Wednesday, 30 December 2015

And When Did You Last See Your Father?

      The decision had been made. The family home of forty years was too big for a family now depleted to two seniors. It had to be sold; something smaller to accommodate slower moving bodies and aching limbs.  A decision like that was not difficult  to make. It was based purely on logic and ignored  emotion as it accepted   the gardens  were gaining the upper hand in the challenge laid down by mother nature four decades before. It also accepted  four bedrooms and two lounges  were now an over indulgence for two people for whom  greater satisfaction was now achieved in the mind rather than from material possessions. This was the easy aspect of the decision. 
     There was a harder side.  A side which involved the tangle of emotion that defied the logic. A side which lured a mother, now a grand mother, into a vacated room  to stand gazing at a wall, or  photograph to listen to a song on the radio that used to rock a cradle thirty years before. Also involved, the cloud of nostalgia which could  overwhelm a father, a grandfather, in the reclusive retreat  of his  workshop when ambushed by a set of kid’s roller skates, a thirty year old cricket bat with a split handle, or a peppered dartboard whose colours had faded  with time from prime.
     Four bedrooms and four sons, now gone, but still close on any day, be it at the end of a phone line, or the residue of a screech of brakes on the driveway which could erupt through the  doorway accompanied by a gaggle of grand children to turn the peace of a Sunday  afternoon into a blessing of disruption. Children who fill the house with laughter. Children who forever turn a house into a home.
     Too much land, too many rooms and an excess of furniture which had endured the years and become, part of the furniture? Definitely time to move on. Thus  it becomes, out with the old and in with the new. Yes, in a moment of strong resolve it has been  decided to be rid  of everything  when the move to the city apartment becomes imminent and under a cloud of resigned bravado the process begins. The home is sold and the move is on.
     In the weeks leading up to settlement the family home is the subject of a  startling transformation as items of furniture are claimed by kin and disposed of through various outlets such as garage sales and newspaper advertisements. The rooms  are slowly emptied of material possessions and  gradually each  adopts a hollow atmosphere, a sad echo.  Pictures vanish from walls and regular indentations in carpeted floors command attention where double beds  and treasured  lounge suites once stood. Through it all the patriarch clings firmly to the legend of his leather arm chair. Some things are sacred.
     With a couple of days to go to settlement  the move is already complete and the  new stepping stone to the future has been discriminately furnished with a selection from the latest ranges of bedroom, lounge and dining room suites. This has been a scathing  exercise with the  surrender of  each treasured item, a relic from the years, being a strong root  wrenched from  firm family soil. Yet, as the family moves away it is the family which holds everything together.
     After  three score years and ten of living, the every day lessons of family life have been well noted and more has been learned than was ever taught. The home is now empty with the exception of one remaining item which has been the focal point for the family throughout the years. One could be forgiven for thinking the television set claimed the pride of this place, but this was never to be the case and never would be in this household.
     The  dining room table of satin mahogany with its six chairs belies its forty years service. As the meeting place for a growing family at the beginning and end of each day the test of time has furnished satisfying results. Around this table  the problems of the world were resolved on a regular basis; the world being the birthright of  four sons  and their parents and their  circle of  fellowship. This is where problems were shared, openly discussed, problems were halved and boys were nurtured into men. The common mistakes of six lifetimes  were made and analysed by a family around this table. The delights of victories were celebrated by a family,  around this table. Births and birthdays, anniversaries and Christmases, each was ingrained into its polished timbers. Its fine grain had absorbed the laughter as well as the tears. 
     More learned than was ever taught -  by four sons often considered to be privileged to have the luxury of two parents as they moved into, through and out the other side of puberty with the opportunity to make the mistakes  made by all, while able to enjoy the discipline and guidance of those who cared. These were a father’s children, a mother’s brood.  This was their  family and the responsibility was theirs, not that of the state. To the one at the head of the table, one of two beings  who had formed a union forty eight years before, one who had moulded that union into a family of six,  the reasons for the decline in society, the increased crime rate, man’s inhumanity to man  became clearer each day.      
     Seventy years experience of observing the quality of family life deteriorating in the flesh pots of the twentieth century  had earned the old man an opinion; a voice in the wilderness There were insufficient dining room tables out there in a crumbling society which clutched reproachfully  at the hollow straws of social welfare.
     Nothing was more clear to a man who had run his own household under a set of rules which rewarded hard work and self respect while emphasising the importance of an individual taking full responsibility for ones actions. The media advertised the fact at every opportunity. There were too many one parent families and an inflammatory shortage of round-dinner-table conferences. There was  a strong reliance of a bottom heavy society on the handouts of a welfare state with latchkey children being reared in a TV dinner situation often in the absence of that one parent. There was a need for more voices in that wilderness out there.
     This is an opinion. An older man has earned it. The breakdown of the family unit sees boys becoming men at fourteen years of age when, having skipped important years of their youth, they reach out for  and indulge in the cake icing of adult hood. It sees girls involved in unplanned motherhood  at irresponsible early ages when  they themselves have not yet shed the golden husks of childhood. Any politician, or person in an influential position who observes this situation and elects to turn a cheek with a  politically correct excuse can bear a modicum of blame. But why lay blame? If one is to take full responsibility, one doesn’t lay blame. They assess a situation and set about correcting it. If we carry on doing what we are doing we get more of what we already have.
     The break down of the family unit; where does it begin, if at all? Many children born out of wedlock never get to know the discipline of the family dinner table. They never get to hear the words -  “Sit up straight – don’t speak will your mouth full – elbows off the table – wait for your mother to start eating.” All being torturous  disciplines that tend to disappear with the clip under the ear for leaving the soap in the water in the bathroom.  
     From these children  derive the second generation offspring to whom can never be passed in  natural progression the pride of a father reading a school report, or him watching from the touch line a son’s aspirations to achievement at sport.  From these children are formed the families of the twenty first century which resemble  jigsaw puzzles with pieces missing. A sad fact is the pictures will never be complete and many of those in most of those  pictures  will never really know  what those pieces are; and more pieces are easily  lost along the way.
     The flaking family unit : a child is born with the state willing to pick up the bill in the absence of a father, but the state cannot provide and is  not prepared to provide the one vital ingredient important to the  growth of that child; the father, seek him out, make him pay, let him love.  A more dedicated  mother could be heard to say, ‘that’s okay. We don’t need him. I can give my child everything it needs’, however, no one  asks  the child what it needs and if they were to it could never tell. Ask the same child  in twenty years and see what the answer would have been.
     In the case of  parents who have  progressed through the demolition machine of a broken marriage, proud people, responsible people who capitalise on the ludicrous situation of maternity leave  before returning  to full time employment, the break down continues, working away like rust.  Does anyone ask the child who is  dropped off at the crèche by mummy  for an eight hour stint on a regular, or irregular daily exercise,  how it feels about that? The weekly fee for the crèche could easily be half the earnings of mummy for the same period with the payment on the family car, (and in a complete marriage situation the second car), laying claim to a large chunk of the residue. With money not an issue, what is the true cost of this exercise? Ask the child. 
       Just another  chip of paint off the face of the family unit. Would mother rather be working, or at home teaching her daughter to laugh, play and sew, maybe bake a cake, watch her sleep? Ask the child who sees her mother for two hours in the morning and two hours at night, the child who builds a more than equal relationship with the dedicated crèche worker who capitalises on the child’s smiles and needs for eight of   a normal sixteen waking hour day. Some things are more equal than others.
