They never found her mother or Don or little Edie, but their names duly appeared on the list of casualties posted on the Town Hall wall. She went time and again to the temporary mortuary they set up in Romford Road Baths, to see whole families laid out on trays in the empty pool. Later, they brought her the things they had found. Her mother's handbag, her brother's penknife, and Patch's lead. She opened the bag, rifled through the lavender-smelling handkerchiefs, and then opened her mother's compact. She breathed deeply of the powder, of the mother smell, and collapsed on the floor of her kitchen.
Iain Ord
Although I spent my working life as a personal injury solicitor, I have been writing for pleasure for about forty years, and have never been able to break the habit. So I eventually decided to inflict my work on the general public.
In historical fiction I can combine my love of literature with my love of history. My goal is not only to create as accurate a picture of the past as I can, but also to create believable - if not always sympathetic - characters, through whom we can inhabit that past, and make it live again.
If good things don't always happen in my books, please understand that I have been a lifelong Newcastle United supporter, so neat, happy endings don't come naturally to me.
I spend what spare time I have playing tennis, bowls and golf (all badly), and walking the fells. I am married, and have two lovely daughters with expensive habits.