Blog tour: 17 September to 1 October 2020

Synopsis

One little girl.
Mirabelle’s mother loves her. She’s her ‘little doll’. Mother dresses her, paints her face, and plaits her hair. But as Mirabelle grows, the dresses no longer fit quite as well, the face paint no longer looks quite so pretty. And Mother isn’t happy.

Two little girls.
On Mirabelle’s 13th birthday, Mother arrives home with a present – a new sister, 5-year-old Clarabelle, who Mother has rescued from the outside world.

But Mother only needs one.
As it dawns on Mirabelle that there is a new ‘little doll’ in her house, she also realizes that her life isn’t what she thought it was. And that dolls often end up on the scrap heap …

Extract

I’m delighted to share an extract of Chapter 2 of Mother Loves Me with you today.

Chapter 2

Mother loves me. I listened to the sound of her locking and bolting the front door and bit a chunk out of my apple, careful not to let any juice spoil my face. After tidying up my little white desk, I ran downstairs into the living room.

Mother owned at least a thousand books. Every week she turned up with a couple more. Most of them were adult books that I wasn’t allowed to go near, but sometimes Mother let me read what she called the ‘not so corrupting’ ones. She also liked me to look at her big picture books from time to time – the ones that contained amazing glossy pictures of animals and buildings and cities – so that I knew more about the outside. She said it made me less boring to talk to. And next to the door connecting the living room to the hallway there was a small bookcase that was just for me.

The room was gloomy because of the wooden boards and blackout curtains, the red sofa a murky brown in the darkness. I flicked on the orange lamp beside the rocking chair then walked over to my little white bookcase. I saw the present immediately. There, at the end of the third row of books leaning against Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, was a book-shaped object wrapped in scarlet paper. I smiled and plucked the present off the shelf.

In Mother’s slanted hand my name was spelled out in capital letters.

MIRABELLE

Underneath my name were the words:

For a beautiful little doll who works so hard and behaves so well. All my love, Mother. P.S. You may open this now!

I tore into the paper and stared excitedly at the book. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. This was Mother’s way of giving me a piece of the outside world. I half-smiled and lifted up the front cover. The pages were yellow with age and a little rough. I had a sniff. The book smelled intensely booky; good and musty. It was perfect. I curled my legs beneath me in the rocking chair and lost myself in the story, escaping into another girl’s world.

I was at the part where Mary Lennox meets a chirpy little robin, a bird which I had only ever seen in Mother’s bird books, when I heard something. My heart seemed to jump into my throat. I held stock-still. The sound was coming from the back of the house, but Mother wasn’t home yet. I was home alone. No one else lived in the cottage. Just Mother and me. And, horrid as he was to think about, Deadly, the spider who lived in the bathroom.

Without moving, I trained my ears on the direction the sound was coming from. The sound was strange, unidentifiable. Uneven and raw. It was definitely not coming from the front door and it wasn’t coming from upstairs, so it couldn’t be the boiler having a tantrum.

I remained where I was for a while, my legs pinned under me, eyes wide. I listened. An idea crossed my mind. No, I told myself, you’re not imagining it. You’re not a little girl any more. You know what’s real and what’s not. But I thought about Polly and doubt crept around my mind like a sneaky rat. As a little girl I’d had an imaginary friend called Polly. Polly had looked exactly like me, but she’d been mute. I had played imaginary games with her whenever the opportunity arose and sometimes we just sat beside one another, keeping each other company. One day when I was six, Mother had said I was too old for her and told me I had to make Polly disappear from my head or she would. Worried about what Mother might do, I had ignored Polly until she had shaken her head sadly at me and vanished. I never saw her again, no matter how hard I tried to.

With a frown, I pushed myself up from the chair. The sound is real. It’s real.

I had to see where it was coming from.

I tiptoed across the living room and carefully opened the door to the dining room. The noise was slightly clearer here. The oak floorboards creaked underfoot and I cringed and leapt through the door into Mother’s kitchen. Again, the noise was louder in here – louder than before. My eyes fell on the Venetian blinds and I froze. The strange sound was coming from outside. Outside in the back garden. I was sure of it.

