THE
TRIVIA :
I actually started this manuscript back
in 1999, a true story that cried out to be told, but I struggled with it for a
long time, just couldn't seem to do it justice, and it finished up in the good
old vacuum cleaner box in the cupboard for several years. But in 2009 a serious
health scare shook up life no end, and the upshot was a re-appraisal of what
time may be left to do all this stuff, and it was dusted off.
Herself and I have a favourite
six-mornings-a-week café down on the "High Street", run by an
Aus/Italian couple who've just about become family in the last six years, and
over the last two I rewrote this entire story right there at "our"
table any time Herself was off doing Herself things, and by some magic the
characters truly (finally) danced on the page. But Frank and Betty's coffees
helped no end.
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THE
BLURB :
Jemma’s father is Irish-Australian, is
young and vain and has few parental instincts. He is addicted to port, the
horses, and women. Jemma’s mother is emigrant English, is young and naïve and
also has few parental instincts. She is addicted to a teenage notion of love
and romance.
Jemma accepts her mother as she is,
but in the earlier years she carries a flickering hope her father may yet rise
above his addictions, until their stuttering relationship is irrevocably
destroyed by his own hand.
But Jemma is an aimsitheoir - she will
find things - safety pins, money, buttons, branches hanging low with fruit, a
hollow tree, a scraggy white cat, a frog the colour of mud, a barefoot Irish
girl with a basket of kelp. She will also find horror, courage, grief, grit,
music, her voice, an excess of laughter, and several versions of God, and –
eventually – wings.
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