Chance Encounters by Mandy Tocczek McPeake

Writing a Book

It’s taken three years of intensive research, typing and editing, but I have written my first full-length non-fiction book with a working title of Changing Fortunes: A Story of Love, Loss and Resilience. My other writing has been short-form — poetry, non-fiction articles, essays, and business reports. None of those prepared me for the marathon that is long-form writing on a topic close to my heart.

The book tells my parents’ turbulent life stories from 1938 to 2019. I wrote the first draft as a narrated piece before rewriting it from the individuals’ points of view. I think this makes it more accurate, more in-depth, and more emotional. So, it is reimagined. I know any creative non-fiction is subject to the writer’s perception, and the closer to home the story, the more likely that is to be so. This is why it is now out in the world for a first read-through by a select audience of family and friends. I have to wait for their feedback before seeking more unbiased reviews.

The response so far is encouraging. Words like “tear-jerker, riveting, I couldn’t put it down, a truly remarkable story” are exciting to hear, but I know this doesn’t guarantee I’ll find a publisher. So far, it seems it might have broad appeal, but switching off is difficult.

Change of Scene

Yesterday, I tried to write a poem, but my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to draft this article for Wattletales but could not find my theme. I gave up and headed, with my notebook, to Picklemee Grandma café in Mannum’s iconic Woolshed. In the past, my local café has provided fodder for my writer’s notebook, and I needed a distraction. I also love their food and told myself I’d find it easier to write with a full stomach and a decent caffeine fix.

After the town’s recent flood devastation, relief warmed inside me. The sun shone, and the Murray River flowed serenely between its banks.

Picklemee Grandma Cafe

Teresa and her partner Kim run the Picklemee Grandma Café at Mannum, where I live, and today, Kim was trialling a dressing for her quiche and salad. “Is it too oily?” she asked. I told her not at all. The peppery, spicy flavours added a touch of elegance to my delicious, freshly baked lunch.

As I tucked into my quiche and sipped a flat white, I heard a strong male Yorkshire voice behind me.

“That looks good. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

I turned to see a grizzled face beaming down at a heaped plate of bacon and eggs with all the trimmings delivered to his table by Teresa.

“Is that a Yorkshire accent I hear?”

“Yes, it is. I’m from Bradford,” he said.

“So am I,” I grinned.

The Yorkshire spirit is such that we look out for each other. I’ve met compatriots in airports, boats, shopping centres and theatres, and I knew he wouldn’t mind. And, to find Jimmy in my local café soon after completing my manuscript about my parents was a delight.

He was turning eighty soon, he told me and liked coming to Mannum. His eyes drifted longingly to his lunch. I suggested he eat his meal before it gets cold, and we can chat afterwards. His relief was palpable. He didn’t want to be rude to a fellow expatriate.

I finished my meal and immersed myself in reading manuscript submission protocols online.

So Much in Common

A figure appeared beside me. “I’d better move on, but it’s always nice to meet another person from Yorkshire.” He hovered expectantly. Forty minutes later, Jimmy and I exchanged Christian names, shook hands for a while, like old friends and parted the better for our fleeting bond. We had covered a lot of ground. I know that he was a great hiker in his day. We talked about Kendal in the Lake District of Cumbria, where he often walked and where my family and I lived for a few years.

We spoke of the small towns we know and love. Gargrave, where the Leeds-Liverpool Canal and the River Aire cross paths; Skipton with its market and medieval castle; Ilkley, for which the Moor is named; and Howarth, famed as the home of the Bronte sisters. We discussed Bradford and World Heritage-listed Saltaire Village, an entire community built for workers by woollen mill owner Sir Titus Salt.

This was where I grew up, where my best friend bought a house recently. She lives in London but needed that connection to our country. Jimmy was born and went to school in the heart of grimy industrial Bradford town. It gave him a love of soccer and English cricket and a heart for the North of England. My brother still lives in Bradford and wouldn’t live anywhere else.

Jimmy’s voice shook when he described a visit to his father’s grave in Bari, Italy, as did mine, remembering Uncle Bobby’s name inscribed on column 298 at the Normandy War Memorial in France. They died in World War Two. Bobby has his place in my book.

Jimmy and I will not meet again, but I know him, and he knows me. Jimmy’s travels have been hampered by a bad traffic accident in outback South Australia in 2019, mine tempered by my mother’s death in Ilkley in the same year.

Other Chance Meetings

There was an American woman in the departure lounge in Hong Kong. She, her husband and their four children had sold up and set sail around the world. Her Mum was ill, so she’d flown home and was returning to the family waiting in a Thai port where their boat was undergoing maintenance. I followed their travels through pirate-infested waters on her blog for months.

Another time, I spent two hours on the train from London to Leeds talking to a woman about travel, home and books we’d read. It was an instant connection. How we laughed, my new friend and me, till she left the train at Doncaster. Then there was the British army officer who took charge when a bunch of us were stranded in Nigeria for three days. Now, that was an adventure to write home about.

Jimmy reminded me why I wrote my book. A desire to honour my parents, whose lives were torn apart and thrown together by the cataclysmic forces of war. It is set mainly in Yorkshire, where their marriage of fifty-seven years was lived.

Reflections

Chance encounters stay with you, spark memories of people and places you have known, and bring to mind poems you once wrote.

“I reckon I’ll drive back to Golden Grove the long way,” Jimmy from Bradford said with a nod as he left that day. “Call in at Blanchetown. I might have a drink there. But I’ll be back to Mannum; it’s a good place to visit.”

I was glad he visited. He set in motion a flood of memories and writing ideas I captured in my notebook after he left. Maybe we’ll meet again next time he drops in.

AUTHOR BIO

To read more about Mandy and her writing, click here.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

‘That Icy Wind’, first published in Friendly Street Poets Anthology No 46 2022. ‘Summers End at Mannum’, first published in Mannum Mag, May 2021. ‘From the Window’, first published in The Crow by Ginninderra Press, September 2020.