Please scroll down for excerpts from 'Seeds of Doubt' 'In My Own Words' and 'On Course for Recovery'.
SHADOW CHILD
PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
Paul gazed at the identically dressed women filtering through the door. He stared at each face in turn, searching for the look, the mannerism, the feature that would unlock the past. He remembered deep brown eyes, tumbling hair, a raucous laugh and slender fingers… leaving their trace. He shivered. Sometimes his mind played tricks on him.
There were no physical characteristics to link him with any of them, not that he could see. Carol, the family liaison officer, gestured towards a slight figure with closely cropped hair, eyes cast down, walking towards them. Carol nodded. ‘Hi, Sonya. This is Paul.’
The woman lifted her head. ‘You’re taller than I thought.’
Paul removed his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair, tweaking the folds until it hung freely - anything to fill the space created by sixteen years of not knowing. Finally, he snatched a glance at the woman sitting opposite him - his mother. Can’t believe it’s you,’ he said. ‘I’d have come… years ago. But they didn’t tell me. The bastards all knew but no-one told me!’
She shifted in her chair, her eyes flitting from one side of the room to the other. ‘What good would it have done?’
'Good? I’d have told them it wasn’t you, couldn’t have been you…’
‘I’m not having this conversation.’ She half rose.
‘Paul knows that.’ Carol sent him a warning glance. ‘You agreed to fill in the gaps. He agreed to stick to that. Paul?’
He shrugged. ‘Questions have been in here so long…’ he tapped his forehead.
Her face gave nothing away. ‘So what do you want to know?’
The words welled up. ‘What was it like? What was I like? I remember a caravan. Is that where we lived?’
'For a bit.’
‘What did we do? What sort of a kid was I?’
'Christ, I don’t know. It was years ago!’
'I don’t think Paul’s after anything specific, Sonya,’ Carol mediated. ‘Just something to help him fill in the gaps.’
She rubbed at an imaginary mark on the back of her hand. ‘You used to go off round the site. You was always running off.’
'Why? I loved being with you. We were good, weren’t we?’ Silence. ‘I remember we used to go to town.’
Sonya picked at a chipped fingernail. He let the silence hang. 'Yea, we used to go to town,’ she said.
‘All of us?’
'Mostly.’
'But sometimes just you and me, yeah?’
‘Maybe, when you needed something, like trainers. You was always getting through trainers.’
‘What did we eat? What was my favourite?’
She pressed her fingers against her forehead. ‘I don’t know… fish and chips. Burger from the van.’
He’d tried, really tried. But he had to know. ‘Why? Why did you say it was you?’
She looked at him now, for a fraction of a second, before pushing her chair back. ‘Just a minute.’
'You’re innocent… I’ll prove it,’ Paul called, fighting the impulse to run after her, to wait by the door, to make sure this minute didn’t last another lifetime.
There were no physical characteristics to link him with any of them, not that he could see. Carol, the family liaison officer, gestured towards a slight figure with closely cropped hair, eyes cast down, walking towards them. Carol nodded. ‘Hi, Sonya. This is Paul.’
The woman lifted her head. ‘You’re taller than I thought.’
Paul removed his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair, tweaking the folds until it hung freely - anything to fill the space created by sixteen years of not knowing. Finally, he snatched a glance at the woman sitting opposite him - his mother. Can’t believe it’s you,’ he said. ‘I’d have come… years ago. But they didn’t tell me. The bastards all knew but no-one told me!’
She shifted in her chair, her eyes flitting from one side of the room to the other. ‘What good would it have done?’
'Good? I’d have told them it wasn’t you, couldn’t have been you…’
‘I’m not having this conversation.’ She half rose.
‘Paul knows that.’ Carol sent him a warning glance. ‘You agreed to fill in the gaps. He agreed to stick to that. Paul?’
He shrugged. ‘Questions have been in here so long…’ he tapped his forehead.
Her face gave nothing away. ‘So what do you want to know?’
The words welled up. ‘What was it like? What was I like? I remember a caravan. Is that where we lived?’
'For a bit.’
‘What did we do? What sort of a kid was I?’
'Christ, I don’t know. It was years ago!’
'I don’t think Paul’s after anything specific, Sonya,’ Carol mediated. ‘Just something to help him fill in the gaps.’
