These three interlinked novellas are set in the early 2000s. In “Carmen’s Roses”, an Englishwoman encounters an unexplained death when she visits New Zealand in the hope of recovering from a serious illness, and of finding forgiveness for an incident related to a love affair from her past. In “Blue Moon for Bombers”, set in middle England, a historical mystery from the Second World War is interwoven with a modern romance. In “The Windflower Vibration”, which brings together some of the characters featured in the previous two books, the finding of a body on an Auckland beach sparks off a quest to unravel a complex web of events spanning two centuries and two hemispheres. All these novellas are available to be purchased separately as well as in this box set.

Targeted Age Group:: 20 – 100

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
My own experience of a life divided between England and New Zealand, the practice of both orthodox and alternative medicine, and interests in animals, music and the paranormal.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
It is said that all fiction is to some extent autobiographical, and I think that the female protagonists in these novellas reflect aspects of my own personality at different ages. Other characters are based, but only very loosely, on people I have known in real life.

Book Sample
“Look, that helicopter’s going to land on the beach,” yelled my grandson. “It’s come to pick up a dead body!”
“Be quiet, Francis. You can’t possibly know what it’s here for,” I told him, although I was privately afraid that he could. Francis was born with a sense of intuition which tells him things which he could not logically have known, and he tends to blurt them out without considering the feelings of other people.
We were approaching the southern end of Takapuna beach, where the cliffs jut out into the sea. At low tide, when the sand is exposed, you can walk round them to a smaller beach with a big rock in the middle. Francis liked going there because, being less crowded than the main beach, it was a good place to throw the ball for his blue heeler dog Spot. But the tide was too high for us to walk round that day.
Along with the few other dog-owners who were intrepid enough to be out in the chilly windy weather which is typical of Auckland in July, we stopped to watch the rescue helicopter circling as it descended over the little beach. I wondered if there would be enough room for it to land and pick up the casualty who was presumably lying there – a swimmer or windsurfer who had got into difficulties, perhaps, or someone who had fallen while walking round the cliffs and injured themselves.
The noise of the helicopter was deafening, Spot was frightened, and I was cold. It was impossible to see exactly what was going on at the other side of the cliffs and, in any case, I didn’t think it right to stay and stare. I said to Francis “Well, there’s nothing we can do to help here, so let’s go.” Francis was reluctant to stop watching the drama until I suggested hot chocolate, and then he willingly turned round to walk towards the cafe at the northern end of the beach.
I naturally assumed at the time that would be the end of the incident as far as Francis and I were concerned. I had no idea we were both about to be drawn into the complex web of events which I am going to describe in this book. Writing them down will, I hope, help me to make more sense of them in my mind.
Before continuing with the story, I should introduce myself. My name is Georgina and I was born and brought up in England. My husband Peter and I moved to New Zealand soon after we were married. For over forty years we lived in an old wooden villa in Devonport, on Auckland’s North Shore, and were very happy there. But after Peter died I found the large property too much for me to manage on my own, our only son Cosmo having long since left home. For a while I took in tenants to help with the bills, but that created further problems. I carried on there for another couple of years, but when the garden got completely out of hand and the roof started leaking I decided to move to somewhere smaller. So I bought a brick-and-tile unit in the neighbouring suburb of Takapuna, closer to the East Coast Bays where Cosmo and his son Francis lived.
I missed my old home but liked being close to the beautiful beach, and disciplined myself to keep fit by taking a walk there first thing every morning, rain or shine. It always looked different, depending on the weather and the state of the tide. On fine days there was a smooth expanse of golden sand, and a calm sparkling turquoise sea perfect for swimming, at least in the summertime. On wet and stormy days the sand was mixed with shells and pebbles and churned up into new contours, there were surfers riding the big waves and windsurfers skimming across the sea. The beach is a popular place for walking dogs and I always enjoyed seeing them playing with each other, and retrieving their balls or sticks of wood, though I did not have a dog of my own.
I usually walked alone, but on that particular morning Francis was spending an hour or so with me while his father, Cosmo, made some home visits to clients in the area. Francis was off school following a recent attack of glandular fever. He claimed to be too tired to go back yet but as I watched his slight figure running to and fro on the beach with Spot, I thought he was really quite well enough to have done so. He did not like school.
After we had reached the cafe at the other end of the beach, and sat down at an outside table – it was rather cold, but we had to stay outside because of Spot – Francis seemed to become oblivious of my presence. With his head bent forward so that I could not see his face, only his shock of ginger hair, he was totally absorbed in drinking his hot chocolate and eating a cupcake while doing something on his mobile phone. I supposed that women of seventy did not have much in common with fifteen year old boys in any case and Francis was an unusual boy, who for much of the time appeared lost in a dream world of his own. Cosmo had been quite different at that age, with his practical down-to-earth approach to things, keener on sport than study, but willing to work hard to realise his ambition of becoming a veterinarian.