     In the spiralling society of  the twenty first century the old man makes the analogy  of this age being like the cycle of a washing machine. Everything is programmed to work well and the cycle continues unless there is an overload, or an imbalance. When this happens, usually in the last phase of the cycle, everything stops. The signs were always there, yet were ignored. Imbalance?  Overload? Too much, too soon. Probably expecting too much, too soon of a well oiled machine that was designed to do a certain job.
     The signs are there today in a society which continues to  spiral, powered more by greed than need with the imbalance obvious to one who has lived three score years and ten. Time was once when the head of the family worked at his profession while his wife tended to the family home. She cooked the meals, cleaned the house and tended to the children; carried  children. The meals were shared around a communal table and a family was bonded by tradition. It was a tradition not to be scorned, nor to be smirked at. Circumstances altered   with wars and rumours of wars taking the men from the work force and calling the women up to the plate to fulfil tasks more commonly completed by their opposites. These were tasks at which most proved to be adept and were reluctant to relinquish when the tide of time turned.
     With women freed from their apron strings and firmly entrenched in the work force it could have been considered, should have been considered,  how the family unit would be affected. In all probability it was and was discounted,  because of circumstances. The evolution of more people anxious to own their own homes  presented a major factor. This, combined with the freedom with which  the  domestic motor vehicle was  offered to all who could afford, (and the many who could not), and the readily available hire purchase situation increased  the need for the fair sex to work  and converted  many households into two income families. Now desire to work could no longer be confused with the need to work and with the advent of the technical and cyber revolution standards of living  supposedly rose.
     On the surface it would appear the economy had turned to milk and honey, but at what price?  With manipulated statistics it could be shown at any time unemployment was up and unemployment was down. The difference between unemployed and registered unemployed can always be argued as names are transferred from one  list and placed on another for somebody’s benefit. Women selectively  came to fill  work positions  at a more competitive rate of remuneration normally considered  by men folk. As did after-school students  whose practice it was, and is, to hasten to take up posts at the checkouts of  local super markets and other such forms of income while their homework lay cosseted  in satchels in  staff rooms..
     Could it be the imbalance of society has become the norm and requires more attention more often? In an age where millions of dollars are spent daily on the promotion of technology  such as internet and mobile phones, how much communication is there? A hand held phone which fits into the palm and  takes a picture which can be transmitted around the world in seconds is the likely possession of  every other person you pass on the street, yet generally people do just that; pass  on the street with no attempt at communication.
     The mother of three who mans a supermarket checkout from 3 p.m. until midnight no longer does it because she wants to; she is there because she needs to be while her children  are hopefully at home; hopefully. Unsupervised children in a permissive society have an adult world at their finger tips. Multi-channel  television offering a choice between  Black Beauty and Black Emmanuelle doesn’t present much of a challenge to a growing mind. Permissive? Yes, most certainly in a climate where noble leaders have recently considered lowering the level of under age sex. How low can  we get? Are we about to find out in an environment where sex and nudity is no longer a segment of adult hood and is displayed blatantly in many television programmes and retail book outlets; establishing these stores as adult book shops? A choice between Harry Potter  and Harold Robins? You choose. Where, then is the increased quality of life and where does the break down of the family unit start? More importantly where will  it finish?
     The signs are always there The old man has learned much in his three score years and ten. He sees much that others don’t see and he has an opinion He knows the importance of eye contact with those with whom he encounters in every day life and of the  level, yet discreet  soul searching,  mind exposing eye contact he maintains with his offspring. It was never possible for him to always be there, yet he was always a template for them to  shape themselves against,  a yard stick for which they could reach, if he proved to be worthy. A yardstick? A traditional item that stands near and is forever available to keep things in proportion. It was one time made of steel. These days, if to be found it is usually constructed from cardboard, synthetic  materials, often timber. Many people have no use for it at all. They are not aware of the value. The best yardstick is of steel and yes, there is still plenty out there.
          The old man was always known to have an opinion. Most times it went out the door in the way his dining room table would, yet this never prevented  him from offering it to those prepared to listen; and those who many times chose not to listen. He offered it one day to the househusband whose daily constitutional was a jog along the waterfront. In minimal training gear and trainers he’d stopped for a breather on the sea wall. His wife was a legal executive who had returned to the workforce after an extended period of maternity leave. It was a fine arrangement. She earned much more than he had ever dreamed of earning and they were both happy for him to be ‘mother’ while she forged ahead with her career. It was a complete role reversal; an ideal domestic situation.
     Every day, wet, or fine, househusband Wayne covered the eight kilometre return trip along the waterfront with eight month old Wayne Junior  in the three wheeled baby buggy before him. The buggy was built like a world war two tank of tubular steel  with heavy duty  rubber wheels and canvas sides and top,  with  a clear plastic shield should bad weather prevail. The hood was complete with sun visor which was really an observation window for the parent for the child faced away in the direction the parent chose to go. 
      The old man queried the wisdom of the configuration of this chariot of good intention. He suggested  it might serve a better purpose if the child faced the parent that they could observe each other for the entire period of the run, not just at pit stops, and possibly share the bumps and pitfalls of the journey. Wayne shrugged off this idea saying it was fine the way it was. The child  could see where it was going and what did it matter where he had been?   He, the child, liked it that way and he, the father, could see him when ever he needed. It seemed at eight months Wayne junior knew better than the father.
     The run each day was usually completed in an hour and a half, sometimes two hours. There was no hurry. It was a fitness thing; bonding for father and son. Further suggested were the benefits of father and son facing each other. An hour and a half of eye contact could yield the harvest of a heart full  of priceless gurgles and smiles as opposed to a reunion at the end of that time.  The small amount of dribble that is known to emerge from a baby’s mouth could be removed the moment it appeared. and that belch of uncontrollable vomit could be  removed from the lapel before it had chance to harden and become a bigger problem later. Add to that the baby would feel more secure having full sight of the parent, seeing where they’d been together, knowing where they’d been instead of being forced to face the future alone, though knowing the parent was there; or was he? In the present situation Wayne junior would have no idea of where he was going, seemingly alone, and little idea of where he had been.
     Was it Lewis Carol who said,  “If you don’t know where you are going you may as well stay where you are”?  It wasn’t Harold Robins.
     If all fathers and sons could face each other on a regular basis it might well be the pools of vomit that must appear in family life can be dealt with at the time and not be allowed to develop into a bigger problem to involve others. Could it be a reversed configuration of a baby buggy is the thin edge of a wedge of insecurity?
     The nineteenth century artist W F Yeames produced a wonderful painting of the seventeenth century English civil war. It depicted a royalist child being confronted by Cromwell’s parliamentarians. It was the famous Blue Boy being asked, “and when did you last see your father?”
    Is it at all probable that if the same question were asked by our parliamentarians of the boys of today who have made a blue, on a regular basis, it would be a finger in the dyke of the family unit?
     “And when did you last see your father?”
     Better still, “and did you ever see your father?” God forbid it will be two hundred years before someone puts them in the picture.
     The old man has earned an opinion. That’s all it is;  a point of view.