She rubbed at an imaginary mark on the back of her hand. ‘You used to go off round the site. You was always running off.’
'Why? I loved being with you. We were good, weren’t we?’ Silence. ‘I remember we used to go to town.’
Sonya picked at a chipped fingernail. He let the silence hang. 'Yea, we used to go to town,’ she said.
‘All of us?’
'Mostly.’
'But sometimes just you and me, yeah?’
‘Maybe, when you needed something, like trainers. You was always getting through trainers.’
‘What did we eat? What was my favourite?’
She pressed her fingers against her forehead. ‘I don’t know… fish and chips. Burger from the van.’
He’d tried, really tried. But he had to know. ‘Why? Why did you say it was you?’
She looked at him now, for a fraction of a second, before pushing her chair back. ‘Just a minute.’
'You’re innocent… I’ll prove it,’ Paul called, fighting the impulse to run after her, to wait by the door, to make sure this minute didn’t last another lifetime.
SEEDS OF DOUBT
Chapter One
March 1982, Salisbury, England
‘Rainmaking!’ Nick Pearce pushed the café door open and threw his dripping coat over the first available chair. ‘Are you seriously saying that...?’
‘Not me,’ Ingrid interrupted. ‘Private Dean.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The old boy in the photo.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
Ingrid’s heart sank. Her boss’s off-hand response wasn’t exactly encouraging. She edged round the marble bistro table to the chair opposite. ‘I interviewed him yesterday for the British Legion piece. Here,’ she leant down and retrieved the black and white photograph from her bag, ‘there’s a cutting stuck to the back all about rainmaking. And before you ask, it’s nothing to do with voodoo or ancient pagan rituals. He swore he’d seen planes make it rain when he was on manoeuvres on Salisbury Plain.’
Nick slid the photograph towards him, flipped it over and scanned the text on the yellowing piece of paper. ‘So according to this, planes flew overhead, the clouds got heavier and blacker and about thirty minutes later it rained.’
‘Bit more to it than that, but yes.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll order. What do you want?’
‘Tuna roll and a coffee. Thanks.’
Ingrid took in the lunchtime crowd. Half a dozen office workers were clustered at the food bar, probably tempted in by a leaflet campaign advertising the café’s grand re-opening. Although a few balloons and a free cappuccino with every meal hardly qualified. But they seemed happy enough; unlike the regulars, who looked a lot less at home with the stark black and silver art deco theme - not a trace of cosy red gingham anywhere.
A young mother struggled to the entrance with a baby asleep in a buggy and a toddler tugging at her hand. Ingrid scraped her chair back and held the door open. As the girl turned, Ingrid couldn’t help noticing the heavy bags under her eyes, the lines creasing her forehead, her dull, sallow complexion. ‘Sit here,’ she said, moving their coats across to the next table. ‘There’s more room for the buggy.’
‘Thanks.’ The mother pulled a high chair over for the toddler, gently removed his coat, lifted him in, tied his bib, wiped his hands, found his cup and placed a banana on the tray before sinking into a chair. Ingrid felt their closeness. It was a bond she could have known, once; but it was too late now. Work filled the gap. She’d been covering stories of triumph and tragedy at the Salisbury Post for more than twenty-five years - not bad for an agency typist who came for a week. The work suited her and, according to the previous editor, she suited the work. ‘You’ve a nose for the domestic stuff,’ he’d said. And she’d been happy enough to cover the hatches, matches and dispatches and everything in-between. Until now.
She turned back to her boss, stuck in the counter queue. He’d been at the paper for five years; semi-retired from one of the nationals. In a rare moment of confidence he’d shared his frustration at being sidelined as soon as he hit fifty. His clean sweep at the Post had been brutal, but she’d survived: more than survived recently in fact. He’d started involving her at briefings and running copy past her. Not exactly a promotion but she’d definitely been invited to step up a rung. He was different too. His clothes, routines and, lately, his mood. Ingrid watched as his eyes drilled into the assistant, intensifying every second of waiting time as she slapped two slices of tomato, some wilted lettuce, two slices of cucumber, a ring of onion and a squirt of mayonnaise onto their rolls. It was going to take more than fancy art deco fittings to up-market the market café. Nick snatched up their plates and headed back, making a point of having to negotiate the buggy and highchair.
