Author: chrisnickson2

Carson Mack

I’ve just spent the last few hours back in Seattle, at a show that never happened at the Tractor Tavern. It’s a scene from what I hope will be the second novel in my Seattle series, the sequel to Emerald City. Come along and have a listen…

He had the old Martin guitar in one hand, limping, but no stick. A clean shirt, a newer pair of jeans and a shine on his cowboy boots. He’d combed his hair, but whatever he did, Carson would always look grizzled, as though he’d look life square in the face. He took one of the two chairs on the stage, plugged in his instrument and gazed out at us for a moment.

“So this is what people do on a Tuesday evening in Seattle.” He smiled and the ice was broken. Without another word he began to pick out chords and the rusty, ragged voice started on ‘Idaho Sweetheart.’

I could see a few people begin to smile as they recognized the song, dredging it up from long-ago memories. Stripped-back, unsweetened by strings and backing singers, it had real depth. It ached. He didn’t try anything fancy, just let it speak for itself and it worked. Carson might look like a hick but he was a professional musician. It was easy to forget that he’d been doing this for more years than most of the audience had been alive.

He followed it up with something newer and unfamiliar, daring the crowd to follow him. And they did. Then he started on “As The Heart Falls.” He write it, but the hit had been someone else’s. This eclipsed that version, coming from some well deep inside him that held his world of pain.

For the first half of the set he alternated new and old, throwing in covers of Hank Williams’s “Mansion On The Hill” and Michael Nesmith’s “Propinquity.” After that he turned to the side and tilted his head, smiling as Jim Clark shuffled onto the stage. The poor guy looked petrified, clutching the Gibson close to his chest, eyes darting around the room.

“This is my grandson, Jim Clark,” Carson said, letting that country twang flow like warm honey. “He’s kind of bashful. I know he’s kin and all, but I reckon he’s got something. Want to show them?”

Jim Clark sang his heart out. He was better than when I’d heard him down by the water, but he was nowhere near Carson’s league. He knew, everyone in the room knew it, but he tried anyway, and we all applauded him. The silence built again. Carson licked his lips.

“I never knew Jim’s daddy. Hell, I’ve only known my grandson for a few weeks. But my son died four years ago, right downtown. Someone shot him and they never found out who did it.” He paused. Everyone was focused on him, rapt. “I don’t have much I can give him, ‘cept some justice if I ever find out who did it. But this is about him.”

He started the song he’d played me. Jim added a little guitar, but this was all Carson. His voice was quiet, almost meditative, ragged and torn over the fingerpicking lines. It was a memorial, a lament. So beautiful it hurt with its rawness. When he finished and the final note died to silence, there was a pause before the place erupted, the sound of clapping so loud it was painful. Carson looked at Jim in surprise, then sighed and embraced his grandson.

There was nothing he could do to top that, but the rest of the set was no letdown. He tore through “Call You Sunshine” and “Maybe Darlin’,” turning them into upbeat pleasures. A couple of songs tore at the fabric of broken hearts, ripping them wider. Toward the end he was simply having fun, running through some Buck Owens, Jimmie Rodgers and Ernest Tubb, telling little tales of Nashville and life on the road way back when.

Then, with a goodnight and thank you, it was over. He bowed and vanished backstage. But no one was going to let him leave that easily. We were all standing, demanding more. Finally he came back, almost speechless.

“I…I don’t know what to say. You’re very kind.” He sat for a moment, hands poised over the guitar. We all knew there was only one thing that would satisfy, and he began to play the song he’d written for his son once more.

It seemed as if everyone held their breath for three minutes. Like time stood still, suspended by his words. When he finished there were no more farewells. Just a quick shake of his head and he was gone. The house lights came up and people looked around as if they were surprised to find themselves here.

Leaned against the edge of the stage, finishing my beer and smoking a cigarette. I knew exactly what I’d witnessed. It had been one of those perfect evenings. Something to remain in the memory and light it up for years to come. Something every artist wants but rarely achieves.

I was still there fifteen minutes later. The mics had been put away, the stands folded and the cords all wound. The chairs had been taken away and Dan the owner was sweeping the butts and debris off the floor. I could hear voices backstage.

It was ten thirty. Past my bedtime but I was still flying on the performance. I’d wanted him to do well but I’d never imagined anything as wonderful as this. Finally he came out, leaning on his cane, bought a bottle of Pabst at the bar then stood beside me. He looked stunned and drained.

“You did it,” I told him. “That was pretty amazing, Carson.”

