Are you a fan of K.M. Grant's deGranville Trilogy (Blood Red Horse, Green Jasper, Blaze of Silver)? Would you like to read what possibly might become the first chapter of her memoir? I couldn’t believe it when she sent me this:
From K.M. Grant:
As a writer, historical novels are my thing, but a daughter getting married has prompted something else: I want to write a memoir. Ok, so everybody wants to write a memoir. And why not? We all have our own story to tell, and even if we think our story very ordinary, it's always fascinating to peer into other people's lives. Here's how I'm thinking of starting my story. How would you start yours?
Chapter 1: It Seemed Quite Normal At The Time
Birthdays were never a big thing at home unless our nanny remembered. Too many of us, I suppose. With six girls and only one boy – much rejoicing for him – our father found it a bore to remember our names, never mind the day on which we made our first and rather inconvenient appearance. Our mother was better at our names but whilst sometimes birthdays were a splash, other times she would clean forget. Perhaps she preferred to. Childbirth took place at home and the gas and air cylinder had long since run out, though nobody believed her.
My mother didn’t forget my ninth birthday. On this day there was an envelope on my breakfast plate. Inside was a card and the card said “I am Brock. Please come and fetch me.” I was astounded; Nanny grim-faced. Brock turned out to be a rough-haired, black and white, dock-tailed, prick-eared Jack Russell puppy. He was not Nanny's idea of the perfect present. No matter. My parents had bought him. He was mine.
I say ‘bought’, though on reflection I don't believe money exchanged hands and it was soon apparent why. In the whole of Brock’s life, which was longer than anybody could remotely have predicted or, frankly, desired, I think there was only one person who truly loved that dog: me. If you take as a measure those he never bit, I’d say that he himself only loved three people: me, my mother and Nanny. Out of we three, only Nanny elicited respect, a respect vastly increased when, years later, she put his head back together after he had attacked an articulated lorry. All of his head, that is, except for the eye that got left behind on the road. Even Nanny couldn’t do much about that.









