“Henri, a spy?” I asked in disbelief.
“He’d make a fine one,” Mum added, “but he’d need an assistant at home of course.”
I saw them standing there together, but not as my parents any longer. They were an operational team, working side by side to rescue good men from the war and help occupied populations fight back against the oppression of the Hun. And now they were inviting me to be part of the family business, to learn how to really help Henri like I’d wanted to all along. I nodded furiously, unable to even say yes. Mum swallowed all her reservations, looking to Dad for reassurance. He grinned proudly at us both and gave a little nod, turning to lead us indoors.
No expense had been spared in collecting as much food as Mam could muster, gathering all our rations together to produce a splendid feast. When I found my place at the overcrowded table Leighton had a mouthful of cream and jam. His skinny legs were swinging happily as I sat down beside him, watching Mum and Dad trek off to the places laid for them at the other end of the kitchen. My little brother looked at me and his eyes widened suddenly. He dropped the food he was eating and waved his hand for my attention as he tried to chew and swallow faster than was humanly possible.
“Don’t do that, you’ll choke,” I sat, slapping his back as he coughed, “what is it?”
When Leigh had finally got his mouthful down he cleared his throat, pulling my ear nearer to speak in a hushed voice.
“Kit,” he began carefully, “you know that psychic stuff that Idrys told us about ages ago?”
“Yes?” I replied, my breath hitching in my throat.
Leighton took in a little gasp of his own, breaking into an excited grin.
“I think I can do it.”
THE END.
If there was ever an embodiment of the idea of the ‘troubled teen’, then it was me, but probably not in the way you’d think.
I wasn’t, for example, a smoker or a boozer; I didn’t stay out late or smuggle anything (or anyone) untoward into my room at home. In fact, I stayed in. A lot. I would come home from high school aged 15 and find myself crawling straight into my bed at four o’clock, out cold until gone six and still in my uniform with Mum calling me down for dinner. My entire life was a pattern of eat, sleep, school, sleep, eat and so on; not a scrap of energy or enthusiasm for life, waiting desperately for the time when I could throw off the shackles of the 9-to-4 school day and finally use what little pep I had to do something better with my life. A myriad of doctors and therapists told me that I was depressed and filled me up with drugs, packing me back off to school like that was the answer to my problems.
It took me a further four years to work out what was really going on.
At age 13 I developed what I now know to be called Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (M.E.), a debilitating physical condition that attacks every major system in your body from the nervous and digestive systems to the musculoskeletal, hormonal and beyond. Between the ages of 13 and 16 (what some would call the best years of your life) I went from being a spritely, bright child to a surly, aching, exhausted teen who saw every morning as just one more day of pain coming her way. I dropped out of school and spent eighteen months trying to recover from what I was still being told was depression and anxiety, but no matter what I tried I just couldn’t get better. I knew that there had to be another explanation; I just had to find a way to prove it.
For my 18th birthday I was taken away for a week’s holiday. I deliberately didn’t pack my anti-depressants, suffering a week of cold-turkey withdrawal in order to flush them out of my system once and for all. This is not a practice recommended by doctors and I don’t advocate it, but it was the only thing I felt able to do at the time. Coming home from that holiday I had a fresh perspective on my physical health, realising that I was never mentally depressed, but that my body was the one letting me down. I had an illness and it took me another whole year before I met a doctor who could put the label M.E. to my symptoms.
Armed with this knowledge I returned to college and then went on to university, all the while making my way through different doctors and different treatments until I could find one who would push to get the diagnosis I so desperately needed. I was 22 years old when the letter finally came to tell me what I had been suffering from for the last nine years. It was a relief, but also a sadness, the final confirmation that I am living with a condition that has no known cure and will be likely to affect me for the rest of my life. At the point when I received that letter in November 2011, I felt as though the life I had been wading through suddenly needed a new purpose and a proper direction, something I would still be able to achieve if and when my condition worsened.
So I started to write.
I have written several self-published books in the last twelve months and it has been pointed out to me repeatedly that each one of them contains characters that are physically limited, pained and/or mentally scarred in some way. This is no co-incidence, but it is something that was creeping into my work without a definite conscious knowledge; I think I simply found it more engaging personally to write about imperfect people. That was until I sat down to write my first novel for Clean Teen Publishing, entitled The Mind’s Eye. In this book my central character suffers from Juvenile Systemic Arthritis, a severe and debilitating condition that presents many of the same musculoskeletal symptoms that I face every day. Whilst I am not always bound to a wheelchair, the immobility that my character Kit faces isn’t just about her legs not working. The Mind’s Eye is an exciting wartime adventure with paranormal fun, but at its heart it is also a story about a girl just like me, struggling to work out how to find a place in the world where she can feel valued and still be useful to the people she cares about.
Scenes within The Mind’s Eye are a mixture of Kit’s psychic visions of the Second World War interspersed with her own struggles in her home life. I have a feeling that some people might consider those latter scenes to be the ‘boring bits’, the ‘filler’ that has to happen between the tense, exciting action moments. To me, however, I could take or leave the incredible and heart breaking scenes of war, because the real struggle that touches my heart is that of a lonely young girl quite literally trying to stand on her own two feet in a world where all the odds are stacked against her. When you read The Mind’s Eye, spare a thought for Kit and the life she has to lead every day, because her fictional creation represents countless other people out there who face physical and emotional struggles that ordinary folk can barely comprehend.
