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Below you can find an extract from What we have in common and a preview of Tamwary, which will be published in 2022.

‘I took a big breath, my heart beating hard, and I explained about the risk of a genetic connection if Portia doesn’t know who she is related to. And the same risk to me when I am older.’

Publication date
December 2021

To purchase a copy of the book,
go to Scarthin Books or please contact me here.

One
Portia

The first time I saw him was in the canteen. I was carrying my cappuccino from the cash till, weaving round people looking for spare seats, trying not to spill it, and at the same time trying to keep up with Grace; she of the sharp elbows. She’d paused by his table.

‘Hi, Dr Atkins, do you mind if we sit here?’ 

‘Be my guests.’ He smiled up at Grace. ‘But it’s Greg, not Dr Atkins.’ He sounded posh.

‘And who are you?’ I felt him look me up and down. ‘Apart from Grace’s friend, obviously.’ He smiled, and I glanced at him and caught his eye.

 ‘Hi, I’m Portia.’ I nearly held out my hand, to be formal, but he didn’t offer his. 

Grace had bumped along the seating to the wall; they were those fixed chairs on frames, with bottom-shaped plastic seats, and I slid into the seat opposite him. 

‘Portia. “The fairest creature northward born.” Lovely name. Do you know why you were given it?’

‘Not a clue.’  

I was guessing that he had quoted from The Merchant of Venice, so I also guessed that he was one of Grace’s lecturers in the English department. People have asked me before. Not after quoting Shakespeare, though. Rosa’s explanation I wasn’t about to share with him. 

‘The bike jerked, and bucked and swerved, and Tamsin crashed to the ground, the bike on top of her. ‘Steady, boy,’ she whispered.’

Publication date
Mid-2022

Chapter 1 The grave robbers

They were digging up the bones.  Two holes already, the soil being flung around, and Tamsin could see the white of each one as they were brought out.  She held her breath and leaned her head towards the window. She didn’t want to scare away the grave robbers without a good look at them.

She thought of dear old Midas, rubbing himself against her legs when she came downstairs every morning. They had buried him by the apple tree because he loved it. In his kitten days he used to run in circles, tail up straight, before launching at the trunk and charging up into the branches. Now his bones were being carelessly tossed about!

More of the vandals’ gang appeared. 

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