the newcomer and a polite smile creased her face.
“Hello. Now, who are you? Have you come to see me? I do so like visitors, they are such interesting people.”
“I’ve come to make you more comfortable, Mrs Bridges.”
Katie watched the nurse pat her grandmother’s arm to reassure her.
Granna wriggled in the lazy-boy chair and plucked ineffectually at the mohair rug she was sitting on.
“I do like the colour of this rug, don’t you?” she asked no one in particular. “It reminds me of roses.”
Katie’s eyes rested on the rose-pink rug she had given her grandmother. She loved that colour too. Granna Katy had kept a wonderful garden once. The two of them often wandered around it together while Granna named all the flowers.
“How is she doing overall?” Katie asked the nurse. “Her memory of long ago events seems faultless to me.” But then, she admitted, she couldn’t sense whether Granna was right or not.
“Very well, actually, for her age.” Despite her memory loss, Granna was still a relatively fit and healthy ninety-year-old. “She keeps active and goes to all the exercise classes, especially when there’s music playing.”
Katie smiled, she’d watched her grandmother more than once at these classes, dancing in her own world rather than following the instructor.
“And she still plays the piano,” continued the nurse.
“I’m glad,” said Katie. “She’s a better pianist than I ever will be even if she does make mistakes. The music seems to come alive under her fingertips.”
Katie remembered the piano lessons with her grandmother at her house when she was young, and the comings and goings of the other students.
“It’s good she still enjoys her music,” said the nurse, “even if she’s forgotten she’s played almost as soon as she stands up from the keyboard.”
Granna’s voice interrupted their conversation. “I remember Moh-ree. She is a wonder and such a great cook. She always makes my favourites. I can still taste those little biscuits that went with my tea. She’ll be here soon.”
Everyone knew Granna couldn’t hold a conversation the way most people did but with a little bit of persistence she could tell you what she wanted.
“That’s nice, there’s be a cup of tea coming shortly,” said the nurse.
Prone to wander, Granna had taken it into her head she was living in the house where her Granma Gwenna had once lived – whoever she was – and nothing anyone said could change her mind.
‘I know where I’m going Katie dear,’ she’d say, but she didn’t. Wherever the house in her mind had once been, the rest home was a new facility in a foreign-to-Granna area.
Surprisingly sprightly, Granna unexpectedly got up from her chair. “We should go to Granma Gwenna’s Sweet Treats for tea. It’s been an age since I visited her. She will be cross with me if I don’t call. Now, where did I leave my gloves?”
While Granna opened several drawers to look for her gloves, the nurse rearranged the rug on the chair, re-tidied the already tidy bed, wrote something down on the chart by the door and pulled the window closed.
“It’s a wee bit windy at the moment. Do you think you should wait until it’s died down before you go? How about doing some lacework instead? You can show it to her later.”
Granna accepted the crochet hook and fine cotton thread and sat down again. Katie never ceased to be amazed her gran could move the hook so swiftly in and out, and over and under and around in a constant motion. She created such intricate lace still even if the results were not perfect and she had dozens of lace motifs and long edgings that would never get joined together, but Granna appeared satisfied with what she could see.
“No, Janey didn’t make lace, she was the famous costumier.”
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BOOKS
by
VICKY ADIN
www.vickyadin.co.nz
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Gwenna The Welsh Confectioner
Against overwhelming odds, can she save her legacy?
(Set in Auckland, New Zealand)
Winner
IndieB.R.A.G medallion
Chill with a Book Readers'’Award
Gold Standard Quality Mark
Amid the bustling vibrancy of Auckland’s Karangahape Road Gwenna Price is troubled. For all her youth, she has become the master confectioner in the family business since her father died. She promised to fulfil her Pa’s dreams and open a shop, but with her domineering and incompetent stepbrother Elias in charge, the operation is on the brink of collapse.
In an era when women were expected to stay at home, Gwenna is a plucky young woman with uncommon ambition. She is determined to save her legacy. Despite the obstacles put in her way, and throughout the twists and turns of love and tragedy, Gwenna is irrepressible. She refuses to relinquish her dreams and lets nothing stand in her way.
Utter brilliance. I was captivated from beginning to end. Vicky really brings the characters to life and you can really engage with what it must have been like to be a young girl like Gwenna going into business at the turn of the century in a male dominated society. I was totally engaged with every character, each one contributing to make this a truly wonderful story, my only disappointment was when it ended. This is the first book I have read by this author but it won’t be my last.
