Q – Angela
If you’ve ever lived in Fowey, Cornwall, you’ve been blessed to dwell among giants—not only of industry and political scandal, but also of poetry, literature, and history. It’s a place where the past feels alive, where the echoes of ancient civilisations cling to the rugged cliffs, and the wind carries whispers of stories untold.
My first visit to Fowey was in 1970. I was nine years old, giddy with the promise of adventure. My family had just purchased a brand-new campervan, a marvel of modern convenience to us, and our holiday plans were ambitious: a couple of days in Fowey followed by a jaunt to Sennen Cove near Land’s End. But what thrilled me most was the prospect of meeting Auntie Gladys—”crazy Auntie Gladys,” as the family lovingly called her.
Gladys was the woman who left an impression on everyone she met. She was sharp as a tack and fearless in conversation. Years later, I learned that the “crazy” part of her nickname stemmed from a court case where she’d been called as a prosecution witness. Faced with a smirking defence lawyer intent on tripping her up, she didn’t just answer his questions—she turned them into a masterclass in wit. When the judge admonished her to “just answer the question,” she replied with a perfectly straight face, “Oh, Your Honour, I would answer the question, but I thought the truth deserved a little company along the way.”
That summer, Auntie Gladys had promised my brother Richard and me something extraordinary: a visit to The Haven, once the home of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. She knew the Quiller-Couch family and wanted to show us his famous library. As we explored, she regaled us with tales of his mentorship of a young Daphne du Maurier. She spoke with reverence about the bond between the two authors, and as she described Daphne’s eventual success, her voice seemed to glow with pride. “Rebecca,” she said, “wasn’t just a book—it was a revolution. She gave us Manderley, a place we’ve all dreamt of visiting.”
I hung on every word, but Richard was particularly taken with the story. Even then, I think, he had a gift for making connections, for seeing the humanity behind the legend.
Seven years later, when we’d moved to Fowey, Richard and I found ourselves caught up in an unusual situation. Our rowing boat had broken free from its moorings and drifted downstream, ending up at Ferryside, the du Maurier family’s home in Bodinnick. By some miracle—or perhaps Dad’s habit of labelling everything—the phone number scrawled on the deck had led Angela du Maurier to call us.
When the phone rang, Richard answered. I still remember how his voice changed when she introduced herself. He straightened, his tone becoming both careful and warm, as though he realised the significance of the moment even before the name fully registered.
“You’re Angela du Maurier?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. He paused, and I imagined him standing there, hand gripping the receiver, his face lit with excitement. Then, after an audible breath, he added, “Oh, it’s an honour. Truly. My brother and I… we’ve heard so much about you.”
Angela’s voice, though I couldn’t hear it from the other end, must have been kind because Richard seemed to relax slightly. “Yes, of course, we’ll come right away. Thank you for letting us know.”
After hanging up, Richard turned to me, his face flushed. “Do you know who that was?” he asked, almost breathless. “Angela du Maurier.”
“I know!” I said, grabbing the oars.
As we rowed to Ferryside, Richard seemed distracted, his strokes less precise than usual. “I wonder what she’s like,” he murmured, half to himself. “I hope… I hope she’s not sick of people talking about Daphne.”
When we arrived at Ferryside, Angela met us at the gate. She was older than I’d expected, with sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything. She greeted us warmly, and I was struck by how unassuming she seemed for someone from such a storied family.
Richard stepped forward, his smile broad but not overbearing. “Thank you for calling us about the boat,” he said. There was a slight hesitation in his voice, as though he was searching for the right words. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Not at all,” Angela replied. Her voice was soft but firm, with a lilting cadence that seemed to echo the river’s flow.
As we walked toward the boat, Richard began talking—tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. “My brother and I had a wonderful aunt, Auntie Gladys. She knew the Quiller-Couch family… and, well, she once showed us Sir Arthur’s library. She told us about how he encouraged young writers. Your book, It’s Only the Sister, was there.”
