Acknowledgment

When I was initially asked to add acknowledgments, I baulked. Not because I don’t appreciate those who helped bring The Fell to life, but because it is part of a longer story, and one which many people have fed and watered and to do it right, I have to go back a bit.

The Fell developed over a number of years and at some distance along my journey as a writer. That journey began with my mother, Kathleen, who filled a small house with many children and our dark evenings with stories of strange lands, adventure, escape and the magic of the sea, of whaling ships and pirates. And my father, Cliff, who filled those same evenings with stories of the city, of people belonging and standing strong and fighting your corner. He was the formidable champion of the underdog and fought giants with a passion. The two of them wove us into an enchanted land and filled our crowded house with books and though for me school never figured large, learning always did. Books and learning were sacred in that house. A house filled with little formal education but mountains of intelligence, wisdom, compassion and hope.

My older brother Terry, wrote first and believed writing to be a real and possible thing. He was also the first in our whole wide family of many houses to go to university.

And my sister Debby, who whispered stories whether anyone was listening or not and acted every sentence. She terrified me.

There was a teacher once who told a troubled teenage trouble maker he could write and fed him paper and let his every lesson in her classroom be a creative one. I don’t remember her name, hopefully she doesn’t remember mine.

I found writers, playwrights, poets and artists glittering in the dark alleys and backstreets of London and some of those writers were household names in households long since quiet. Mostly though, they were penniless and impoverished and despite this, they held on to a belief that if they were good enough, their hour would come. They inspired me. They were real writers, and it was all possible, just like Terry said. They told me to write and never stop. Keep the faith, they said.

And then came Donna, who believed from day one and never stopped. We married when she was 18 and I was 20 and lived it up on nine quid a week. I couldn’t type but Donna could. I couldn’t spell either, and she was a living breathing spell checker. I couldn’t dance but she danced all night, and I wrote and all day she typed with never a single complaint.

I was compelled to write and stories burned in me and when I was writing I wasn’t in trouble, and since trouble found me easily, writing became a life raft and I clung to it, and Donna clung to it too.

As each novel or play or film script ended I thought my hour must soon be upon me but the clock ticked and the hour didn’t come. I made short lists in writing competitions, and theatres occasionally gave me space to develop in, but never audiences. Agents gave me time but never a contract, publishers gave me nothing … There was something missing, so I went in search of whatever it was to UEL as a sulky, surly half educated, mature student, and in the dying body of their revolutionary school for independent study I met Malcolm Hay. He was a man who loved a challenge and he made me shape my questions and channel my thoughts, made me read, and made me learn the craft. He was like a sculptor and his partner Toni was a director of energy. Words were powerful to them, and never to be wasted. I met other writers there, we were rough and raw and straight from East End streets and through them all my hour came tantalisingly close … the minute hand was trembling but still it didn’t quite tick over.

And then of course came Harry, my saintly son, who listened to my tales and shared stories and made me laugh with clever insights. Calmly, he believed, and like ice in a glass he knew it could be cracked and he would not tolerate a non-believer. I watched him grow into a man, and still young he outstripped my maturity and wisdom and he encouraged me as I once encouraged him. And Hannah, my daughter, always riding unicorns and fighting dragons in magic lands and always seeking company there. She had faith and certainty, because the volcano knows if you pour forth enough lava, all must yield. They let me play out my stories and tolerated with great patience and humour my many tales and fantasies. They never dismissed my ambition and believed it was only a matter of time. Time and only are often paired in youth.

They are heroes and warriors and they believed if the hour won’t come, rip it from the wall.

Thank you to Bruce, who tried, Chris, who tried, and the fiction editor of a big five publisher who rejected The Fell with such enthusiasm and accolades and such praise, I was inspired and compelled to push on. She wrote the most enthusiastic and uplifting rejection any author could receive, made me cut the novel by half, and rejected me! It was confusing, but it reinforced my determination.

And I thank the boys of many names and many flags who, like the crew of a pirate ship, weathered storms and fought battles, loved and lost and fought on and will fight on still. They gave me far more than I ever gave them. None of them or their stories are in this book, except perhaps as echoes and shadows, yet all of them are in me.

Finally I would like to thank the RedDoor team for their enthusiasm, talent, courage, patience and kindness. And for giving a writer the chance to rip some semblance of that hour from the wall.

Non illigitimus carborandum …