Loretta Proctor

Fourteen-year-old Andrew discovers his mother's hidden diary at his grandmother's home during a Christmas gathering. His eyes are opened to a family secret when he reads about her time as a Red Cross nurse in Salonika during the First World War, and the tragic love affair she had with his father, a Greek officer who died in battle. Four years later, Andrew is impelled to visit his father's land and trace his roots. What - and who - he finds there will change his life forever.
The Long Shadow is filled with descriptions of Greece and its people. Dramatic images of battle and the terrible conditions endured by the Allied Armies entrenched around Salonika in the “Birdcage” are authentic and vivid. Greek “rebetika” music and dance play a vital role, reconciling in Andrew the dichotomy of belonging to two very different cultures and helping him to unite them in his heart and soul.

'I'm immensely impressed by the novel, especially the Greek scenes. It's a marvellously accomplished book.....many congratulations on an impressive achievement.'

Colin Wilson (author of The Outsider, Mysteries, The Occult and many others.)

Andrew is growing up after WWI, the illegitimate son of an American nurse and a Greek officer who died in the war. It is the story of his search to find himself and his place in the world by retracing his mother’s steps in Greece.
This was a very engaging read! The plot, tempo, characters, dialogue and setting were all superbly crafted. The WWI descriptions were incredibly well-written offering the reader everything needed to “live” those scenarios right along with the characters of the book. The Greek feel of the story is excellent, truly taking the reader to another place and time. I also loved the “life coming full circle” theme of the ending. As I get older, I realize how true to life that concept is. It played wonderfully in this story. I would be interested in reading anything this author has written!

Reviewed by: Ramona

Excerpt from “The Long Shadow” …..Part One: Dorothy’s Diary

Old Salonika before the Fire of 1917

March 27^th. 1916

Yesterday, on my afternoon off, I decided to take a ride into town with one of the ambulance men. I wasn’t perturbed by all the rumours and horror stories about women venturing into the city though I know Matron prefers us to go out in pairs or more, preferably accompanied by one of the officers. The fact is I love to be alone whenever I can; everyone is so on top of each other in the camp and it makes me fidgety at times. When one is alone, one can take in one’s surroundings undisturbed by the inconsequential chatter of a companion. I assured myself I was afraid of very little in life and had great faith in my own good luck.

The driver dropped me off at the White Tower . I felt like a schoolgirl on holiday; it was such a freeing experience to be out of the camp and on my own. The bustle and noise was deafening at times with trolleys clanging along, wagons, trucks and those useful Army Fords we call the Tin Lizzie bustling about carrying stores and dropping of nurses, officers and anyone else who might have cadged a lift into town. Amongst this confusion, passed the horse-drawn gharries or arabas full of important looking officer who had just arrived and hadn’t yet realised they were being charged the earth for their ride. Then there were the shouts of pastry sellers calling their wares, their sticky sweetmeats buzzing with flies. Turkish porters came by loaded with enormous weights from a piano to a huge wine barrel. Soldiers in their various uniforms strolled along the promenade, mingling with Greeks from the mountains in their long white pleated skirts they call the fustanella. In the dirty, dusty roads, oxen with loaded carts filled with anything from water melons to barrels of wine, Army mules and donkeys with a fat Turk on them weaved their way amongst the glorious confusion of races, sounds, religions and costumes. I loved it all and laughed with sheer delight.

I decided to walk through the city and up the hill towards the massive towering walls with their seven towers. A most forbidding citadel stands on the ramparts up there and is called the Yedi Kule. Here, so the story goes, people had been imprisoned for years under the Turkish regime. By the time these poor souls had been released by the Greeks, they had staggered forth as old men whose families had all but forgotten them.

To reach this place, one first has to pass through the Jewish section of the city that lies behind the sea walls to the Via Egnatia. There seem to be synagogues everywhere. I passed through the busy area of the markets and business quarters and made my way through fascinating streets with dark little shops tucked away here and there and heard the hammering and banging of myriad coppersmiths as they fashioned their beautiful wares. Here big balconies hung out over the street and elderly Jewish ladies in their strange Sephardic costume sat up on high, sipping their coffees, and looking over curiously as I clambered up the hill.

The Sephardim Jews here speak a form of old Spanish-Greek, called Ladino. They had been driven out of Spain centuries ago and allowed to settle here by the Turks. It was a haven of peace for them here; they virtually made Salonika their very own city, a second Jerusalem , where they lived in peace and without persecution for centuries.

Past the Jewish area one climbs to the Upper Town where the Turkish quarters lie. This part of the city is quaint and mysterious with its labyrinthine, cobbled streets. The houses are made of wood or stone with stout wooden doors set in high walls and closely latticed windows barred with wrought iron grilles. Here one might glimpse the flutter of a dark robe and know that the Turkish ladies sit in their harem behind these walls and look down on the streets at all the passers by, yet cannot be seen themselves. Little Turkish children also came out to look and pointed at me, jabbering and giggling, calling to me for backsheesh, missie, backsheesh! But I remembered my last experience and refrained from parting with money.

Despite the heat, I enjoyed the climb up to the walls and once there stood staring down on the city, thinking many deep things, still caught up in my amazement at being there at all. In worldly terms it had all arisen from such an apparently insignificant happening as some Austrian Archduke being assassinated in a far off Balkan country!

In the distance lay majestic Mount Olympus . Its high summit, ever wreathed in misty vapours and drifts of cloud, was the home of the ancient, pagan Gods and I wondered if they were taking their revenge for centuries of Christianity when the Lamb of God had banished them all to the depths of Tartaros. Perhaps they were now rising from the deep and calling for blood sacrifices on a grand scale to feed their long held fury. Something greater than our tiny human selves seemed at work. Here was I, a puny mortal, close to the very home of these fierce, ancient Gods. England seemed so far away, another lifetime, another me.

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Keep an eye out for Gisla’s Hill a story about a woman’s inner transformation. It is set in Islington, London during the 1960’s. I keep perfecting it because this book is close to my heart.

The Crimson Bed has had some massive reworking. It is set in Victorian London with a Pre-Raphaelite background, a dramatic love story. Having finished Crimson Bed which at present resides on the slush pile at Little Browns, I am now busy with another Greek story set in Crete. The Glass Madonna is something of a supernatural thriller.