The Songs That Find Us Blog Tour

The Songs That Find Us

Lizzie thinks the difficult years are behind her.

She has a happy marriage, a career she loves, and a daughter beginning to find her place in the world. But when her husband Ed receives a devastating diagnosis, long-buried secrets surface – shattering everything Lizzie believes about their life together.

Now Ed is desperate to set things right before his memories slip away. 

Meanwhile, their adopted daughter Beck is searching for answers of her own that could change the family forever.

After rediscovering her love of singing, Lizzie brings together a community where friendship, kindness and music forge unexpected connections — and perhaps a way back to one another.

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Author Bio – 

Andrea Darby writes commercial women’s fiction with book club appeal, exploring emotionally engaging stories about family, relationships, resilience – and hope. Her stories are for readers who enjoy thought-provoking, uplifting novels with plenty to discuss. Andrea is a prize-winning journalist with more than 20 years’ experience as a writer and sub-editor on newspapers and magazines. Her articles have been published in regional and national titles, including Prima, Best, Take a Break, Prima Baby, Woman and Dogs Today. She plays several brass instruments, sings in a choir and teaches piano from her home in Gloucestershire – where she’s lucky to have very understanding neighbours. Ideas for writing often come while listening to music or walking Betty the cockapoo through muddy fields.

Social Media Links – 

Twitter – @ADarbyAuthor

Facebook – Andrea Darby author

Instagram @andreadarbyauthor

Website andreadarby.com

Giveaway to Win signed copy of The Songs That Find Us, luxury tea, luxury chocolate and William Morris pen (Open to UK Only)

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  Win signed copy of The Songs That Find Us, luxury tea, luxury chocolate and William Morris pen (Open to UK Only)

EXCERPT from The Songs That Find Us – by Andrea Darby

This is the opening scene of the novel featuring one of the three narrators, Lizzie. The other two narrators are her adopted, adult daughter Beck and her husband Ed – so the reader gets three different perspectives as the story unfolds. 

 1  Lizzie

In town, a crowd is gathering around a tall man wearing an over-sized anorak and wonky bow tie, singing ‘Nessun Dorma’ in a booming, operatic style. A full orchestra rings out from a speaker next to him, beautiful music soaring above and beyond the tall Regency buildings.

I push towards the front, past all the taller people, buttoning my crimson blazer against a gusty wind. The singer is young, maybe in his twenties, but he sounds twice that age. There’s a lived-in tenderness to his voice. It all looks effortless – head lifted, posture relaxed, the microphone resting in a rock-steady hand like it grew there. 

If only I’d had his confidence – even a fraction of it.

A little boy is conducting with a lolly stick and people scurry over to drop coins into an open suitcase by the singer’s feet. Maybe we’re watching a future star: today the high street, tomorrow the O2 arena. What an exciting thought.

‘This was the football World Cup song years ago. Sung by that big Italian bloke with the beard. Remember?’ someone behind me says. 

‘Yep, 1990, the year our Jess was born. I’ll never forget it. We didn’t see much of the football,’ comes a reply that melts me a little.

I can’t resist singing along, and it must be louder than I intend, because a wet-nosed toddler fussing around her mum’s legs stares open-mouthed. An elderly woman leaning on her tartan shopping trolley turns, flashes a delightful, gummy grin. I see tears in her eyes; feel them coming to mine. 

‘Isn’t it beautiful? What an incredible voice,’ she says, and I imagine the words are for me. Perhaps they could have been, if only I’d had more . . . what? Talent? Courage? Resilience? Support? Mother’s voice cuts through – hoarse from the fags, a spiteful edge – ‘You can just about hold a tune, but you ain’t no Madonna.’ 

The song builds, and I hold my breath, rooting for the singer to hit the high notes. He does – leaning back as his voice climbs higher and higher, everything pitch perfect and impressively powerful to the end. He acknowledges the cheering and clapping with shy smiles and rounded shoulders; drops his gaze to sip from a water bottle. A different person now. Back to ordinary, awkward Sam, or Jack, or whatever his name is. 

I’d happily listen for longer, but my lunch break’s ticking away, and I only paid for an hour of parking. There’s still my secret mission to complete; the whole reason I’m here. 

Turning to go, nerves hum beneath my smile. I should feel nothing but excitement, but my small, joyful quest has quietly gathered weight. Become huge. 

 I walk away, clutching a bag with more sleeping pills for Ed, and the hope they’ll work – that they might bring a little more of his old self back. A hope that’s getting harder to hold on to, though I cling to it all the same.

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