Wow! At last, it’s here.
A serialised version of The Wrong Man will arrive with you in digestible episodes. Look for them on Saturday and Wednesday.
I’ll record each episode to give you an audio option. It’ll be my voice, but I’ll do my best where accents are indicated. I can offer only the basics, no promises of fancy production techniques. When you’ve shared this with all your friends and associates, and it’s gone viral – which would be exciting beyond words – perhaps I can get a cast of characters for the next wave!
In the meantime, thank you, Dear Reader, for being there, reading the story and hopefully being willing to send me a little heart of encouragement. Share it if it moves you.
All episodes will remain available to you and future readers for some time after the serialisation ends, to give latecomers time to catch up at their leisure. So, read at your own convenience. There are currently 35 Chapters.
This is what it’s about / back cover
The Wrong Man is a profoundly emotional story about one woman in a world where men rule, and kindness isn’t a given. During the pre- and post-World War One decades, Susannah’s story is one of love gone wrong.
Her life is anything but dull, as she seeks escape and love, and discovers her greatest asset is the capacity to find good friends who help ease the blows wherever you are and, if you choose the wrong man, you’ll need friends.
It’s 1919 in London when Susannah begins to journal her story – and we learn about her past, sometimes tragic, sometimes beautiful, always hopeful. In part one, Susannah grows up in England. Part two continues in Australia.
Beginning as a vulnerable young nursemaid in an English manor house, Susannah experiences love, loss, and trauma. When she meets two wounded Australian soldiers those dalliances restore her dreams.
Susannah doesn’t believe she’s a heroine. She only wants a happy home and thinks Australia offers a better life, far from 1919’s war-weary England and the dangers of philandering squire’s sons and lust-fuelled entitled employers.
Instead, amidst the 1920-30s economic boom and bust years, she lands in Sydney’s Surry Hills gangsterland. It is a reality unlike wall maps displaying colourful birds and strange animals. It is far from faithless Thomas’ wild tales of a dreamland of plenty. There, survival requires sacrifice, and babies bring pain as well as happiness. Yet, faced with adversity, Susannah clings to hope.
Themes
The Wrong Man, portrays the devastation of war and the struggle of living through economic depression, but mainly it tells a tale of how Susannah survives domestic violence with the help of friends, the love of her children, and the dreams she holds on to.
It is a sympathetic account of survival in the storm of one woman’s life and times. Merging fact and fiction, this is an emotionally challenging historical novel. There are lessons on not giving up and, perhaps, when giving up was or might have been the better choice. But in those times, choices were a luxury, and luxuries don't exist when you're a woman with few rights fighting for what you love and even the right to live.
Susannah's tale reveals little things and big hearts offer the greatest wealth.
The idea
I was writing a thriller when DNA testing uncovered a second cousin in Australia who I couldn’t place in my ancestry chart. Connecting with her, we sought an answer and I found the genesis of Caroline/Lily, who you meet at the end of part one. This was my inspiration to weave an explanation. The thriller may yet reemerge, but not until Susannah lets me go and a tale for Lily comes to life.
This isn’t a true story because there aren’t enough facts for that, but it is the one that demanded to be written. The setting is all too real…so here it is. I hope you can forgive Susannah for her imperfections and that her story leaves you pondering why we make some of the choices we do. Have your tissue box ready.
Alert
The story contains references to abuse, the devastation of war, rape and domestic violence. There is no gratuitous sex. It is not that kind of a novel.
Thanks to
The creation of this tale has taken me several years. My small, dedicated Ōtaki writers’ group has supported me through this experience with encouragement and edits. Thanks to my brilliant fellow writers: authors Patrician Donovan and Jan Jordan, together with Colleen Flux-Hollings and Anna Mahoney [Substack: Writing from Scratch], whose own works are hot on my heels. Belle, thanks also for being there to pique my interest in writing this story.