The Leader of the Band

     Seated in the bay window the old man gave a grunt of satisfaction as the grey sedan bubbling with grand children drew to a halt at the kerb. His four sons had done their work well when producing nine off-spring offering an inherent guarantee that he’d never be alone, could never be alone and that loneliness would never be a consideration. Through the line of trees flanking the property he could distinguish unrecognisable shapes as those so young spilled onto the grass verge and raced each other through the gate to the accompaniment of slamming car doors and squeals of delight and anticipation. There were three of them today along with their dad, Martin, the third son.
     ‘You’ve been old for a long time now, granddad,’ had said Paul who was eight and who these days readily provided answers to his own questions which left his grand- father musing. Old man? He thought not, but through the eyes of a child and in a world designed for the young it was a perspective which could be easily appreciated.
     Paul wasn’t among the visitors. They were Martin’s children who charged onto the porch making a bee-line for the kitchen, not failing to get their priorities right. Catherine and Larry were two methodical scheming youngsters whose vision of potted yoghurt and fruit juice in Granny’s frig never faded and they were never to be disappointed..
     Martin carried his third child Rachel on his hip and planted her solidly on the floor of the old man’s room. She was ten months old and almost ready to walk and most certainly able to crawl. As yet she wasn’t sure about her grand father and she eyed him with apprehension from the patch of sunlight that had become her stage as he towered above her in his chair. It had been a stage for so many, but they grew so quickly and predictably moved on in a world of many attractions and distractions.
     Rachel sat straight and her bottom lip trembled as she looked around for her dad who had joined his mother in the kitchen to supervise the raid on the pantry. It wasn’t a hint of a tear. No, they came in a torrent resulting in a protective granny appearing in a flash like a fairy godmother to sweep the baby up into her arms and glance accusingly at her husband.
     ‘What did you do to her, the poor little thing?’ she challenged.
     The old man was used to this, but he went along with the game.
     ‘I didn’t do anything’ he protested. ‘All I did was look at her and she burst into tears.’
     "There’s little wonder" chided the woman. "You’re enough to frighten anyone."
     Husband and wife fully understood each other after forty five years of marriage and as a soothing granny took delight in the consolation of her granddaughter the old man reached across and picked up his guitar. It worked every time. The firm fingers of his workman’s hand ran through a series of chord changes as he gently stroked the strings. The result was predictable and in an instant Catherine skipped into the room and leapt into the solar spotlight to let the dancing begin.
     "Hello, granddad" she beamed.
     Catherine was six and for her this was part of the magic of coming to granddad’s house. She was the one who had started this game five years before when she had begun to totter around the place making her first footprints with each step becoming more certain than the one before. What she did that first day paved the way for a paper chain of events of a similar nature which was to stretch through the genes of a budding generation and sew the seeds of joy in an old man’s heart. There was hardly a time whenever the grandchildren came to visit when the music wouldn’t play and the feet wouldn’t tap; and the hearts wouldn’t swell.
     That first day was a lifetime away. Her lifetime, but she remembered it as clearly as the old man; maybe more clearly for it seemed it had always been a part of her growing. He hadn’t been old for as long then. At the time she was not aware of how badly he played, or how well, but she had been totally magnetised by the beat as the gentle strains of ‘Hey, hey, skip to my loo" fertilised a seed within her and she’d begun to sway. She’d begun to sway and she’d begun to hop, all in time to the music. Thus before she was able to talk, she was able to communicate with a new language, when her entire vocabulary was ‘mumma and dadda’.
     Her actions sent a message to the old man who warmed and upped the tempo slightly and extended the lyrics. ‘I’ll find another one prettier than you . . ..’ and the baby jigged and twirled disjointedly in response to the unleashed rhythm within. Granny took delight in sharing centre stage with her little star and she too clapped and twirled as grandfather eased his way through another verse and yet another.
     As he sang the old man marvelled at the natural rhythm of the child. ‘Where does the music begin?’ was a calm thought that brushed across his mind. Nobody had taught the child this yet there she was moving with ease in time to a language which was international. Where does the music begin?
     The image of his wife dancing and clapping volunteered a part answer for it was a half century almost since they’d first danced together on the sprung floor of a city ballroom and shared the beat of one of the big bands of the day. Ted Heath was the leader of the band that night, the night the old man, a young man then, became the leader of her band. They had shared the beat as they had shared everything else that was theirs as they danced their ways into each others hearts unsuspecting of the harvest of love that would be there to be reaped in their twilight years; and the harvest was a full one; tenfold, a hundred fold.
     Yes, to the old man the answer was apparent. This gift of music, of rhythm, was a legacy of his heritage, passed down through the family genes by his forefathers. He recalled well tales of his own grandfather performing on the boards of the ‘Old Time Music Hall’ as did his father. Song, dance and humour were a strong strain of that heritage which chose to blossom in various forms throughout the different branches of the family tree.
     There was nothing more clear in the scrap book of his mind than the pictures of an uncle stomping out a tune on an upright piano (no guesses who this is)  and of his father picking away quietly at a mandolin, or squeezing the last strains of ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ from the corrugated confines of his favourite concertina. Some things are easy to forget. Others are never forgotten. Having received these gifts as part of his heritage how thankful the old man was to be able to bequeath them to his own kin.
     Sitting there thinking and playing the old man had a broader thought. It wasn’t just his side of the family that was blessed with such a tax free gift. The not so old lady’s family had been known to carry a song. Sadly her father had never been one to confide in his kin as to his up-bringing and there was no record to hand, mental or visual, of those gone before. On his first meeting with him the old man was given reason to think that maybe he’d never had a father at all for his daily attitude was not designed to encourage further association.
     To his credit his voice had been compared favourably with those of successful tenors of the day in reviews in the local press following one lone appearance in a local production. The clear, resounding tones of Nessun Dorma erupting from the bathroom when in one of his better moods were not easily forgotten.
     In this age the old man could look back with understanding on his father-in- law’s situation. There was never enough money for an overlarge family that struggled to survive, but there was just enough for the drink which provoked actions on the part of the bread winner that should have been beyond his nature.
     It had not been difficult for a budding son-in-law to believe all his Christmases had come at once when he was able to carry his bride off to brighter horizons. He felt as though all his life time goals had been fulfilled in one stunning action when this beautiful young woman, who by comparison tended to make Marilyn look like a bag-lady, said ‘I do’. Sitting and playing this day to their grandchildren he had no reason to think otherwise.
     She had a brother. She had two brothers, but the elder brother was special. He was protective and full of understanding which led to a special bond between the siblings. He was never a member of any ‘Rat Pack’, but Sinatra could have readily given the nod of approval to one who handled his selections with such finesse. Thinking of him now the old man could understand the talent that was emerging in this new generation. They were called ‘crooners’ in those days and socially there was none better than this young man when he rendered ‘Body and Soul’ to the swooning locals. His father thought otherwise, but ‘Body and Soul’ could never be forgotten.