The real story of The Mind’s Eye isn’t that of the glorious Allies beating back Jerry, but of Kit Cavendish beating back the sentence that life has handed her with the newfound love and support of the people around her. It is a story that is very important to me and I sincerely hope it will find a place in your hearts too.
Did you enjoy The Mind's Eye? Find out what happens to Leighton when he gets a little older in the 2nd book of The Synsk Series. Turn the page to read the first chapter of Leighton's Summer. Leighton's Summer is available for purchase today!
“I’m getting married in the morning, ding dong the bells are going to chime…”
I could hear the footsteps coming as I sang, my grin growing wider by the minute. My voice rang out and echoed down the halls of Ty Gwyn where I could imagine all the frantic people in the little farmhouse catching wind of the tune. I tapped my foot to the melody, shaking the large white box I was holding until its precious contents nearly spilled out against the closed door I stood by. I sang louder and the footsteps came thumping towards me once more.
“Pull out the stopper, let’s have a whopper, but get me to the church on time!”
Kit stuck her head out past the door with a furious red face, her wild coppery hair all over the place as she struggled to hold up her unfastened gown.
“Leighton will you shut up!” she bellowed.
“Charming,” I replied, “And there’s me thinking you’d be in a good mood, today of all days.”
“I will be,” Kit pro
mised with gritted teeth, “If we ever get there, that is!” She shouted the last part backwards into the room, presumably to the pair of women who were supposed to be helping her dress.
“We’ll get there, darling, don’t panic,” came my mother’s calming tone from within.
“And if we don’t, we’ll make the preacher wait!” Mam assured in her best Welsh foghorn impression.
“Take this box, would you?” I asked impatiently, shaking it again, “it’s flowers or something. You’re supposed to have it.”
Kit shot me a look filled with daggers as she let the door swing open fully. She was holding up her flowing, lacy wedding dress with one hand and the other was leaning heavily on one of her great brown crutches. I could see the folds of her dress quivering where her legs were unsteady beneath them, but I couldn’t be sure if it was her condition that made her shake or just her nerves anticipating the day ahead.
“Bring them in then,” Kit urged with a huff.
“Jawohl, mein Führer!” I replied, goose-stepping into the room to dump the box on the bed.
“That’s not funny Leighton!” Mam chided, but the older lady had a grin creeping into the corner of her rosy lip.
“Thanks love,” my mother answered quietly as she reached for the box with a pale hand. I caught a glimpse of how tired she was before she hid her fatigue with a smile.
“Now get out!” Kit said, giving my shoulder a shove until I was back at the doorway, “You’re slowing me down even more!”
The heavy wooden door to Mam’s bedroom slammed with a loud echo and I heard my sister give a great sigh on the other side.
“Honestly,” she said in a muffled groan, “I’m sure I wasn’t that annoying at fifteen.”
I shook my head at her and wound my way back to the stairs. Only a month ago Churchill had announced that the biggest war the world had ever seen was finally over, and all my sister could think of was getting herself dolled up for Henri and her big day. They had been waiting for the news for months, years even, promising every Christmas that this would be the year that they’d be able to wed. I’d started to think it would never come, but in May that news had finally crackled its way over the wireless and exactly four weeks later they all stood in the powder keg that was Ty Gwyn, working up a wild hive of activity to be at the village chapel on time for the service.
I jumped the last four steps and landed unsteadily on the hard stone floor in the black and white hall. As I wobbled a little to regain my balance, the long-legged figure of Henri Haugen emerged from the downstairs study. He strode towards me, his dark hair slicked back in a smart wave. There was a panic in his eyes like nothing I’d ever seen and I found it hard to believe that a bloke who’d spent half a decade risking his life in the depths of war-torn Europe could be so terrified of something as simple as his wedding day.
“Leighton,” he urged in his low, rumbling voice, “Is my tie straight?”
I gave it a long, hard look. The dark tie was perfectly rigid.
“Hmm,” I said, raising a hand to my chin in thought.
Henri caught my look and started walking away immediately. “I’ll go and do it again,” he called.
I laughed to myself in the hall until my stomach gave a rumble. A few steps later I was pleased to find the large kitchen dark and empty. On the big oval table there sat a huge collection of cakes, sandwiches and other treats ready for us to scoff when the ceremony was over. I listened carefully to the sounds of footsteps above, then shut my eyes and put one hand across them to shield them from the sunlight. I took a sharp breath that filled my nose with the smell of sugar, then let my mind wander to the one person I knew was likely to catch me if I tried to pinch any food.
As my mind settled in the head of another I found myself staring at Ness in her bridesmaid’s dress. She had a sulky look on her face as the hands of the body I was in swung her around to assess the ribbons and bows all over the hideous frock.
“Stop it Blod!” she insisted, “The stupid dress is fine!”