He fished in his shirt pocket, took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one.

“Yeah,” he said after a long time. But the way he spoke the word held it all. “You know, I waited all my life for a night like this. I just had some guy come up to me and says he wants to write about me for a magazine called No Depression. You figure that?”

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A Sale Of Effects – 1919

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In 1919 Leeds City FC was wound up…this might have happened.

 

 

Billy Cartwright moved down King Street, leaning heavily on the crutch so the cast barely touched the ground. After a week he had the hang of it and he could swing along easily, almost as quickly as someone walking.

            At the Metropole Hotel he eased himself up the stairs. A sign with an arrow stood on an easel – Leeds City sale – and he followed along a heavily carpeted corridor to a large room already covered in a fug of smoke. Cups of tea stood on some of the tables, and men in good suits sat puffing on their pipes and talking as they looked through the list of items for sale.

            He saw a hand go up and Fred Linfoot waved him over. All the players had gathered together at the back, crowded around three large tables. The auction hadn’t begun yet but the ashtrays were already full, cigarette butts crushed down together.

            “How long before it’s off?” John Sampson asked.

            “A week,” Billy answered. The broken leg was stretched out, the crutch lying on the floor, out of the way. He glanced around. There were men here from every club in the league, older and with serious faces. Prosperous men who sat straighter as the auctioneer approached his lectern. It was time for business and that was why they’d come to Leeds.

            A Sale of Effects, the notice had read. Only four words. Billy had seen the advertisement in the Yorkshire Post, scarcely believing four words could take in so much. Metropole Hotel, 17th October, conducted by S. Whittam and Sons. He’d looked at it again and again before he’d pushed the paper across the table. Another hour or so and it would be as if Leeds City had never existed. Even the goal netting and the balls would be sold off. The players auctioned like they were slaves.

            He knew who’d fetch the best price – Billy McLeod. He was the best player by far, the one everyone would want. He sat quietly, listening to the conversations around him.

            It was all a stupid bloody mess and if it hadn’t been for Charlie Copeland they wouldn’t be here today. The way he understood it, if Charlie hadn’t reported the club to the FA for paying players during the war, none of this would have happened. Or if Leeds had been willing to produce its books when it was asked. Instead, the chairman had refused and they’d all paid the price. Kicked out of the League, wound up, everything must go.

            There’d be more to it, Billy thought. There always was, wheels within wheels, and someone would have made something. They always did, although none of it would come down to them on the sharp end.

            The auctioneer banged the gavel and the room was suddenly silent and alert. He was going to start with the players, the club’s most important asset, he said, some short speech about how sad this occasion was, the end of an era.

            Billy’s mouth was dry. Everything rested on this. He’d be happy if someone offered two hundred pounds for him. Even a hundred or just fifty. Anything to keep him playing.

            The problem was that he’d never run out for the club. He only turned eighteen during the summer and signed for the club in September. Then, during the second week of training there’d been the tackle. As soon as it happened, he knew. It was all he could do not to yell and start crying like a kid. A broken tibia, that was what the doctor said after they’d driven him to the Infirmary. Eight weeks in plaster. And after that it’d be a good three months before he’d be fit again, the muscle built back up and ready. By Christmas – if he was lucky.

            They’d been the worst six weeks of his life. Cooped up at home every day, just his mam for company while his father and his brothers went off to work. No brass in his pocket. Just down to Elland Road for the home matches, wishing for time to pass until it could be him out there.

            He was good enough. He had to believe he was. He’d played inside right for Leeds Schoolboys until he left when he was fourteen, and then he’d been in the works team at Blackburn’s, the Olympia Works up on Roundhay Road. Saturday mornings off, paid, to play up on Soldiers’ Field. It hadn’t been a bad life. The old factory that had once been a roller skating rink was fun, a good bunch to work with.

            But he’d known he wasn’t going to stay. At fifteen he tried to join up, to follow his brother into the Leeds Pals. A worn-out sergeant told him to come back when he was old enough. He did, a year later, birth certificate tight in his fist. A week later he was in Catterick, learning what it meant to be a Tommy.

            By December of ’17 he’d been in France for six weeks. He was already scared, sick and dirtier than he could have believed. Half of those he’d known in training were already dead, He was numb inside, just living from hour to hour. After a week in the trenches he’d wondered if he’d ever feel warm and dry again. After three weeks, he didn’t care, just as long as he lived to the end of this war and he could know some silence again.

