Jane Gent

“there was one time when I went too far and almost died. The water was very cold and I stayed under too long. Someone dragged me out just in time and I made out that it was simply a foolish accident. But I knew that it was more than that, and I learned a valuable lesson from it. I’m a survivor – I don’t want to die. The problem was that I was at the mercy of my emotions – I lacked control, and sometimes my grief could override my will.”
― Ruth Hogan, The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes

“call him Dad and it felt like the worst kind of betrayal.’ ‘How old were you?’ I ask. ‘Seven, when he died. Probably eight when Tony came on the scene. And he had this daughter, Lou, who was a couple of years older than me. His wife had died, too, so they were both single parents. I can understand, now, that they took comfort from each other, but at the time, I was so angry. It felt like Mum was choosing him over me, and over Dad. Plus he wasn’t very nice to me, never wanted to get involved with anything I was doing. I’ve just… never really been able to forgive them for it.’ ‘So once you were grown up, you cut them out of your life?’ ‘There was never a conscious decision to do that. But while Lou lived with them until she was in her early twenties, I went to university and never moved back. I’d see them now and again, but Tony and I just don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things and every time I’d see them, it was like Mum had moved slightly more towards his way of thinking. We just didn’t seem to have much in common”
― Laura Pearson, The Last List of Mabel Beaumont

“There are many dark forces at work within our world and to dismiss them is foolhardy. When evil triumphs over good, it is not because the good has failed, but that the evil was stronger.”
― Jenni Keer, The Ravenswood Witch

“Today would have been my son’s fourteenth birthday, and for all these years, this is what I have put my friends through. I have condemned them to a crippling carefulness in order to spare my feelings, and it has taken Hugo’s big mouth to make me realise it. My grief has become an addiction; a bad habit like a tattered comfort blanket that I have hung on to for far too long. It has to stop. I look in the mirror again, and try to see my face as a stranger would see it. It has all the requisite physical components to make it reasonably attractive; green eyes, full but well-shaped lips and a strong, straight nose. But there is no spark or spirit behind those eyes, and there is an expression of ingrained defeat haunting every gaunt contour of that woman’s face. That woman in the mirror is not me. She is the spectre that I have allowed myself to become and I don’t want to be her any more. I want to be the old Masha; the one I pray to God is still hiding inside me somewhere, hanging on by the tips of her fingernails.”
― Ruth Hogan, The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes