Maybe you’re not sure if you want to take a punt on my new book. I don’t blame you, times are tough and money’s scarce. But my publishers have put the first two chapters online so you can take a peek. Please, read. If you like, great, I’d love for you to buy it. But let me know what you think. Follow this link – thank you.
The Leeds Library on Commercial Street has been good enough to offer to host an event on Wednesday, April 17th at 6pm, where I’ll be speaking and reading from my Leeds books, featuring Constable Richard Nottingham, most particularly the newest in the series, At the Dying of the Year.
As some of you will know, the Leeds Library is a private subscription library. It’s existed since 1768, so it’s very much a part of Leeds history, and a chance to see a remarkable place (even if you have to suffer me, too – but don’t despair, as I’m told there will be wine).
The event is free and open to all. I’m asking the charity Simon on the Streets, which does such wonderful work, to come along and I hope you’ll donate to them.
The Library has asked that if you want to attend you let them know, as seating will be limited and some of their members will (hopefully) want to be there. They’ve asked that you email them at counter@theleedslibrary.org.uk or ring 0113 245 3071 to tell them, as soon as you can.
I hope to see you. I’m planning very few events around this book, so this might be your big chance to throw rotten fruit – as long as you’re careful to hit me, not the books!
For more on Leeds Library: http://www.theleedslibrary.org.uk/
And Simon on the Streets: http://www.simononthestreets.co.uk/
A few weeks ago, some of you might have noticed me announce on Facebook and Twitter that I’ve signed a contract for a new book, The Crooked Spire. Technically, I’m awaiting the contract from the publisher, but my agent has ironed out the details and it’s a done deal.
People outside North Derbyshire or South Yorkshire might not be aware of exactly what the Crooked Spire is. It’s St. Mary’s Church in Chesterfield and yes, the spire is crooked. Built right around 1360, with the spire added just after – around 1361 – it’s reputed to be the largest church in Derbyshire, and quite beautiful. Yes, the spire is crooked (Google it), and the supposed reason is that unseasoned, green timber was used in its construction. However, there’s no mention of it twisting for a few centuries after so, in many ways, it’s anyone’s guess, and these days it’s all covered in lead so it’s impossible to see. You can go up to the base of the spire and look out over the town – a great view – and see just how the spire leans. What’s possibly worrying is that the only thing holding the spire in place on the tower is its own weight.
There are other folk tales as to how the spire ended up so twisted, one involving the devil landing on it, although my favourite is that a virgin was marrying in the church and the spire was so astonished that a virgin could be found in Chesterfield that it twisted to look and couldn’t twist back.
For four-and-a-half years after moving back to England I lived in Dronfield, a small town just six miles from Chesterfield. It’s the place where I did my shopping, where I’d wander the market – the market square is the same one laid out in 1265 – and through the cramped streets that make up the Shambles, where the butchers had their shops. It’s a place that’s held on to much of its history.
The Black Death tore Europe apart from 1348-50. Estimates are that around one-third of the population died, although it’s impossible to be certain. What we do know is that it upset the social order and sparked the end of feudal society, creating more freedom. It makes for an interesting back from John the Carpenter – this is an era just before established surnames – a young worker in wood, originally from Leeds, orphaned when young, his only heirlooms a bag of tools and a rare ability to sense the wood, to be able to make things from it. He arrives in Chesterfield, having fled York and work on the Minster there. It’s a time when a skilled man can find a job anywhere, with nothing to tie him down and reasonable wages.
It’s a murder mystery. The master carpenter is found dead at the top of the church tower and, as a stranger, John is immediately suspect. He has to prove his innocence and find out exactly who’s responsible. At the same time, against his plans, he begins to find he’s growing attached to some people in the town and wanting to stay…
And that’s pretty much all I’m going to say. There’s no set date for publication, although autumn looks likely for The Crooked Spire. When I know more I’ll pass it on…
There’s horsemeat in the food chain and everyone’s scrambling round in a panic. Apparently it might have originated in Romania, where abattoirs were fulfilling an order placed from Cyprus, where a company was filling an order for a French company. In turn, they’d received an order from another French company for its factory in Luxembourg, which was supplying ready meals for sale in Britain by a Swedish company. Confused yet?
