Dads DSC, awarded after World War 2, stands on a wooden plinth in Mum's lounge. The ribbon is torn, the medal dull. Surrounding it are other smaller tributes to his naval days, during service as a rating on a British light cruiser, HMS Sheffield. The (late) Lieutenant Commander Skeels, having won his officer's stripes, returned to safety a small fleet of LCI's (landing craft) navigating the Atlantic, dodging German submarines and enemy destroyers to arrive for battle at the Sicily landings. Dad's own words were "we hung by our eyelids" as they waited, little corks of crafts, bouncing on choppy seas, the men inside these metal boxes prepared to give their lives for King and country. That phrase never ceases to inspire me, a phrase he used to describe the morale of the British sailors under his command. Sometimes when I'm writing and the struggle is uphill, I think of him, his eloquence and gentleness, a moment in history to be murmured so modestly yet fit so perfectly. And so CONNIE OF KETTLE STREET came about. I gave Vic, my hero, Dad's naval journey, starting from Butlins in Pwhelli, a holiday camp turned training centre for naval recruits, through the terrifying Scapa Flow to Murmansk Arctic Circle missions escorting our merchant ships across freezing U-boat filled seas, to New York and the gathering of a small LCI flotilla to sail for Sicily and the Mediterranean. Vic's sweetheart Connie discovers a baby boy, during the Blitz. This little fellow, called Lucky, orphaned and yet still alive, becomes a son to Vic. This is the story of not just one orphan, but of many who shared a similar fate. I'd like to think that Dad, if he'd had such a son, would have been as proud of him as I am of a truly special father who stands with me as I set these stories on paper.