The blinds remained, as always, shut, drawn down over the wooden boards that had been nailed over the windows. Nailed firmly over the glass so no light could break in.

I had never heard anything like this sound from outside before. Outside sounds to me were the perfect twitter of busy birds, the mad onslaught of hail-beasts and the pitterpatter or hammer-attack of rain – depending on its mood – spooky wind wails, thunder roars and the grumbly engine of Mother’s car.

Just as I wasn’t allowed outside, there were certain places in the cottage that I was not allowed to go. I wasn’t allowed in Mother’s room and I had been banned from the spare room a few months ago. I thought about the spare room. Mother had carried boxes into that room and spent a lot of time in there recently, but she wouldn’t tell me why. I wanted to know but didn’t dare ask.

The strange sound from outside stopped. I stared at the blinds above the dark brown cabinet and listened. Nothing. I scanned the room. Mother had nailed her new pop art print to the wall next to the one she’d brought home last month, which was of a singer called Elvis Presley. The new silkscreen print was of a very pretty lady with curly blonde hair. Mother hadn’t told me who she was yet. Like the Elvis Presley picture, it was eye-poppingly bright and colourful. I liked it a lot. It made the kitchen less gloomy.

I glanced at the pop art calendar pinned to the wall above the Formica table. Mother had circled today’s date in red pen. In the Friday, 23 April box she had written the words LITTLE DOLL’S BIRTHDAY – collect second present. Guilt lifted its hot, prickly head.

I heard something else. Jumped as the front door slammed. Heard the locking and bolting of the door.

Mother’s back.

I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and turned on the cold tap.

A moment later Mother giggled and I turned around, my heart thumping hard. Mother stood in the entrance to the kitchen wearing opaque sunglasses and a floppy sun hat. She carried a large black holdall in her sinewy arms. She placed the holdall on the kitchen table and looked at me. A smile spread across her face as she took off the sunglasses and hat and dropped them on the table.

‘This is your surprise!’ she said, spreading her hands wide.

‘What is it?’ I said, mustering up as much excitement as I could to conceal the frantic pounding of my heart.

She grinned. ‘Open the bag and see.’

I put the glass of water on the counter and reached the table in two steps. Outside, in the other world, everything remained silent.

Mother leaned over the bag as I took hold of the silver zip and tugged, wondering why she had not wrapped the present. She’s probably too excited to, I thought. The zip caught on the black material. I struggled to loosen it and Mother pushed my hands away.

‘Let me do it,’ she snapped. She ripped the bag clean open and squealed excitedly, her hands balling into fists against her pale cheeks. ‘Look, Mirabelle, look! Isn’t she perfect?’

I stared, unable to speak. Inside the bag lay a little girl. She was curled up on her side, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily, her eyes closed. She had long, fair eyelashes that fluttered every now and then as if she was having a dream or a nightmare. Her hair was the same butter-blonde as mine, but curly rather than straight and no way near as long. Like me, her milky skin was freckle-free. She wore a pale blue dress, a white cardigan and sparkly, silver tights. There were no shoes on her feet.

‘Isn’t she perfect?’ Mother repeated, stroking the little girl’s cheek.

‘Who is she?’

‘Her name’s Clarabelle. Such a pretty name for such a pretty little doll, don’t you think?’

I swallowed with difficulty, my mind racing. ‘Where’s she from?’

‘Utopia,’ Mother said dreamily.

I hesitated. There was a fiction book in Mother’s bookcase called Utopia, which meant it couldn’t be real. My textbooks had taught me the difference between fiction and non-fiction, so I knew that much. I swallowed. ‘Where’s she really from, Mother?’

Mother’s head whipped around, her hair spraying out like sparks of fire. She glared at me, nostrils flaring. ‘Don’t you like her? Don’t you like your present?’

I took a step away from the table. ‘I think she’s perfect, Mother, I do. I just want to know more about her, that’s all.’

Mother’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to the side. ‘If I tell you she’s from Utopia, she’s from Utopia.’