'Oh my dear Lord, what have they done to the weather?’ Dimpled elbows pushed against the door as an overweight woman backed into the café. She thrust a pile of plastic shopping bags into an empty chair and shook her umbrella out in their direction.
‘For goodness sake.’ Nick spun round, his face soured with irritation.
'Sorry my love, didn’t see you there. Still, no harm done, it’s only a bit of rain,’ she said with a smile as she pushed on towards the counter, dislodging a trail of chairs in her wake.
Nick grabbed a paper serviette and began stabbing at the offending drops on his sleeve. Ingrid looked out the window, finding sanctuary in the kaleidoscope of umbrellas outside. Hopefully it would stop raining before they left. She turned back. ‘I noticed the circulation figures are up this month,’ she said.
'About time.’
‘Getting behind the Hospice campaign was a good move.’
‘I guess so.’
She bit into the granary roll; mayonnaise oozed over her fingers. She licked it off and tried another tack. ‘Are you and Liz going away this year?’
'No. She’s taking Ellie to Cornwall but I don’t suppose I’ll get any time with her.’
‘With Liz?’ Ingrid asked.
'No,’ he said abruptly. ‘With Ellie.’
So Alice had got it right for once. The paper’s young receptionist had been spreading rumours about Nick’s marriage for weeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. The silence lengthened. Taking a breath, Ingrid summoned up the courage to ask. ‘So what do you think of Private Dean’s story?’
Nick was lost in his own thoughts. ‘What?’
‘Private Dean. What do you think?’
'I think it’s an old boy winding you up.’
‘He was pretty convincing,’ she said.
'Yeah?’ Nick muttered, swilling his free cappuccino around an over-sized cup.
‘I’d like to follow it up.’
He looked up. ‘Why?’
'Why not?’
‘Because our readers want to know what happened last week, not thirty years ago.’
‘I still think there could be something in it.’
The toddler threw his cup overboard. Ingrid retrieved it, winning a smile.
‘Where would you start?’ Nick asked.
'Ministry of Agriculture might be worth a try. Remember the droughts in ‘75 and ‘76 when people were queuing at standpipes? Imagine being able to make it rain to sort that lot out.’
‘But according to this,’ he pointed to the faded text on the back of the photograph, ‘your Private Dean was talking about the early 1950’s. Any experiments couldn’t have been much good if we were stuck with a drought twenty years later.’
Ingrid shrugged. ‘Maybe, but think of the spread we could run if it’s true. Taxpayers money being spent on making it rain, in our climate!’
Nick pushed his empty plate away. ‘I suppose Danny could take a look, but it’d be a waste of his time.’
‘No!’ She didn’t mean to react so violently. Danny was a young career reporter at the paper. He wouldn’t be staying twenty-five years; just long enough to get noticed by a national. Of course Nick was going to pass anything controversial onto him. But not this time. This story was hers - it had to be.
March 1982, Salisbury, England
‘Rainmaking!’ Nick Pearce pushed the café door open and threw his dripping coat over the first available chair. ‘Are you seriously saying that...?’
‘Not me,’ Ingrid interrupted. ‘Private Dean.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The old boy in the photo.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
Ingrid’s heart sank. Her boss’s off-hand response wasn’t exactly encouraging. She edged round the marble bistro table to the chair opposite. ‘I interviewed him yesterday for the British Legion piece. Here,’ she leant down and retrieved the black and white photograph from her bag, ‘there’s a cutting stuck to the back all about rainmaking. And before you ask, it’s nothing to do with voodoo or ancient pagan rituals. He swore he’d seen planes make it rain when he was on manoeuvres on Salisbury Plain.’
Nick slid the photograph towards him, flipped it over and scanned the text on the yellowing piece of paper. ‘So according to this, planes flew overhead, the clouds got heavier and blacker and about thirty minutes later it rained.’
‘Bit more to it than that, but yes.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll order. What do you want?’
‘Tuna roll and a coffee. Thanks.’
