Blurb
Can an alliance of convenience heal two broken hearts?
Liverpool, 1958. Hope Bennett longs to feel safe and wanted. Loyal to an alcoholic mother who gambles away all her hard-earned wages, she’s devastated by the announcement her family is moving and she’s not to follow. But her despondent plan to fling herself off the ferry and succumb to the freezing River Mersey is interrupted by a handsome older man.
John Walker expects to live out the rest of his days drowning in grief, isolated and lonely after the loss of his childhood sweetheart. When he spots a young woman in distress he is immediately drawn to help her.
Can the fragile dream of a better life out of the slums provide the security and companionship they both crave?
Hope in Liverpool is an emotional foray into historical women’s fiction. If you like compellingly complex characters, light humour woven through heart-wrenching drama, and gripping romantic overtones, then you’ll adore T N Traynor’s poignant story.
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Extract
Sunday, the 7th September 1958
THE GNARLED BRANCHES OF THE YEW creaked in the early autumn breeze. He wished for the umpteenth time his bench didn’t fall under the mammoth tree’s shadow. His navy, double-breasted jacket was buttoned, his trilby hat pushed down, hands shoved in pockets, shoulders hunched. He really should go. His legs were stiff, his posterior complaining. Yet he remained. Eyes firmly fixed on the polished granite headstone displaying his wife’s name in weathered gold lettering. It did her no justice, he thought. The inscription was simple, her name, the years measuring her too short life, and the true, but totally inadequate memorial of Dearly Loved and Never Forgotten.
Whether from his army days or his compulsive patterns, he was a creature of habit. Monday through Friday was a robotic repeat of absolute discipline. Switch the alarm off at six-thirty. Wash, do warm up exercises in the bathroom (a habit from his army days) dress, eat a bowl of cornflakes, and when the Times newspaper fell on the hallway floor at seven-ten precisely, he would tuck it under his arm and stride to the train station. The paper would be read on the train to Manchester, where he worked as a civil servant. He would work dutifully and diligently, and then when the wheels of industry had sucked him dry with endless red-tape and pointless bureaucracy, he would return home. Cook something plain and eat it. Wash, put on his striped pajamas, do the newspaper crossword, and then head to bed with a book.
It had been a desire to escape the aftermath of war that had first driven him to the printed word. He had taken to it slowly; his first book taking six months to complete, because he’d kept falling asleep. But then… it had been Titus Groan, and a labyrinthine castle, madmen locked in the dungeon and a whopping 496 pages had turned out to be an epic just a tad too fantastical for him. And then, a few months after his beloved left him, the petite librarian at the local library had fluttered her eyelashes at him and pushed The Catcher in the Rye into his hands. Caught up in the young New Yorker’s problems, his difficulty in remaining awake dispersed, and now against his better judgement, he found putting books down at night a trifle difficult. Still, when the alarm calls at six-thirty a lack of sleep is undeniably punishing.
On Fridays the routine changed only when he stopped off at the Tail and Hound on the way home, his tipple being two pints of bitter. Saturday he laundered his clothes, which included a fresh white shirt for each day of the week. Sometimes, when the sunlight beckoned him into the garden, he would drop off his dirty clothes with Mrs. Francis, who took in washing to top up the coffers. She always did the sheets for him twice monthly, so it was far too easy to drop off his clothes as well. He thought her mangle was impressive as she seemed to dry the clothes in no time. Plus, he was rather partial to the extra starch she put on his collars. There was no getting around the fact that a woman could do these things better than him, yet… one must push forward and strive to increase one’s expertise in all matters. Continuing with his duties (which quite frankly dulled his senses) he would clean the house, do a spot of gardening – weather permitting, and lastly down his steak with a satisfactory measure of whiskey.
But Sundays… oh Lord, Sundays.
Author Bio
Growing up with dyslexia I considered myself to be stupid. I had no confidence and when I left school my first job was washing up dishes in a restaurant. I moved onto to be a waitress and then a chambermaid.
At the age of forty, I had a part time job making sandwiches. At this time I got divorced and became a single mum with four lads to bring up on my own. I knew I had to do something to provide for them, so I went back to college to study accounting. Within a few years, I had become a finance manager, and my confidence has grown in buckets-full.
Famous for my scrumptious apricot flap-jacks and my mouth-watering risotto, with a non-existent waistband and greying hair, I am a grandmother extraordinaire! Well not really, but you’ve got to have a dream to have a dream come true. So, I’m a good cook and a chubby Nana who delights in storytelling.
I grew up with the belief that I was stupid. Not able to read until I was fairly old, I lived with a spiritual ‘dunce’ hat on for the largest part of my life. Writing my first book pretty much felt like a miracle to me, that readers are enjoying it is an even bigger miracle. All I can say to you would-be-authors and dreamers out there, success is rarely an accident. Dream, plan, focus, work hard, and most importantly keep a positive attitude.
If you should take the plunge and buy any of my books, then my heartfelt thanks to you and with my eternal gratitude for your support, I sincerely hope that you enjoy it.
Everything Is Better With Dragons 