It’s a long time since I was a small lad, but back then my mother bought her groceries from the grocer, whose emporium was filled with sacks and barrels full of the most exquisite smells, with cheese and butter behind a dark wood counter. It was a scene that probably hadn’t changed much from Victorian times. For fruit and vegetables we went to the greengrocer (who also sold orange crates for sixpence; when dragged home they could be transformed into racing cars, aircraft, even spaceships – the only limit was my imagination). And when we wanted meat we went to the butcher. If it was mince – ground beef to Americans – that she desired, he ground it on the spot with a hand-turned machine. That meat came from fairly local farmers, probably from an abattoir in Leeds. The food chain wasn’t too long.
Back then, too, people brought their own bags when shopping, in the days before disposable plastic bags, those little items that have become so reviled recently in a return to…people supplying their own bags to help the environment. And the Monday wash? That went out on the line to dry. No tumble dryers. If you were lucky you had a twin tub machine.
The first local supermarket opened somewhere around 1963. Soon they grew into much larger beasts. I had a summer and Saturday job in one. They were a convenience, with everything in one place. But most people still preferred meat from the butcher and their fruit and veg from the greengrocer, bread from the baker…you get the idea.
You can’t stop progress, though, and it’s not all bad. Supermarkets have brought many good things, and convenience? Yes, handy indeed, and far better than going to the shops every day, especially for families where both parents work. Then 30 years of living in the US spoilt me, with massive supermarkets offering a staggering range of items.
But an outgrowth of all this idea of making everything convenient is a greater reliance on fast food and ready meals. With the growth of multinational companies supply all this – be it burgers, pizza, ready meals under umpteen different brands, we’ve lost our charge of the food chain. It controls us rather than the other way round. And where there’s a chain there’s always going to be a weak link.
There’s no turning the clock back and in many ways I wouldn’t want to. Growing up in a house where the only heat came from fireplaces and a back burner in the kitchen wasn’t romantic. In winter there’d be frost on the inside of my bedroom windows. The ashes had to be cleaned out of the grate in the living room first thing every morning (and it was my poor mother who ended up doing it).
But maybe we do need to look at things again. With bags and drying clothes, just as two examples, we’ve learnt that the old ways weren’t as backward as we believed them to be. While there’s nothing wrong with horsemeat itself (during rationing people queued to buy it and it’s common in many countries), it’s the integrity of the food that counts, knowing that we can believe what it says on the packet. Perhaps the price we’re paying for all this convenience is a little too high.
I thought the news that researchers were able to say that the skeleton dug up in Leicester was ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ that of Richard III was absolutely wonderful. All the buildup, the forensics, the DNA testing to connect him with a woman descended from the monarch’s sister. Remarkable that the results of an archaeological dig could command such international attention.
Now, 1485 and the Plantagenets and Tudors aren’t my period of history, nor do I corner myself with kings and queens. My business is much more with the common people. But it’s impossible not be fascinated by this body with its scoliosis and its battle wounds, under the ground for more than 500 years.
The legends about Richard paint him in a very dark light, the murderer of the princes in the tower, the man who lost out to Henry at Bosworth field, the last of the Plantaganets, but at this remove he’s just a fascination, another piece in the jigsaw puzzle that’s English history (mind you, I was amused by the comment from the person from the Richard III society after seeing the facial reconstruction, something along the lines of ‘Looking like that, he couldn’t have been a tyrant!). Yes, I’ll go to Leicester and see where Greyfriars stood, I’ll go through the exhibition in the museum and have a look in the cathedral to see where they’ll inter his remains. I’m a sucker for it in the same way that I go through old castles, abbeys, churches, museums and stately homes. They all open the window on the past a little wider. If I hadn’t gone to Temple Newsam in Leeds I wouldn’t have known there was a silversmith in Leeds who worked in the late 17th century and used the initial BB – grist for my fictional mill, so don’t be surprised if it shows up in a Richard Nottingham novel. At St. Mary’s in Whitby I discovered gravestones adorned with skulls and crossbones. Not pirates but mementos mori. If you have eyes to see, the past is there. With the skeleton of Richard III it’s simply writ in larger, bolder letters.
