Four legs can be better than two.
Before we go any further, I’m outing myself as an animal lover. I’ve a particular fondness for dogs but there aren’t many that I don’t like. That said, I’m not keen on animal stories. Although, I don’t mind an animal or two in a novel. A well-drawn animal character can lighten up a story. Sometimes, they can even tug on the emotions much more than a human character can.
It’s fair to say, animals play a part in the rehabilitation of Annette Grey. It’s a relatively small part but they do inhabit space within the story and I hope I’ve made them characters in their own right.
The star of the animal cast has to be Maud, Annette’s sitting tenant. Maud comes with the house that Annette moves into. Its former owner, the late Edith Pinsent, stipulated certain conditions about its next owner. One being that they must care for Maud, the latest in a long line of Pinsent dogs. I’ve tried to make Maud a bit comical and sweet, in a little old lady sort of way. She was, after all, brought up by an elderly, slightly eccentric spinster. To give you a flavour, here’s an extract that describes Annette and Maud’s first meeting:
‘There was a rustling behind her. She turned around and saw a movement in the grass. Her first thought was rats. She tensed, then softened when a dog emerged and trotted towards her. It was on the small side of medium. Although dog breeds were not her strongest subject, she was absolutely certain this one had terrier somewhere in its DNA. Its head was square, made slightly curvy by tufty hair protruding from the edges. The colour of its wiry coat was hard to pin down but, if she was pushed, Annette would have called it taupe. Yes, taupe. With the odd splash of white, grey and just a tiny bit of black.
It sat down, leaning slightly to one side, dropped the chewed remains of a tennis ball at her feet and looked straight up at her. Its heavy eyebrows were perched at acute angles over a pair of dark eyes. The effect was an expression of permanent anticipation. As if it were waiting for something, or someone. When it opened its mouth, Annette half expected it to say: ‘Is it you then? Are you the one?’ It didn’t. Obviously. Instead the little dog yawned and shuffled closer. As its mouth closed, it made a noise that could only be described as ‘Hrmph.’‘
Annette’s no dog lover but she immediately warms to Maud. For her part, Maud seems to consider Annette a suitable replacement for her beloved Edith and the two settle into comfortable companionship. As long as Annette doesn’t try to take her for a walk, that is. Maud’s far too much of a free spirit to trot along on a lead.
Maud has a suitor. Colonel. An enormous bundle of hair that resembles a giant Brillo pad on legs. When the inevitable happens, no one can quite believe that Colonel could be the culprit. Surely it’s a physical impossibility? As someone says, by way of explanation: ‘Latest theory is that she stood on a chair.’ But Colonel doesn’t care what they think of him. Loyal and steadfast, he only has eyes for Maud and his new family.
Not all of the animals are as domesticated as these two. On the nights when Annette can’t sleep, she and Maud sit in the breakfast room watching night turn to day. Together, they wait for the vixen that regularly visits the garden with her cubs. There’s something quite mystical about this fox. Annette’s sure it’s the same one Edith wrote about in her diaries. Diaries that she’s promised to read. As it gazes at them through the French windows, it makes Annette feel somehow connected to Edith. Maud watches on silently. The two animals seem to have a mutual, wary respect for each other, as if they too have some kind of connection.
They say writers get so involved with their stories that the characters become real people to them. It’s certainly true for me, but that also extends to Maud, Colonel and the vixen. I have a clear picture of them in my head and I know just how they’ll behave in any given situation. I hope I’ve painted them as brightly for you. I’d love to hear what you think of them. Do let me know.
Being Netta Wilde by Hazel Ward
Netta Wilde was all the things Annette Grey isn’t. Netta Wilde was raw, unchecked and just a little bit rebellious. She loved The Clash and she loved being Netta Wilde.
Annette Grey is an empty, broken woman who hardly knows her own children. Of course, it’s her own fault. She’s a bad mother. An unnatural mother. At least, that’s what her ex-husband tells her.
The
one thing she is good at …
the one thing that stops her from
falling …
is her job.
When the unthinkable happens, Annette makes a decision that sets her on a journey of self-discovery and reinvention. Along the way, her life is filled with friends, family, dogs, and jam. Lots of jam.
Suddenly anything seems possible. Even being Netta Wilde again.
But, is she brave enough to take that final step when the secrets she keeps locked inside are never too far away?
Strangely, for someone who couldn’t sit still, she also developed a ferocious reading habit and a love of words. She wrote her first novel at fifteen, along with a lot of angsty poems, and was absolutely sure she wanted to be a writer. Sadly, it all came crashing down when her seventeen-year-old self walked out of school after a spot of bother and was either too stubborn or too embarrassed to go back. It’s too long ago to remember which. What followed was a series of mind-numbingly dull jobs that paid the bills but did little to quell the restlessness inside.
Always a bit of a smart-arse, she eventually managed to talk herself into a successful corporate career that lasted over twenty years until, with the bills paid and the children grown up, she was able to wave it all goodbye and do the thing she’d always wanted to do. While taking a fiction writing course she wrote a short story about a lonely woman who was being made redundant. The story eventually became her debut novel Being Netta Wilde.
Hazel still lives in Birmingham and that’s where she does most of her writing. When she’s not there, she and her partner can be found in their holiday home in Shropshire or gadding about the country in an old motorhome. Not quite feral anymore but still up for adventures.
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Thanks for giving me some space on you blog, Linn. I hope your readers enjoy the post as much as I enjoyed writing it. Hazel
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