***** 5-star Amazon review
Brigid The Girl from County Clare
Winner of a IndieB.R.A.G medallion, a Chill with a Book Readers’ Award
Like making lace – she pieces together a
new life from a single thread of hope
(Set in Australia and New Zealand)
Brigid is torn. If she stays, she is another mouth to feed in a land plagued by starvation and poverty. If she leaves her beloved Ireland, she will never see her family again, but leave she must. There is not enough food.
Heartbroken, she boards the ship that will take her to a new life in Australia, comforted only by the knowledge her cousin Jamie will make the journey with her. Her skill as a lacemaker soon draws attention, but life doesn't always run smoothly in the harsh new landscape. Brigid must learn to conquer her fears and overcome the stigma of being a servant, a female and Irish, if she is to fulfil her dream.
A new start in New Zealand offers hope – until the day she encounters the man who seeks her downfall.
The historical aspects of the story are so accurate and described so perfectly that the reader will frequently need to remind herself/himself that the story is fiction ... This is a thoroughly satisfying read. It is the kind of story that passes the test as a work of history and is equally satisfying as a novel that will have your attention from first to last.
**** 4 stars – Frank O’Shea, The Irish Echo, Sydney
The Art of Secrets
Emma wants to forget; Charlotte never can.
Together they remember.
(Set in New Zealand)
Emma is an enterprising young journalist with a bright future, but her life and career are falling apart. In a last-ditch attempt to save her position, she accepts the assignment to interview the bestselling author – Charlotte Day.
The ageing Charlotte has a reputation for being cantankerous and is highly secretive about her past, one she considers too painful to relive and too shameful to share. Preferring her roses to people, she is persuaded into meeting this girl who gets through her defences, forcing her to confront her past.
As Charlotte and Emma’s relationship deepens, they find themselves enmeshed in a tangle of secrets that changes both their lives.
But he who dares not grasp the thorns should never crave the rose – Anne Brontë
The art of great writing! ... Vicky Adin keeps a tight rein on her two leading characters so their actions and reactions are credibly grounded in genuine emotions. The alternating viewpoint and change of tone from Emma to Charlotte, from young to old, works, helping the reader see behind the lies and half-truths they tell each other. Their progress from antagonists to friends is seamless, as the layers of the story peel back like petals, exposing the truth at the flower’s heart. Highly recommended.
– Bev Robitai, author of Sunstrike
The Disenchanted Soldier
From soldier to pacifist
(Set in England and New Zealand)
In 1863, young Daniel Adin, a trained soldier, embarks on an adventure of a lifetime. In pursuit of a new life and land to farm, he travels to New Zealand to fight an unknown enemy – the fearless Maori.
A hundred and thirty years later, Libby is fascinated by the stories of Daniel, who looks down at her from the aged black-and-white photos on the walls. She wants to know more, to know what he was really like, but Daniel’s story was more than she had bargained for.
A great insight into the lives of a family and what was going on around ordinary people in the early days of colonization.
Ged Martin
I loved this book and so will you if you like historical fiction and family sagas set somewhere you likely know little about. This is beautifully and sensitively written. The characters are terrific. The fascinating part to me was how Vicky was able to take us on the family's journey in a thoughtful and non-judgmental way. And now I am motivated to dig into my family tree and see what I come up with.
C Craig – ***** 5-star Amazon review
Acknowledgements
The last words written are the most important. Without the assistance of many people, this book could not happen. I am certain that in naming individuals I will miss some I should have included, so please take it as given – if you have assisted me in any way, I am deeply grateful.
I thank the members of the Mairangi Writers’ Group who listened, critiqued and helped improve the storyline and language, but especially Jenny Harrison, Bev Robitai and Erin McKechnie, great authors in their own right, who as my beta readers gave me valuable feedback.
I am indebted to Adrienne Charlton, publisher, proofreader and editor extraordinaire, for her skill in ensuring this book is as flawless as humanly possible. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.
I pay tribute to families everywhere for their life stories. For a genealogist, research uncovers many family histories that deserve to be put into print. The Cornish Knot is an amalgam of those stories – stories of love and loss, of conflict and resolution, and of personal renewal.
I hope aspects of these themes will echo in the hearts of my readers but mostly it is my memories of Cornwall, where I spent many years as a child, my love of the Romantic and Impressionist eras in art, and my home in New Zealand that have driven the settings and themes for this novel.
Lastly, to my own wonderful family – my husband, children and grandchildren – thank you. Your belief in me keeps me going.
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