Ingrid took in the lunchtime crowd. Half a dozen office workers were clustered at the food bar, probably tempted in by a leaflet campaign advertising the café’s grand re-opening. Although a few balloons and a free cappuccino with every meal hardly qualified. But they seemed happy enough; unlike the regulars, who looked a lot less at home with the stark black and silver art deco theme - not a trace of cosy red gingham anywhere.
A young mother struggled to the entrance with a baby asleep in a buggy and a toddler tugging at her hand. Ingrid scraped her chair back and held the door open. As the girl turned, Ingrid couldn’t help noticing the heavy bags under her eyes, the lines creasing her forehead, her dull, sallow complexion. ‘Sit here,’ she said, moving their coats across to the next table. ‘There’s more room for the buggy.’
‘Thanks.’ The mother pulled a high chair over for the toddler, gently removed his coat, lifted him in, tied his bib, wiped his hands, found his cup and placed a banana on the tray before sinking into a chair. Ingrid felt their closeness. It was a bond she could have known, once; but it was too late now. Work filled the gap. She’d been covering stories of triumph and tragedy at the Salisbury Post for more than twenty-five years - not bad for an agency typist who came for a week. The work suited her and, according to the previous editor, she suited the work. ‘You’ve a nose for the domestic stuff,’ he’d said. And she’d been happy enough to cover the hatches, matches and dispatches and everything in-between. Until now.
She turned back to her boss, stuck in the counter queue. He’d been at the paper for five years; semi-retired from one of the nationals. In a rare moment of confidence he’d shared his frustration at being sidelined as soon as he hit fifty. His clean sweep at the Post had been brutal, but she’d survived: more than survived recently in fact. He’d started involving her at briefings and running copy past her. Not exactly a promotion but she’d definitely been invited to step up a rung. He was different too. His clothes, routines and, lately, his mood. Ingrid watched as his eyes drilled into the assistant, intensifying every second of waiting time as she slapped two slices of tomato, some wilted lettuce, two slices of cucumber, a ring of onion and a squirt of mayonnaise onto their rolls. It was going to take more than fancy art deco fittings to up-market the market café. Nick snatched up their plates and headed back, making a point of having to negotiate the buggy and highchair.
'Oh my dear Lord, what have they done to the weather?’ Dimpled elbows pushed against the door as an overweight woman backed into the café. She thrust a pile of plastic shopping bags into an empty chair and shook her umbrella out in their direction.
‘For goodness sake.’ Nick spun round, his face soured with irritation.
'Sorry my love, didn’t see you there. Still, no harm done, it’s only a bit of rain,’ she said with a smile as she pushed on towards the counter, dislodging a trail of chairs in her wake.
Nick grabbed a paper serviette and began stabbing at the offending drops on his sleeve. Ingrid looked out the window, finding sanctuary in the kaleidoscope of umbrellas outside. Hopefully it would stop raining before they left. She turned back. ‘I noticed the circulation figures are up this month,’ she said.
'About time.’
‘Getting behind the Hospice campaign was a good move.’
‘I guess so.’
She bit into the granary roll; mayonnaise oozed over her fingers. She licked it off and tried another tack. ‘Are you and Liz going away this year?’
'No. She’s taking Ellie to Cornwall but I don’t suppose I’ll get any time with her.’
‘With Liz?’ Ingrid asked.
'No,’ he said abruptly. ‘With Ellie.’
So Alice had got it right for once. The paper’s young receptionist had been spreading rumours about Nick’s marriage for weeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. The silence lengthened. Taking a breath, Ingrid summoned up the courage to ask. ‘So what do you think of Private Dean’s story?’
Nick was lost in his own thoughts. ‘What?’
‘Private Dean. What do you think?’
'I think it’s an old boy winding you up.’
‘He was pretty convincing,’ she said.
'Yeah?’ Nick muttered, swilling his free cappuccino around an over-sized cup.
‘I’d like to follow it up.’
He looked up. ‘Why?’
'Why not?’
‘Because our readers want to know what happened last week, not thirty years ago.’
‘I still think there could be something in it.’
The toddler threw his cup overboard. Ingrid retrieved it, winning a smile.
‘Where would you start?’ Nick asked.
'Ministry of Agriculture might be worth a try. Remember the droughts in ‘75 and ‘76 when people were queuing at standpipes? Imagine being able to make it rain to sort that lot out.’
