Product Description
From the moment the door latch fell, their lives would never be the same.
Archie Mullins wasn't built for 'trimming' or much else in truth. A suitcase in one hand and hope in the other, he clutched the ticket as if his life depended on it. Pulling on his britches he stepped over the swill thrown from the windows of Wickham Court and followed the filthy water to the corner of Valentine Avenue, its doorways a witness to everything but love harboured nothing but the stench of poverty. The French Quarter, an open wound festering in the shadow of St Michael’s Church would wave him goodbye, there was no going back, not now, an advance on his wages he'd left all but a shilling and thruppence; the White Star Line and boiler room five waiting on the dockside. He could hear her sobbing as she closed the door, his mother’s dread full of Irish guilt as deep as the North Atlantic and as unforgiving. He was just seventeen years old, the burden of responsibility settled in the corner of his smile, the morning sunshine ruthless in its quest for honesty told his story without a single word, this was his chance, his only chance, it was April 10th Nineteen Hundred and Twelve....
Archie Mullins wasn't built for 'trimming' or much else in truth. A suitcase in one hand and hope in the other, he clutched the ticket as if his life depended on it. Pulling on his britches he stepped over the swill thrown from the windows of Wickham Court and followed the filthy water to the corner of Valentine Avenue, its doorways a witness to everything but love harboured nothing but the stench of poverty. The French Quarter, an open wound festering in the shadow of St Michael’s Church would wave him goodbye, there was no going back, not now, an advance on his wages he'd left all but a shilling and thruppence; the White Star Line and boiler room five waiting on the dockside. He could hear her sobbing as she closed the door, his mother’s dread full of Irish guilt as deep as the North Atlantic and as unforgiving. He was just seventeen years old, the burden of responsibility settled in the corner of his smile, the morning sunshine ruthless in its quest for honesty told his story without a single word, this was his chance, his only chance, it was April 10th Nineteen Hundred and Twelve....
About the Author
James Darcy was born in the summer of 1958 in Southampton, England, one of many, his childhood years shaped by compromise. Asked recently about those times he described them as "interesting", adding "Most struggles have more than one dimension". Refusing to let the past shape his future he has lived his life with a simple message which can be found in his wallet today, the poem by Calvin Coolidge, 'Persistency'. Having completed his education the last three decades have been spent immersed in the world of finance and still has a brokerage in his home town, providing funding for business acquisitions, specialising in healthcare and leisure. Describing his career choice as a "contradiction", he concedes it has been "good to him" providing opportunities far beyond his early expectations and a platform to explore his artistic side while working within a profession he defines as soulless, "It's all about balancing it out, it's not something I'm particularly good at but then who is? I'm disciplined, very disciplined, my brother would say, 'Jimmy, how many lists do you have on the go today?' He knew me as well as anyone, I still think of him constantly when I'm writing, he was a great brother and friend..." Preferring to write early evenings, his desk, an old Victorian flip lid complete with clay inkwell, can be found covered in poems, short stories and manuscripts fighting for space with a small light and a laptop that has seen better days. His writing style is driven by human observation and an emotional journey often tinged with sadness recognised and embraced by those that claim to have 'lived a life', be it now or in the past. Having lost both parents, the first, his father, when he was just 18 years old, he is under no illusion that life owes you anything, "It's there to be lived, no one said it was going to be easy, we all have opportunities, it's up to us to take them". James Darcy lives alone in his beloved city of Southampton, writing and working and not always in that order.
