It may not be a feelgood story, but I do genuinely believe my novel The Choreography of Ghosts would make an ideal Christmas present. Indeed, it contains three full chapters in which the story develops over the festive period, leading to the climax of the story. Try these samples below and, if you enjoy them and fancy more, the book can be ordered from Amazon or Waterstones online, or physically bought from The Makers Emporium in Rotherham or The Stripey Badger in Grassington. There’s a Kindle version too or you can simply click on this link and order:
https://shop.ingramspark.com/b/084?params=N8ZtXzl0FigrVbpiIDc634iugNXG7fllvZA3Y2ZeSvR
Some Festive Cheer And A Little Hope
Briefly, he again contemplated what Marianna would have been doing if she was still alive. The realisation that they had never spent a Christmas together set him questioning once again what it would have been like if she was here, or even if they were back in England. But what good was all this thinking doing? He managed to wrestle the thought away instead of dwelling on it. It was December 20, around 4.45pm and the sun was setting, the darkness and cold combining to give the harbour a spooky feeling, rendering the figures walking about near the sea’s edge mere silhouettes, their arms waving, bodies twisting and turning, reflecting ghost-like in and in front of the water as they went about their tasks around their boats or preparing their restaurants for the evening. The bars began to light up, mostly white, providing a sharp contrast between the immediate light and that in the distance, where coloured lights twinkled. Morrison zipped up his coat and put his hands in his pockets. Carols were being played in a nearby bar, at least he thought they were until he realised these were not pre-recorded but were the high-pitched warming sounds of a children’s choir. They were singing his favourite, which was also the one that made him most mournful. “In the bleak mid-winter, Frosty wind made moan; Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter, Long ago,” they sang in English, which surprised Morrison, who bowed his head as the sadness born from beauty gripped him. His mind conjured up an image of a parade of ghostly figures, stooped, carrying lanterns in memory of lost close ones, the lights dimming as those holding them also faded and crossed over to be reunited with those they once knew and loved. He barely heard another word until they finished: “What can I give him, Poor as I am? If I were a Shepherd I would bring a lamb; If I were a Wise Man I would do my part, Yet what I can I give him, Give my heart.” A young girl held out a collecting tin in front of him and, hoping she would not notice his watery eyes, he managed to produce a smile as he dropped a €2 coin into it. It really felt like Christmas now, but he had only to cast his eyes above the harbour and up towards the decaying castle in the air from which no fairy lights twinkled and no angels sang to feel the punch of sadness once more. A near empty shell in which only badness and cruelty were captured, the only voices emerging from crushed souls the bitter ghosts of Christmases past, the only lights from the candles they carried to see their way along the cold corridors they walked. Calling in at The Star of The Sea, Morrison decided he would have a glass of red, clapping his hands together to keep out the cold as he ordered from the woman, who was smiling at him, and almost he felt, recognising his emotion, his trauma. “Ah, the quiet man I spoke to in Franco’s bar one fine evening some time ago. A bit of a thinker, I recall. The shape of your face as the sadness overcame you just then gave you away as it always does when I see you, just like on the night when I told you that you cannot see when you are so deep in thought and you miss the sunshine.” Morrison recalled the conversation almost word for word but just nodded nervously, impressed by her quick assessment of him, but aware of a gentle teasing in her words and tone. Now, what was her name? He thought Pino had called her Gabriella. In fact, he was sure he had, but decided he had better not use that name in case he was mistaken. She looked different. Older perhaps, thinner maybe, but still friendly-faced. The waiter, a young man, returned with his drink and the woman raised hers across the bar as if to toast him. She remained talking to a customer and Morrison could not decide if she might like him in a special way — as had been suggested — or not and whether he would ever want that to happen to him again anyway. People had said he was not bad looking, but the mirrors told him a different story. He had tried to take care of himself, even through the years of heavy drinking, using moisturisers and other skin products on a daily basis. He had less hair than he once had, there were lines on his forehead and around his blue eyes, which had lost some of their sparkle, but could on occasion smile. His face was friendly, even kind, he thought, but given to betraying his mood. People often said he looked sad, but mostly he was merely quiet. Marianna hadn’t minded his appearance or character and maybe the owner of The Star of the Sea didn’t either. He finished his drink, paid the waiter and waved goodbye to Gabriella, yes, that was definitely her name, who was deep in conversation with someone but noticed him leaving, hurried over and hugged him warmly — strange for a person he didn’t really know — telling him to relax, enjoy Christmas and maybe share a drink with her early in the new year. He would do all of that, he promised. At the very least, he would enjoy it more than anyone in the Bianchi household ever had, he thought but did not say. *** Christmas songs played and from where he sat Morrison could make out people buzzing about the square, moving between bars as the dance of the night quickened its tempo. At around 10pm he decided it was time to leave, caught Franco’s eye and pushed some money into his hand, which he at first refused but then agreed to take as a contribution to the next day’s food and drink. As he turned the key in his lock he made the sudden decision to clear the air with Rossi, knocked on his door and invited him in for a couple of limoncellos which seemed an appropriate way to finish a Christmas Eve. “We can’t go on like this, Rossi, avoiding each other, not talking properly, you not having a go at me at every available opportunity,” he said. “People will wonder what has happened. We can’t ruin their Christmas.” Rossi at first looked down at the ground, then raised his head, grinned and said: “What kind of a bloody inconsiderate neighbour wakes you up at this sort of time? An English one, of course.” ********* Tears, hugs and laughs followed, and a toast to friends by Franco, who then disappeared into the kitchen, returning with more Barolo. Morrison puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, Rossi gave a sympathetic and almost apologetic smile, Pino, Luigi and Tommaso all stayed silent, their faces more relaxed as the tension subsided. The Christmas spirit had dipped but the group had been won over by Morrison and Franco shed a tear as Morrison told more of Marianna, her father, her mother, the deaths and the dilapidated, rejected building. “Mr Morrison, please, do not set me off, the woman in your picture, Marianna, she looks so beautiful, and this is a sad story that can have no happy ending, but you can gain some closure and that is what you must do before you can fully move on with your life and then you will be a true Padrian.” “To Mr Morrison and Padria,” shouted Tommaso, unusually loud and effusive, more confident, his semi-permanent bemused expression almost unnoticeable, perhaps due in part to the alcohol he had consumed. His raised glass was met with equally loud echoes of “Mr Morrison and Padria” from around the table and Pino brought out a bottle of port. “We must all do what we believe Morrison and no-one would begrudge you giving that arsehole Bianchi a piece of your mind and punching him square in the face,” Rossi, his confidence returning, added. It was early evening now and becoming chilly under the canopy. Rossi suggested they go inside the restaurant proper and maybe play some games. It seemed a sensible proposition and they all rose from their chairs, but Morrison’s progress indoors was interrupted by Pino who said he had several questions he had been meaning to ask him and wanted to do so before he became too drunk. Morrison sat down again and Pino positioned himself opposite him, saying: “I will make this quick Mr Morrison as I do not want the others thinking something is wrong and I do not wish to spoil Christmas for anyone…”