A WRITER'S WRITER - MY MEMORIES OF JANE

Last weekend I was given the saddest news that Jane Wenham-Jones - novelist, short story writer, journalist, and so very much more - had lost her battle with cancer. I first met Jane in the mid 1990s when we shared a short story agent, Midland Exposure. Through the publisher, Accent Press, we both contributed to the Sexy Shorts Antholgies, raising funds for Cancer Research. There can be few people today who belong to the Romantic Novelists' Association and have attended conferences or prize-givings, or who read Writing Magazine, and newspapers in Jane's neck of the woods, who haven't heard of her, or be lucky enough to know her. So those people will know what I mean when I say she lit up a room. Yes, she was fond of colour in her hair - and the more the merrier - and loved a chunky necklance but it was more than that. Jane was a real 'people' person. Her personality shone through. She was generous with her time, a writing mentor to many. When Jane asked if I could offer any writing tips when she was writing WANNABE A WRITER I sent in a few. She used all of them, and was generous to me in her introduction to them. I don't remember all I said apart from suggesting aspiring writers think to get their teeth seen to (if needed) in readiness for the photo shoots for the author profiles that would appear in their books. (If only I'd taken my own advice!) To promote that book Jane came down to Devon and gave a couple of talks about her writing life, peppering them with anecdotes from her every day life. She was a brilliant speaker - and all without notes. Always funny. But never at anyone else's expense. One tale she told that sticks in my mind is the time she was a landlady and a tenant was behind with the rent. So round she went to see why and when the monies might appear. When she peered through the letterbox there was an almighty stench. A body? She wasn't going in, taking any chances. She called the police who found that the tenant had filled the freezer with pork chops, pulled the plug, and left. Can you imagine? And apologies if you're reading this eating supper. Back in the day, before writing a novel had ever entered my head, Jane and I often had short stories in the same magazine. One of those times was a Special issue of Woman's Weekly. Jane got in touch to say how much she had loved my (longish) short story. 'A lot of people are perfectly good writers, but not everyone has 'got it'. You, Linda, have 'got it'.' I said she was generous. Fan mail of the highest order. I last saw Jane at - of all places - a funeral. She came down to Devon to give the eulogy at the funeral of a mutual writing friend. I knew she was ill then, but she was the same irrepresible Jane, always asking after others, always thinking of others. Always with a smile.

Jane's last book, OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER, was published just a few weeks ago. I don't know what Jane's beliefs were. I don't know what yours are. I know only what my own non-beliefs are. Yet there's a part of me that hopes beyond hope that she might be up there leading a few angels astray, sharing a bottle of wine. And, perhaps, colouring their hair ... red, green, blue, turquoise ... whatever. Sleep well, lovely Jane. I will miss you.