I didn’t even know his name. He was the boy I adored from afar, who ran round the playground with his coat flying from his shoulders, like a highwayman on horseback, snatching my breath away. He hung by his knees from the climbing frame, his shirt billowing open to show a pale stomach, while I watched, bursting with adoration, speechless with shyness.
Of course he didn’t know my name. He didn’t even notice me, but something jumped inside me like a spark to connect with him. Perhaps it was that gypsy gene trapped in the skinny little girl with her school tie and cardigan, her plaits tied with bows, who only dared to peep at him so he’d never know the way her tiny heart was pumping. He rushed by with his wild black hair and feverish eyes, nearly knocking me over as he chased after a football and went rolling on the grass in a play-fight with his friend, grazing his knees. When he stood up there was blood, scarlet mixed with dirt, but he didn’t seem to care.
He came from the council estate down at Sturry, a drab sprawl of post-war prefabs and mean little terraced houses on the wrong side of Canterbury where the tourists never went. For some reason that I never fathomed, children from that school had been moved to our middle-class primary, which nestled in a leafy residential offshoot of the cathedral city.
‘Rough children,’ my mother warned me, ‘who play in the street and use bad language.’ She’d been cowed into thinking that this holy city was all lace doilies and processions of robed and mitred ministers. Didn’t she know about Chaucer’s pilgrims and the lewd tales they told? Or how the Cathedral altar was once splattered with the blood of Thomas a Becket, twelfth century Archbishop, slain at the orders of his king? She’d left school without completing her education and wanted better for her own children.
My brother had enjoyed a few months at Sturry School, where he’d learned to stuff his hands in his pockets, wipe his nose on his sleeve, belch loudly at meals and say ‘bloody’ and ‘bugger’. This didn’t go down too well with our clergyman father, although he himself had started life as a village boy and was no stranger to such habits. But here in the hallowed hub of the Anglican Church, our parents had a reputation to keep up. Our mother, whose own mother had been in service, understood how the gentry lived and was anxious not to be disgraced by her offspring. So when my turn came to go to school, she searched out one which would nurture and refine, only to find her plans thwarted by the influx of ruffians from Sturry.
When they first arrived we stood in a huddle like a resident tribe, expecting a fight and prepared to be afraid. But they rushed in with a whoop, made themselves at home, and before we knew it we were all mixed up together. Apart from our curiosity in the way they spoke, their talk of outside toilets and two or three to a bed, we soon forgot what all the fuss was about. Children are attracted or repelled by instinct, not socio-economic factors. And, yes, when this black-haired boy galloped past, he whipped up a wind of recklessness which thrilled me.
Later, much later, when I was studying for my A levels, I heard about him from Mandy, a grammar school girl who lived on the same council estate and had remained my friend. He was working as a plumber, she said, or was it a bricklayer, and he still lived down in Sturry. His sister had just got pregnant, and his Dad had died of some lung disease that he’d contracted in the days when he’d been a miner over at Betteshanger Colliery. My childish passion seemed odd to me now. I was about to go to university and the world was opening up for me, while he was rooted right there, where he’d always been.
‘He’s not your type, anyway,’ Mandy said when I plucked up the courage to tell her that I’d once thought he was wonderful. She moved between his culture and mine and knew more than I cared to admit about incompatibilities between the two. In one way she was right: I didn’t want to end up living on the Sturry Estate. But in another way, no, she wasn’t, because a short while later he reappeared in the form of Pete, working-class to his toes. In this new incarnation he was educated and upwardly mobile, didn’t give a toss what anyone thought of him, was totally at ease wherever he went. Pete sniffed and dropped his aitches, and a nerve in his eye twitched, but he could charm the pants off anyone, dustman or duke. His Dad was ex-army and stood in his vest frying up a Full English in their tiny kitchen. His Mum shuffled up the street to the bookies in her slippers, and left her false teeth on the table. ‘Put your teeth in, Jen,’ his Dad would say to her, ‘The Bishop’s coming to tea,’ and he’d wink to let me know he meant my father.
Then one day out of the blue that same little boy popped up again, cavorting in the turquoise waters of an Aegean island, where he somersaulted and gambolled so easily that the spark he’d once set smouldering burned again more brightly, and something in the way he moved and thrilled to his own movement, took me somersaulting with him. This time he called himself Markos, spoke Greek, and his body had grown brown and strong and handsome. But he was still irresistibly full of joyful exuberance, with a willingness to take risks that inspired and excited me. Like children we fell in love by instinct, but lack of language was our downfall. Without the words to distinguish one who fixes from one who designs, I feared that when he was not on holiday he wore dirty overalls and lived in the Athenian equivalent of the Sturry Estate. By then I had grown pretentious, so I ditched him. Many years later, when I was older and a little wiser, I realised my misunderstanding, but by then it was too late to repair the damage.