‘But according to this,’ he pointed to the faded text on the back of the photograph, ‘your Private Dean was talking about the early 1950’s. Any experiments couldn’t have been much good if we were stuck with a drought twenty years later.’
Ingrid shrugged. ‘Maybe, but think of the spread we could run if it’s true. Taxpayers money being spent on making it rain, in our climate!’
Nick pushed his empty plate away. ‘I suppose Danny could take a look, but it’d be a waste of his time.’
‘No!’ She didn’t mean to react so violently. Danny was a young career reporter at the paper. He wouldn’t be staying twenty-five years; just long enough to get noticed by a national. Of course Nick was going to pass anything controversial onto him. But not this time. This story was hers - it had to be.
In My Own Words, John Devereux
Chapter One
Early Times
I was born in a little place called Holmer outside Hereford on October 21st 1915. There was just my sister Lena before me. She was eighteen months older than me. Two years later came my brother, Les, then I had another brother called Reg - he was about another two years younger. Well the next one was Kenny and then after him come my brother Donny about another two years later. Then Joyce was the last one in the family. That's all the little devils together. Joyce was my stepsister, the same mother.
We lived at Holmer for about four years and then we went home from school one night and found all the furniture out on the roadside. Father had lost his job and he had orders to get out of the house within a week. But he wouldn't get out so the bailiffs come along and took all his furniture, all the old bedsteads and everything and put it out on the road. I remember there was a small car waiting, a taxi I suppose. I was bundled with my sister and mother into the taxi and we went into a little cottage with my grandpa in Hereford to live for a while. I'd just started school. I was about four and a half. Well that was where mother would send me and Lena with a basin and a penny each to a little shop across the road, where the man made soup, to get a basin full of broth. Then one day mother was ironing the clothes, it was a gas iron, before electric, and she'd iron back and forth on the table and dap the iron down and me being a nosey parker put my hand up there. And she put the iron on my hand. All the skin come off. Oh dear, we've had some games.
Well grandpa had a housekeeper and mother and the housekeeper couldn't get on very well. Any road, mother said she couldn't stick it no longer with the housekeeper. Father was working for a brewery with a steam wagon delivering beer various places but he changed his job and went to work on a farm at Hoarwithy (Ed. on the A49 road to Ross from Hereford) He'd got a sister living there in one of the cottages with her husband who was working for the farmer. Mother decides that's where we're going so off we goes again. She bundles up me two brothers, Les and Reg, in an old fashioned pram with long springs on each side, with me and Lena by the side. And off we set to the train at Hereford.
Any road, on the way to catch the train we met grandpa coming home from work and he said 'Ethel,' he said, 'where do you think you'm going?' So mother looked up to him and said, 'I can't get on with your housekeeper. We're going to Hoarwithy to stop for a while.' Any road, we got on the train, never been on a train before in my life, frightened to death, and we got off at Ballingham station.
Off comes the pram, out we get, me and Lena by the side, mother off with the pram with Les and Reg in it, a mile and a half to the house. So we gets along this road and then all of sudden we come to where a lane branches off where a horse and cart have been. So mother decides that's where it is. We get a quarter of the way up, mother begins to blow a bit and says, 'my God I don't know whether I shall be able to make it or no.' Anyway, my brother gets out and me and Lena help mother push the pram up this lane to the old houses.
We had to stop with father's sister to start with because the man who worked for the farm beforehand was a good man and the farmer didn't want to put him out, so he gave him permission to stop until he found a job – perhaps a fortnight or three weeks. Then a cottage come empty, a lovely cottage belonging to this farm. Everything seemed to be going sweet. Of course we had two and a half miles from there to Dewchurch school. On my way I had to take father's lunch out to the field where he was ploughing with the horse. That would be a lump of bread and a big lump of cheese and an onion and a bottle of tea with a sock pulled over the top of it to keep it warm.
Well then, that was all right. Time goes by and us youngsters gets hold of another young chap, I don't know what he was called, but his mother & father was better off than us and he used to go to the same school. One day on the way to school me and Lena persuades him to leave his food in a hole in the wall of an old broken down cottage and we'd have a picnic on the way home. Well of course you see, me being artful, I was first back there and I pinched his cake, sat and ate it in this old house with the sheep that used to go in there out of the way of the flies!
