Behind The Story

I recall holding Dad’s typewritten notes about the family business, and seeing the striking photographs of my grandfathers in heavy oak frames at the factory. In particular, the one of Matthew, my three times great grandfather. His gruff face and piercing eyes stayed with me when I read Dad’s notes about Matthew running away from home aged ten. He started the business during the Industrial Revolution. Imagine, just imagine…his blood in my veins. All that determination and dynamic power. ​ Five generations later, I witnessed what happened to the family business. My parents endured an indescribable burden of responsibility. Fighting desperately, they surrendered everything they had, their savings, their health, their family. We were all broken. I watched, my holistic health training enabling me to hold space for this story to unfold. Dad saved his notes. “We’ll write the book one day,” he said. Countless boxes went into their attic; the pictures of my grandfathers sat by them, gathering spider detritus. ​Dad died, and Mum made me save the boxes. “We need to write the book, don’t throw those away.” They went into my attic. My brother and I rebuilt our "broken" relationship and, in so doing, I learned about perspectives and how everyone has their own truth, their own versions. Determined not to let bitterness destroy me, I learned to listen without judgement and to hear all those who told me their version of the story. It was everyone's truth. A few difficult years later, I found peace with Mum on a 'soul level' as she was dying: this was a magical experience of true and unconditional love. I believed then that all the healing had been done; so, I dragged the boxes down to the bonfire at the bottom of the garden. ‘Enough of this never-ending promise to write the book,’ I thought. I tossed pages into the flames; handwritten accounts from Dad, typed letters and notes. My heart was heavy, but I told myself, I did not have the talent to do credit to such a story. The family will heal itself in time. Then loud words reverberated in my head. “STOP, you still have to write the book.” I stopped. I knew it was Dad’s voice. I sighed and questioned; do I have the ability to do this? There was an unspoken view that a woman in this family meant a person of less ability than the men. The men were the earners, the bringers of bacon home to their women. Yet, Mum and my grandmothers were immensely strong. They were fiery, dynamic, powerful women who allowed their men to think they were 'in charge', but the women were living their lives boldly, even within the control dictated by the men. Times were changing. Dust gathered on the boxes and the pictures, and I promised them, ‘one day’. Then on 29th December 2023, I was sitting at a table with Rick Armstrong of Fisher King Publishing, who asked if I had a book in me. I smiled and regaled him with the story of the boot in the door and the ten-year-old boy. The publisher pinned me with his eyes, “Write the book,” he said. I sent him the first chapter, and so it began.