I have just heard that the Guernseyman, a post-war magazine edited by my late father, Harry Brown, is to be featured in the Guernsey Press to coincide with the first ever Guernsey Literary Festival which runs from May 12-15 2011. Organised by the Guernsey Arts Commission, the festival will be an ideal way for everyone to get to know more about the island's past and discover the creative yearning it has inspired in so many people. It's the stuff dreams are made of...
Monday, 28 February 2011
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
A taste of my new novel...
A full moon cast shadows over the blackened rocks as two figures stumbled along the cliff path.
‘Have you done this before?’ He pulled the brambles aside.
‘Done what?’
‘This walk, in the blackout. If the Germans catch you they’ll shoot.’
‘Not when I’m with you, Reverend Martel, surely?’
‘I’m not immune, Lydia
‘And I’m still free.’ She forced her way past him. ‘Why did you have to follow me?’
‘I was worried, that’s all. Tell me what’s wrong.’ A cloud passed over the moon, plunging them into darkness.
‘Nothing.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, if you must know, it’s Otto Kruger. I think he suspects something. He’s been behaving strangely recently.’
‘Damn the bloody Commandant. I’m sick of hearing you talk about him. I hope he burns in hell.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lydia
Martin winced as the name left her lips. ‘Of course I know. And you’re doing a grand job from what I can gather.’
‘A job you asked me to do, don’t forget.’
‘I didn’t ask you, if you remember.’
‘But you didn’t stop me either…’
‘What was I supposed to do?’ Get down on my knees and beg?’ His face contorted. ‘They’ll give you sainthood after the war and raise a flag on Castle Cornet. “Saint Lydia
‘STOP IT, STOP IT…’ Her hand struck his jaw with a loud crack.
A trickle of blood ran down his chin.
‘I deserved that,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his knuckle. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me?’ He turned, abruptly, striding back down the path and disappeared into the night.
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