David Stephens

Henry Williamson who wrote Tarka the Otter lived in Stiffkey a small village near the north Norfolk salt marshes - the ‘cottage’ in my new story ‘Cottage at the Edge of the Saltmarsh’ is based upon this cottage. Up the road in The Red Lion’ pub which also has its stories…

The creeks of the salt marsh on the north Norfolk coast, the setting of my new novel. The salt marsh is not just a backdrop to the story but a protagonist with a life and character that shapes all who live there

Receiving some good reviews of The Disappeared. If you are tempted to buy a copy on kindle or paperback from Amazon please leave a review - political thrillers are not everyone’s cup of tea or glass of pisco sour, but it’s motivation for all authors to know their work is being read - liked or unliked!!

My latest short story just shortlisted in the current Flash500 competition. It is also the prologue of my new novel, setting the scene and hopefully drawing the reader in.

Along the Pipe to the Sea

Take the marsh road from the village and you’ll find the old sewer pipe that stretches out towards the sea across an open, liminal landscape of blue lavender and samphire. In the far distance the waves pound the shore, and beyond, the wind turbines turn in a silent, sleepy manner. It is early evening, but dark storm clouds are coming in from the east giving the marsh a translucent sheen, bunches of lavender, pink thrift and sea aster providing the only splashes of colour, a land of creeks and pools, a misty edge of England.

He walks carefully along the pipe as befits a man of caution and of an indeterminate age somewhere between old and elderly.

Occasionally he stops and watches his wife Sarah who walks on ahead. Nimbler than he, her light-blue jacket makes her almost indistinguishable from the pale, azure sky. Above, a skein of brent geese fly in close formation towards their nesting grounds in the west. He continues to walk along the pipe, unconcerned by the high-pitched shriek of a red shank or the startled cry of a pair of curlews soaring up from the marsh.

Since her illness she’s told him it can’t wait - their favourite walk- a walk in homage to a life well-lived. When the boy was small, they had come here from their small London home, gradually establishing a way of life they would repeat summer after summer. The boy would run off to the woods on the edge of the marsh while they set up camp and drew up a list of the same things would do this time: an early trip to the mini market in the nearest town, fish ‘n’ chips on the last evening, a barbeque in the middle of the week, an established routine that had become woven into the fabric of their lives.

As the boy had grown older - and more independent - he had established his own pattern of activities that revolved around the woods, night visits to a bird hide just outside the camp site, and early morning bike rides along the shore to the nearest town. After dinner, they would retreat into the tent to play cards. Some evenings they did nothing, happy to just sit and listen to the wind or the distant cry of the gulls heading to their nesting grounds in the west.

He sees that she’s nearing the end of the pipe. She waves briefly in his direction, and then jumps down and heads towards the old cockle grounds on Blakeney Point. He stops and watches her for a moment wondering if she’ll walk on or return by the path that winds its way up past the campsite to the pub. He laughs. Such a free spirit. Whatever, he’ll find her sitting at their table in the lounge bar, his pint awaiting his return. ‘Not all return, though’, he says to himself.

One dark November evening, years ago, a young village woman disregarded the warning shouts from her fellow cocklers and remained on the sands, her cries mingling amidst the sound of the in-coming tide. They found her the next day, her cockle knife still in her hand, her half-full sack nearby. She was lying face up, her long hair entangled in seaweed, her eyes open, glaring at the injustice of it all. He remembers telling the boy the story. They had put away the cards and were drinking hot chocolate. It was a wild evening, a storm fast approaching from the North Sea. Every now and then he interrupted his tale and said, ‘On a stormy night such as this.’ The boy was sitting propped up in his sleeping bag. ‘No way’ and ‘Wow!’ were followed by a look of concern.
‘Her family must have been so sad.’

The following day they set out to walk along the pipe to the sea, Sarah walking on ahead. It was then - as they had agreed - he talked of her illness and the hopes they had for a speedy recovery. ‘But she might not recover?’, he had said looking up at his father. They had stopped about halfway along the pipe. ‘Johnny Webster’s mum was really ill last term andshe didn’t recover.’ He touched his son’s hand lightly.

‘You are right, even the best doctors in the world can’t be one hundred percent sure of a cure, but those caring for mum are the best and we’re very hopeful.’ The boy had nodded and had climbed back onto the pipe.

He looks towards the shoreline. She’s now disappeared. At the end of the pipe, he jumps down and turns in the direction of the church by way of a series of narrow wooden bridges once used to bring sheep in at high tide. Near the last bridge, he bends down and picks a
small bunch of light-blue sea lavender. He’ll give them to Sarah when he sees her. Beyond the trees is the church with its well-tended graveyard. He looks out across the saltmarsh. The tide has turned, hastening his step. Grey rain clouds are now scudding in, darkening the way ahead. He enters the churchyard and makes his way to its furthest corner. There beneath an old oak he sees the grave of the old cockle woman caught out by the incoming tide. He walks over and lays a single blue flower on the headstone. He then turns and moves slowly towards one of the newer graves bearing a simple inscription, Sarah, ever present, unadorned, except for a granite headstone and a small crystal vase.

Into this he carefully places the bunch of light-blue sea lavender.

Writing a novel involves a lot of research, which is one of the enjoyable aspects - editing is probably one of the least enjoyable - and with The Disappeared I was fortunate in having a brilliant editor, J David Simons - a gifted writer too. Part of my research involves reading other fiction that uses the same setting. There aren’t a huge number of novels set on the North Norfolk salt marshes but one is by Jeremy Page called appropriately ‘Salt’. A debut novel, it explores the generational relationships against the landscape in which they live.

Have just finished Nine Lives by the American crime writer, Peter Swanson. A homage to Agatha Christie. Well written.

At the edge of the Salt Marsh on the North Norfolk coast where my new novel is set.

Currently working on my new novel, The Cottage at the edge of the Salt Marsh, a literary novel set on the north Norfolk coast. Very far removed from Peru but just as mysterious and intriguing.

My new novel, The Disappeared is now published and available from Amazon as a paperback or kindle version or from the publishers Thinkwell Books