We were there for a little while, everything going along all right, and the farmer used to go to market on a Wednesday and he used to drink a little bit. Any road, one day father come in from the field from ploughing and the farmer was there waiting for him. The farmer says to father, 'you haven't done enough today,' and he hit out at father whilst father was taking the gear off the horses. 'You haven't done enough work,' he said. Father hanged up the gear on the old wooden thing at the back of the horses; he hanged it up there. And the farmer was by the door. And father went up to the farmer and hit him right out to the dung heap in the yard. So, of course, that was the end of that, we was on the road again.
Early Times
I was born in a little place called Holmer outside Hereford on October 21st 1915. There was just my sister Lena before me. She was eighteen months older than me. Two years later came my brother, Les, then I had another brother called Reg - he was about another two years younger. Well the next one was Kenny and then after him come my brother Donny about another two years later. Then Joyce was the last one in the family. That's all the little devils together. Joyce was my stepsister, the same mother.
We lived at Holmer for about four years and then we went home from school one night and found all the furniture out on the roadside. Father had lost his job and he had orders to get out of the house within a week. But he wouldn't get out so the bailiffs come along and took all his furniture, all the old bedsteads and everything and put it out on the road. I remember there was a small car waiting, a taxi I suppose. I was bundled with my sister and mother into the taxi and we went into a little cottage with my grandpa in Hereford to live for a while. I'd just started school. I was about four and a half. Well that was where mother would send me and Lena with a basin and a penny each to a little shop across the road, where the man made soup, to get a basin full of broth. Then one day mother was ironing the clothes, it was a gas iron, before electric, and she'd iron back and forth on the table and dap the iron down and me being a nosey parker put my hand up there. And she put the iron on my hand. All the skin come off. Oh dear, we've had some games.
Well grandpa had a housekeeper and mother and the housekeeper couldn't get on very well. Any road, mother said she couldn't stick it no longer with the housekeeper. Father was working for a brewery with a steam wagon delivering beer various places but he changed his job and went to work on a farm at Hoarwithy (Ed. on the A49 road to Ross from Hereford) He'd got a sister living there in one of the cottages with her husband who was working for the farmer. Mother decides that's where we're going so off we goes again. She bundles up me two brothers, Les and Reg, in an old fashioned pram with long springs on each side, with me and Lena by the side. And off we set to the train at Hereford.
Any road, on the way to catch the train we met grandpa coming home from work and he said 'Ethel,' he said, 'where do you think you'm going?' So mother looked up to him and said, 'I can't get on with your housekeeper. We're going to Hoarwithy to stop for a while.' Any road, we got on the train, never been on a train before in my life, frightened to death, and we got off at Ballingham station.
Off comes the pram, out we get, me and Lena by the side, mother off with the pram with Les and Reg in it, a mile and a half to the house. So we gets along this road and then all of sudden we come to where a lane branches off where a horse and cart have been. So mother decides that's where it is. We get a quarter of the way up, mother begins to blow a bit and says, 'my God I don't know whether I shall be able to make it or no.' Anyway, my brother gets out and me and Lena help mother push the pram up this lane to the old houses.
We had to stop with father's sister to start with because the man who worked for the farm beforehand was a good man and the farmer didn't want to put him out, so he gave him permission to stop until he found a job – perhaps a fortnight or three weeks. Then a cottage come empty, a lovely cottage belonging to this farm. Everything seemed to be going sweet. Of course we had two and a half miles from there to Dewchurch school. On my way I had to take father's lunch out to the field where he was ploughing with the horse. That would be a lump of bread and a big lump of cheese and an onion and a bottle of tea with a sock pulled over the top of it to keep it warm.
Well then, that was all right. Time goes by and us youngsters gets hold of another young chap, I don't know what he was called, but his mother & father was better off than us and he used to go to the same school. One day on the way to school me and Lena persuades him to leave his food in a hole in the wall of an old broken down cottage and we'd have a picnic on the way home. Well of course you see, me being artful, I was first back there and I pinched his cake, sat and ate it in this old house with the sheep that used to go in there out of the way of the flies!
