Tag Archives: rural

Don’t Quit the Day Job: Nicola Ford

Lots of people don’t realise that although you may see work by a certain author on the bookshelves in your favourite shop, many writers still hold down a day job in addition to penning their next novel. In this series, we talk to writers about how their current – or previous – day jobs have inspired and informed their writing.

Today’s guest is Nicola Ford. Nic’s here to talk to us about her double life and how that influenced her to write her debut novel ‘The Hidden Bones‘. My thanks to Nic for sharing her knowledge and experience with us. 

Vic x

007-Nicola_Ford-1081

I love writing. I’ve always loved writing. And I’ve always loved reading crime fiction. So when I decided to turn my hand to writing fiction there was only ever going to be one genre for me. And I’m among the most fortunate of people because after much time spent applying my backside to my office chair and, as seems compulsory for all writers more than a smattering of self-doubt, my debut crime novel The Hidden Bones was published in June this year. 

So I have a job I love – crime writer. But that’s not the end of the story, or maybe I should say it’s not really even the beginning; because like many writers I lead a double life. By night I’m crime fiction writer Nicola Ford but by day I’m Dr Nick Snashall, National Trust Archaeologist for the Stonehenge and Avebury World Heritage Site. 

So I live a life steeped in the distant past. Wiltshire, the place that I’ve called home for a decade and a half is thronging with ancient burial mounds and prehistoric stone circles. And much of my time is spent digging up their secrets and delving into the mysteries that lie buried deep within museum archives.

Some writers may dream of giving up the day job, but for me I’m an archaeologist to my core. It’s one half of who I am and provides not only the backdrop, but also the inspiration for my crime writing. The Hidden Bones is set amid the chalk uplands of the Marlborough Downs an area I know intimately as I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life working there. 

Often rural is equated with ‘cosy’, but for those of us who live and work here we know that life in the countryside is anything but. If you’re born without money or means, or elderly and alone, rural life can be tough. And the shock waves left behind by violent crime can have a deep resonance that persists down through the generations in small, sometimes isolated communities.

The Hidden Bones delves into the secrets of one such community.  Clare Hills returns to Wiltshire in search of new direction in her life after the death of her husband in a car crash. She’s only too glad to take up old college friend, Dr David Barbrook’s offer of helping sift through the effects of recently deceased archaeologist Gerald Hart. When they discover the finds and journals from Gerald’s most glittering excavation, they think they’ve found every archaeologist’s dream. But the dream quickly becomes a nightmare as the pair unearth a disturbing discovery, putting them at the centre of a murder inquiry and in the path of a dangerous killer determined to bury the truth forever.

In both halves of my working life I spend my time dealing with the dead. And in trying to figure out how they came to die, I’ve found that the most important clues are often found in understanding how they lived. I’m fascinated by the imprint that choices made by people in the – sometimes far distant – past leave on our lives, in ways we may never understand. And many of the scientific techniques I draw upon in my day job form the fundamental building blocks of modern police investigations. So Nicola Ford crime writer is inextricably interlinked with Dr Nick Snashall archaeologist. Two halves, one whole – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

hidden-bones-hb-wb

**The Kindness of Strangers Blog Tour**

kindness strangers.jpgOooh, hello there, readers. Allow me to share with you an excerpt from ‘The Kindness of Strangers‘ by Julie Newman. 

When Helen’s chance at happiness is threatened, what lengths will she go to in order to hide the truth? Deceived by her husband and desperate for a ‘perfect’ family life, Helen will do everything she can to get the life she wants.

Following the gripping and controversial ‘Beware the Cuckoo‘, Julie Newman’s new novel lifts the lid on family secrets, and the dark past that haunts a seemingly happy household…

Vic x

9781911583769

The Kindness of Strangers

EACH NEW SUNRISE does not just herald a new day, it is a new beginning offering new possibilities and the opportunity to be better than before. That’s what I always used to believe. It was the mantra of my boss when I first started working in the city. But now, well now it sounds like a pretentious soundbite that has no validity in the real world, certainly not in my world. Every day is the same for me. There is a brief moment when I first wake when I’ve forgotten he’s gone, then boom, it hits me and the darkness descends once more. Today is no different. Perhaps if I still worked my focus would be on what I have to do rather than what I can no longer do. Maybe that’s the answer, to go back to work; but where? Marilyn has replaced me and I couldn’t go back at a lower level than before. There are other firms, but would they be interested in a 56 year-old woman who’s been out of the game for almost eighteen months? I know I wouldn’t employ me and I know how good I am. Even if I considered a junior position I’d be competing with a new crop of graduates and interns. And besides, there is still more to do here; papers, accounts, and all the interests we pursued together. I must cancel our golf club subscription for a start; I won’t be going there alone and I never liked playing much anyway.