            Come Armistice Day he didn’t know where he was. It was simply another muddy hole in another muddy, lifeless landscape. It could have been in France, Belgium or Germany. He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. The important thing was they could put down their guns and not worry about being killed.

            He could look forward to a hot bath, Billy thought, and going home. Looking around, he could see the same thought in every pair of eyes.

 

He ended up walking halfway to the coast. The transport never arrived and after waiting for three days the brigadier gave up and ordered them to start on foot. It was a slow march. They were all eager to be back in Blighty, but they were weary, half-fed creatures. The leather of Billy’s boots had rotted away in places, he had trench foot; each step took effort. The further they travelled from the front, the more they seemed to be walking into a dream of green fields and houses that hadn’t been demolished by shells. The type of places they’d almost forgotten.

            He wasn’t home for Christmas. He’d spent that in hospital while they tended his feet. He hobbled home in January, his mother’s arms around him as soon as he was through the front door. Not his oldest brother, though. He’d never come back.

            Billy was still thin, still weak. He wasn’t even eighteen yet and he’d seen enough death for seven lifetimes. His ma made him beef tea three times a day and forced as much food as he could manage down him. He started back at Blackburn’s and began training for the works team again. He ran after work and cut down on to ten Park Drive a week.

            Before the end of the season he was the first choice for inside right again, more reckless now, as if he knew there was nothing in the game that could scare him. He tackled hard, he ran and he scored, three goals in five games.

            The summer, with no matches, left him restless, too full of energy but with nothing to do until his birthday and his trial for Leeds City. He kept up the running, taking off after work for a circuit of Roundhay Park, along by the big lake, through the gorge and back before catching the bus home. Saturday afternoons, when Leeds were playing away, he’d try to cajole workmates into a kick around, something to keep his skills sharp.

            Until the trial he’d been confident. For too long people had told him he was a good footballer. He was always the best in any team. But the others there were his equals. Some were better, he had no doubt about that. They made him sweat, made him play, made him think. And when it was over, for the first time he had to wonder if he was good enough.

            For the next three days he was on edge, going straight home from work to see if there’d been any post for him. When it finally arrived he let it sit in his hand, as if its weight might tell him what was inside. It took courage to open the envelope, and he had to breathe hard before unfolding the letter.

            Dear Mr, Cartwright…

            He read it through twice to be certain he was right. They were taking him on at three pounds a week. For the rest of the evening he couldn’t stop smiling, then couldn’t rest in his bed although he had to work in the morning. He gave his notice, and before the end of September he was training every day at Elland Road, seeing the men he’d only cheered from the terraces. More than that, he was playing against them and just beginning to understand how much he had to learn. He wasn’t good; he’d barely even started.

            The divot shouldn’t have been there. They all said that later. But he’d been chasing down a long pass, watching the ball, not the pitch. His studs caught and he went down awkwardly. Barely two weeks into his professional career and he’d broken his leg.

 

Each club offered a sealed bid for the players they wanted. Billy wasn’t surprised when McLeod went for £1,250. He outclassed everyone else in the side. Glancing over, he could see the mix of pride and relief on the man’s face. Then it was Harry Millership and John Hampson, a thousand each. And then it was down the line – eight hundred, six hundred, five – all the way to Frank Chipperfield, off to Wednesday for a hundred. That left seven of them looking worriedly at each other. The auctioneer coughed. Four had new clubs. No fee. No one for Mick Sutcliffe, Charlie Foley. Or for him.

            By the time he was listening again, they were selling off the goal posts and the nets. He pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the crutch, and made his way out, threading through the tight spaces between tables. None of the men from other clubs bothered to look up at him.

            Out in the corridor he stopped to light a cigarette. As he was about to move off again, he heard the man say,

            “Billy.”

            He turned. The manager was there, Mr. Chapman, the one who’d picked him out from the trial. Just like Leeds City, he’d been banned from football, that was what Billy had heard, although the rumour was that he was going to appeal. He was growing heavy at the waist, the start of jowls on his face. He gave a sad smile.

            “Yes, boss?”

            “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry, lad. I had a word with them, said you had potential. But they didn’t want to take a chance.” He shrugged slightly.

            “Thank you, boss.”

            “Don’t give up. You have talent. Keep trying, all right?”

            “Yes, boss. Thank you.”

            He turned and hobbled away.

Walter of Calverley (A #leedsstorytime)

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Some of you will know Calverley, off the Ring Road, on the way to Shipley. It’s high on the hill, looking down on the Aire valley. It’s an ancient place, already old by the time of the Domesday Book, when it was known as Calverlei. It was home to the rich and powerful Calverley family, who built Calverley Old Hall in medieval times and lived there.

