Pentlands Writers: Yvonne Crossley

I completed a book illustration course with the London College of the Arts in 2005, and then an Open University creative writing course in 2007. I was invited to join the Pentlands Writers’ Group in October 2007.  I have participated in their workshops and a presentation evening, and recently assisted the School Centenary Group, on behalf of PWG, with capturing reminiscences and quotes for display.

I still consider myself to be on a steep learning curve as I try to improve my poetry and short stories. Having worked for many years with young children, I also harbor some grand idea of writing and perhaps illustrating a successful children's book one day. To that end I have collaborated with a published historical fiction author, Grace Thomson, in Wales, who gave me some of her children's story ideas to illustrate. To date a publisher for those has not been found.

As I have always had an interest in drawing and painting I believe imagery to be an important element of my work. I hope to capture that other world where we go when we read a novel or poem or admire a masterpiece.

A good book ... (A Poem)  –  Struck Dumb (A Poem)
Interview (A Story)

A good book is like a clock
   Tick ticking along an abacus of syllabic beads.
      Adding the tens and thousands of lines and thoughts
         That form the slow-burning chapter hours.
            Always the drip dripping egg-timer seeps to story’s end.
               But, like an eternal dragon forever devouring its tail,
                  The best stories are reread for pleasure or there’s a sequel,
          And a whole new chronicle of words to measure. 

Struck Dumb

In every way
you touch me
with words that say
so much.

My mind travels
on a single track,
filled only
with thoughts of you.

I am the skylark’s song
killed by the raptor’s cry,
flawed by the beauty
of your smile,
floating in an endless sky.

The Interview 

The house dwarfed everything in the street; a Victorian building with tall windows and solid stone walls blackened by layers of city dirt. I guessed the place had been built by some wealthy industrialist; it reminded me of old cotton mills and dismal coal mines we’d learned about in history.  Above the roof–line I could see several trees spreading their leafy fingers over the slates. I rang the doorbell, half-curious, half-anxious, stuffing the ear phones from my mp3 player into my bag.  While I waited, I flipped the business card against my silvery finger nails and tried to imagine the face behind the loopy signature written in blue-vein ink: Miss Alice Smythe, Shieldmuir House, Forrester Road. The sun was now burning the back of my head. I pressed the buzzer a second time, more firmly, hoping that the owner wasn’t at home and I could run off.  A familiar click of the latch knocked that thought on the head.  A half-obscured outline of a woman, I guessed aged at least 75, peered out; her knobby arthritic hands still holding the door firmly. The sun highlighted her bald brow bones and haloed her coppery hair. Hooded eyes judged me: friend or foe.  An image of a golden eagle, I’d seen once at a bird of prey centre, popped into my head.

                ‘Miss Alice Smythe?’ I mumbled.

                ‘Yes. Who are you?’  a firm voice enquired.

                ‘I’m Jennifer Wilkes. I’ve come about the position.’ And I held out the card I’d been given.  The eagle, dressed in a sage green checked suit and brown, sensible shoes, let go the grip of her shiny black front door and snatched it from my grasp.

                ‘Who gave you this?’She sounded suspicious.

                ‘A friend of my mothers, Mrs. Mulholland,’ I clarified. ‘She said you needed someone to help, fetch messages, that sort of thing.’

                I noticed a puzzled look cross her hawkish face, which was not what I was expecting. I thought our neighbour, who did some light cleaning for her, would have at least mentioned me. Miss Smythe studyied the card thoroughly, before turning her gaze on me. She snapped, ‘You’d better come in. It’s far too hot to be standing out here in the midday sun.’  

I thought she said this begrudgingly and would soon send me packing as I followed her through the threshold into a black-and-red pattern tiled hallway. Then I paused, should I now remove my shoes. Miss Smythe, as if mind reading me, tweeted, ‘you can keep your shoes on. If it was wet, mind, it would be a different matter.’

The hallway was tall and gloomy, after the bright glare outside. It took me a minute or two to get my bearings.  I was soon led into a room at the front of the house, where the walls were panelled with dark wood. There were also many cabinets full of books. My nose picked up the smell of polished wood and fusty paper: old, brown spotted paper, damp cardboard and leather. Miss Smythe stopped in the middle of the room and pirouetted around slowly. ‘I never advertised for anyone,’ she said, ‘but you look a strong, capable sort of girl to me. Do you read?’

                ‘I eventually found my tongue and muttered something about encyclopaedias, and how I liked Mr Darcy, and Oliver. It wasn’t quite true; of course I preferred nothing more than teen fiction and gossip magazines, but I had read some old stuff at school and didn’t dislike some of it. Plus I was desperate to get a job for the summer holiday. There were six mouths in our family. Ma earned a bit extra from ironing; Da relied on the social. If I could just earn something to spend on myself, now that I’d turned sixteen last Friday, I’d feel great. Besides, most of my mates were now looking for work.

                Miss Smythe said nothing. She just picked up a book lying on a black sideboard and handed it to me, opened. I slipped it from her grasp, without touching her white, bony fingers, and scanned the heading, ‘The strange tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’. But, as I started to read, my words came out garbled. She jumped on me quickly, telling me to stop and start again more slowly.

                ‘Sorry, Miss Smythe,’ I mumbled apologetically. I should have explained that I was a bit nervous and could read aloud perfectly clearly but my mouth seized up and my brain refused to function. I had already decided Miss Smythe wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. However, for the second time, she surprised me. ‘You’ll do,’ she said after I’d stumbled again. ‘You’ve an honest face, and are at least wearing a decent skirt. I can’t abide these young lassies with their torn jeans and short skirts.’

                I looked down at my flowery skirt, black leggings and pink flatties, and thanked my stars that I’d chosen to wear them this morning.

                ‘Come back at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning, sharp, and I’ll show you what to do,’ she barked.

 I blinked several times, gawped at her and nodded slightly. Then, I turned on my heels and fled, deciding to think later about whether I was going to rock up here again.