JOY, GRIEF & THE POWER OF COLOUR

THE VICTORIAN HOUSE that I grew up in contained secrets within its walls. Built in 1887 on the outskirts of the industrialised city of Manchester, each time my father peeled back a layer of wallpaper, I imagined the lives of the people who had gone before us. People who had lived there and survived.

When I was eight years old I stumbled upon a startling discovery in our dark, windowless cellar. I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday.

My parents told me that I could go anywhere in the house, but they made me promise never to go into the cellar. Inquisitive by nature and curious to discover what lurked beneath the floorboards, I waited for the moment to seize my chance. When the opportunity came I opened the cellar door and stepped inside. I flicked on the light switch and found myself at the top of a steep set of stone stairs. The air smelt musty. My heart pounded. I held on to the makeshift bannister which was made from twisted rope and ambled down into the cellar. I glanced back over my left shoulder towards the inviting glow emitting from the open door which led to the kitchen. For a moment I considered going back, but something propelled me forward.

At the bottom of the stairs I discovered a small passageway. It was there that I noticed something very peculiar. All the bricks were red, which was normal for a Victorian property. However, my eye fell upon a dark grey brick which looked out of place. I stepped closer and placed my hand on the brick. It wobbled like a loose tooth. A couple of gentle tugs and it came free. I fell back and watched as several tiny red spiders escaped from a silk egg sac. I covered my mouth to stifle a scream. As the muffled voices of my parents came from the room above me, it was then that I noticed something else. Hidden deep within the cavity of the wall was a pair of children’s spectacles. They were inside a striking black coffin case which was velvet lined. Later I would discover that they were from the Victorian era.

For now, however, I dashed back up the stairs, two at a time. With my startling discovery in my hand, I burst into the kitchen, much to my parents’ surprise.

Now, as a young girl, I would often visit my next door neighbour, Irene. She was a retired geography teacher. We would sit for hours together listening to classical music and watching slide shows of her expeditions to Egypt. I was captivated by the mummies buried in the pyramids in there. One day, Irene told me all about the Christmas Blitz in December 1940 and it was then that I made another astonishing discovery.

‘Did I ever tell you about the family that hid in your cellar to escape the bombs in World War II?’ she asked. ‘In my cellar?’ I responded. ‘Yes,’ she replied, through watery eyes. I shook my head and then listened intently as Irene recounted the horrifying story of bombs falling like confetti on that Christmas Eve of 1940.

‘We all hid in our cellars,’ Irene explained. ‘The sound of bombs whistling all around us was absolutely terrifying. The houses kept us safe. When we came out of our cellars on Christmas morning, the windows were all blackened from the force of the bombs. Houses a short distance away were blown up. Entire families had been killed. However, we survived.’

Irene told me how they tried to carry on as normal as they celebrated Christmas underground that year. People brought small Christmas trees into their cellars and underground shelters. They even hung decorations up and sang carols as bombs fell from the sky.

It was my experience of living in this house that inspired me to become a writer. I am fascinated by the way people lived through extraordinary times – and survived. It’s a recurring theme in my children’s books and so every time I start work on a new book I stay in an old house or in an historic Irish Landmark Trust building. I walk around the grounds and research the history of the place.

The houses we live in have stories to tell. I allow them to speak to me. When writing historical fiction you need to step back in time and try to see the world through another person’s eyes.

I often wonder about the child who owned the spectacles that I found hidden in the walls of my cellar. Or the family who hid in that cellar to escape the bombs on Christmas Eve 1940. Whatever became of them?

As I sit at my desk on gloomy winter’s morning, struggling to find inspiration, I think of the child who might tentatively pick up my book in a library or a bookstore. I imagine how they will open the book and begin to read word by word, sentence by sentence. Until eventually they are catapulted into another world.

An imaginary world, where magic happens, where the past is brought to life.

My parents made me promise never to go into the cellar but, inquisitive by nature, I waited to seize my chance