The path that led me to Kate and the others I took little interest in my early education. Secondary school was a farmyard anyway, consisting largely of battlegrounds in which out-of-control kids rioted, and red-faced, outraged teachers hurled blackboard rubbers like artillery. I was interested exclusively in my girlfriend, music, and reading (mostly horror novels, but a fair slice of science fiction too). I considered school to be an intrusion on these far more important matters. My musical studies commenced shortly before my ninth birthday, when Mr Carter (conductor of the school choir) informed me that I was tone-deaf. Banned from singing at school, I joined the choir of St. Luke’s Church, Prittlewell, where I warbled a pretty decent treble, and then (when “maturity” began to take hold) alto, tenor, finally bass. For some reason (I can’t remember exactly why), I developed a desire to play the piano, but having no opportunity for lessons, the organ seemed like a reasonable second best. The rest, some say, is history. Music swallowed my life till I was almost too old to do anything else (I didn’t keep the girlfriend, by the way; she doesn’t speak to me these days). I wrote stories in my youth, often inspired by those I read or watched on TV. A couple of them were novel-length sagas, one of which (a handwritten derivative space opera filling seven exercise books) I still have in a desk drawer. Yarn spinning was the way my mind worked – always an adventure, always a tale to tell. Music became a landscape of chronicles: dramatic peaks, troughs of despair and the rest, reflected in imaginary staging and linear narrative. Musical themes? I visualised them as for the theatre. Fanfares? Full organ? Mysterious whispering? I’d envision it all on stage, sound manifesting as dramatic action. It made my performances vivid for me, and (I believe) for my audiences. My students received the same wisdom: “Picture the three themes as characters,” I’d say: “the big fat one centre-stage on a dais, pompous, dressed in bright yellow; the quiet, thin child stage left, hiding in shadow; the smoking, bare-legged nun stage right, spotlit, raucous…” Once, I spontaneously translated a trio sonata movement (in real time) into a fairy story about two giants living in a castle, modulations, structure and harmonic tensions moulded as events in their lives. It got a round of applause. I was particularly pleased with myself on that occasion. You see? Always telling stories: always ready to write, always thinking in characters, always following a thread. In 2016, my missus dug up an old shower curtain that had been buried in the garden. You can imagine the reaction of my fanciful brain: “I wonder who’s buried in that then….” In the weeks and months that followed, a fable took shape in my head, layers building up, complexities spiralling. I played it out in my mind on the daily commute, music and all (I thought it might be an opera) – a woman, long dead, hauled from her grave in the strawberry bed; her killer (maybe he’s still alive…); the enigmatic, modest, lonely, middle-aged woman who makes the discovery – and what she does about it… What a story! I knew it was fantastic. It would look amazing on TV! But no-one would ever know; pressure of work, lack of time, meant there was no opportunity to set it down. Then – suddenly – there was… “You must stay at home,” said our great leader. It was March 2020; COVID imprisoned us. My employer shut up shop; I didn’t have to drive to work. Rose Headlam, Alice and George Cromack, Stephen Verrill and the rest – they could come out to play. I rose from my bed at 6.20am on pandemic day one and began to dance with them. I wrote – and wrote, and wrote, and wrote. My lovely Kate Swithenbank emerged in that initial tale and became the heroine of two others that followed in rapid succession. She’s not done yet – not by a long way. Alex Regan, Leafy Crosthwaite, Meadow Reid, Speck Beckwith, Jack Lanius, Kip Gale – they’re all real to me. My narratives escaped from music and burned themselves onto the page – a fresh path, invigorating, fascinating. Read my stories – share my world… Kevin Corby Bowyer, Muirkirk, January 14, 2024 (Corby is my mother’s maiden name, inserted to avoid confusion with boring old Kevin Bowyer) Kevin Corby Bowyer was launched in Southend-on-Sea, the land of real hotdogs, Rossi’s ice cream, and the best pier in the world. He lives in Scotland with his wife, Sandra.