Joyous Journeys back to birth of Liverpool Jazz...

Extract from.... The Tank Room - Martin Craig-Downer

Sitting opposite him, the only other occupants of the carriage were a pasty, overweight, dull looking woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a preschool age boy who didn't want to stay put in his seat. The child had a halo of mousy, lustreless curls, a snotty running nose and a grimy face. Every time he fidgeted or whined, or did something else that annoyed her, the woman would scold the child coarsely.
'Stop that you little bugger.' Then she'd slap him on the leg. This only served to unleash more wailing and whining.

As the train pulled out of Chester, a gaunt, middle aged man in dark, crease-less trousers and a shabby black overcoat with a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders, peered in the carriage. He immediately went for the vacant seat next to Matt. He didn't so much smile, as leer at Matt as he sat down.

The snotty nosed kid stared at the new arrival in wonderment. 'Look at that funny man, mum.'
'Shut up you little sod.' Another slap. More howling and tears.

The man leaned close to Matt, who was fleetingly preoccupied considering whether or not the woman's behaviour amounted to child abuse. He sensed the new arrival was going to try and start up a conversation. 'What long fingers,' the man trilled, taking Matt by complete surprise. 'Musician? A violinist perhaps, or a pianist?'

His breath stank of damp rotting hay and Matt recoiled nearer to the window. He looked out at the passing landscape. It couldn't make up its mind if it was dull, featureless countryside or dreary monotonous suburbia.

The pasty woman looked alert for the first time. Her eyes followed Matt and the man. Inwardly, Matt squirmed with embarrassment. 'No. I'm not a musician.' He turned back to the window and wished he'd thought of some totally boring, unlikely or outrageous occupation he could have laid claim to: Funeral director's clerk? Goldfish sexer? Nude trapeze artist? But it would probably only have encouraged the inquisitor and sent him into a fit of the giggles.

Matt raised the newspaper and buried his head in it. 'I'm a musician.' The man went on sibilantly, 'I'm an organist at Chester Cathedral.'

God protect the choir boys Matt thought. He excused himself and went out into the corridor. Moving a little way down, he slid open the top of a window and lit a cigarette. Fortunately he'd not been followed although he realised belatedly that his move could have been misinterpreted.

He remained there smoking as the train rattled on, rickety tick, and approached the outer Merseyside urban sprawl. They were coming into Rock Ferry where he'd been told to change trains. As the brakes squealed, he went back to the carriage and retrieved his belongings. He was pleased to note the dandruff garnished overcoat was evidently not getting off. Once again though he gave Matt a sly smile.

The train jolted to a stop. Matt heaved his old leather case down the corridor, unhooked the strap to drop the carriage door window and reached out for the door handle. He stepped down and dumped his case on the platform for a moment. The locomotive started up again, hissing and chuffing, clouds of dark smoke billowing from its funnel and steam jetting forcefully out of the pistons. The warm, comfortable carriages started to recede from view towards the train's final destination in Birkenhead, taking the organist, the pasty woman and the snotty child with it.



Martin Craig-Downer. The Tank Room (Kindle Locations 157-196). mardibooks.

Reaching Out to Writers....Getting your book aired???

One of our stated aims as mardibooks is to democratise publishing using the power of the web.  We are foremost writers, good writers, with interesting stories to tell.  ...and we join a remarkable and huge talent pool of already established and struggling to establish itself creators, manipulators, artists...

The economy has impacted enormously on publishing and the cost of e-books is time, or opportunity cost, not hard cash.  Already the major publishing houses are diverting and re-directng their efforts to harness a low cost solution.  For every 100 actual hard copy books sold, Amazon sells 180 e-books. So how do we promote ours in the face of such fierce competition and marketing costs?


...And where does this leave the niche independents, the self-publishers and the writers' groups?
Since our launch in December we have been pleased with our successes on Amazon, reaching the top 8,000 rankings in some weeks with our books - not bad considering Amazon sells over 4,000,000 books...
We regularly blog and tweet and utilise media groups and support each other's, so that our reach grows exponentially by the number of writers we have as well as by the number of followers...