I nodded and glanced at the sleeping child, a queer, sick feeling working its way up my throat like thick treacle.

‘Thank you for my book, Mother,’ I said.

‘That’s fine. Tell me what you think of her, of Clarabelle.’

Mother watched me intently. I looked at the child’s face, thought about how oddly similar our names were. Mirabelle and Clarabelle.

‘She’s beautiful and, er, really small. She must be quite young.’ I paused, telling myself to be brave, ‘How old is she?’

‘She’s five,’ she said. ‘I rescued her.’

The sick feeling eased a little, ‘You rescued her?’

Mother nodded. She bent down and lifted the little girl out of the bag. Kissing the girl’s forehead, she left the kitchen and walked through the dining room into the living room where she placed the child on the sofa and covered her with the crochet blanket. I watched Mother perch on the edge of the sofa and stroke the child’s face over and over again, a faint smile on her thin lips.

‘If I hadn’t saved her, she’d be dead right now,’ Mother said softly.

‘What do you mean, Mother?’

‘That’s enough, Mirabelle,’ she said, her tone sharpening. She picked up the little girl and I watched her carry her out of the room.

Buy the book

Mother Loves Me by Abby Davies can be purchased from Amazon on Kindle and in paperback, and as an eBook from Kobo and iBooks.

About the author

Abby Davies studied English Literature at the University of Sheffield, then went on to teach English. She has taught at both state and independent schools, including Jilly Cooper’s and Minnette Walter’s old school in Salisbury.

She was shortlisted for the Mslexia Novel Competition in 2018 and longlisted for the Blue Pencil Agency First Novel Award in 2019.

She lives in Wiltshire with her husband and daughter. Mother Loves Me is her first novel.

Twitter: @Abby13Richards
Facebook: @abby.richards
Instagram: @abbydaviesauthor

Blog tour

Thanks to Jennifer Harlow at HarperCollins UK for my copy of Mother Loves Me, the extract material and for my place on the blog tour.

See the banner below for more stops on the #blogtour.

Blog tour: 17 to 23 September 2020

Synopsis

Tucked away amongst the winding, cobbled streets of Pengelly in Cornwall, the old stone cottage on Memory Lane is full of secrets. Brimming with trinkets and treasures, there are thousands of stories hidden within its walls.

Fifty-four-year-old Grace Clarke arrives in Pengelly determined to uncover the secrets of her past. Standing outside the little cottage, she feels sure that the answers she craves lie inside. The truth about her mysterious long-lost mother and the even more mysterious gifts she was born with …

Extract

This is the second book in the Pengelly series and follows 59 Memory Lane, which was released in 2019. I’m delighted to share an extract of Chapter 1 of The Cottage of Curiosities with you today.

Chapter One

April

Train travel has always been difficult for Grace Clarke, and today she’s stuck right inside one of her worst nightmares. When passengers stare out of the windows on public transport their minds often spiral out of control, flitting from thought to thought with breath-taking speed as their memories are jogged by the scenery flashing past, a snatch of overheard conversation or the happy rustle of a crisp packet being opened. Being forced to listen in to the memories all around her is something Grace lives with on a day-today basis, and has done as far back as she can remember, but speeding south on the overcrowded train to Penzance, she feels as if she’s drowning in them.

The girl in the next seat is clutching her phone like a lifeline. She snorts quietly to herself as she reads the latest message that’s landed with a loud ping. A sudden vivid picture flashes into Grace’s mind, and she blushes. The memory the text has sparked isn’t one she wants to share. Who knew golden syrup had so many uses?

‘My mother’s in that retirement home near the sock factory now,’ says a clear voice from the seat in front, ‘but she still refuses to be parted from her can of squirty cream. Always has one tucked away in her handbag, just in case somebody gives her a cake, or a dish of apple crumble. Then she whips it out, and Bob’s your uncle.’

The girl next to Grace looks up from her phone at last and raises her eyebrows. Then she begins typing out a new message at great speed.

