An intermission before part 5 . . .

 I started writing this book several years ago. I'd had a breakdown of sorts and had to take the best part of a year off work. I slept for most of the time. Slept and walked along the headlands of East Durham and South Tyneside watching the seasons slowly change. And then I began to write a story about my mother's death when I was 7. It was the first writing I'd attempted since blogging. It was agony, but I tried to write a little every day. It gave me purpose. If I had written, I went to bed at peace. Eventually, I had the first story of my book: The Voices in the Garden. The other stories came in time, each growing from the last. Stories inspired by the people and places rooted deeply within me. They came snaking out like tendrils of a plant. While I was writing, all my dreams were of the settings of my childhood - the colliery, the tiny village school, the green, the church. People came back to me too, so clearly, my father, my aunties and teachers. Readers of the old blog will recognise Rochester too, in this story as John. (If you are wondering whether Rochester is still part of my life, the end of The Headland will answer your question.) 

The point I am making is that all the stories grew from the first. Yet, when I decided to start publishing my work here, I made an unconscious decision not to share The Voices in the Garden. That is Esther's story; my story. Everything starts and ends there. Without it, some of the later stories may seem out of context, some may seemed muddied. 

I mention this now as we are about to meet Esther.