Cut me and I bleed Leeds. Not red, but blue and gold and white.
Maybe it’s true. The place is in my heart, my soul, my DNA, with all its soot and grime, its failings and its joys. Leeds is me and I’m bloody proud to be one tiny part of it. In my books (like The Hocus Girl, which was published in the UK on Monday, hint hint), I try to make Leeds itself as important as important as one of the people on the page.
For a long time it wasn’t that way. At 18 I was happy to move elsewhere and I ended up abroad for a long time. But eventually, with that twitch on the thread, Leeds called me home. I moved back six years ago last week and I’ve never felt as if I ever fitted anywhere quite so well.
I’ve been thinking about the first time I realised quite what Leeds meant, when it became more than home, school, the city centre and our neighbourhood. It was probably towards the end of winter in 1961, when the teenage son of my mother’s boss (poor lad) took me to my first match at Elland Road to watch Leeds United play. February or March, maybe. Certainly a grey, dank day, and I was all wrapped up in my dark blue gaberdine school raincoat. My school was very much rugby league – all the boys were taken to the park to play – but football in the playground. Boys and girls had separate playgrounds, covered in sharp gravel, and boys had to wear short every day, no natter the weather. It meant constant sabs on the knees.
I loved football back then, in the way that only a young boy can. So the trip was magical, to an area of town I’d never seen before. Far enough away that it might have been another country. Then into the schoolboys’ pen, and so many people. All the noise.
I don’t remember who we played or what the score was. But all these men singing and cheering for Leeds resonated in me. It stirred something, somewhere in the dirty, black and white world that was the start of the Sixties.
Of course, I didn’t understand what or where or why or how. Really, that didn’t come for decades, not until absence made my heart grow fonder.
Not everyone develops an attachment to their hometown. Not everyone feels the needs to know how it became the way it is, or to celebrate the nameless and forgotten who helped to form it. That’s fine. It’s why I write about the place, to understand it in it’s different eras, its different shapes, from small town to grand city to something in decline. I just happen to be someone who was touched by the madness.
It’s not a perfect place, God knows. I shout and criticise it with the best of them. My Leeds is one that welcomes people from everywhere. It started with the Irish, the Romany, the Jews, and now from every country on earth. To me, they all have someone to give. They’re all Leeds.
So yes, Leeds is me. Take a saw to me and there will be Leeds written right through the middle. I used to think that was funny. Now, though, I say it with pride.
But please don’t actually cut me or saw me open, okay?
Related to this, I’m part of a panel on Saturday October 12 at the Leeds Library on Commercial St, talking about locality in crime fiction. I’m sharing the session with France Brody, June Taylor, and the German writer Ursula Maria Wartmann. It will be chaired by another crime novelist, Ali Harper. All the details are here.