A serialised novel
The Wrong Man:
Susannah’s Legacy: 1
By Annie Blackwell
PART I: ENGLAND, 1913-1919
“There had been years of Passion—scorching, cold,And much Despair, and Anger heaving high,Care whitely watching, Sorrows manifold,Among the young, among the weak and old,And the pensive Spirit of Pity whispered, “Why?”From And There Was A Great Calm by Thomas Hardy, Nov 1918
PROLOGUE
London, England, March 1919 – Notebook
War is a thief. And what of love? Love is air. I breathe it in a dream. A dream I can’t stop dreaming, a nightmare of silent screaming.
No matter how much we try to forget some things, they remain a visceral part of us, sharp-nailed claws in unwary moments. In flashes, I remember the beatings, the war, and the assault. Love featured among those like a hailstorm; sudden, strong, until it stilled.
I am Susannah.
Poised to write, I sit in my bedroom beneath the roof of this inn in Camden Town, London. Street sounds fade. Tired though I am, excitement uncoils, springs loose in my mind and fights away sleep.
‘At least I have this small space to myself,’ I whisper to shadows playing along the walls like companion spirits of servants past. It is cherished privacy and I am thankful for small blessings. Although cold in winter and likely hot in summer, it is clean and whitewashed; better than many maids’ quarters. It could have turned out worse.
Starched, white pinafores, supplied by my employer – the cost deducted from my pay – hang from pegs on the wall behind me. Unlike at my first employer’s manor house, there is no formal uniform here. Alongside them are voluminous, old-style dresses I scrounged from Ma on a rare visit home. With a sigh, I recall our exchange.
‘They’re too big for me now, Susannah. I could make alterations, but you take them if you can put them to use. You are rounding out these days, my little love.’
My throat constricts, but tears hold back. A hand goes to my swelling belly.
Was I wrong not to share with her knowledge of the being I protect within me? But she is hopeless at keeping our secrets from Pa. It clamped my mouth shut even though the truth must be known eventually. Not yet though. Not until I’m prepared.
I refocus, dispelling dark thoughts. This is my moment for excitement.
In front of me, a nib pen and inkwell, containing cheap black ink, perch on the right-hand corner of a scarred table, a reject from the schoolroom. It serves as my desk. The stub of a candle fixed in a saucer of water provides light, the remains from my evening chores in the children’s nursery.
I pull the many-times-mended spindle chair closer. One hand rests on a small notebook. In time, lines of black ink will fill its pages and share my tale which, though I start today, 19 March 1919, must intertwine with events of days past because those brought me here and will propel me onward, to whatever awaits.
I drag my eyes and thoughts away from material distractions. The scene is set well enough.
Writing serves a purpose. My composure has become frayed from keeping my secret contained when my story screams to escape. But I dare not share it with anyone around me. Only Grannie Mitchell knows some of it. She is prepared for the help I will need from her, but in Wiltshire, she is too distant for daily conversation. Instead, the notebook must steward unspoken words.
Can I reveal what happened, how I remember it, with laughter and tears, happiness and anger? Sometimes, I feel love, at other times, I recognise betrayal or am appalled at myself. Past and present collisions unveil events in graduated shades.
My pen hovers as intent surges and dips with hesitation.
Prevarication, I realise, overrides anticipation. I should not be surprised. Thoughts tumble inside my head like fairground juggling balls. The words have been bottled up and to remove the stopper, to release their essence, might prove good and bad.
And it is difficult to decide exactly where to begin in this jigsaw puzzle of clamouring, conflicting thoughts.
‘Begin at the beginning,’ Ma always chided when I burst into the kitchen, words falling out of my mouth in a jumble after one childhood spat or another, and there were many of them in our large household.
A shuddering breath escapes, conjured by the sudden vision of Ma.
I dip the pen in ink, and carefully write a title on the cover:
Susannah, Camden Town, London, March 1919.
Turning to the first page, I chew my lip out of habit. It helps me to concentrate on forming the words as I was taught. At least Pa ensured all his children, even girls, could read and write properly. I note that point; something good to say. It is a positive entry before casting my mind back to the start of things.
All secrets have beginnings.
… End of episode one.
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