     "Bloody crooners. They won’t last" he was often heard to remark, but he could sing. They both could.
     The six year old Catherine protested when the old man stopped playing as number three son returned to the room with the youngest under his arm and deposited her once more on her stage in readiness for the second act. Larry had been busy with his felt tips in a spasm of creativity and Martin laid a sample of his work on the desk for his father to approve.
     "What am I looking at?" asked the old man as he began playing once more, but at the same time studying the pre-school Picasso before him. Two vivid green lumpy legs mushroomed from two solid blocks which were supposedly shoes to disappear into an angular purple skirt that stopped short two inches above the hem-line. That was it. Very colourful. Very creative.
     "What is it again?" he repeated. "It’s very good."
      The bulky form of Larry wedged its way between the guitar and the desk and wide brown eyes gleamed as they sought approval.
     "It’s the bottom part of granny, granddad" he said proudly.
     Of course. How stupid not to see.
     "Play ‘Ten Guitars’ granddad" urged Catherine.
     He played ‘Ten Guitars’. He was going to do that anyway and as he did the rocking and the rolling began once more. The words came easily as always and it was Larry who joined the trio as Catherine burst forth .
     ‘I have a band of men . . . .’ she began and the old man lapsed once more into his thought pattern. A band of men! He surely had that. Four sons and seven grandsons and to be politically correct he should certainly include the ladies. It would not be complete without them and most definitely not without his wife. It seemed pretty clear to most that he was the leader of his very special band for there existed a certain strength within him which was often drawn upon by the players at the most unexpected times; but that was to be expected and that was the reason for him being there.
     At the back of everything the old man knew his strength came from his partner. Being associated with her and having the need to provide for her had instilled a force within that was irrepressible. Yet he was always ready to defend his position as ‘leader of the band’ and was pleased to explain his belief that the man is the head of the family and the woman is the neck. As such she is able to turn the head any way she chooses.
     The music continued and none seemed to tire of it. The words of the song came without thought and he was able to run the soundtrack of his mind silently behind the lyrics as they spilled from his lips.
     ‘Through the eyes of love you’ll see a thousand stars. . . .’ sang Catherine with a confidence and balance that saw her dictating proceedings with hand actions and mime. He observed her through the eyes of love. Was there another way? And she was a star. They were all stars. It was a foregone conclusion on the old man’s part that eventually she would break a few hearts with that winning smile and shock of shimmering straight black hair. It easily reached below her shoulders to compliment the olive tones of her skin. She had her granny’s eyes; heart breakers, alright.
     The ‘bottom part of granny’ lay on the desk and as he sang he marvelled at the wisdom and innocence of children and accepted such as his lesson for the day. Each person may view any situation from a different perspective, but from whatever position the situation remains the same although it may appear to be different. Larry saw the bottom half of a granny. The old man saw the top half of granny and occasionally glanced at the bottom, but whatever way you looked at granny she was still granny. Is that the way children view life, he thought? Just the bottom half of everything? In which case do we as adults take into consideration only the top half of life tending to take for granted the bottom half that served as a basic ingredient for our climb up the ladder of life? The basic ingredients? Love, trust, faith, giving?
     One can learn so much from children. How important it is to consider another person’s perspective. How important the perspective of a child? When the old man and the not so old lady had first met, had they known then about Catherine dancing in the sunlight forty to fifty years on down the track they may well have wished their lives away, being anxious for those years to pass. Would it have been possible to wait those years for a Larry with half of his granny etched in water colour? Had they been given a hint of Rachel swaying to the beat in a new millennium would they have shown dissatisfaction and impatience with those years between. It is as well none of us is allowed to know what lies in store. What a prize! What a reward for a marriage made in heaven. Like a new penny in the toe of a Christmas stocking.
     The old man knew he was rich beyond belief. He’d played to all of the children in turn and no amount of coin tendered could come close to a mere deposit on the true value of the sparkle in the eyes and the wiggle of the hips of innocent youth. Some things can never be forgotten.
No matter how old one is one can only benefit from considering the perspective of a child.
* * * * * * *
     The thirty two year old ‘child’, Martin, stood in the doorway and watched the antics of his family. His dad was on form today and how he loved to fiddle with that guitar. For as long as he could remember the family had tolerated the old man’s passion for country music. The names of Hank Williams and Jimmy Rodgers had long been engraved on the daily work sheet and many a time he had wished that he too, could have carried a tune and played an instrument as did his brothers.
     We can’t all be all alike and life carries its compensations. Martin’s love for driving and unerring sense of direction drew benefits for the outdoor life and because of that he’d fulfilled an early dream and travelled the world. It had been easy to come home and settle down and it seemed the right woman had been waiting for him. They’d married. The product of that marriage was the three kids who were at that moment raising Cain with the old man. That old man was a good father and Martin had no illusions that things had ever been easy for him. He had always made it look easy, though, whatever the circumstances and when either he or his brothers were in trouble, or thought they knew better, the old fellow was always there with advice and support.
For Martin there was still much to strive for in life, but if he were to wish for one thing it would be that he could prove to be as good a father to his children as their grandfather had been to him.
As the music stopped the old chap relinquished his treasured instrument which served as a signal that another raid on the kitchen was imminent. A timely side step by Martin avoided the exodus which left father and son alone in the room and the conversation was as normal. The new job, the old job, the big game, his mate’s new Harley; the old man was always interested; and then . . . . .
     "I was over to see my birth mother this morning" said Martin. "It didn’t do much for me. I don’t think I’ll bother any more."
     The old man didn’t seem surprised and raised little comment.
     "You’re birth mother. That’s good" he replied. "How was she?".
     The idiot deep inside him was slowly recovering. He and his wife had adopted Martin at birth. Some things are easily forgotten.

Saturday, 7 November 2015

An exciting new release 

 Austin Macauley Publishing House London UK

available on

Retired Chief of Detectives Phillip Maynard finds life difficult to handle following the death of his wife after forty-five years of marriage. After waking in hospital from a near-death experience, he is told a young man brought him to the emergency department. Of course, it could only be young Robert Gardener, whom he had met recently. Keen to repay Robert for saving his life, Phillip goes to Robert's home to meet his mother Andrea.  When accused of trespassing and told that Andrea Gardener had passed away months ago, Phillip cannot fathom this situation.  Robert is in search of his father, an RAF Squadron Leader and Battle of Britain pilot. Robert knows his dad is lost and not dead and asks for Phillip's help to find him. Phillip Maynard is now a man given the power to travel through time and possibly change the course of history with startling consequences.