The same wild boy turned up again one last time in Carlos. Carlos the rebel, now speaking Spanish, the son of a well-to-do family, who preferred to skip school and learn to be streetwise, giving two fingers to Franco and all that he stood for. By the time I met him he’d embarked on a life of rebellion and reckless adventure, which would lead down a slippery slope to the deep despair of mental illness.
So there he was time after time, that little ruffian from the Sturry Estate, metamorphosed into men from different cultures and countries, whipping me into a frenzy of wonder, only to be snatched away by death, or the gulf of misunderstanding, or psychosis. Again and again that wild highwayman has reappeared, in one disguise after another. Each time, as he dashes past, he snatches another piece of me and disappears with it into the distance, still eluding me.
*If you liked this piece, you can read an exploration of love and its complications in my debut novel Fragments of a Dream
*My childhood experiences in Canterburyweave into one of the threads of my upcoming novel Between Two Shores . More news about this next spring.
‘A new survey has discovered that older women readers are fed up of being portrayed in fiction as dotty, daffy and either uninterested in, or desperate for, sex. The mega social media site Gransnet polled 1,046 women and found 47% of women over 40 say there are not enough books about middle-aged or older women — yet women over 45 buy more fiction than any other section of society. But the characters they encounter are often baffled by IT and confined to domestic situations.’ (Mslexia newsletter)
All credit, then, to Gransnet and HQ, who’ve launched a competition for a novel with a protagonist over 40, written by a woman over 40.
Why didn’t I enter Fragments of a Dream? Rosie, my protagonist, is well over 40, and so am I. But the competition is only open to UK residents, and I live abroad. It’s obstacles like this that led me, reluctantly, into self-publishing.
So if you’d like to read the novel, whether or not you’re a woman over 40, check it out on Amazon https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fragments-Dream-Ruth-Larrea/dp/1791539084 (Kindle and paperback). Set in Greece and England in the 1960s and the present day, it’s about Rosie’s search for her old flame, Angelos, the mistakes of youth, misunderstandings of language and culture, and her attempt to put them right.
‘Characters with real depth,’ one reviewer commented. ‘A fabulous read,’ said another. ‘I loved it from start to finish.’
Thanks to C.L. Naylor for this brilliant review of ‘Fragments of a Dream’
“If only Angelos and I could rewrite our lives on a blank page equipped with fresh wisdom and insight.”
Describing Larrea’s debut novel as a simple love story doesn’t quite do it justice. Considering the ageing population, marriages that collapse in later years and the need to be loved, it is refreshing that the protagonist is in her senior years, close to retirement. It is a romantic story of people in the third age of life rediscovering themselves and their loved ones.
Rosie Burden is a survivor and the novel has a positivity about it in spite of the setbacks. “A lifetime of sacrifices” is how she described putting Harry first. No tell-tale signs that he would leave Rosie for a younger woman. There were tensions throughout their marriage which affected their offspring, Lisa and Matthew but nothing unusual compared to other families. Rosie had seen her marriage as an insurance policy against the terrors of old age. A “death sentence” makes it a bit melodramatic but it does come as a shock to Rosie as the pessimism sets in for a while: frailty, senility, loneliness and decrepitude. Sounds scary, doesn’t it? Is this what’s in store for us?
Harry and Rosie had been an item during their 1960s university days. He seemed arrogant. In spite of a virginal Rosie, naïve and lacking in confidence she was attractive and was hungry for knowledge which appealed to Harry. It seemed inevitable that they would remain an item, marry and set up home together which is in fact what happened. Rosie’s first holiday abroad to Greece with fellow university friend Maggie Burns coincided with Harry’s climbing club trip to the Alps. Rosie and Maggie chose to visit Hydra, a beautiful island described as Bohemian, unspoiled and picturesque. Rosie fell for a 19 year old Greek Adonis “as gorgeous as a God on an ancient vase.” She had been “instantly captivated” and “mesmerised” by him “frolicking like a dolphin.” So different to Harry. Was this just a holiday romance?
A photograph take in Hydra in 1966 was a reminder of their youth, beauty and love. Her fling had cast a long shadow on her marriage and Harry reminded her of this when he wrote his parting note to tell her he had met someone else. Then walked out on her.