I drank my latte in silence, watching the occasional boat passing through the Rangitoto channel, until it was time to go back. Francis went ahead, throwing the ball into the sea for Spot to retrieve, while I followed behind. Then I saw what looked like another drama going on. Spot was sniffing round a heap of something on the sand and Francis was running up to join him. My eyesight no longer being very good, it was not until I got closer that I realised it was another dog, lying down and breathing rather too fast. Francis announced “He’s munted.” I disliked hearing him use slang of that kind but decided not to correct him, because I could tell that the poor animal was in trouble. The owner was nowhere to be seen. It had begun to rain and there were hardly any other people left on the beach.
I admired the way Francis dealt with the situation. He put Spot on his lead and told me to hold him out of the way while he bent over the sick dog, checking him over in the way he must have learned from watching his father. Apparently the dog did not seem to have any injured body parts, but was definitely unwell. Francis then read out the information on the identity disc attached to his collar and I recognised the owner’s address as being quite close by, in one of the upmarket streets back from the beach.
“Come on, boy, stand up!” said Francis. “We’re taking you home.”
The dog obediently staggered to his feet. He was a good-looking animal, medium sized, with a brown coat and distinctive white tail. Quite a mixture of breeds: Border Collie? Labrador? German Shepherd? Cosmo would know.
After Francis had rigged up a makeshift lead from the scarf I was wearing, we set off slowly towards the house where the dog lived.
The woman who answered the door was immaculately dressed and made up. With her round face, pink cheeks, wide blue eyes, wavy golden hair and innocent expression she had a child-like air, though I guessed the hair was dyed and that she was older than she looked. Pretty but fragile, she reminded me of a china doll.
Francis said “Your dog’s sick. We found him lying on the beach.”
She looked distressed. “Oh I can’t cope with that now. It’s my husband’s dog and he’s not here.”
“Are you expecting him back soon?” I asked, for the dog clearly needed urgent attention.
“He should have been back an hour ago. He insisted on going out for a swim – even though he’s not well, and in weather like this, can you believe it? The dog must have got out and gone to look for him. I feel worried sick.”
Francis said “We saw the rescue helicopter on the beach picking up a dead body.” I decided to reproach him for this tactless remark later on, though perhaps he was not entirely to blame. In my opinion, his workaholic father did not provide the level of guidance and discipline which was necessary for a teenage boy.
The woman looked as if she was going to cry. She said “I can’t cope with all this.”
The dog vomited on the doormat, and then I saw a police car drawing up in the street. I thought we had better leave.
Francis suggested “I can take your dog to see my dad – he’s a vet.”
“I don’t mind where you take it,” the woman said. I found this an uncaring attitude, but supposed it was excusable in the circumstances. I always do my best not to judge other people.
We took the dog into the front garden, and Francis used his mobile to text Cosmo, who was fortunately still in the area and said he would come straight away. While we were waiting for him, two men got out of the police car and went into the China Doll’s house. They were still there when Cosmo arrived to pick up Francis and the sick dog about ten minutes later. I guessed that Francis had been right about a dead body on the beach.
After all that I felt exhausted, and having walked back to my own home I made myself a strong cup of tea. The morning’s events continued to play on my mind, partly because I had nothing particular to do for the rest of the day. Back in the Devonport villa with its rambling garden there was always some kind of work to be done and, when Peter was alive, a range of shared activities: arranging exhibitions of his pottery and paintings, having meals with friends, going to Mass every Sunday at the local church. A rather staid life, perhaps, but a contented one. Now I no longer had a husband or a large property to look after. All the materials from Peter’s art studio had been given away, along with most of our books. My new neighbours in Takapuna seemed pleasant enough, but I seldom saw them because they went out to work. I no longer attended Mass very often; perhaps I had lost my faith, as Cosmo had done many years before, and anyway it was a long walk to the nearest Catholic church. All in all, my life had come to seem somewhat empty and lacking in purpose. Not only did I miss my old home but, for the first time since moving to New Zealand, I sometimes found myself feeling homesick for England.
The best thing was to do something practical. I knew my new garden needed attention, because the branches of the hibiscus tree were growing right up against the bedroom window, but they were too high for me to be able to deal with myself. Cosmo could have pruned the tree but I didn’t like to ask him, because he was always so busy with his work.
Instead, I decided to make a batch of marmalade with the bag of grapefruit which my next-door neighbour had brought over the day before. All kinds of citrus fruits – grapefruits, oranges, lemons, limes – grow well locally but many people just let them go to waste, which is a pity especially since they have such a delicious taste. I reminded myself that the grapefruit are much nicer than the ones we used to get in England, and that there were many advantages to New Zealand life.

Author Bio:
I originally come from England, where I worked as a doctor in clinical and research posts, and published several academic books and papers. From 1991-2000 I was a consultant in psychological medicine, with special interests in oncology and palliative care, in Oxford UK. Then I moved to New Zealand, practised as a Bach flower practitioner and life coach, and returned to my childhood passion for writing fiction. I live with my husband and cats, and my main interests besides writing are choral singing and animal welfare.

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