Note well : Page 98 - Zulu wars 1881 - not 1981.


It wasn't Father Christmas who stole the show. 

It was someone pretending to be Father Christmas. 

Isn't that what usually happens?

Kidnap and treachery on the streets of Auckland. A TV personality scoffs when Santa says he will take his daughter and place a ten million dollar price tag on her head. Mr TV laughs on the other side of his face as Santa keeps his word and delivers his present of fear. Enjoying a respite between marriages, TV personality Kris Nevan is reunited with his teenage daughter at the height of the Christmas season. Nevan is rich, successful and invulnerable, so he thinks. He is almost offhand in his down-playing of an ominous threat to separate him from his daughter, and his money from his bank account. He is soon to become acquainted with the force of evil lurking behind the facade of a pantomime clown who, in the guise of Santa Claus, blatantly snatches the girl in an audacious act of villainy. Mortimer Kingsley, also known as Sunbeam the Clown, is the Gaffer, an ex-patriot Brit and vaudeville star, whose broken heart is held together by scars of bitterness and retribution. He and his select band of thugs have systematically plundered banks and payrolls with huge success in Auckland, hiding behind pseudonymous identities such as, Browser, Scales, Mags and Sailor and the Gaffer. Add to them thug and locksmith QC and the enigmatic Matron; part woman, mostly man. They have Nevan’s daughter and as planned they get their ten million dollars. The Gaffer is a generous, but hard master and those who make mistakes in his organisation pay the ultimate price. But mistakes have been made and a trail of devastation is uncovered to take the reader through the length and breadth of New Zealand’s North Island, out onto the Waitemata Harbour where the ranks of the Gaffer’s team are depleted in a serious act of housekeeping on his part. There is death on the high seas and death in the suburbs of Auckland as the Gaffer seeks to right things that have gone wrong for him. The perfect crime is suddenly not as perfect. His efforts to eliminate an eye witness to the kidnap go terribly wrong. Newlywed Annie Elliot is unaware she is being hunted by the most notorious, and anonymous criminal in New Zealand. The Gaffer is too smart to allow her inadvertent appearance at the crime scene to interfere with his plans and he personally takes steps to ensure this one loose end is tidied. With the deed done, the ransom paid and Nevan’s daughter returned the Gaffer feels secure in his bunker at Part-Time Car Wreckers in West Auckland. He celebrates Christmas in a traditional wave of nostalgia. All that could go wrong has gone wrong and has been remedied. The time had come to relax and consider his next run of adrenalin brought about by living his life on the lip of a lion. In his complacency he is unaware the net is closing on him and his fellow criminals. The violence begins as the scales of poetic justice tip one way and then the other. All hell breaks erupts at the Part-Time wrecking yard as discounted underlings break ranks and express opinions. It is suggested amid the fire and the fury that follows the curtain has come down for the last time on Sunbeam, the pantomime clown; but has it? Mortimer Kingsley has cashed up and is ready to move offshore and it is never clear who it was who died that Christmas morning in West Auckland. One thing is sure, it wasn’t Father Christmas. Maybe it was somebody pretending to be Father Christmas, but isn’t that what normally happens? ( buy now on US$2.99)


On the Lip of a Lion - John Cardwell‎ Kent  UK
8 May at 22:07 ·
Roy, I'm struggling for words to describe my impression of the book.  Dark and dangerous as it was, I'm missing it already. That must surely represent years of work, research and organizing. Built from blocks along different timelines which fitted seamlessly together. A bloody mosaic of a novel. .  I will be trawling the net for hard copies of all your books. The last few chapters I was almost panting the pace was such. It is an incredible piece of work.was going to have a nightcap after finishing but only chivas regal in cupboard and I don't wanna go the way poor matron went.

On the Lip of the Lion  - UK Reader
A cold-blooded murder story full of suspense with a romantic edge and a marvellously original plot. The novel is unusual in that the Author has managed to portray a hard-as-nails bunch of criminals with a humane side to their character.
Roy Jenner presents the reader with a riveting performance as he unravels this gripping story with his amazing talent, charm and lots of heart. He then surprises us with a stunning feel-good ending. 
An exciting  novel. 
Rating: [5 of 5 Stars!] 

John Riggott - Spain
    I believe that On the Lips of a Lion is one of the most enthralling novels that I have read in recent times, however I like all the novels that this Author has written up to the moment, the first I read was The Bringing Down of the Hawk, the one should be made into a film one day.     Having had the privilege of reading all of Roy's books, I can tell you that his writing exposes the unexpected, surprising the reader by unthought of situations and intriguing solutions.
     Keep writing Roy, I love your stories.
    El Whyman
Sue Hyde London UK
On the Lips of a Lion was a great read and I look forward to hearing all about your new eBooks.

Valentine - Auckland  New Zealand
Having had the privilege of reading all of Roy's books, I can tell you that his writing exposes the unexpected, surprising the reader by unthought of situations and intriguing solutions.

slydixon Auckland New Zealand.
All of Roy's books are real page turners. The Bringing Down of the Hawk was one of the first that I read and I highly recommend it.

El Whyman Orewa NZ
Once started, I cannot put his books down until the end. Keep writing Roy, I love your stories.

D.M.Lewis UK
Like Valentine above I have also had the privilege of reading all of Roy's books. I loved Lip of the Lion and have passed around my signed copy in the UK. Roy is a great writer: he has been my inspiration proving that you're never too old to rock'n'roll! The 'Hawk' demonstrates Roy's skill and experience, a thoroughly engaging read. What is the e-book equivalent of a page turner?

For serious readers only.

On now

A gripping 750 page family saga involving love, heartache, war, crime and retribution. The share market crash in October 1987 affected the lives of many New Zealanders. None more than that of Ted Starling, a childhood immigrant carried to those shores in 1946 in the wake of World War 2. Ted was ten years old when this story began and his father Staff Sergeant Eddie Starling was engaged with the 18th Battalion of the Second New Zealand Expeditionary Force combating the might of Rommel’s armour in North African desert. Eddie had survived the ravages of Dunkirk, but suffered severe injury in the wake of Rommel’s retreat. His shell-shocked body was transported in its amnesic condition to Auckland, New Zealand where a new life with a new identity was established. 