Walter Calverley was born in 1579. Folk called him Sir Walter, although he had no title – he was just Squire Calverley. On the death of his father, Walter became guardian of William Brooke, who really did have a title, Baron Cobham.

Walter was a ne’er do well. He attended Cambridge but left without a degree, although with debts from drinking and gambling. Back home he became engaged to the daughter of a nearby landowner. But his ward, William, urged him to end the engagement. William suggested Walter marry one of his relative, Philippa Brooke, a woman with a hefty dowry – a Godsend to a man in debt.

They married, but wedlock didn’t slow Walter down. He wasn’t happy in the marriage, even if he liked the money his new wife brought. He moved back and forth between Calverley and the lights of London town. Within 12 months he’d spent all the dowry and found himself in debtor’s prison, while his mother-in-law tried to reclaim the dowry. But the marriage survived. In fact, Walter and Phillipa had 3 sons – William, Walter and Henry. Fatherhood didn’t tame Walter, either. He kept drinking and gambling and was groaning with debt.

By 1605 Walter was reduced to selling off the land he owned to pay his debts. And then something happened to turn his mind. No one knows quite what. Drink? Agonies about money? Or the madness that was said to run in the family? What is certain is that on April 23, 1605, Walter Calverley went mad. He accused his wife of being unfaithful. He said that the children weren’t his. He drew his sword, stabbed the two oldest boys to death and tried to murder Philippa. Storming out of Old Hall, he threw the nurse down the stairs; she died. Walter roared out into the rainy night. Henry, his youngest son, was with a wet nurse. He intended to kill the boy. But his horse stumbled in a hole and fell on him. Before he could escape, the night watch was there to arrest him. And with arrest came sobriety – and panic.

If he pleaded guilty everything he had would be forfeit to the Crown. Nothing left for his wife and son. And insanity wasn’t a plea at that time. So he did the only thing he could – he refused to enter a plea to the court. That meant he had to be pressed until he entered a plea or died. He was tied to the floor, a heavy door on top of him. Weights were added on top until the person pled or was crushed to death. His wife and friends tried to stop it. But with each stone added to the door, Walter just said, “A pund o’ more weight! Lig on! Lig on!” until he was dead. He was finally interred at St. Wilfrid’s Church in Calverley and became the subject of a play, The Yorkshire Tragedy.

Then the tales of the ghost began. People reported seeing Walter on his horse, riding the roads around the church

He held a bloody dagger, and would vanish as his horse stumbled and fell. But sometimes…the ghost is reported to yell ‘Lig on!’ and rush at people, vanishing just before he reaches witnesses

And that’s the tale of Walter of Calverley.

The Blue Lady

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As told on #leedsstorytime on Twitter (@chrisnickson2)

Most folk around Leeds know Temple Newsam, the Tudor house on land that once belonged to the Knights Templar. Its history goes back to the time of the Saxons, and blood has seeped into the brickwork there. In 1622, for the princely sum of £12,000 it became the home of Sir Arthur Ingram, and the tale relates to his family. The Ingrams were rich. They had the freedom to travel from place to place. But Temple Newsam was home. The Ingrams were rich. They had the freedom to travel from place to place. But Temple Newsam was home. Mary Ingram was Sir Arthur’s granddaughter, and proud of the pearl necklace he’d given her. She wore it on a visit to York. Just 14, it was the most valuable thing she owned. Folk claimed it was the loveliest necklace in the North of England. On the journey home from York, the carriage was held up by a highwayman. He took the family’s money and jewels. Among them was Mary’s beloved necklace. It’s said that he tore it from her even as she begged him to leave it. Mary was inconsolable. Even at home, behind thick walls, with servants around, she never felt safe again. Fearful and frantic, she took to hiding anything she owned that was of value in case the man returned. She grew wan and quiet and ate less and less. Her mother worried about her and summoned the physician. But nothing helped. Day by day, week by week, Mary slowly disappeared into a world of her own, where secrets were all. She was wasting away. She’d hide things, then move them, lest someone else find them. No hiding place was ever secret enough. There are those who say she descended into madness. Some understood her fear. The one thing true is that none could help her. Mary Ingram was still only 14 when she died. The lovely, happy girl was little more than a shadow when her spirit left. Her family buried her and mourned. But as time passed, a strange thing happened at Temple Newsam. Folk said they’d seen Mary. It would be in the night, when servants worked late and candles guttered and threw shadows. But it was here, they insisted. Thin, pale, and dressed in a gown of deep, holy blue, she’d wander the halls and rooms of Temple Newsam. In vain she’d search for her treasures, hidden so well that they’d gone from her memory, never to be found. And over the years she’s been seen often, the Blue Lady as she’s become, still seeking and never finding, lost to the ages. Her portrait remains, over the fireplace in the Green Damask Room. And on some nights she walks, still searching forever…

Northern Souls

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Today’s flutter and faff in the news seems to be about the way the South views the North. You know, those stereotypes.

