The paperback is also available on Amazon or here for £8.75 with free delivery in the UK only.
£3.99 postage for orders worldwide.
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The Healing Touch is one woman’s quest for love. She finds it. But it proves impossible to hold on to. Will she be third time lucky?
Gorgeous, talented, complex Isabelle Cooper, a sexy, youthful, fifty-five-year-old, is going through the menopause. But is it also a new coming of age for her? Is it time to question her long established position in life, her well-learned role? Is she bold enough to open new windows and walk through new doors?
When not one, but two new men enter her life, her world is turned upside down. Will the unexpected loss of one man drive her back inside her safe, albeit unfulfilling life, or push her into the arms of the other? Has she finally had enough of an unsatisfactory sex life with her husband in a loveless twenty-two-year-old marriage? Or will the cost and pain of ending it be worth feeling more fully alive than ever before?
A mesmerising story of loss, heartbreak, passion, and love in many guises, The Healing Touch is a gripping read you won’t want to put down. Funny, devastating, and uplifting by turns, The Healing Touch will leave you yearning to experience the perfect love yourself.
Answering Readers’ Questions
Is Sexual Neglect A
Angelina talks to Elizabeth Dockrell-Tyler – Part 1
Angelina talks to Elizabeth Dockrell-Tyler – Part 2
Angelina talks to Elizabeth Dockrell-Tyler – Part 3
Suddenly, an enormous squeeze clutches me. It’s too tight. More follow. They feel claustrophobic and angry somehow, unlike the warm, fuzzy rubs and hugs from Mother when she is suddenly overcome with love for me. These squeezes are much stronger. They feel serious and not loving at all. They are getting even tighter now, and more frequent. I want them to stop, but they do not stop. Why don’t they stop? It’s hurting now. One follows the next quicker and quicker. Mother’s sounds are loud. She is screaming. Has something happened to us, something bad? The squeezes are really tight, now, and getting tighter. Mother isn’t stopping them. I want to stop them but I don’t know how.
I’m moving, moving away from the warm weightlessness that was my home, down a very narrow place. It’s slippery, wet, and I can’t stop moving no matter how hard I try. I’m squeezed tighter than I ever imagined possible. My shoulders are squashed up towards my head. There are many other voices. Unfamiliar voices. The voices sound scared or excited, I cannot tell which.
Something is wrong. I know it straight away. I know it with the kind of knowingness when you just know something, and you don’t know how you know it. It was always only me and Mother. But now, another presence has made itself known. It is near me but I can’t feel it. I can only sense it. It is big, bigger than Mother or me. It is beyond our lives. I don’t know how I know that, but it is a sharp truth I will always know. The knowing lives inside me, without pictures, without words. But there are sounds. Earthly sounds. Mother’s sounds. Her voice. And other voices, deeper, scary. Mother is scared. Her heart is beating fast, her breathing more rapid.
My body moves even further down the narrow place. I don’t know how I know that I will see Mother’s face very soon. I’m happy about it, looking forward to it. But as soon as I start to relax, rough hands grab my head and pull me quickly through the narrow place. My body gulps air. My legs and arms flail. A bright light hits my eyes. I cannot focus on anything, but I know the skin I can feel beneath me belongs to Mother. I can hear her sounds. She sounds nearer, clearer and happy. She is making cooing sounds. Her soft hands touch me all over, as though she is checking that all of me is here, that I am safe. Just as I am getting used to the feeling of her hands on my body and her skin beneath me and the bright lights around me, other, rougher hands take me away from her. I feel instantly cold, then. Peculiar, pungent smells are all around me. I can hear a strange sound and realise that it’s coming from me. I am crying, yes, but I am astonished that I can hear the actual sound of my crying. I don’t remember being able to hear it before and I know that I have cried many times. I wonder if others can hear it too, if Mother can hear it. Will she come to me? Mother doesn’t come. But another someone comes – like her, but with a different smell and sounds. She picks me up. She makes soothing sounds and gently sways with me from side to side. It’s comforting. I stop crying. I look up at her and see that she is smiling.
“You poor little thing,” she whispers. “What will become of you? Your ma’s just a little baby herself.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Conor O’Reilly, would you just take this bloody child to the other room. I cannot stand his constant screaming any longer.”
Mother’s words are aimed at me. Her words hurt. But there is a painful, gnawing, empty feeling inside me that hurts even more. I don’t understand why Mother doesn’t help me. I know she can take it away. But she has been lying on the small red sofa for days now. Conor and Mary have tried to take care of me as best they can. But both still being so young they need looking after, themselves. Mary, especially, often cries with me. But Conor, being slightly older, is always quiet. He never cries, or laughs, or speaks.