Angela’s step faltered slightly, and Richard, noticing, quickly added, “I mean, we didn’t get to stay long enough to read it. But she spoke so highly of it—of you.”
Angela stopped and turned to him, her expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, a smile broke across her face, genuine and touched. “Did she now?” she said, her voice quieter. “That’s… kind of her to say. And of you to remember.”
Richard nodded, his enthusiasm bubbling up again. “I’ve always wanted to know—what was it like, growing up with all those stories around you? With people expecting so much?”
For a moment, Angela seemed lost in thought. “It was… complicated,” she said at last. “There’s always more to a story than people see from the outside.”
Richard nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I can imagine,” he said softly. “But I hope you know… you’ve inspired people too.”
Angela smiled again, this time with a warmth that seemed to dissolve any lingering tension. “You’re very kind,” she said. “I don’t often hear that.”
Later, as we rowed back home, I asked Richard why he’d mentioned Auntie Gladys and the library. “I don’t remember her talking about Angela,” I said.
“She didn’t,” Richard admitted, his voice light but thoughtful. “I made it up. I just… I wanted to say something that would make her feel seen, not compared to Daphne for once.”
I looked at him, struck by the quiet depth of his kindness. “That was clever,” I said. “And brave.”
He shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “She deserved it.”
Q – Daphne
Authors Note: Every time I visit Fowey and pass by The Haven, two questions surface in my mind. The first is simple enough: How much of the garden still remains? Over the years, I’ve watched as more of this once magnificent garden has succumbed to the river, with at least a quarter of it lost in my lifetime. The second question, however, is far more elusive, perhaps impossible to answer. As a writer, I can’t help but wonder: How did Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch mentor Daphne du Maurier? Was his influence limited to encouragement, or did he play a more profound role in shaping her extraordinary talent for crafting such vivid, unforgettable characters?
What follows is not history, but the story as I imagine it might have unfolded.
adjusts spectacles and leans forward with a kindly but scholarly demeanor
My dear young Daphne, sit closer and listen well. Writing, you must understand, is not merely the arrangement of words upon a page, but the delicate art of revealing the human soul’s most intimate tremors.
Dialogue, child, is the marrow of storytelling – but not dialogue that merely speaks, no! Dialogue that breathes, that quivers with the unspoken. When characters converse, they are not reciting lines, but performing an intricate dance of emotion, where what is unsaid often thunders louder than what is spoken.
Consider the human voice – that remarkable instrument of revelation. A tremor, a sudden catch, a pitch that rises like a startled bird – these are not mere sounds, but symphonies of feeling. When your character speaks, let their voice be more than sound; let it be a messenger of their inner landscape.
And watch the body, my dear! We are not static creatures, but living canvases upon which emotion paints its wild and unpredictable strokes. A hand that clenches, a shoulder that tightens, eyes that dart away – these are not mere movements, but poetry in physical form. Each character will compose their own unique bodily language, as distinctive as a fingerprint.
The mind, ah, the mind! It is a labyrinth where thoughts dart and weave like silvered fish. Do not be afraid to plunge into those interior waters. A character’s thoughts are not always rational, not always kind – they are raw, mercurial, leaping from one shore of consciousness to another with startling agility.
But take care with what I shall call visceral reactions – those primal, uncontrolled responses that surge through our mortal frames. A racing heart, a sudden chill, that electric moment when the body knows something before the mind can comprehend – these are powerful, but like potent spirits, they must be used sparingly. A drop can illuminate; a flood can drown.
Remember, Daphne, great writing is not about displaying emotion, but about allowing emotion to reveal itself through the most delicate of touches. You are not a painter hurling color, but an embroiderer threading the most gossamer of silks.
Now, shall we speak of how one might begin to master this sublime craft?
peers at her over his spectacles, a twinkle of encouragement in his eye
Verbal Alchemy 