About The Tobacco Child
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The year is 1663. Avis Wynter is a foundling, adopted by tobacco farmers. Her hair is black as night and her skin, brown as apple pips. Not like the flaxen-haired, milk-skinned maids of Edenham. In her sixteenth year, the villagers witness Avis’s first falling, and begin to blame her for their misfortunes from crops failing, to wayward husbands, to murder. Forced to flee the noose, Avis sails across the Atlantic on a journey of survival and discovery. Will Avis escape death? Will she discover who she is? And will she find the long way home?
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Author Bio:
I am one of four sisters, born in Yorkshire to an Indo-Mauritian Father and a Doncastrian Mother. This coming together of cultures led me to ask where are we from, why are we different and why are people afraid. So, l studied anthropology, and later, human rights. I grew up in Leeds and lived in London till 2017, when I switched the grey concrete of the city for the green grass of rural England and brought my small family to a Cotswold village in the county of Wiltshire.
While I love stepping into the fields from my front door, and I have met good people here, it has been harder to escape the pernicious prejudices of middle Englanders emboldened by a global swing of the pendulum to the right. So, as a second-generation immigrant from the city, I find myself filled with a sense of displacement in this honeyed stone village, questioning the nature of home and belonging. What makes a place feel like home? Is an ancestral connection essential? Is it the place where innocence last lived, for many, our childhood homes? Is it how many times you walk a particular route till it becomes embedded in your long-term memory? Is it unrequited love for the land where one lives? Or is it the people, and if so, what happens when the people no longer want you here? That is why I wrote a story about a girl from two worlds who is forced to leave everything she knows and begin an adventure of survival and belonging.
Now, I am fifty something, I am trying to love my greying hair and crepey neck. A time lapse camera would reveal the melting waxwork that is my ageing face. I need yoga daily for my creaky bones and to keep me calm while my tween gleefully kicks his football around my head and argues with me about his screen allocation. But sometimes, between cleaning the loo and sorting the dirty socks and fighting with and fixing everyone, I find a quiet corner in my mind, where I can see clearly and follow the truth into a story.