Fifty years of passion and intrigue, heartbreak and devotion are exposed as a father and a son grow together as New Zealanders to form an inseparable relationship. Their story crosses five continents and five decades to culminate in a powerful, well planned and particularly personal act of retribution. Young Teddy Starling had been distressed by the death of his mother in Flying Bomb attack that destroyed their home in South London, but was compensated when reunited with his father, thought dead in the African desert. Teddy Starling the boy grew to Ted Starling the man and life was good for the Starlings in Auckland. Eddie’s time in uniform in France and the desert is well documented as is Ted’s, as he matured to serve his two years for the queen in her khaki uniform. Exciting things happened in Egypt that re-established old relationships. Out of uniform once more Ted dedicated his life to that of his father and newly found friends in New Zealand. As a successful businessman Ted travelled to Sydney where he was was devastated by the sudden death of his father while away. On his return Ted decided his father, Eddie, had lost his life in suspicious circumstances and Ted’s one reason to live was to expose the one responsible. Ted’s plan was powerful and intrinsic, but became frustrated when he learned he had a terminal heart condition. He was advised his life expectancy was not sufficient to bring his adversary before the courts. His endeavours were further disrupted when the 1987 stock market crash claimed the life of the man he despised. Ted Starling recognised this death as fait accompli and now alone in the world he was satisfied his life after fifty years was at an end. Now the inexplicable happened; Ted fell in love. Dawn Graham, stunningly beautiful, ten years Ted’s junior and alarming rich and successful in her own right was smitten by Ted and failed to understand his reasons for rejecting her. Their story is a golden thread running through this family saga which is filled with delightful characters and  visits colourful locations in Australia and New Zealand and explores local culture. It describes in detail The Bringing Down of the Hawk, how and why. It is a tale of love and laughter, of dedication and loyalty, pain and passion that reaches from London’s East End through to the wilds of New Zealand’s North Island to domicile in Auckland City. It lingers in the outback of Australia’s Snowy Mountains, the bustle of Paddy’s Markets and the fearful iced terrain of Mount Erebus. It is a powerful family saga in which life and death fail to discriminate. (  US$5.99) Download now and become part of Ted Starling's story.

Don't boss him - don't cross him. 

He's wild in his sorrow.

His dream was Eden Park - Number 10 jersey. His nightmare Mt Eden Prison - cell block 10. A promising All Black rugby career shattered. A sentence of a life behind bars can do much to change a man’s thinking. ‘A grave miscarriage of justice,’ were the words on the paper the Minister of Justice had handed to Terry Stamp when it was decided after fourteen years of incarceration he had not killed his wife. ‘Go home, my man. Start your life again. You have plenty of good years remaining.’ Yes, plenty of good years to control the bitterness filling his heart and driving him on in his personal quest for his wife’s killer. He and Cavanagh had been married ten years when she was taken from him in a brutal attack by a spurned group of rugby supporters, when Terry Stamp was a name on everyone’s lips whenever All Black football was mentioned. It was a misinformed and foolish man who dared to say Terry wouldn’t pull on the number 10 jersey the next time the All Blacks ran onto the field. It was inferred he might even lead them. Cavanagh’s death changed everything and with the nation against him he was sent to prison. He was found unconscious and intoxicated in his smashed car close to where his wife had died. Her blood was on his clothes. Witness stated they had heard his words that day when he threatened to kill her. Five years of fruitless search has Terry accepting those responsible may never be brought to justice, but the double death of his closest friends in their home opens up an incredible line of inquiry. Ken and Jean Fraser died because it was thought they knew too much, but they died for what they didn’t know. They knew nothing. Terry’s quest carries him to the gates of Maidstone Prison in Kent to meet an unsavoury character who has first hand information on the killing of twenty years earlier. Paedophilic Elliott Page has personal knowledge of the men who raped and strangled Cavanagh Stamp, an act of lust, but also retribution for being punched out by Terry at an after-match function on the night of the murder. Elliott Page has been blackmailing the killer with the intention of revealing all to a ‘glossy weekly’ for a substantial sum. The killer is ready to pay and ready to kill again. Terry Stamp is also prepared to pay and he ups the price. Too many innocent people have died because of these people and he is too far into this game now to quit. He knows they were responsible, not for Cavanagh’s death alone, but also for the death of his friends in Auckland. The trail of death and destruction widens as Terry follows the killer back to New Zealand and calls for settlement on a long overdue account. In the twenty bears since being falsely accused several people at that after match function in 2016 have aspired to responsible positions in the legal profession and in the field of New Zealand Rugby Union. When Terry Stamp starts to turn over stones certain individuals start to rock on their pedestals and Terry vows to be there when they come tumbling down. Terry needs no help in his venture. He has nothing to lose and has dreamed about this day of reckoning for twenty years. The scene grows decidedly ugly when he finally ‘takes his guns to town.’ This is a graphic account of a lonely man, wild in his sorrow, and hell bent on revenge. There are many intriguing characters as Terry is ruthless in his desire to pay back just a little of what is owed. ( - US$2.99)

A trail of vengeance around the world.

He will never get away.

There Is No Hiding Place.

World War 2, 1940. For 76 consecutive nights Adolph Hitler unleashed the fury of his Luftwaffe on Britain’s largest city in a nonstop hail of bombs that had helpless civilians wilting under their blast. Step Green was three weeks old and his sister Tess two years when the Green family of eleven siblings sought refuge from the bombing and in desperation were evacuated from London’s East End and dispatched to sympathetic countries of the British Empire to evade the Fuehrer’s wrath. 77 child evacuees drowned when a German U-boat sank the ocean liner City of Benares on which they travelled. Having been assessed as being too young to travel, Step and Tess were sent to East Anglia to live with an aunt where they were reasonably safe from the war, but never safe from death which lurked in the hedgerows of Poplar Farm. Tess was brutally killed and at twelve years of age Step’s loyalty and love for his sister committed him to a lifetime of retribution during which he travelled the world to satisfy his childhood vow to avenge her death. The killer was punished by the courts, but ‘never enough’, said Step who pursued that killer, released under a new identity along his trail of freedom to Auckland New Zealand. It was there Step learned to love and to forgive and begin a new life with a brother he thought had perished in a dramatic action on the high seas. With murder and arson in the headlines of Auckland newspapers it was judged Step Green had administered his own version of justice. Throughout the trial he refused to plead his innocence and was committed to Mt Eden Prison for life. Guilty, or not guilty? You be the judge. (   US$2.99)

Shake hands with a dead man?