So how does this help YOU?
The web is a big space and harnessing the social networking media available is time-consuming and difficult on a budget.  Time zones, language barriers, search protocols are both an issue and a non-issue as web traffic is fickle and tends to fall into daily routine patterns.  Setting up scheduled messages for different markets and time-zones can over-come this to some extent, but the weight of traffic still means your message still reaches mostly arbitrary audiences.  Social media sites are continually updating their user tools to enable refined messaging to specific demographics, but ultimately what makes them successful is not just the desire to message, but the desire to join in.  The human need to participate and not be left out.  Interestingly it is that same human need which attracts readers to our books - to know we belong we are, oxymoronically, unique but ultimately not different!


So here it is...how we can help you...
Each month we would like to review your books, give you air space.  This coming month is home to Valentine's Day, so we would like to hear from any writers of fiction, non-fiction, romance.  Promote your books on our site.  By linking together your networks through the conduit of mardibooks, who knows what reach we can cover?

Imagine that the person trying to kill you is the person you are in love with.

Imagine any contact with them is an act punishable by death...
Imagine 1909...Martin Godleman

International Women's Day

            He closed the door behind him and marched off swiftly to the station.  Tucked in his inside pocket were a bundle of papers that he had grabbed from the denim satchel after Provlyn had gone.  The need for the irritating subterfuge had at least given him the chance to look at some of the documents alone before he got into work.  He might yet decide that no-one else should see them, and he would then have to make sure he was back first that evening.  The fact that he was not free in the afternoon was another irritating aspect of International Women's Day - men were asked to work a full day to free their bosses or seniors, who were usually busy taking stock of the week's activities, for celebrations.  Even time and a half failed to soothe the sting Morda always felt from this annual tradition.

            The early morning wind whipped up the Grove through the trees, causing Morda to button his jacket.  Most of yesterday's dust stains seemed to be fading.  He began pondering just how a seventy-one year old school project could have become embedded in a piece of concrete nearly four hundred years old.  They might have built an extension to the Caricott Building then, or set something new in stone, highly unlikely though the possibilities were.

            As he reached the top of the road he studied the government hoarding 'A paid Toll Tax return gives you your free democratic rights', under which someone had scribbled 'Fight for your democratic right to pay Fuck All', though a hose-wielding council worker was already jetting out the offensive addendum with some high-powered chemical solution.

            He decided to sit in one of the Populite carriages, an act permissible only in the rush hour when the other carriages were full, but the rule was still new enough to excuse a liberal interpretation, if he were questioned.

            The train stood in the station for some time, and it was only when Morda got up to see what was causing the delay that it began to move off.  He sat down again with his back to the door leading to the carriage behind, and finally unbuttoned his jacket.  The surrounding folder was of a light blue card, with a child's crayoned drawing of a group of his classmates, headed Domesday 1980.  On the inside cover, his name, Sharon Lewis.  Morda read the introduction.

            'Hello from all of us at Dovedale Secondary School in 1980.  You are from the future, which means someone must be knocking down the Caricott Building, because that is where we're going to be putting this when we finish it.  Lots of schools in our country are writing one of these, so our teacher Mr.Evans thought we should do one.'  Morda looked over his shoulder.  A few bored looking people in the next carriage.  No-one was interested.  They probably wouldn't even care if they knew what he was reading.

            'We hope you can understand what we're writing.  You might speak and spell differently.  We are all thirteen and fourteen, apart from Mr.Evans who is thirty-one!  We hope we have put the kind of things in here that will interest you, but again, things might change a bit, and we don't know how.'  He went to turn the page and a coloured photograph fell out.  Like the paper, it was yellowing slightly, but it was the first tangible set of differences he had noticed.  The children were all Caucasians, like himself.  But more unusual, and a little unbelievable - he had to hold the picture steady - some of them were young women...   some of them were girls!

            He instinctively thrust the photograph back into the folder and inside his jacket.  What on earth had he got hold of?

In The Eye Of The Beholder

Not every man is a Prince.  If Kate hadn't met Wills, maybe this could have been her story...