As someone recently and happily returned to Leeds after many years away, I can say it’s great to be back where my heart belongs. It just took me a long time to understand that this is really where I want – need – to be. In my teens I couldn’t wait to get away. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t going on around here, in this provincial city. The wider world was out there, far from a place where the stones were covered in soot. I ventured out. Not to London, but to America.

That, though, is by the bye.

The North is different. Except there isn’t one North, there are many. Geordies are different from Teesiders. The folk of North Yorkshire are another breed from those in the West Riding. Then there’s the parts of Lancashire, even down into Derbyshire on South Yorkshire (of course, there are different parts of the South. You can’t generalise).

This is the land where Blake’s vision of dark, Satanic mills was a reality. It was the home of the Industrial Revolution. Workers came from the absolute poverty of the countryside in the hope of a better life. They were crammed into hovels and back-to-back houses and worked for 12 to 14 hours a day. Children of six worked hour upon hour in the complete darkness of the mines. We had the water, the factories, the resources buried deep in the earth. And when human life could be bought so cheaply, it became a disposable item.

People became hard because they had no choice. Family members died or were injured in accidents in the mills or pit disasters. Life was short and bloody uncertain. The unions gained followers in the North because they gave people the chance and above all, the voice they’d never had before. The Co-Op, which is also being lambasted these days, gave people a stake in their own lives.

A great deal has changed, of course. There’s precious little industry in the North these days. In part, that’s due to Thatcher and the Tories. But capital will go where labour is cheap, and these days that means Asia. They’re the new Northerners. Today the North is clean, all the dirt blasted off Victorian sandstone, and it’s largely a ‘service economy.’ Leeds, I’m told, is a rich city. Except, of course, if you’re in the street after street of back-to-backs south of the Aire, or in Harehills or Chapeltown. All that housing, meant to only last a few years, was built for workers close to the factories, in the days before public transport, when they needed to live close to their jobs. The only problem is that the jobs vanished, and there have been precious few to replace them.

When Coronation Street first aired, almost 53 years ago now, the life it showed was, to a large degree, a reflection of how things were, in Salford or Leeds or Hull or Newcastle. It was the working classes on the screen. People said it was too different, a show like that, in the time of RP accents, couldn’t last.

The North was poor, but the heart of gold that lurked underneath, the innate warmth – solidarity, perhaps – was allowed to show. And the North is still poor. Figures have shown that the NHS up here receives less money than in the South. And then there’s this:

“The Joseph Rowntree Foundation (JRF), which analysed the 30 per cent real terms cut in local government spending between 2008 and 2015, said the North and Midlands are suffering more than the south, with deprived areas left about £100 per person worse off.”

So yes, the North is different. And I’m bloody glad of it. Forget the stereotypes. They don’t matter, they can just as easily be thrown at the South, and any High Street anywhere in Britain has become the spitting image of any other High Street. One shopping ‘experience’ is much the same as any other. No, the North is different because it’s been ill-used but it’s always fought back. It’s still being ill-used, this time by a government that realises it’ll never win votes in the cities here, so it’s giving bribes to the places where it has a chance. The North is different because it’s strong. And I’m proud of that.

Perhaps the sad part of the debate is that for most people it’ll be forgotten in a couple of days.

The Power Of Storytime

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Last week I was in charge of a curated Twitter account. I love Twitter, I find it perfect for banter and humour and creating communities. But it’s also an excellent medium for telling stories. Author Joanne Harris (@Joannechocolat) has shown just how great it can be with her Twitter fables, which she sometimes tells with the hashtag #storytime.

The nature of the medium – no Tweet can be more than 140 characters – forces a writer to compress thoughts, and in some ways it resembles that flat, straightforward style of the Icelandic sagas, which are wonderful pieces of storytelling.