The study is incredibly stuffy. I’ve opened the window but that hasn’t made a great deal of difference. I think I’m going to take  some of these files and sit in the garden and sort through them. I make a pot of tea and go outside. It’s surprising how many things we signed up for over the years and more surprising is the fact that I’d forgotten we had them. Our joint account has already been dealt with, as have a couple of accounts that Robert had. But what I’m looking at now is an old account of mine that I haven’t paid attention to for a long time. I transfer money into it each month to cover the direct debits, but I don’t use half the things I’m paying for. This is the downside of not receiving paper statements anymore, I’m rather remiss at checking my accounts online. This is the account that the golf membership comes out of; I write down the account and membership numbers so I can cancel it. There are also a couple of magazine subscriptions, a consumer group subscription and insurances for appliances which I don’t even know if I still have. I write down the relevant information so I can cancel them all. When I’m done I pour another cup of tea – well half a cup as the pot is almost empty – sit back in my chair and look around the garden. Somebody comes to cut the lawn every couple of weeks, everything else in the garden Robert and I do, or did. Well Robert mainly. I suppose I’ll have to get on with it myself now, not that it takes much, it is quite a low maintenance garden. We had a designer revamp it many years ago, and her brief was simple; it had to be full of colour and easy to maintain. It certainly is that, although parts of it are looking a little neglected. The roses catch my eye, they need dead-heading. I go back into the kitchen for a pair of scissors. As I take them out of the drawer I picture Robert standing in the garden waving a pair of secateurs at me and saying, ‘the right tool for the job, Helen’. I smile to myself; a nice memory.

It takes me a little while to locate the shed key. For some reason it’s in a small pot at the rear of one of the dresser drawers, instead  of hanging with the garage and summer-house keys in the kitchen. I unlock the shed hoping the secateurs will be easier to find. I never go in the shed, it was Robert’s domain. He liked to sit in there and read; he complained the summer house was too hot, something that never bothered me. I’m pretty sure he used to have a bottle of whisky hidden away in there too. The door creaks a little as it opens and warm air is emitted from within. It smells stale and fusty. It’s clearly in need of ventilating. I pull the door wide, putting a large terracotta pot in front of it to keep it open. I peek in before actually venturing inside; Robert’s old chair sits proudly in the centre, there is a work bench to the right on which sits several pots of various sizes, a couple of gardening books – maybe he did read them after all – and the secateurs. I pick them up and look around the rest of the shed; there is a lot of stuff in here, another thing to sort through in time. As I turn to go back out something catches my eye. It’s the old picnic blanket we used many years ago, I thought it had long since been thrown out. We enjoyed going for picnics, although to be honest they weren’t really picnics. We would head out somewhere for the day, weather permitting of course, and find a nice spot and put the blanket down. We would lay and read for a while; I always took a flask of tea, something for Robert to drink and a few snacks. On the way back we would look for a nice country pub and have a meal before heading home. I pull at the blanket which is draped over something, as it comes off it reveals an old, battered filing cabinet. It’s made of metal, grey in colour and mottled with rust spots. I pull open the top drawer; inside are two glasses and an almost empty bottle of whisky, an unopened bottle of whisky, a box of matches and a half-smoked cigar, and various bits and pieces that include garden ties and string and plant labels. I try the next one but that won’t open. There is a lock at the top of this drawer, and I look around for a  key. I can’t see one, but I’m puzzled as to why the drawer is locked and I want to get it open. The roses will have to wait.

After spending almost an hour in the shed looking for a key -to no avail – I’ve come back inside. Where might the key be? I go through the dresser drawers again and the kitchen drawers and I search the utility room. It’s a mystery. There might not even be anything in the drawer, but I won’t be satisfied until I know. I go back out to the shed, pulling the drawer a few more times, but it won’t budge. I look around to see if there is anything I can use to force it open. Bashing it with a hammer doesn’t work, neither does poking around the lock with a penknife. I’m frustrated now, but I won’t be beaten. Maybe, I could ask the gardener when he comes to do the lawn if he could get it open, that’s not for over a week though. Anthony would do it, but after the other day, I don’t think I want to ask him. I’ll have to go and buy something so I can do it myself. The lock can’t be that strong, I’m sure if I had the right tool I could prise it open.

***

About the Author:

Julie Newman was born in East London but now lives a rural life in North Essex. She is married with two children. Her working life has seen her have a variety of jobs, including running her own publishing company. She is the author of the children’s book Poppy and the Garden Monster. Julie writes endlessly and when not writing she is reading. Other interests include theatre, music and running. Besides her family, the only thing she loves more than books is Bruce Springsteen.