It was too late for introductions. You don’t shake hands with a dead man; especially one who has had the fingers and thumbs of both hands severed at the first joint. Phi Rudolph Auckland CID knew he had the job ahead of him as he took stock of Anton Clegg Chairman of the Board of Air-Chill Cold Storage strapped in his chair in his private office at 3am on a disturbing Sunday in the middle of winter. Here was a man who was going nowhere other than the morgue from a place that resembled an abattoir more than a cold store.Chief Inspector Philip Rudolph didn’t need a coroner to tell him Clegg had used up his life’s supply of group something blood. There was a gory trail of investigation ahead for Auckland's top policeman. Prime suspect Greg Parkinson was drunk enough and sober enough to leave his car after a Saturday night birthday binge and wander into the loading bay of a city warehouse for shelter. He heard somebody’s death cries and stumbled upon the butchered body of Anton Clegg. Clegg who is a white collar criminal who excels in misappropriating investors funds. The question had to be raised -'Is it Anton Clegg? His identical twin brother is knight of the realm Sir Alexander Clegg, philanthropist. The two are often mistaken for each other. Who was the one slain in that Auckland City cold store? No fingers means no fingerprints which makes it hard to confirm the identity of the bloodied remains. Sir Alex was in Brunei on business which further frustrates immediate identification. And so began the chapters of corruption, murder and suspicion. Anton Clegg was not unknown to Greg Parkinson who with Clegg’s blood on him was the immediate suspect. It was one of Clegg’s investment companies those years before that had eaten up in excess of a million dollars of Greg’s money and in the process destroyed his marriage. ‘I was Taken by Experts,’ Greg told the police who were keen to connect him to the crime in the cold store. This story is more intricate than that, however, with a string of dead bodies and savage deeds reaching from the Eastern Bay of Plenty to the Bay of Islands; from Hamilton City in New Zealand to The Rocks on the waterfront of Sydney. The strange happenings at The Stables, the home of Sir Alex add spice to a story which has leading characters disappearing with Sir Alex himself, succumbing to a stroke which leaves him immobilized. He is then at the mercy of discriminate people such as his head groom Benjamin Scully and his personal physician and surgeon John Delmage. Add to the mix the devious dealing of barrister Wolfgang Blauner who has clear intentions of redirecting the entire content of the Clegg empire into a private funding account which will be shared by a select number of operators. The mystery deepns and suspicions are raised with the disappearance of Sir Alex Clegg’s housekeeper, Yvonne Barns who has been his personal friend and servant for twenty years. How dangerous, or how harmless is Wannenburg Morne, the square-headed South African ex rugby player, master carpenter and cabinet maker, whose face had been rearranged so many times in the front row of the scrum his own mother would have had difficulty recognising him? Answering only to the name Shark, his service in the French Foreign Legion has fine-tuned his hard, unforgiving nature which never encourages long friendships. He conforms well to the job description laid down by the main players in this game of life, death and elimination. This is an exciting plot of extortion and corrupt activity; fast moving and seething with interesting characters trying hard to remain alive. All are members of the hardest school of criminals who know better than to turn their backs of those working beside them. Twists and turns will have you guessing through to the last pages. This is vicious crime at its most ruthless executed by hardened criminals who allow no one to stand in their way. ( US$2.99)

Grizzly happenings in Auckland and Clevedon New Zealand.

Treacherous New Zealand crime

 seeping from these pages.

Do you crave for New Zealand crime?? New Zealand crime? You have it here in spades as terror and violent death is loose in the Catlins of the South Island. An animal’s only reason for killing is food. This Catlin’s killer is not an animal, but a monster with another reason to kill. What is that reason? Gloria Stuart’s dead body is found in her home, a remote farmhouse in the Clutha Valley; brutally murdered, stabbed to death in a savage attack. In the main bedroom the unconscious form of her husband Angus is found, covered in blood and reeking of alcohol. The jury’s verdict was concise, delivered in a short time. Guilty as charged; life imprisonment said the judge. The one child of this marriage was son Andrew, sixteen years old and in his first year of extended study at University. Since the cradle father and son had been at odds with each other and on many occasions as Andrew reach adolescence Angus had invited him to leave home. ‘Don’t come back, ever.’ With the death of his mother Andrew had more reason to hate his father. He broke from school and travelled the world. Angus served fourteen years of a life sentence before being freed. He returned to his home, the scene of the crime on 200 acres of land. After a week following his release he was found hanging in the hallway of the house with a note asking his son for forgiveness. Andrew’s love for his mother was unequalled. He returned with bitterness in his heart unable to forgive. His purpose was to claim his heritage and sell the land with its derelict home, but he is puzzled by the fact someone has been tending his mother’s grave since the time she was laid to rest. Andrew finds death and fear stalk the valley. The Otago towns have been troubled by the disappearance of children and strangers are met with the same distrust as that extended to locals. He finds his land is a sought after commodity and stalls over an offer from a local land baron who has had ownership of the land on a perpetual lease since the killing. Andrew is reunited with his sole surviving relative, Blind Robbie, a blind banjo picking grandfather who settled in the Catlins as a pioneer in the days of steam and logging. As Andrew learns of his family history from Blind Robbie, the ‘house of secrets’, on the banks of the Clutha, burns. Andrew is drawn deeply into another disappearance which threatens the new relationships he is establishing. Blind Robbie’s tales of early New Zealand are enthralling and Andrew learns of an uncle he never knew who had left the district hurriedly before Andrew’s birth. Andrew is introduced to a lifelong friend of his father, Jack Johnson, and their relationship endures the fear and distrust that lurks in the Catlins and surrounding areas. From Jack, Andrew learns much about his father and is in turmoil as he considers his past and the temptation to alter his opinion about the man he called father. Rebecca Johnson, Jack’s daughter, has never recovered from the trauma of her fifteenth birthday when her twin sister, Rachelle, disappeared on a routine shopping trip into town. No trace of Rachelle was ever found which added to the horror of local legend. Andrew is attracted to Rebecca and she to him, but he is unable to breakdown the barrier of distrust that has existed between her and society since Rachelle’s disappearance. With demand for his land growing and attractive cash offers being made by other sources Andrew decides to sell, but is sucked into a vortex of horror as an old school friend disappears. Both Banjo Robbie and Jack Johnson know the secret of the Stuart home and this story reaches a climax when Andrew Stuart comes face to face in terrifying circumstances with the perpetrators of the horrendous crimes that have plagued the Clutha Valley for twenty years. ( US$2.99)

How would he know? As far as he knew his mother never knew his father.