We were there for a little while, everything going along all right, and the farmer used to go to market on a Wednesday and he used to drink a little bit. Any road, one day father come in from the field from ploughing and the farmer was there waiting for him. The farmer says to father, 'you haven't done enough today,' and he hit out at father whilst father was taking the gear off the horses. 'You haven't done enough work,' he said. Father hanged up the gear on the old wooden thing at the back of the horses; he hanged it up there. And the farmer was by the door. And father went up to the farmer and hit him right out to the dung heap in the yard. So, of course, that was the end of that, we was on the road again.
ON COURSE FOR RECOVERY
"I felt I must tell you how helpful I am finding your book on CFS/ME. I've been so grateful for it, it's like my "bible!" I’m planning on taking it on holiday with me … makes me feel secure having all the advice with me. One thing I especially like is that the book is very user friendly, the way it's laid out, summaries etc. The bold letters are also extremely useful and the type of spine makes it easy to turn over, keep your place. Thank you very much, Pamela." Lynne Sharratt Introduction
You are not alone.
Over a quarter of a million people suffer from M.E. or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome in the UK. Many others remain undiagnosed. There is no apparent cure yet it is possible to recover, as I have. Are you ready to find your road to recovery? You are not your illness. You are a person with hopes, dreams and a life to live. You may have lost sight of that person but you’re there - waiting to be rediscovered. You’ve picked up this book and read this far. Now you have a choice. Do you put it down? Or do you decide that you’ve had enough of struggling with this illness and it’s time to set yourself on course for recovery? ‘If only!’ I hear you say. I felt the same way before I discovered that it is possible to influence our own health. Through the simple tools described in this course, I began to see how. |
I thought I was already doing everything possible to recover, trying all sorts of therapies and taking supplements. They just weren’t working. Then I realised that when we hit a crisis such as chronic illness we need to explore new solutions. This course will help you discover those solutions for yourself. Follow it individually or join with others for support and encouragement. Work on a different chapter each week or stay with each section for a month or more; whatever feels right for you. Very soon you’ll discover how to support your body’s natural healing process ... and find yourself on course for recovery.
As you follow this course you will:
This book focuses on what you can do.
Do you dream of feeling well again? Maybe you’ve tried one practitioner after another hoping the next will hold the secret to your recovery. But therapies that have worked for others may not hold the same benefits for you.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
There is much you can do to support your body. It may not be functioning as it should, resulting in symptoms you are all too familiar with. But the body has an amazing ability to self-heal, given the right conditions. This course provides you with the tools to identify and create those conditions for yourself.
This kind of change doesn’t come from outside, from the actions of others or a change in circumstances. It comes from within. The emphasis is on you, on the positive, effective action you can take right now to make a difference to your life.
CHAPTER 1 SUMMARY
As you follow this course you will:
- identify what drains your energy
- discover what is blocking progress
- learn to listen and respond to your body
- understand how to avoid ups and downs
- begin to play an active part in your recovery
This book focuses on what you can do.
Do you dream of feeling well again? Maybe you’ve tried one practitioner after another hoping the next will hold the secret to your recovery. But therapies that have worked for others may not hold the same benefits for you.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
There is much you can do to support your body. It may not be functioning as it should, resulting in symptoms you are all too familiar with. But the body has an amazing ability to self-heal, given the right conditions. This course provides you with the tools to identify and create those conditions for yourself.
This kind of change doesn’t come from outside, from the actions of others or a change in circumstances. It comes from within. The emphasis is on you, on the positive, effective action you can take right now to make a difference to your life.
CHAPTER 1 SUMMARY
- This book is a course for you to follow, either individually or in a group
- Through this course you will learn how to provide the best possible healing environment for your body
- This kind of change doesn’t come from outside - from the actions of others or a change in circumstances, it comes from within
Chapter 2
You are not your illness
You’re simply someone who may be feeling overwhelmed by the thoughts, feelings and sensations that go hand in hand with illness. Take a look at those thoughts and feelings:
All the sleepless nights with the same thoughts going round and round; all the black days when you can’t see how it’s ever going to change – are a perfectly normal reaction to an unwanted disruption to your life. It would be strange if you weren’t feeling as you do.
This perfectly understandable reaction is a great starting point. As uncomfortable as they are, these thoughts and feelings have kick-started a very important journey for you – your road to recovery. Now the question becomes - What Next?