-----

Prologue

Sauchiehall Street

- I s’pose in years tae come, it’ll be something to laugh aboot, o’er a few beers meybe…but at the time it was nae funny. It was nae funny at a’ and i’s still nae funny now…

Ewan’s face was contorted by the recent memory. He stood with his back to the desk looking through the window at the passing lives of Glasgow, trying both to remember it clearly and forget it forever.

Dr Swartz coughed. The dry air from the air conditioning unit was not good for his chest. It was the hottest summer in history and weariness had settled over the busy city as people tried to conserve energy.

- Tell me again aboot your father

The insinuation was clear and Ewan rounded on him

- Och aye, he was a bully a’ right…

His voice faded and his eyes glazed over.

- I idolised him. He wanted me to be a prize-fighter like him but in the ring like. No’ one o’they street fights they did fae money in the alleys o’ Glesca, but pucker like. Wi’ a manager an’ a’.

Ewan came back to the present. He slammed his fist into the filing cabinet; the drawers buckled slightly under the force. His father had walked out when he was three abandoning his mother and baby brother to a succession of fathers and subsequent siblings. There were seven of them now. Ranging from Sarah at 6 months to Ewan who was 23. They lived in a cramped council house on the south side of Glasgow, so many to a room and still two children would invariably end up staying down the road at their Grandad’s, overnight, for the shortage of beds at home.

-Ma Ma, she had such dreams, but each one was worse than the last. When I was 14 ma Da returned to teach me to fight. He stayed on the scene, livin’ nearby for a few years, but he could nae hol’ down a job and then there was the trouble wi’ the polis… I’ve nae seen him since I was 19. We had a big fight, it was aboot how he treated ma Ma. I’d had enough. He was nae bigger than me then and I took him on. He left in the ambulance wi’ a broken jaw an’ six cracked ribs. Tha’ was the last o’ it. I can nae stand domestic violence.

Ewan looked up, realising the import of his last words.

- I dinnae believe in a’ tha’ environment an’ genetics crap. It must be possible to break free. I’m educated. I’ve got brains. I read books!

He was angry now, and confused. Sweat was pouring down his face, despite the ambient temperature in the consulting room. Dr Swartz watched and remained silent. Waiting for the admission.

- I s’pose I must ha’ done it. I jus’ could nae believe I was capable o’ it.

The recent events came back with a flash. Her last words were burning into his skull. He thought his head would explode in the heat.

- You really have no idea what you’ve been doing have you? All these months and you aren’t even aware of it. You need help.

She hadn’t called the police. She hadn’t thrown him out. He’d wandered the streets of the little Hillfoots town for hours, dazed, coming to terms with what was happening. He was suddenly homeless, penniless, friendless and being accused of behaving like the worst kind of ogre. The sort of man he detested and he was unaware of how it had happened. He’d loved her. He’d idolised her. But somewhere it had all gone wrong. She made him angry. He felt week beside her, uncouth and ignorant.

He’d gone to Glasgow and holed up with his father’s sister for a while. She asked him no questions and she gave him privacy to think and work out what was happening.

She put him in touch with Dr Swartz at the hospital where she’d worked as a receptionist for the past 20 years. He was an elderly, fatherly man, forever trying to sort out the problems of Glasgow’s minds: Violence; drugs; alcohol. Abuse of all sorts, had entered his room to be filed and re-ordered into something more socially acceptable, or to be condemned to one of the few mental institutions, or in some cases prisons and mortuaries, within the boundaries of Glasgow’s metropolis.

Ewan returned his thoughts to that night, as he described the events to Dr. Swartz. His mind reeling as he re-lived the nightmarish events of that night and the weeks preceding.

All the while, he became more agitated, banging his fists again and again, anger flashing in his eyes. He’d felt sub-ordinated.

Dr. Swartz continued to sit, listening, watching, not moving, not indicating approval, disapproval, or indeed any emotion. He just listened as Ewan continued his outpouring of wrath. This was what the Doctor excelled at. Listening, and through listening, assessing, without giving anything away, and hopefully over time, healing. When he was young and idealistic, he felt he could help. He had not expected his chosen specialism to bear such a ferocious brunt of Society’s problems, without being able to provide any real answers. The cracks ran too deep. Too fundamental in the belly of society and he was left to pick up the pieces of those who found him. An arbitrary result, for an arbitrary and limited population. He lost his naivety, but kept his idealism, mixed with a strong dose of bitter irony and social realism and did what he could for his patients.