Heartache and double cross in New South Wales Australia. Brad Mason had never known a father’s love. Whenever he raised the question his mother’s answer was always the same. ‘He was a good man.’ Tilly Mason was a hooker on Kings Cross. Brad left Sydney on her death to seek seclusion in the outback. Trees, a paddock, a stream, no electricity, and no people, all this enabled him to fulfil his dream; play guitar and paint. His landscapes were good. Lester Arnold, an ex-patriot Nashville musician, recognised the potential of Brad’s paintings and displayed his work in his steak-house on the Princes Highway. Success created new friends for Brad. He was welcomed into a world of country music, romance and intrigue. Laurie Anderson was a Sydney police sergeant on late shift when attracted by smoke billowing from a boarding house on Darlinghurst. He entered the burning building and rescued a young woman, left her on the road and returned to the flames to save her companion. Tilly Mason watched as firemen carried Laurie from the blaze and was by his bed the day the bandages were removed from his sixty five per cent burns. She was not repulsed by the synthetic mask that was now his face. For Laurie the prospect of rehabilitation was long, but Tilly was there and supported him. Tilly continued to work at her profession, but stood by Laurie, and fell in love. When she lay with him she saw only the beauty within, but would not give up her profession and continued to do what she did best. Laurie grew strong enough to re-enter the work force. His reputation as a police officer bore him in good stead for a position with a security company. His daily routine saw him responsible for the collection of large sums of money. Life continued to be cruel for Laurie, but acceptable he lost the one thing in the world he cared about. Tilly died and left a legacy that tested his emotions to the full. She revealed she’d had a son by him many years before; her only child. The boy had no knowledge of his father. His name was Brad, a young man, running from life, grieving over a lost mother and yearning for a father he didn’t have. Laurie Anderson, a ruin of a man, became inspired by the search for his son. They were two torn individuals, each a vital character in a twisting tale of romance and intrigue. Enter Nick Burgess, a Sydney property developer renowned for his orchestrated failure of investment companies. Well engineered legal representation had seen him defy conviction. As a law-enforcer it was Laurie’s personal crusade to bring Burgess down. Laurie set up a meeting and used the developer’s greed to invite Burgess into an elaborate money-making scheme. Laurie convinced the man nothing could go wrong. Something did go wrong. Laurie Anderson, a senior security officer was convicted of theft as a servant. He walked free three years later to find Nick Burgess and his team of thugs waiting for him. There followed a battle of wits as the authorities and Nick Burgess competed for the millions of dollars missing four years before. Brad Mason was coming to terms with life. He no longer felt alone. The time he spent with Lester Arnold and his wife Alice became special. They welcomed him into their circle where the joy of country music opened up a new world to him. Lester explained how music was an hereditary trait. As fate guided father and son nearer to each other Brad was forced to ask of himself,– “Did my father play guitar?” This was an innocent question to which he would be handed the answer, once Laurie Anderson had settled his score with Nick Burgess. ( US$2.99)

Austral-Asian crime and intrigue.

Yours on - now.


Charlie Lampton was a star; Master of the House and as he proclaimed on stage, ‘the best innkeeper in town,’ but he was a slave to his destiny as he lost his wife through a ruptured marriage, his house through the pressure of a massive mortgage and everything he owned to the hands of thieves. With life at its lowest things were destined to get worse when his best friend and theatrical understudy died in suspicious circumstances. It was then a chance meeting with retired Sydney police detective Stephen Haynes restored Charlie’s faith in human nature as the two work together to salvage love and logic from the shattered remains of a brilliant career. It all happens Downtown Sydney - The Rocks - Circular Quay - Stephen Haynes, a top police officer whose overindulgence in everything resulted in him degenerating to a high degree, returns to Sydney after a rehabilitating experience on the hills of Tibet. His double agenda has him in town to sell his assets and reunite with his daughter for her twenty first birthday. The indiscretions of earlier times have been lessons in life for Steve from which he has learned well and the years spent on the slopes of the Himalayas have fashioned him into a new and wiser person. Now he is in control to consolidate his relationship with his daughter, sell his property and return to Tibet. At breakfast he meets Charlie Lampton, thespian, who has a leading role in the top musical production in Sydney. Charlie intends to quit the show at the end of the season when it moves to Perth; which is now. There are too many ghosts in Perth for Charlie. Steve and Charlie strike up a sound relationship and Steve learns of the misfortunes that have befallen the actor. His best friend, and understudy, Leslie Due has gone missing from his home in mysterious circumstances and Charlie’s actress wife has run away to New Zealand with her leading man. Charlie’s house has been burgled and everything he owned has been taken; even his car from the garage. He is left only with the clothes he wears. Steve Haynes explains to Charlie it is only a matter of time before all these problems will be solved by the police and those responsible taken to task; except for the wife problem which is a matter of the heart. Charlie tells Steve he has little faith in police methods for there has been a nil result until now. Steve decides to help Charlie when Leslie Due’s broken body is recovered from the motorway and is placed in intensive care. Leslie Due’s daughter arrives from London and it is her decision to terminate the life support which sustains her father. The story takes a three way split with Steve reconciling with his first wife and mother of his daughter. Steve solves the intricate case of home burglary and theft; and Charlie becoming smitten by Lisa Due, daughter of Leslie. Charlie and Lisa first meet at her father’s funeral where he is amazed to learn of her true identity which is Leanne Page, the leading film actress and Oscar winner. Charlie is smitten by Leanne Page; movie star supreme. Steve Haynes becomes further involved in the investigation of the murder of Leslie Due and with his expertise is able to end the inquiry with a satisfactory conclusion. Follow Steve as he uses advanced skills of the mind to pick apart the seams of two ingenious conspiracies. Strong characters and two crafty plots intermingle in this Sydney-side mystery. Here we have a stirring story of the heart, overshadowed by murder and intrigue in the shadows of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House. Charlie Lampton, star of the show, answers the cries of his heart. He forsakes his place in the footlights in the musical extravaganza of the century and surrenders a place in the cast; a role which he declares is, ‘Something to Kill For.’ For Charlie, a cat looking at a king, there is hope of a fresh start and new life in the responses of movie queen Leanne Page; a fresh start too for Steve Haynes. Maybe he won’t return to Tibet. ( US$2.99)

Friday, 6 November 2015

From London to New Zealand Laurie Davidson spent twenty five years travelling the world with his guitar pumping out his music as a busker on the cobbles and in the markets, wearing the personal injustice heaped upon him like a badge of honour. There was no other way. He was a proud man and took the social rejections on the chin, picked himself up and was straight back into it. When down and out there was but one way for him to go and that was up and he wouldn’t be stopped. Four years of prison was a hard school for a young man who lost most of what he loved when punished for a crime he did not commit, but he came to realise the friends who remained at his side were true friends who loved him in spite of what he did, or didn’t do. Caught in the act in front of an empty safe with a hold-all containing £48,000 at his feet, a security officer unconscious and bleeding in an alleyway; there could be little argument. It’s a fair cop, guv’ner. None the less the presiding justice failed to be impressed by his plea of ‘Not Guilty, m’lud’ and was further disturbed by his lack of remorse when handing down a sentence of 5 years. Forty years of Laurie’s life are exposed in these pages as he battles with honour and trust in a stirring family saga that puts loyalty and forgiveness to the most demanding test. Rejected by society he chooses to leave England in search of the man who took the lives of those most dear to him; that he might find the strength and understanding to forgive him. Journey’s end is in New Zealand and it takes twenty years of experience and learning for him to return to England and fulfil what he knows to be his purpose in life.. His best friend saves his life and uses that act to betray him and condemn him to 5 years prison. Laurie Davidson rises above that and uses the hardest experiences of life to fine tune himself into a forgiving character whose love for people and music transprts him 10,000 miles around the world in search of the man who killed those most dear to him; that he might forgive him and cleanse his soul.                                          Load your Kindle now on - US$2.99

              11 New Crime novels 

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 It is happening here! 

 11 new crime novels - written to thrill you.

Page-turning tension 
is yours to own now .