The account I curated was Leeds-based, so I borrowed Joanne’s idea to create #leedsstorytime, a mix of folk tales, ghost stories and history. It proved more popular than I’d anticipated, and a few people have asked if I’ll continue it on my own account. More than anything, it got me thinking about the power of storytelling. Even if we don’t realise it, we need stories. We crave them. They’re part of the human fabric. When you recount an incident from last week or last year, you’re telling a story…

Learning that my son is taking a class in Greek mythology as part of his university Humanities requirement set me think further about this. The myths were vital. They explained the world, its creation (and death), the facets of people, from Trickster to Love. It put order in the world. Different peoples have their different mythologies. The one thing in common is that they all have them.

And we have stories. They’re beautiful things. We loved them as children when teachers or parents would tell them. They connect us with places and with the past. They have the magic that’s disappeared from so much of our lives. And, as my oral storytelling friends point out, they’re very different from what a writer does. Read a book is a very personal experience, and the words are set on the page. Oral storytelling is communal, and the story is a framework for the teller. It’s a little different every time it’s told. The difference between classical music and jazz, to a degree.

I hope Joanne Harris doesn’t mind me putting my own twist on the #storytime idea. I’d like to think not; after all, these old stories are there to be shared and passed on, to be kept alive. If you haven’t experience real storytelling, maybe you should. It’ll take you to different worlds than any book you’ll read and you’ll have a wonderful, shared time.

The Real Crooked Spire

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It’s that time of year again. The leaves tumbling down off the tress to form piles you just have to kick and jump in. The first frost. The silent thanks for a working boiler in the morning. And a time to go from my old – and also very new – stamping grounds for a visit to a place I explored a few years ago.

This Saturday (that’s November 23rd, 2013 for those who discover this blog in a time capsule) and on December 9 I’ll be in Chesterfield. It’s all to do with the launch of my new book, The Crooked Spire – which also happens to be the name everyone uses for the Church of St. Mary and All Saints in the town.

 

It’s a beautiful building, which dates from 1360, and part of one of the loveliest market towns I know. Climb up the tower to the base of the spire and Chesterfield is spread out beneath you. But watch because, because the spire, more than 100 feet of it, is only held on to the tower by its own weight. And yes, it’s definitely crooked. There are several theories about that…

The first is that the builders used unseasoned wood for the spire. Given that the Black Death had wiped out many craftsmen, it’s possible that the builders didn’t know that the oak needed to be left for three years before use. After it was covered, the word dried and began to warp, which resulted in the twist so visible today.

That’s one fairly reasonable explanation. The others are much better. One tale goes that the spire, hearing a wedding in the church, was so amazed that there was a virgin in Chesterfield, craned around to look at the woman and couldn’t fully straighten itself. Should another virgin ever marry in the church, the spire will straighten itself. And in the third story, a blacksmith in Bolsover, a few miles away, was putting a new iron shoe on the Devil. He mishit a nail, which drove deep in the Devil’s hoof, causing him to leap in pain. Hanging on to the spire, he twisted it.

These days, though, there’s belief is that the twisting is related to the lead on the spire, which came a few centuries after it was built; the original covering was oak tiles over the beams. The heating and contraction of the lead caused the warping. There are, however, many who discount that.

Whatever the reason, there’s an odd phenomenon. The first reports of the spire being crooked didn’t come until the 17th century, long, long after it was built. But since then it’s become Chesterfield’s main feature and symbol. And the church, both inside and out, is a place of real wonder.

Asking Your Indulgence

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Forgive me. I hope you’ll indulge me for a minute or two. On Friday my publisher forward me a review of my new novel, Fair and Tender Ladies, from Publishers Weekly, a journal aimed at the publishing trade, including most bookseller and libraries, in the US.

The review itself (more of that at the end) was gratifying. But what lifted my heart more than anything was the fact that all six of the Richard Nottingham novels have received starred reviews there. I’d never expected that. No writer does. We sit at the computer and do our best, day after day and hope someone gets it. That’s all we can do.

I was lucky. Finally Lynne Patrick, then the publisher of Crème de la Crime and now my editor and friend, liked The Broken Token and too a chance of putting it out. Then Severn House, which bought the imprint, kept publishing the books.

Now I have this body of work, and these reviews. I sometimes used to scoff at people who were humbled by praise. Not anymore. I feel humbled myself and not quite sure how it all happened.

