Where it begins…

“So you kept a diary as well?”

Everyone, I reckon, has a box of childhood memories somewhere. It could be under the bed, or at the back of the wardrobe, or stuffed into a drawer somewhere. We don’t exactly want to get rid of it, but we don’t want to show it to anyone, either. So we hang on to it, until we finally decide either it’s going out or we’re going to show it to our nearest and dearest.

My husband found my diaries when we were unpacking into the first house we had just bought together. It was right there, among my memories of Mum, and my school photos, and all the other bits pieces at the bottom of the crate. He stood there embarrassed, not quite sure whether he should open them or not. I said nothing, but dived in amid his trophies and medals, and all the stuff to do with his Dad and Gran, and sure enough, there they were, carefully preserved – and yet unseen since the day they were written.

So for the next few hours we ignored the chaos all around us, and curled up in each other’s arms, we shared memories, and laughter, and not a few tears.

“Your spelling was atrocious,” I said.

“Your handwriting was terrible,” he replied.

But we both found the words powerful, and we sat there transported to a very different time when so much happened, when it turned out that, one way or another the direction of our lives was set – even if we didn’t realise it at the time.

To find out more about the Drumchester Diaries, visit the “Novels” page.