Grace sighs and makes a huge effort to block out any more stray recollections that might come her way. This is a work in progress. Over the years she’s tried yoga, meditation and sheer bloody-mindedness, but the only sure-fire method of stopping other people’s random memories entering her brain is to instantly conjure up a more vivid one of her own as a kind of shield, and that’s not always possible if your energy levels are down. Sometimes chocolate is the only answer.

The travellers who drop asleep as soon as the station is behind them and snore gently until an announcement jolts them into life again are the easiest to handle. They’re no trouble at all. Their souls must be either full to the brim of good memories, or maybe it’s just that they won’t let the bad ones out. This morning, nearly everyone around Grace is wide awake. The spring sunshine is warm on her face and her coffee is hot and strong, but neither of these comforts is helping. There’s at least another hour to kill.

Desperate to distract herself, Grace pulls out the now-tattered letter to read yet again.

Dear Barbara,
This is the last time you’ll ever be addressed by that name. I’ve asked Audrey and Harry to give you this letter when you’re old enough to understand that your new life as Grace Clarke was chosen with care. The alternative would have been much, much worse, but you’ll have to trust me on that one. Motherhood isn’t one of my talents.

The meeting with Audrey in that grim Midlands hospital as she grieved for yet another miscarriage was nothing short of a miracle in my eyes. A lucky chance for both of us, and hopefully for you too. I discharged myself as soon as I was strong enough to escape that nasty place of rules, routines and disinfectant. I never could bear being told what to do. By then, our secret adoption pact was made.

I will think of you with every day that passes and wonder how you are, what you’re doing and what talents we share. It seems highly likely that you’ll have discovered what I mean for yourself by the time this letter gets to you. I’m fifty-seven years old now, and I thought I was long past the risk of an unplanned pregnancy. Foolishly, I hadn’t taken into account my unusual gift, if you can call it that. Of course, the other way of looking at the situation is that if I had been more aware, you wouldn’t exist, would you? There will be difficult questions you’ll want to ask me, I’m sure of it, and I’ll answer most of them if ever you decide to come and find me. A big part of me hopes you will, although I don’t deserve it.

I was never going to be a good mother. This way is best, but you will always be in my heart.

May Frances Rosevere,
Seagulls, 22 The Level, Pengelly, Cornwall

What talents we share. The words echo around Grace’s weary brain. Is she jumping to conclusions? The only thing she can think of as a talent is this ridiculous ability to experience other people’s memories the instant they have them, and it’s more of a curse than a gift. From an early age, Grace knew she was different from other children. Vague memories of playing on her own at school and feeling all at sea in company haunt her.

Grace grew to learn she had to be very careful and keep her thoughts to herself. People didn’t like different. Friendships were never easy, and it soon became a habit to be solitary. She tried to tell her father about all this once or twice but, although kind-hearted, Harry wasn’t one for what he called fanciful ideas, and so Grace resolved to make sure she was never in such a fragile position again. Self-preservation became the main aim of her childhood.

Was that what this May Frances Rosevere person meant in her letter, though? Could May have shared her difficulties? The shattering news that her mother was alive and in Cornwall all through her growing-up years has rocked Grace’s world. May was there, just waiting for her to get in touch, when she believed her birth mother to be long dead.

Grace glances at her watch and puts the letter away again, willing the time to pass more quickly. Her head is already pounding and she feels short of breath. Unable to bear sitting still any longer, she retrieves her travel bag from the rack and makes her unsteady way down the carriage to where she’s stowed her case. It might be easier to pass the time by the doors, where there’s a better view from the window.

The carriage makes a violent lurch and Grace is forced to pause and hang on to a seat for a moment. The man sitting there is white-faced, gripping his newspaper tightly. Before she can try to put up her usual thought block, his frantic memories flood her mind. In his head, he’s on another train and this time the jolt is much more drastic. People are screaming and reaching for their phones.

Grace puts a hand on his shoulder and he flinches. ‘It’s okay, we’re off again now,’ she says reassuringly.

The man looks up, and the fear in his eyes starts to fade away. ‘It just reminded me …’ he begins.

‘I know,’ says Grace, giving him a quick pat and moving on. She’s learnt to be strong in these situations. If she let people go into detail when they pick up on her sympathy, she’d never get anything done.

