Berlie Doherty is the author of over 60 books for children, teenagers and adults, and has written many plays for radio, theatre and television. She has been translated into over twenty languages and has won many awards, including the Carnegie Medal for both Granny Was a Buffer Girl and Dear Nobody; and the Writers’ Guild Award for both Daughter of the Sea and the theatre version of Dear Nobody. She has three children and seven grandchildren, and lives in the Derbyshire Peak District with Alan James Brown. Last year she released Young Adult novel The Company Of Ghosts, and she is currently writing Far From Home. Her novel Requiem, originally published by Penguin in 1992, is now available courtesy of CybermouseMultiMedia.
Find out more on her website
Berlie's Ascribe title is:
5 stars on Amazon
3.5 stars on Goodreads
"Exquisitely told... ... the plot is tight and the narrative startling"
"An enchanting and lyrical portrait of childhood and growing up. Berlie Doherty is a real writer"
Barbara Trapido, author of Brother of the More Famous Jack, Temples of Delight and Sex and Stravinsky
"I have great feelings of admiration for Requiem. Very good indeed"
"This novel made me angry - for all the right reasons. Beautifully written in a style which combines poetic feeling with a scrupulous attention to the truth of things, it probes the tragic-comedy of Irish convent Catholicism with a rare power and sensitivity ... Requiem continued to disturb me long after I had finished it"
Wendy Perriam, author of An Enormous Yes, Second Sex and Tulips
It is quiet in the early fields. A bell begins to toll for Mass, and from all over the village dogs set up their barking. A priest in his long skirts stands on the steps of the church. People are coming, clutching their missals. The priest goes inside. He is old.
Latecomers shuffle in the porch. Men in their shirtsleeves stand leaning on the glass at the back of the church. Their shadows hunch about. The voices of the faithful rumble after the priest. A baby’s hand taps on the glass.
Outside the streets are empty. A rook on a post clucks to itself and squawks down, loud-beaked, to its fellows.