Oh, the review…

“Effective portrayals of brutality and genuine emotion and loss distinguish Nickson’s well-crafted sixth Richard Nottingham novel (after 2013’s At the Dying of the Year). In 1734, Nottingham, Constable of the City of Leeds, carries out his duties despite his wife’s devastating death. His hopes for fulfillment now lie with his grown daughter, Emily, who has opened her own school for the poor, and who is seriously involved with Rob Lister, one of Nottingham’s assistants. He fears for Emily’s safety after vandals attack her school. Meanwhile, several people die unnaturally, including Jem Carter, a man who was searching for his 16-year-old sister. In addition, a former crime lord returns to town, and Nottingham again has to navigate a prickly relationship with his bosses. The author’s willingness to shake up the status quo marks this as one of the best historical series set in the first half of the 18th century.”

Thank you.

Annabelle Atkinson and the Strands of Memory

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All families have their tales. Mine is no exception. But they’re not quite tales, they’re strands, almost footnotes, and they wait to be woven into something bigger, to be made into a picture, maybe even a real one. At this remove all the detail has been lost. And maybe it doesn’t matter anyway. Because what is a tale other than something that captures your imagination and makes you believe for a little while.

There’s talk of ‘the Spanish woman,’ but there’s no one in the family tree with a Spanish name. The closest is a Charlotte. Maybe she’d been a Carlotta. Most likely she wasn’t Spanish at all, but had olive colouring. Who she might have been, she ended up in Cold Cruel Winter as the girlfriend of a killer, made over by fiction.

My father, who grew up in Hunslet (part of Leeds, south of the river for those who don’t know) sometimes recalled spending summers at the Victoria, a pub in Sheepscar (another equally working-class part of Leeds) as a child. There was plenty of space to run around and a large garden to the rear where they grew rhubarb. Best of all, there was a piano where he could play to his heart’s content. The pub closed a few years ago (it’s now an Indian centre), but I visited it once in the mid-‘90s. It had stayed happily out of fashion, still an ordinary working man’s pub and all the better for it.

He also talked about a woman, a relative – how close or distant, I don’t know – who arrived in Leeds from Barnsley as a servant at the pub. Eventually, she married the landlord, and after he died, she ran the place herself. This would have been just after world War I. Not content with that, she opened a few bakeries around Leeds, rising early to supervise the baking. Her enterprises made her into a wealthy woman, although she evidently continued to live above the Victoria.

Enough for one woman? You’d think so, but she saw the shrieking poverty all around every single day. In an area like that it was impossible to miss. So she would loan a little money here and there, enough to tide people over a bad patch. To people she knew and trusted, and she was always repaid. Perhaps she charged a little interest, but possibly not.

My father only told the story once, but she stuck with me over the years. I’ve no idea who she really was, but that’s irrelevant. An early version of her surfaced in the short story Annabelle Atkinson and Mr Grimshaw. I knew it was her in there, but she hadn’t really appeared yet. And by now she was firmly in my head, demanding to be let out.

With Gods of Gold (to be published next year by Crème de la Crime), the real Annabelle has her voice. In the best Northern tradition she’s a strong, bold woman, the widowed landlady of the Victoria, engaged to be married to Inspector Tom Harper of Leeds Police. She runs two bakeries and is thinking of lending money to people she can trust. Here she is now:

She’d been collecting glasses in the Victoria down in Sheepscar, an old apron covering her dress and her sleeves rolled up, talking and laughing with the customers. He thought she must be a serving girl with a brass mouth. Then, as he sat and watched her over another pint, he noticed the rest of the staff defer to the woman. He was still there when she poured herself a glass of gin and sat down next to him.

‘I’m surprised those eyes of yours haven’t popped out on stalks yet,’ she told him. ‘You’ve been looking that hard you must have seen through to me garters.’ She leaned close enough for him to smell her perfume and whispered, ‘They’re blue, by the way.’

For the first time in years, Tom Harper blushed. She laughed.

‘Aye, I thought that’d shut you up. I’m Annabelle. Mrs Atkinson.’ She extended a hand and he shook it, feeling the calluses of hard work on her palms. But there was no ring on her finger. ‘He’s dead, love,’ she explained as she caught his glance. ‘Three year back. Left me this place.’

She’d started as a servant in the pub when she was fifteen, she said, after a spell in the mills. The landlord had taken a shine to her, and she’d liked him. One thing had led to another and they’d married. She was eighteen, he was fifty, already a widower once. After eight years together, he died.