So, you can see where this is leading, can’t you? Rosie yearns to return to Hydra after 43 years to find her lost love. She didn’t want anyone to know the reason for her return because she’d have been labelled an “old fool” pursuing a “mad quest.” Trying to relive the past, for what it was worth, she invites Maggie once again who invites one of their university friends, Mike Knutt known as Knuttsie. Mike had had a crush on Rosie all those years ago and still carried the torch for her having had three disastrous marriages and three divorces. When Rosie feels at her lowest ebb he proposes and is sadly and inevitably rejected. A wonderful friend but not lover material.
Difficult to know what Rosie expected to find returning to the scene of her lustful youth. Hydra was exactly as she had remembered it but there had been changes. The flat-roofed house where she stayed didn’t seem to be there and the beach had been altered with the cliffs eroded and a few trees left. Rosie’s excitement and anticipation soon changed to disappointment. He wasn’t there and it had been a wasted journey.
“It was a mistake to revisit the past, dangerous to dream of the future.” So, whilst Rosie tries to relive her youth we are reminded of contemporary events happening in Greece: unrest in Athens, angry protests, petrol bombs thrown by anarchists, general strikes, airports and ferry terminals closed. Hints of realism.
And what of the enigmatic, misunderstood Angelos? A fascinating character, more husband material than Harry Burden, full of passion. We meet his nephew Nikos who becomes attached to Rosie’s granddaughter, Becca and with the next generation with their level-headedness there is every chance of love blossoming and lasting. What more can I say?
” Grasping at the past was like climbing the wrong way up a down escalator, refusing to believe it was stronger and faster than you.” Love makes fools of us all, regardless of age.
Available on kindle and paperback: ISBN: 978-1-79 153-908-5 Review by C.L.Naylor. Copyright 2019. Permission must be obtained from the writer before any of this is reproduced in any form.
It’s several years since I first read this novel. I loved it then for its subtlety, perception and gentle humour. Those same qualities come across to me now, but as I’m so much older myself, the story of a group of lonely and ill-assorted old people facing decrepitude and death makes more uncomfortable reading. It’s tragic that Elizabeth Taylor was so undervalued in her own time, and is now almost forgotten in a world that is ever more influenced by youth, genres and trends.
I’ve never been much good at fitting into boxes. Just look at my biography and you’ll see what I mean. Academic qualifications, zany life-style choices. ‘What sort of woman is this?’ you might wonder.
My writing meets with much the same response. A fellow student on the MA once said, ‘I can equally imagine Ruth’s work as a fledgling best seller, or as a candidate for the Booker Prize.’ Now I don’t claim she meant that I’m a genius waiting to be discovered, simply that my writing style doesn’t fit easily into one genre.
‘It’s part women’s fiction, part literary fiction,’ one of my tutors complained. ‘You have to make up your mind which it’s to be.’ Agents and consultants agree. ‘The problem is,’ they say, ‘it’s hard to market a book that blends genres.’
I’m sure they’re right. They know far more about the bookselling business than I do. But I still find it difficult to believe that there aren’t readers out there who have the intellect to enjoy novels with depth, as well as the experience to identify with what might seem bohemian, or even ‘romantic and silly’, to quote one Amazon reviewer.
And yet . . . read on to see where the nub lies.
‘I had to persist with this book, but my persistence was richly rewarded. I initially found it romantic and silly, and I was irritated that men seemed to be so poorly understood and represented. However ………. I gradually realised I had been cleverly drawn in. I became sympathetic to this group of very imperfect characters, recognising in them my own silly and vulnerable humanity. I enjoyed the way events surprised me and kept me wondering where we were going. And why. I didn’t want to finish the book and felt bereft when I did. I hope Ruth Larrea will continue with this story. I think this belongs to an important and evolving genre about the life, loves and opportunities for people of ‘the third age’. It left me feeling younger and more hopeful. Thank you Ruth.’
Oh yes, I forgot to mention that this particular reader is a man. As far as I know, the only man — so far — to read it. Don’t men make mistakes in love, too?
So what about his idea that this might belong to a new genre – dealing with ‘the life, loves and opportunities for’ us oldies? After all, plenty of us enjoy reading. As one survey claims, 70% of Kindle owners are over 40. (https://www.cnet.com/news).
Some time ago I coined a possible term for this new genre. One that reviews the silly and romantic mistakes of youth with the wisdom of old age . . . .
Disclaimer: in no way are my lovely friends in the photos related to the silly, imperfect characters in my novel! I simply include them to illustrate the value of long-lasting friendships which Rosie eventually discovers.