Conor picks me up from the floor where I had been sitting, playing with the empty bottles until one broke and a shard of glass cut my finger. It hurts, but less than the empty feeling in my body. Red liquid is everywhere. It’s coming from my finger. Conor puts me down again. He puts his mouth over my finger and sucks the red stuff into his mouth. I stop crying and watch him. Conor’s blonde hair is standing on end, matted and unwashed. His blue eyes, like Mother’s, are closed. His face is screwed up in concentration. He sucks hard on my finger, holding my hand firmly to his mouth. But each time he pulls my finger from his mouth, the red stuff starts to flow again from the small wound. Mary, who is sitting next to me, has also stopped crying. Like me, she is watching Conor’s attempts to stop the bleeding. As though she suddenly remembers something, she gets up and waddles down the hallway, her nappy hanging full and low down her little legs, her dark hair bunched up from sleeping on it. I watch her go, wondering when I would be able to stand and walk, like her. She isn’t much older than me. Conor pays her no attention and goes back to sucking on my finger. The only sounds in our small living room are the telly and Mother’s soft snoring. It’s amazing that she could be so cross one moment and fast asleep the next. I wish I could do that. But the empty, gnawing pain in my stomach has often kept me awake.
Mary comes back into the room with a tiny piece of toilet paper. She offers it to Conor. He takes it and carefully puts it around my finger. The red stuff makes a big red mark on the white paper but at least it doesn’t flow anymore.
The doorbell buzzes, and Conor goes to answer it. Mary sits down beside me and holds my hand.
Uncle walks into the room with long strides, followed by Conor. “Jesus, it stinks in here,” he says, and quickly opens a window before moving to Mother. He shakes her shoulder but she doesn’t wake up. She just grumbles in her sleep.
Uncle brought the cold, fresh smells of outside into the room with him. Other smells came with him, too. The sharp smell of fresh alcohol and food smells that make all our tummies rumble. Uncle’s dark hair is short and clean and his blue eyes wild with an emotion I don’t understand.
“Conor,” says Uncle, “take the babes into the other room. I want to talk to your mother. And change their nappies if you can.”
Conor picks me up again and Mary follows behind as we make our way down the hallway to the bedroom we share with Mother. The room is much colder than the living room where the small heater lives. Mary crawls onto her small unmade mattress on the floor in the opposite corner. She tucks her teddy close to her body. Her lips, fingers, legs and feet are blue from the cold and she is shivering. Conor puts me down on Mother’s single bed, also unmade. The sheets and blankets are cold against my back and they smell funny.
Conor changes my nappy quickly. It feels immediately warmer having a dry nappy. The empty feeling in my tummy still hurts but now I can tolerate it more. Mary knows it’s her turn next and she gets up from her mattress and comes to stand next to Conor. He lifts her on Mother’s bed so that she lies next to me. She is quiet, clutching her teddy in one hand, her other hand holding mine. As soon as her new nappy is on, Mary draws Mother’s sheets and blankets around me and her. She lies close to me. I feel slightly warmer. Conor doesn’t wear a nappy anymore.
Conor leaves the room and I know he has gone to put the nappies in the bucket in the bathroom. But he comes back very quickly, with the nappies still in his hand, his face white, a frown between his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He closes the door, puts the nappies on the floor next to Mother’s bed, and goes to sit on his own mattress against the far wall of the small room. He sits with his back against the cold wall, his head in his hands on his knees that he has drawn tight against his body.
Mary and I are quiet. We are watching him. He doesn’t move or look at us.
We listen to the sounds coming from the other room. Uncle’s voice; loud, demanding. Mother’s voice; speaking fast, rising as if she’s trying to defend herself. Sounds of a struggle, Mother screaming, something breaking, probably more bottles. A rhythmic banging sound and Mother’s low wailing, followed by Uncle’s sudden loud, piercing cry. Then, silence. Silence for a long time…
I cry as I wake up, the gnawing feeling in my body is overwhelming and making me feel quite ill. Mary wakes up and starts crying, too. Conor is still on his mattress but he must have fallen asleep as well because he is lying under his blankets. He gets up quickly when he hears us crying. His eyes are red and swollen.
The door flies open. Mother is standing in the doorway. She is swaying slightly. Her hair is a mess, she has a blue bruise on her eye and a raw swelling on her lower lip. Behind her, Uncle appears. His eyes are not so wild anymore. Instead, he is smiling.
“There he is, my little man. Just look how much you’ve grown.” He pushes past Mother into the room and picks me up. “We’re all starving, Moreen. Let’s get some food. My little man is hungry. What do you feed him these days?”
It feels like a feast day, all of us sitting in the warmer living room. Mother is sitting on the sofa with me at her breast, Uncle on the beanbag with a plate of steaming spaghetti, and Conor and Mary side by side at the small table in the corner. I know they’re enjoying themselves because they’re swinging their legs as they’re eating. Mother’s plate sits next to her on the sofa. She takes small, careful bites every now and then.