‘Woke up and he were cold,’ she said, toying with the empty glass. ‘Heart gave out in the night, they said. And before you ask, I were happy with him. Everyone thought I’d sell up once he was gone but I couldn’t see the sense. We were making money. So I took it over. Not bad for a lass who grew up on the Bank, is it?’ She gave him a quick smile.

‘I’m impressed,’ he said.

‘So what brings a bobby in here?’ Annabelle asked bluntly. ‘Something I should worry about?’

‘How did you know?’

She gave him a withering look. ‘If I can’t spot a copper by now I might as well give up the keys to this place. You’re not in uniform. Off duty, are you?’

‘I’m a detective. Inspector.’

She pushed her lips together. ‘Right posh, eh? Got a name, Inspector?’

‘Tom. Tom Harper.’

He’d returned the next night, and the next, and soon they started walking out together. Shows at Thornton’s Music Hall and the Grand, walks up to Roundhay Park on a Sunday for the band concerts. Slowly, as the romance began to bloom, he learned more about her. She didn’t just own the pub, she also had a pair of bakeries, one just up Meanwood Road close to the chemical works and the foundry, the other on Skinner Lane for the trade from the building yards. She employed people to do the baking but in the early days she’d been up at four each morning to take care of everything herself.

Annabelle constantly surprised him. She loved an evening out at the halls, laughing at the comedians and singing along with the popular songs. But just a month before she’d dragged him out to the annual exhibition at Leeds Art Gallery.

By the time they’d arrived, catching the omnibus and walking along the Headrow, it was almost dusk.

‘Are you sure they’ll still be open?’ he asked.

‘Positive,’ she said and squeezed his hand. ‘Come on.’

It seemed a strange thing to him. How would they light the pictures? Candles? Lanterns? At the entrance she turned to him.

‘Just close your eyes,’ she said, a smile flickering across her lips. ‘That’s better.’ She guided him into the room at the top of the building. ‘You can open them again now.’

It was bright as day inside, although deep evening showed through the skylights.

‘What?’ he asked, startled and unsure what he was seeing.

‘Electric light,’ she explained. She gazed around, eyes wide. ‘Wonderful, eh?’ She’d taken her time, examining every painting, every piece of sculpture, stopping to glance up at the glowing bulbs. Like everything else there, she was transfixed by the light as much as the art. To him it seemed to beggar belief that anyone can do this. When they finally came out it was full night, the gas lamps soft along the street. ‘You see that, Tom? That’s the future, that is.’

Family stories, eh? You never know where they’ll crop up.

Eating at the White House

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized1 Comment

Last week, heading out to the tip, I drove along Wetherby Road in Leeds and passed a restaurant called The White House. These days it looks like a chain pub centred around food. But many years ago it was quite a classy place. And therein hangs a tale…

It was, as the song title goes, the summer of ’69. I was 15 and spending the summer holidays working at Laws Supermarket. It was the first summer I could legally work full-time and I had plans for the money I’d make. It would go in the bank for some big thing, to be decided in the future.

Of course, things didn’t work out that way. By then I was playing bass in bands, a youth for whom books and music were the fundamentals of life. So my days off were filled with trips into Leeds to spend my hard-earned wages on in bookshops and record shops, filling out my sparse collection of Penguin Classics and poetry and anguishing over which LP to buy.

And it was the summer I became interested in a girl. In the evenings I’d walked a mile to meet up with friends. We spent an hour or so on a bench in front of a shopping parade, just talking and acting the fool. A girl would come along sometimes, long blonde hair, that slightly ethereal look that was so typical of the late Sixties. I was smitten. But shy.

I came up with a plan. I’d impress her. Take her out to dinner. I’d never done that before, but I could scrub up a bit and act politely in public. It would be a costly do, I knew that. After all, you can’t impress without spending. So I saver my money for a fortnight, and one evening, just as she was leaving the bench, I took her aside and asked her out.

She looked more shocked than anything. Still, she agreed. On the night, we met and caught the bus to Oakwood, followed by an awkward stroll to the place. I tried to keep an insouciant, sophisticated front in the restaurant, to seem adult and worldly, and probably failed miserably. We ate, made a little small talk and left to catch the bus home.

The spark simply wasn’t there. We were both nice people, but…

Money wasted? I thought so at the time, and I certainly didn’t want my parents to find out about it and how much I’d spent. I kept the bill in my pocket and next day, walking the dog in the park, I buried on a hillside. Out of sight, although I took a little longer to be out of mind.

Not too long after I did take up with a girl, a romance that lasted nine months, an eternity in teenage terms. But that’s another story. One I don’t want to tell.