CHAPTER ONE
If Mark Stafford didn’t get this damned book written soon, he was toast.
Throwing his pen down in exasperation, he leant back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and stared out of the window of his small office, blowing out his cheeks. What was the deadline again? Oh, yes, the end of February.
He checked the calendar, praying it was a leap year so he would have an extra day. God knows, the way he was going, he would need it.
The house opposite flashed into life as their many Christmas decorations all lit up at once. It wasn’t properly dark yet, but the November afternoon was overcast and gloomy. Unfortunately, the Santa waving at him from an illuminated ladder hanging from one of the bedroom windows did nothing for his lack of festive cheer. In fact, it made his grumpiness worse. Thank goodness neither his agent nor his editor could see him now; they’d think he was a proper Grinch, and that simply wouldn’t do since he was supposed to be writing a Christmas book.
When the idea of writing a festive story had been pitched to him, he should have come clean and confessed that Christmas wasn’t his cup of eggnog. But he’d thought he could pull it off, so he’d agreed. Yet, five weeks into the project, he had nothing. No characters, no storyline and no inspiration. The situation was made even more annoying because this wasn’t his first book, nor even his third. Mark had written eleven books in his career, so why was he finding this one so blimmin’ difficult?
It wasn’t as though he had to write a three-hundred-page novel. He was a children’s author, whose target readers were four to seven years old. The book would be thirty-five to fifty pages maximum,includingthe illustrations.
Mark was the first to argue that writing children’s books wasn’t easy. The author had to appeal to both the childandthe parent, and fewer words didn’t mean less effort or dedication. It was different, that’s all – a difference he’d thought he’d mastered.
Clearly not, if today’s miserably disappointing effort was any indication.
It didn’t help that the publisher wanted a title and the cover art in the next couple of weeks so they could begin the marketing process. But how could he give them that, when he had no idea what the story was going to be about?
His neighbour’s manically waving Santa Claus was becoming irritating, so Mark lowered the blind. The afternoon had drawn in, and as much as he enjoyed taking a break from working by gazing into the street, he’d found himself doing considerably more gazing than working. Resting his eyes was one thing, but these past few days his peepers seemed to have taken a vacation.
He scowled, feeling hemmed in and claustrophobic. Maybe he should get some fresh air? It might clear his head.
Actually, there wasn’t anything to clear. That was the problem – his head was empty. Perhaps filling it with Christmassy stuff might help? He could pay the city centre a visit and soak up some atmosphere. The festivities weren’t in full swing yet, but there should be enough Christmas spirit around to get him in the mood.
Deciding this was as good a plan as any, he donned his padded jacket and plonked a knitted beanie on his head. It wasn’t unduly cold out, but an annoyingly fine drizzle hung in the air.
The bus stop was a five-minute walk from his house, so rather than drive and try to grapple with Bristol’s awful rush-hour traffic, he decided to hop on a bus. It would also mean he needn’t worry about parking, which could be a nightmare. He would even have a bite to eat whilst he was out, because his fridge was rather empty and the freezer was equally as bad. He really should make more of an effort in the kitchen, but although he enjoyed cooking, he couldn’t be bothered just for himself. Now and again he would have a frenzy and bulk cook lots of stuff, but that didn’t happen regularly enough to keep his freezer stocked with home-made dishes. The only meals in there right now were of the ready variety, and none of them appealed.
His thoughts were still on food when the bus trundled into The Horsefair, and he hopped off at the next stop. The street was busy with people scurrying along the pavements, and shops were already belting out Christmas tunes, their window displays full of festive cheer. Overhead, twinkly lights were strung across the street and the lamp posts boasted flashing stars and snowflakes. Mark ducked into a store selling decorations,wandered aimlessly around it and then ducked out again, not having found what he was searching for.
He had yet to find it fifty minutes and numerous shops later, so he gave up and headed for a little place he knew on Philadelphia Street where the food was good.
As he ate, it suddenly came to him that he was trying to recapture the feeling that he used to have when he was a child. Christmas had been such a wonderful, magical time then, and the sheer excitement he’d felt had been overwhelming.
Mark stared at the pasta in the wide-rimmed bowl and shook his head. He was thirty-nine years old and hadn’t been a child for a very long time, so how the hell did he think he could ever feel that way again? But his instinct – that gut feeling he always listened to when it came to his storytelling – was insistent that was what he needed to do. If he wanted to make this next book shine and sparkle, he needed to remember what it was like to be a child at Christmas.
Perhaps going on a writing retreat would help? He’d done something similar before; when he’d written the seaside series he had rented a house on the coast for three months to immerse himself in all things harbour and beach-related.
Mark realised he was looking for inspiration in the wrong place. Bristol wasn’t it.
However, Picklewick, the small village where he’d grown up, might very well be.
Beatrice Webb let out yet another exasperated sigh. Getting her children ready for school was a daily battle and she didn’t think she had the energy for another skirmish this week, but as today was only Thursday, she still had one more to go until the blessed weekend.
The murky mornings at this time of year didn’t help, because Taya, at nine years old, was becoming a real lug-a-bed and was as grumpy as hell at being woken. Five-year-old Sadie was the opposite – up like a lark and raring to go. Unfortunately, Sadie’s lark had risen at five-thirty, and byraring to go,Beatrice wasn’t referring to school. Sadie tried everything to delay going, from hiding her school shoes to having a full-blown meltdown, and this morning she was insisting she had to write a letter to Santa and it had to be done before school so it could be posted on the way.
‘Taya, please go brush your teeth,’ Beatrice instructed, as she tried to wrestle her youngest daughter’s hair into submission.
‘I haven’t finished my breakfast.’ Taya had been reading instead of eating.
Although Beatrice had asked her not to read at the table, Taya had ignored her. She’d been tempted to snatch the book out of her daughter’s hands but, for one, she didn’t want to deal with the fallout, and secondly she knew how lucky she was that she didn’t have to nag her child to read, the way many of her friends had to nag theirs.
‘Please get a move on,’ she urged. Turning to Sadie, she said, ‘All done.’
Sadie patted the top of her head. ‘I wanted plaits, not bunches.’
‘You look lovely with bunches.’
