I began writing this novel not long after my own brother had a motorbike accident leaving him brain damaged. It took me quite a few years and several novels later to be able to fictionalise and give this story over to other characters to breathe life and their own tale.

Only Hummingbirds centres around twins Ronnie and Jake, now grown with their own families. After Jake’s horrific accident the two families decide to go on holiday to Brittany.

Much of the action takes place on the beaches and sand dunes of two seaside resorts: a fictional one in Brittany (based on Beg Meil where I holidayed with my own family), and the Somerset one of Brean (where my brother and I went many times, as children).

This novel has twin timelines (early 1970s and late 1980s), twinned places (West Country and Brittany), and focuses on twins Ronnie and Jake (before and after their marriages). When the two families decide to holiday in Brittany secrets begin to surface. Will Ronnie’s marriage survive, will she succumb to the charms of Xavier, and will she get her impossible wish?

Some of the story is shown in flashback and some in the form of letters. Below is part of a flashback from when the twins were young and on a day trip to Brean.

‘Howzat!’ cries Dad, not bothering to keep a note of triumph out of his voice.

            ‘Aw,’ says Jake, dropping his cricket bat.

            ‘Not fair. You should have bowled underarm,’ I shout at Dad. But the wind carries my voice up and away, just as it had sailed the ball plop into Dad’s hand.

            ‘What?’ he calls out.

            ‘Oh. Never mind.’

            I glance over to where the cars are parked at the edge of the dunes. Brean Sands is long and flat, the beach damp and hard from drizzle and high tides. When you swim in the sea, you get covered in brown stuff. We’re never too sure if its silt from the Bristol Channel Estuary, or sewage from neighbouring Weston Super Mare. I wonder if Mum is getting out the sandwiches yet. There’s no sign of her.

Our neighbour Beryl waves from her deckchair which is parked next to Slimy Bob’s Hillman Minx. Both her and stupid Marilyn sit with floppy sunhats. Marilyn is ill, and I once thought it’d be like in the book Heidi, with me tending the sickly Marilyn, but I soon discovered being Heidi is much overrated.

            ‘Come on Veronica!’ Dad beckons to me with large gestures. ‘Look lively. It’s Jake’s turn to bowl.’

I’m still fielding.

            Jake runs up to the crease Dad has made in the sand with his bat, and bowls – overarm – and wide.

            ‘Bad luck, lad. Try again,’ shouts Dad, as I fetch the ball then throw it to Jake, who rubs it on his groin – like real cricketers do. He pounds up to the crease, bowls, and this time Dad hits it. High high up into the sky only to disappear into the dunes.

            ‘Six!’ shouts Dad. Showing off as usual. I half run, half walk to fetch the ball – my brown Clarks sandals plodding on the sand. Dad is a member of Clifton Cricket Club: Jake and I are only ten. Which tells you all you need to know about Dad’s competitiveness.

            The wind off the sea is quite strong, but I can hear a soft laugh from behind the next dune.

 

I write romcoms under my own name of Rosemary Dun – this novel I’ve used a pen name – Rosie Parker.

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