Grace under fire

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

He’s not going to make it, George. If you don’t come and make your peace, you’ll regret it forever.” It was Brize who told me. He had driven over from his Field Hospital to find me. Timing was fortuna

THE buildings on either side of the street seemed to bend in upon Meg Talbot. Their upper windows were looming as she picked her way through the slime and detritus. She could hardly see the September

T RACY’S passing a box of teacakes across the scanner. She’s also chatting to one of her favourite customers – Mrs P – when her eyes stray to the clock in the corner of her screen. Ten-thirty a.m. on

I WAS lonely. Papa was a preacher and we lived and travelled in a painted wooden wagon, pulled by Jessie, a large and docile shire horse. We had few possessions; there was no room for what Papa called

MICHELE RUSPOLI felt a little less agitated, now that he was inside the library, but all around was evidence of the flood. Books had been laid out haphazardly on pieces of matting, all leather-bound,