I’m not sure if we are a real family, or not. I’m not sure that I like Uncle. But at least Mother is awake now, and the horrid, empty feeling in my body is disappearing. I don’t want to drink any more milk. Mother puts me down next to her on the sofa. She picks up her plate of spaghetti. My eyelids are so heavy. I don’t want to sleep because I like the sounds of my family around me. I revel in the warmth of the room and the lovely full feeling in my tummy. I’m listening to the voices of Mother and Uncle talking as they’re eating.
“So, what are you going to do with the older two?” Uncle asks. “You can’t have them all here. I can’t support all of them. They’re not mine. And you better be right about Lee being mine because if I find out otherwise…”
Even though I’m so sleepy, something in my mind registers the words and the meaning behind them, somehow. The thing I know that is wrong with me, stirs. It feels like me, but not like me. It feels big, bigger than Uncle, and powerful and dark. It peeps out at Uncle. I hold my breath. But after a few moments, it slinks back inside. I breathe out. I’m relieved because I fear I could not control it once it came out fully. I know it is waiting. Waiting for blood, for souls. For when I’m bigger…
A lovely award winning writer friend of mine, Mary Anne Yarde, launched the second book, The Du Lac Devil, in her The Du Lac Chronicles series on Sunday. I love these books, and this story, so much that I wanted to share it with everyone here, too.
The Du Lac Devil, although a standalone novel, continues the story from the previous two books in the series, The Du Lac Chronicles, and the novella, The Pitchfork Rebellion.
I was looking forward tremendously to reading this book as I had enjoyed the previous two so much. I was not disappointed. In fact, I could not put it down and read through the night because I could not wait to see what was going to happen. Now, I can’t wait for the next one!
This could be the next big series on TV, because you’ll love it as much as Game of Thrones!
Mary Anne Yarde is a masterful storyteller. She weaves together history and fiction so perfectly and magically, that I find myself fully immersed in the world of her novels. It was wonderful to be back in the time of the Du Lac brothers, sons of Lancelot du Lac from King Arthur Pendragon’s court during the time of Camelot. The Du Lac Devil reveals the story of the youngest son, Merton du Lac, the Du Lac Devil.
Merton becomes a mercenary as a result of his guilty conscience over his inability to protect his brother, King Alden, who was once captured and tortured by the King of Wessex. King Wessex is blackmailing Merton in return for a promise not to invade Alden’s kingdom. But selling himself to the highest bidder lands Merton in trouble as he finds himself in the middle of two armies. We learn of his ingenious ways of solving problems as he escapes. He travels with his band of mercenary comrades to reunite with his brothers, Alden and Budic. Merton’s eldest brother, King Budic, recently lost his wife and son. Their funeral is the reason that everyone is at Budic’s court. But this is where the trouble really starts. There’s intrigue, romance, dastardly dealings, political scheming…
I won’t spoil it for you, save to say that this is a wonderfully gripping story that both young, and not so young, can enjoy. I cannot recommend it highly enough!
The Du Lac Devil is available in e-book and print formats on Amazon:
UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01N0FW1RU
USA – https://www.amazon.com/Du-Lac-Devil-Book-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B01N0FW1RU
November is an interesting month. It is the eleventh and penultimate month of the year and the fourth and last month containing 30 days. It is also the month when many of my friends and family members have their birthdays.
A number of festivals and holidays also happen during November. I love for example that the pagan Owl Month starts on 23 November until 21 December, signifying change and the Long Nights Time. It sounds kind of romantic, and I love owls.
The month has always been quite an exciting one for me personally, because I love autumn, the crispness of the colder days, and the colours, sights and smells of nature during this time. Long walks in the late autumn sunshine is a particularly lovely thing to do.
But November is also the month known to writers as NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month. It started in 1999 in America but now writers from all around the world join to write at least 50,000 words of a new novel during the month of November. If you join NaNoWriMo’s official website and reach your word count on 30 November, you receive a certificate that you can print out. It leaves you with a great sense of achievement and satisfaction, and many more writer friends if you so choose. I haven’t joined officially, but wrote my new novel, Forever And Ever Love, alongside NaNoWriMo and as I’m doing rather well, I may join next year.
There are many benefits of writing, even if you never intend to publish what you write. It can help deal with tragic and difficult experiences and it helps with loneliness – paradoxically, as writing is very much a solo sport. But writing, and talking with your characters, will definitely take you on a journey – maybe even one where you discover things about yourself you never knew.
Some writers use NaNoWriMo to get their next book well on its way to being finished. Others write just for the fun of it. But whichever way you go about it, try it – it is intense and fun!