Ewan was staring wildly at the doctor, shouting and bearing down over the desk, knuckles on the edge, bare forearms showing his well-toned muscles. 

His mouth had curled to a sneer and beads of sweat were running down his forehead. His friendly Grecian looks had adopted the air of a savage. Anger and disbelief overflowing, he collapsed into a chair, hiding his face in his hands, overcome with the horror of what he’d become over the past months.

Outside in Sauchiehall Street the sounds of the Orangemen on yet another march could be heard. Their Protestant songs telling tales of years of pride and fighting, beating into the hearts and minds, of Catholics and Protestants alike. 

Ewan momentarily glanced at the Parade, the booing Catholics, the proud Protestants, the Police escort trying, somewhat in vain, to stem the scuffles and periodic outbreaks of violence. Ewan felt removed from all this. He had grown up with it, but had determined to use his intellect to escape it.

Ewan’s body crumpled under the weight of the recent reality. His noble aims struggling against this weight of oppression, borne through his veins over 100’s of years… What had he reduced her to? Anger, confusion, shame reared their heads in turn…

He continued his story…

- I didnae ken how it had happened… I didnae ken wha’ a dae. Where was the fighting girl I’d met? What had I done tae her? What had she done tae me? What had we done to oursel’s? I had tae gae…

……………………………….

She hadn’t told anyone. Slowly creeping in on herself, relying on her own resources, she continued the daily routine of getting up, writing her studies, attending lectures and trying to please him, trying to avoid failing again…

She crept around the flat. Her gregarious, vivacious manner, reduced to timidity and conserving energy…

Seasonal Reads - A Place Called F

As domestic tragedy mirrors global violence, the ghosts of Abby’s near and ancient past will help her track down the missing girl and find a way forward....."Diamond gives us a gem of a story."


"Beautifully crafted, Diamond's first novel addresses some of the problems of what it really feels like to be in a mixed marriage from a variety of standpoints...."



A Placed Called F - Extract - Chapter 1

This is a story about a place named F, a ghost from the Ukraine,my grandfather’s wives and Queen Elizabeth ll. 

My son Jacob’s correspondence with Queen Elizabeth began in the summer of 2002.   Alex, after it was all over, suggested that it could be more reasonably described as a lobbying exercise than a correspondence.  Technically, Jacob’s letters always received a reply, but as these replies were sent by Jane Petherington, a Lady in Waiting, rather than by the true object of Jacob’s attentions, and as they always consisted of the same two sentences, only the most optimistic of eight year olds could call it a correspondence.  However, as Jacob was, indeed, an optimistic eight year old, this is always how he referred to his relationship with his Sovereign.

The royal replies were indistinguishable from one another, and all read as follows:

Dear Jacob

Her Majesty was pleased to receive your letter and enjoyed hearing from you.  Unfortunately, she has a very busy diary and is unable to make any arrangements to see you at this point.

Yours sincerely

Jane Petherington

Lady in Waiting.

I married Jacob’s father, Dan Browning, early in 1992 and Jacob was born in the spring of 1993.  Dan and I separated before he was three, so Jacob has been a broken home statistic for as long as he can remember.   I didn’t turn out to be very good at marriage but, unlike Judith, Natalie and many others of my friends, I have an excuse.  I was doomed from the start by my genetic heritage.  My grandfather had the same predilection but over-compensated and was married twice, though not in the conventional, sequential pattern.  His direct appearances in my history are limited, since he was blown up into very small and unrecovered pieces before I was born.  There turned out, however, to be an unexpectedly large number of relatives to pass on their memories of him.  My grandfather was a bigamist.  He was a very good bigamist – not in the moral sense (always assuming there are such things as deserving bigamists), but in the effective sense, since no one found out how many families he had until he died and his widows bumped into one another at a petrol station and started the process of understanding why they had the same, rather unusual, surname.

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Enjoy!