She moves on as swiftly as possible, feeling a tingle of second-hand excitement as she passes a young mother with a toddler on her knee. The woman is talking softly to the little boy, almost crooning. ‘Soon be with your Nana,’ she says softly, cuddling him close, ‘and then we’ll have one of her special stews and some lovely fluffy dumplings with it. You don’t know about dumplings yet, do you, sweetheart?’

The rush of happy childhood memories flowing from the woman goes some way to cancelling out the other man’s panic, but by the time Grace reaches the relative safety of the space near the doors, she’s grumpy and jaded.

It’s a good time to change places, as it happens. The train line has just started to follow the coast, and the sight of waves breaking on the shore takes Grace’s breath away. Although spring is well under way, the air is chilly. Weak sunshine illuminates an almost-empty beach. Grace itches to be out there, wrapped up warmly and making fresh footprints as she heads for the waterline. Brought up in the heart of the Midlands, she has always longed to spend more time by the sea, with flat, firm sands to walk on every day and sea breezes to blow the cobwebs away. Well, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t now.

It’s high time to take stock. The death of both of her adoptive parents and the decision to take early retirement mean Grace can travel wherever and whenever she likes. She’s saved hard and invested her money well over the years. Audrey and Harry don’t need her care any more. The bitterness when she remembers their years of deception about her start in life ebbs slightly. She is completely free. It’s an exhilarating thought.

The plan of coming to Cornwall to stay so near to the water in Pengelly has kept Grace sane over the past month, making funeral arrangements and finishing the clearing of her parents’ house. Audrey’s heart attack only six months previously was a shock, and it wasn’t long before Harry followed her. It’s taking Grace a while to handle the backlash. Her unwieldy thoughts flit again to those last moments with Harry, while his mind was still reasonably clear.

‘Dad?’ she said. ‘Can you hear me? Why on earth didn’t you give me this letter years ago? It’s mine. I should have had it.’

‘Your ma …’ He shook his head. A tear ran down his cheek and Grace automatically reached to wipe it away.

She leant closer. ‘Are you trying to say Mum didn’t want me to know?’

A nod this time, and a second tear.

‘But … why not? And who’s my real father? There’s no clue in the letter. I need to know, Dad. Please …’

Harry was clearly making a huge effort to speak now, and Grace held his hand more tightly, willing him to get the words out but flinching as his tortured memories crowded her brain.

‘I … we … we weren’t never told who your father was. He weren’t the man she were married to, love, I do know that.’

‘Really? You’re sure?’

‘We … didn’t want no details. It was best that way.’

As the train to Penzance rattles and sways, bringing Grace nearer and nearer to her only chance of finding out the truth about her start in life, exhaustion fights with alarm. An unaccustomed fear of the unknown hits her with a force that makes her pulse race.

‘I’m going to find her, Dad,’ she whispers, with her back to the rest of the carriage, ‘I’m going to track May Rosevere down. There’s just a tiny chance she might still be alive. People are living longer and longer these days. Whatever happens, at least I’ll have tried.’

Buy the book

The Cottage of Curiosities by Celia Anderson can be purchased from Amazon on Kindle and in paperback, and as an eBook from Kobo and iBooks.

About the author

Celia Anderson lives with her husband and one handsome but antisocial cat in land-locked Derbyshire. She now writes full time, having been a teacher and assistant head in her previous life. Her finest hour was getting a post as a cycling proficiency tutor without mentioning that she couldn’t ride a bike.

An enthusiastic member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Celia currently organises the judging for the Romantic Novel of the Year Awards. Her first novel, 59 Memory Lane, sold over 50k copies in eBook and hit the top 10 in the Kindle bestseller chart.

Twitter: @CeliaAnderson1
Facebook: @CeliaAndersonAuthor
Instagram: @cejanderson
Website: http://celiaandersonauthor.co.uk

Blog tour

Thanks to Jennifer Harlow at HarperCollins UK for my digital copy of The Cottage of Curiosities, the extract material and for my place on the blog tour.

See the banner below for more stops on the #blogtour.