“Don’t you grumble at me, bach!” Blod chided. I felt her raise a finger to the young girl, “You should be grateful we could even get you a new dress to wear!”
Ness shook herself out of Blod’s grip, her long blonde hair flying everywhere as she scrambled away towards the door. The pair were in what used to be my bedroom and as Ness found the narrow doorway to escape, it was suddenly filled by a tall figure in a brown corduroy suit whose legs she crashed into. I felt Blod give a gasp, her heart fluttering for a moment as her husband nearly fell clear out of the room from the impact. He caught himself by gripping the doorway with his hands desperately. Ness threw her hands up over her mouth in horror as I tried not to laugh out loud into Blod’s mind.
“Sorry Steven!” Ness cried.
Steven Bickerstaff let his panicked expression soften and gave the girl a pat on the head before limping into the room as if nothing had happened.
“Watch where you’re going, sweetheart,” he said softly.
Ness gave him a beaming smile and scampered out of the room.
“Mind you don’t get nothing on that dress!” Blod shouted after her, but her eyes were now focused on the smiling face of her husband. Bickerstaff smoothed down his blonde locks after his moment of impact.
“Your son wants something to eat,” he said with a grin.
I felt Blod smile. “Why is he always my son when he wants something?” she asked.
Bickerstaff shrugged. “Don’t ask me how it works. He’s asking for you.”
As if on cue the ear-splitting chorus of “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!” rang out from somewhere down the hall.
“Coming Dai!” Blod called all too loudly, but she rose slowly and moved towards Bickerstaff instead.
Sensing some disgusting mushy feelings building in her chest I pulled myself out of her head, realising there were only a few minutes left before she’d be carrying baby Dai downstairs to find him some food. I refocused on the kitchen table quickly and pinched a sandwich off each plate while rearranging them carefully so it didn’t look like any were missing. I slipped out of the back door into the warm summer air to eat them, letting out a sigh and wishing the whole fiasco was over already.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like weddings, especially since they were always followed by a party of some kind, but I was aching to get back to London and let my summer finally begin. Since Kit had turned eighteen in 1942, we had all moved back to the big city for her and Mum to work at the War Office, exercising their psychic skills to help Henri and my father on various missions out in occupied Europe. While they were all busy doing the spy thing, I had spent a good three years making a nice life for myself at the grammar school and there were a lot of friends waiting for me to get back and wreak havoc with them as soon as the summer began. But Kit had wanted to come back to Ty Gwyn and have a big Welsh wedding like she and Henri had always planned; it was a load of romantic rubbish and it was getting in the way of my countdown to freedom.
I leaned against the hard stone wall and took the place in, deciding it was actually quite nice to see my old home again, but I could feel myself grinning instinctively at the possibilities that lay waiting back in London. There were cinemas to sneak into and parties to crash, girls to pick on and cafes to lounge in. This was the summer when I would turn sixteen and I was determined to make the most of it.
***
The ceremony itself was about as boring as I’d imagined it would be, though I did have a good laugh when Henri tripped up the aisle at the very beginning of proceedings. He had almost started his married life with a flat nose after narrowly missing a protruding pew when he crash-landed, but he was relatively calm again by the time Kit arrived and the music piped up. Leaning on my father for support instead of a crutch, my sister made it all the way down the centre of the little chapel in her bright white gown and lacy veil. Though it was obvious that her legs were struggling without their usual supports, she beamed like a trooper under the thin lace, spurred on
by the sight of Henri as she had always been. She looked a fair treat and I was glad she had gotten her way because, even at twenty-one, Kit could still scream blue murder if she needed to and I certainly didn’t want to imagine the scene if the best day of her life had gone horribly wrong.
We were back at Ty Gwyn, enjoying the June sun with a pile of food each in the garden, when I heard my name being called from the kitchen doorway. I turned and glanced at my parents, suddenly chewing my bread a little slower. As I rose and moved towards them I could see my mother nervously toying with a lock of her auburn hair as Dad stood beckoning me with a strong hand.
“If this is about the itching powder,” I began with a feigned apologetic look, “I only put a bit in Henri’s socks, nowhere else, I promise.”
Mum’s mouth fell open and she slapped my shoulder. “Leighton James Cavendish! What a disgusting thing to do!”
I was devastated that I had given the game away, especially when my father’s stony face told me that there was something yet more serious to discuss.
“Never mind that Gail,” he said with a sweep of his hand, “just bring him in here.”
We sat at the now-empty kitchen table. My chair felt hard and strangely cold as we gathered in the shadowed space, the echoes of the mirth outside still ringing in my ears. Dad cleared his throat in that way he always did when something had to be said. I clenched my fist tight under the table, trying not to frown.
“Now Leighton,” he began, his dark eyes boring into me, “As you know, the end of the war means that your mother and I will have a rather different work schedule from now on.”
I didn’t know that, actually. He was speaking as though he and Mum had always told me things about their spying exploits, when in fact I knew next to nothing about their endeavours save for the snippets Henri was willing to share whenever he was home. I just nodded anyway, not wanting to argue and miss the important bit of his announcement.
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