Young Writer's story : Penelope Gracefield

 

Remembering my first story

by Penelope Gracefield

 

If you’ve grown up in a large family you might be able to relate to there being quite a number of people around the dinner table. In our family, this meant old people, young people, funny people- all sorts of people.  Sometimes these folk told stories. Sometimes they just gossiped and told jokes. Sometimes they brought their dogs, cats or pet voles with them, and sometimes they came alone. There was always warmth and laughter and there was certainly never silence. 

Being allowed to stay up at the table as the youngest child was a treat and if it wasn’t allowed there was always the option of sneaking down later, hiding under the large round table and nudging one of my brothers for the odd snack to be handed to me in secret. Having to go to bed early and hear the fun and laughter that was happening downstairs never seemed very fair. The reason I mention all this, is these people were and still are my inspiration for story writing.

Usually I knew all of these folk, but sometimes I didn’t. There were family members of course and then people would seem to just turn up to be with the family: friends, boyfriends, girlfriends and occasionally Irish priests would make themselves at home, cosy up and delight in my mothers cooking. It didn’t seem to phase her and there was always food. Of the many characters I grew up with were one brother who wanted to be a rock star, another brother who grew a beard and told me he was a werewolf, a sister who wanted to be a fashion designer and a grandmother who wore large hats and pearls when she gardened. There was a lovely old lady dad used to help with bright pink hair and then there were the neighbours. 

I was quite quiet. I would sit, I would stare, I would listen. Sometimes I liked the folk who came to visit and sometimes they were too loud. I listened nonetheless. I absorbed their merry tales and soaked up the laughter. It was a happy place, when there weren’t tears and tantrums of course, but mostly all I remember is the stories they told and the stories their own interesting lives created.

I remember one night an old man knocking on the door. It was very late and a balmy summer evening so it had only just got dark. I remember rushing to the window with my older sister and trying to get a closer look at this mysterious late night visitor. We listened quiet as mice, trying to make out what he was saying.  In the light-dark we could make out a small man in a long coat with wellingtons, carrying a case and a bible.

‘Well hello there, came a strong Irish accent.’

‘Goodness, hello. What can I do for you,’  came my mothers surprised reply.

‘Well I was just in this neck of the woods, at ten thirty and I remembered you were here’  came the reply from Father Michael. The penny obviously dropped as my mother realised who he was.

I remember in my young undeveloped mind thinking how strange it was that this mysterious visitor had the same name as my father, but he was in fact a priest and a distant relative of my mothers- a little lost apparently in London and not passing up the opportunity for a natter late at night and a cup of tea or bite to eat- just one example of the characters who fascinated me when they knocked on the door. 

The first story I ever wrote was about a young maid working in a big house in Victorian London. I had no knowledge really of what a maid was and admittedly they never knocked on our door, but my mother did mention the word ‘maid’ in jest when she picked up my school uniform off the floor on several occasions in my teens.  She unfortunately fell down a hole in the road, but through this portal ended up on quite an adventure (The maid not my mother).  I was about 9 when I wrote it. I was so in love with the idea I decided to make a series of book marks to go with the tale and tried to get my family to buy them. I don’t think I made much and my book sadly never got published. 

At college I wrote a story about a family of eccentric actors. It was based on relatives and much to their relief I’m sure, if they had known about it, I left it on a train in Surrey. It’s in a large notebook if you ever find it. 

My father was and is still an inspiration. He became a technical writer, following a busy marketing job in Camden, and focussed for much of his work on writing travel guides which seemed to me the most interesting job in the world. He often worked with people on different time zones and I remember him working late into the night often to catch people on the phone when I was a teenager, singing along to some jazz song with his beautiful husky voice. 

These days he suffers with advanced dementia. I remind him of the things he did and he smiles and laughs. It seems amazing to me and some comfort that we can tap into the human brain and humour when we really know someone- but that’s another story. His advice to all of us was to read anything and everything. He told us to write about what we knew about- something I think Anne of Green Gables had to admit to herself after the failure of her first story. (I think I would have liked to have been her).  He advised, along with my mother who tried no matter what we might be failing at, to instill a sense of self-belief. Something I try and rekindle when it wavers as it inevitably does.

Other people who inspire me, apart from Anne of Green Gables and my parents are people who just manage to simply write for a living. People who pick up on the idiosyncrasies of humans and write. Writers who find the funny in every situation and have human nature pegged. I am still in love with Roald Dahl and his humour and I will always have a very soft spot for Sherlock Holmes. Two very different worlds of course. I love the humour of all of PJ Wodehouse and Tom Sharpe’s story, Porterhouse blue. I read too many books of different genres concurrently and I am assured by everyone I know that this is not normal. I’d love to know if there is anyone else out there who doesn’t agree and I apologise to my daughter for passing on the affliction. 

In my thirties I returned to writing. I wrote letters to friends to make them laugh. I wrote emails to humour people. I wrote anything I could to keep myself smiling at times when I was sleep deprived with young children and couldn’t make a sandwich without squirting mayonnaise in my eyes, or get up the stairs once they were in bed without stopping for a snooze on the staircase. I wrote largely to help other people smile and in return they asked me to keep writing. I promised I would. 

It’s the characters and people we meet along the way who still feed my imagination, much as they did as a child. I’m currently writing three stories. One is about the fall and rise of a certain young lady, one is based on a village from a bizarre aerial perspective and another is about a peculiar marriage and a stalker. I promise I will try and focus on one. 

You can find me occasionally in the evenings between a glass of wine and sixteen books on Instagram at Penelope_gracefield 

Penelope Gracefield
Young writer