You have lots of options to support your body as it works to restore you to health:
But whether or not they actually make a difference doesn’t just depend on how often you use them or the skill of the therapist. There’s something else - the choices you are making moment by moment, without even realising it. Consider these examples, substituting your own where something rings a bell.
You might not be aware of it, but these situations - and probably many others – are the result of choices you are making.
And all sorts of things will be influencing those choices. Unearthing these influences is a big part of this course and we will explore these more later. Meanwhile, there’s one area where becoming aware of, and changing, the unconscious choices you are making can make an immediate difference to your energy levels.
There is a proven relationship between stress and illness.
The close link between mind and body means that the way you think about things can bring about physical changes. Try replaying a stressful event in your mind. Do it, now. Pitch yourself back into a situation where you felt really uncomfortable. How did your body react? Did your heart start racing? Was your stomach churning? Did you get a dry mouth? Did your muscles tense up?
What’s happening inside your body?
‘... it's not germs that make us ill. Rather, when we become ill, germs come and get us. Then, as we know, doctors try to get rid of the germs. But maybe they would be doing a better job if they examined the conditions that enabled the germs to thrive.’
What does this mean?
When illness strikes, your immune system has more than likely been weakened by environmental, physical, emotional or mental stress. Any kind of stress:
An awareness of the triggers that create stress in you, and your personal reaction to those triggers, is a vital first step in recovering your health.
You are not your illness
You’re simply someone who may be feeling overwhelmed by the thoughts, feelings and sensations that go hand in hand with illness. Take a look at those thoughts and feelings:
- see them as separate from you
- see them as a normal reaction to a physically and emotionally difficult time
All the sleepless nights with the same thoughts going round and round; all the black days when you can’t see how it’s ever going to change – are a perfectly normal reaction to an unwanted disruption to your life. It would be strange if you weren’t feeling as you do.
This perfectly understandable reaction is a great starting point. As uncomfortable as they are, these thoughts and feelings have kick-started a very important journey for you – your road to recovery. Now the question becomes - What Next?
You have lots of options to support your body as it works to restore you to health:
- good nutrition
- deep breathing
- pacing/resting
- treatments and therapies
But whether or not they actually make a difference doesn’t just depend on how often you use them or the skill of the therapist. There’s something else - the choices you are making moment by moment, without even realising it. Consider these examples, substituting your own where something rings a bell.
- You join a yoga class but start to miss sessions
- Your plan to rest every day after lunch somehow gets lost before the end of the week
- You never quite get round to talking with your boss about going part-time
You might not be aware of it, but these situations - and probably many others – are the result of choices you are making.
And all sorts of things will be influencing those choices. Unearthing these influences is a big part of this course and we will explore these more later. Meanwhile, there’s one area where becoming aware of, and changing, the unconscious choices you are making can make an immediate difference to your energy levels.
There is a proven relationship between stress and illness.
The close link between mind and body means that the way you think about things can bring about physical changes. Try replaying a stressful event in your mind. Do it, now. Pitch yourself back into a situation where you felt really uncomfortable. How did your body react? Did your heart start racing? Was your stomach churning? Did you get a dry mouth? Did your muscles tense up?
What’s happening inside your body?
- when you feel threatened your body triggers the short term 'fight or flight' stress response through a combination of nerve and hormonal signals involving the hypothalamus, pituitary and adrenal glands
- long term activation of this stress response can disrupt almost all of the body's processes, including the immune, digestive, nervous and cardio-vascular systems
- when immune system dysfunction persists, the body may become locked into a vicious downward spiral, leaving you susceptible to ongoing illness
‘... it's not germs that make us ill. Rather, when we become ill, germs come and get us. Then, as we know, doctors try to get rid of the germs. But maybe they would be doing a better job if they examined the conditions that enabled the germs to thrive.’
What does this mean?
When illness strikes, your immune system has more than likely been weakened by environmental, physical, emotional or mental stress. Any kind of stress:
- actively undermines your immune system
- disrupts your body's efforts to restore itself to health
- interferes with your ability to benefit from therapies and treatment
- and is a major energy drain
An awareness of the triggers that create stress in you, and your personal reaction to those triggers, is a vital first step in recovering your health.