Here At The Gate

How good is your memory?

Can you remember much about your childhood? The happy times maybe?

But what about dramatic events. I’m sure you can remember them, can’t you?

What about an event that was so dramatic it became traumatic?

How good is your memory then?

Mhairi had worked hard to build herself a normal, stable life, but there had always been a dark fear inside her. No matter how happy she was, it was always there.

It followed her about like a black bat, haunting her nights, hiding in a corner during her days, flapping out at odd moments, scaring the wits out of her.

It was as though she was standing outside a high-walled garden, barred from the secret of her past by the wrought-iron gate. She could see all the bushes and trees, the rhododendron and hydrangea. She could even smell the roses and the honeysuckle, but then the gate would swing shut and she was outside and it was dark.

Now her happy, settled life was being threatened by her own daughter and she knew she had to force through the darkness. She needed to remember what she had spent a lifetime forgetting.

HERE AT THE GATE

Available on Amazon and the paperback from FeedaRead

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From the reviews

“What a hidden gem! This was a beautiful story, both in how it was written and the tale that unfolds. If you want fast-pace and constant action, this book is not for you. If you want to thoroughly enjoy every word and scene, then read on as Mhairi confronts her fears. This is a wonderful book about human emotions and triumphs. You will laugh. You will cry. But most certainly, you will enjoy Ms. Campbell’s story.”

“Having read Christine Campbell’s previous novels, I was eagerly anticipating this one. It certainly lived up to my expectations. I think the author’s greatest skill is the way she builds your curiosity by slowly revealing more and more about the central character, unravelling their past and tying it into their present life. It’s difficult to be specific about the plot of Here at the Gate as it would spoil your enjoyment of the story if too much was revealed. Suffice to say, it is extremely absorbing and you can’t help but feel compassion for the main character as she is forced to face up to her devastating childhood and the implications it has had on her adult life.
An excellent read!”

“A very enjoyable story. This was a change of style from my usual books but I am glad I gave it a try. It was hard to only read a couple of pages at bedtime and ended up reading for longer than I planned to. I found myself drawn into the story from the begining.”

“Christine manages to write in such a way that you feel you are reading a biography. Excellent, can’t wait for the next one.”

“I read this on holiday. It almost made me anti-social as I couldn’t put it down!! Thank you Christine Campbell. I’m saying nothing about the storyline – just read it. You will be glad.”

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Excerpt

She could be going about her daily life, thinking of nothing more than the task she was working on, the meal she was planning, when a word, a phrase, a smell, a trick of

light. and there, something was triggered in her head and she’d be taken back to that

garden or to the life without it.
To the abyss of loneliness: overwhelming despair that had bowed her head and bent

her back. To the void of hopelessness: deepening shadow that had darkened her eyes and destroyed her sleep.

It amazed her she had lived through it: shocked her she had been forced to.

Mhairi dragged herself from the brink again, as she had so many times over the years. Whenever she allowed herself, or was unable to stop herself remember those barren years, she came so close to losing her mind that it frightened her. Each time, it took a huge effort of will not to allow the past to drag her down into its morass of hurt and blame. Each time, she had to remind herself she had survived before, she would survive again.

Forcing herself to take a long, deep breath, she gathered her coat and keys and took herself out.

Driving into Edinburgh at this time of day didn’t take too long and she reached Holyrood Park in thirty-five minutes. Parking the car, she crossed the road and walked

briskly to the bottom of the hill. At a slightly slower pace, sometimes walking the well trodden paths, sometimes scrabbling over rocky parts, she reached the top of Arthur’s

Seat in not much more than two and a half hours. Breathless and elated, she stood at the top and gloried in her accomplishment. It got her every time. That hard push beyond thinking, beyond pain. No matter how desperate she felt, no matter the weather, climbing this hill imbued her with power. As long as she was able to force her legs and her lungs through the burning pain of this climb, she could believe there was hope that the past would not catch up with her, that she was strong enough to fight against its drag.

The wind was strong up here by the cairn, but Mhairi loved it. Sitting on the grass, she closed her eyes, leant back on her hands and offered her face, feeling the wind chill her skin and whip her hair, taking her breath and throwing it back at her with full force as it swirled. Not until it had whipped the last thoughts of the past from her mind did she open her eyes to look at Edinburgh lain out at her feet.

The city, the castle, the river, the hills: it was all set out before her like an architect’s

model, with background views all round, full-circle: over the Pentland Hills; the city; the Forth Road Bridges; the Fife coast, and out to Bass Rock and the conical shape of Berwick Law. When she stood up, she had almost a complete three-hundred-and-sixty

degrees of ever-changing view — all wrapped in blue sky with heavy white clouds hanging

in it, undecided whether to release their load now or wait till later.
Autumn had already rushed in on the scene with a chill wind, ripping half-turned

leaves from their branches earlier than they would have chosen to fall. Though there were no trees up here at the top of the climb, she could see them in the vista she surveyed.

Mixed with the peaty smell, there was the sniff of snow in the air and she filled her lungs with the sharp, freshness of it, loving how cleansing it felt.

The city looked very small: cars and buses moved along the grid like tiny ants, insignificant from this vantage point; people were no more than dots, too small to even

bear the label ‘insignificant.’ What arrogance to think mere mortals were the pinnacle of

creation. What were they but specks of dust on the surface of the planet: a planet placed in a veritable plethora of celestial bodies all moving in a majestic choreography.

What was her life compared to the vastness of the world around her? What place did she hold in the universe?

Yet there was something in her that clung to life, clung to the value of her own life. She spread her arms to the wind, turning slowly in a circle, embracing the sky, the hills, all

of it. “I am here,” she told the world. “I am me. This is my place.”

No traffic smells, no traffic sounds, but the smell of snow and heather on the wind, the sound of the same wind in her ears, the distant mumble of the earth turning. Up here, she had space in her head to hear the hum of life. It was made up of insect noises and bird calls, human voices and the thrum of her own blood. Up here she could shut out the past and live in the moment, her only thought how to drink it in and hold its healing in her heart. Up here, she knew she was alive. Up here, she felt invincible.

“I am here. This is my time.”

There were always walkers on the hill, regardless of wind and weather. She acknowledged with a nod the one or two she passed as she walked round its crest, revelling in the rawness of the day and the bounce of the tough grass beneath her feet, pulling the crisp air deep into her lungs and holding it for as long as she could. Spreading her arms wider and lifting her face back to the sky, eyes closed, she spun slowly round and round, round and round until she felt as though the whole world spun on this axis, this was the centre of the planet, everything spun out from this point.

Other walkers smiled back at her, complicit in her pleasure. It was good to be here. Good to get perspective: to know that just as every blade of grass on that hillside added to the wealth of its beauty, so too, did each one of them have a part to play in the great

drama of life. ‘I am here. I am me.’

Enough. It was enough. She was restored.

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