I’m re-reading a memoir (Boff Whalley’s Footnotes, if you really want to know) and I’m amazed, as I always am, at the way some people can look back and remember the details of so many specific instances in their lives. Some I recall with absolute clarity, like when my son, just over an hour old, wrapped his tiny fingers around my thumb and I just felt absolute love. But with so many things the colours of my memory are blurred around the edges.
What does stay in my mind is the way things made me feel. Driving up I-75 in Ohio, a sunny spring day, the window rolled down, my leather jacket thrown on the back seat, Springsteen on the radio, I felt as if I understood America for the first time, that it was under my skin and in my heart.
All this has left me thinking about the way we see our pasts. When we look back, how do we perceive it? For instance, I know exactly when and where I first really heard John Martyn’s music, an event that made me an instant fan, as I still am. I was 18, in the music room at my girlfriend’s house and we were sitting on a white shag rug. All the other details are gone. Was there a piano in there? A wall of sheet music? What did she look like? Once that music curled around me, it was as if nothing else in the moment mattered?
So, perhaps the question I’m really asking is: am I lacking something, not remembering everything? It’s perhaps a failing as a writer, although novelists do make stuff up (for all you know, the incidents I’ve described could be straight out of my imagination). But what about you? How do you remember things – and how far back do you remember them?
The second part of the interview with Constable Richard Nottingham, published in the Leeds Mercury in 1733 as the gentleman recovered from a grievous wound sustained in his service of the people.
Your own upbringing was, one might say, unusual. You experienced both wealth and poverty in your childhood.
I did. My father was a merchant here, as some might remember, and also a gambler and a rake, a man with little regard for his family or the fact that it was his wife who’d brought the money to their marriage, the money he was all too happy to spend at the tables and on drink and whores. From all I’ve been told, his business never fared well when he was running it. But we lived comfortably. I still pass the house where I grew up on Briggate every day. Sometime, perhaps, someone will tear it down; it’ll be no loss to memory.
And then, when you were eight…
My father discovered that what had been sauce for the gander was also sauce for the goose, is that your meaning? It was his excuse to stand on his philandering honour and throw his wife and son from the house without having to be called to account. After that he moved to London. But from there, you’re right, we knew poverty, my mother and I. She died when I was twelve and I learned about the other Leeds, the one its citizens don’t notice. The children who are invisible, who sleep wherever they can and hope they wake the next morning. The old who slowly fade away until they’re walking ghosts and the poor who shout out but must be silent because no one seems to hear them. Aye, I learnt about all that, right enough.
Yet you’re here now, and a man of account.
With gratitude to Mr. Arkwright, who was Constable before me. For…whatever reason, he took me on as a Constable’s man after I’d worked all manner of jobs and then made me deputy constable when he believed I was ready. Am I a man of account? I don’t believe so. I’m not like Ralph Thoreseby who wrote down the history of Leeds and the areas around it and made his house into a museum of items from the district. He was a man of account; I simply do the job I’m paid to do.
Many here feel you do that job very well.
What’s a man unless he tries his best in everything? My position is an honour and a trust and my debt’s to the people in Leeds. I owe them the best I can give and that’s what I try to do.
Will you be glad to be back at work?
Very. My men have been hard pressed these last few months and I feel I’ve been away too long. I’m close to full health again and I’ve regained the weight I lost after my injury. I can walk well enough now with the aid of a stick. Within four weeks I shall return, for better or worse.
How do you see Leeds in the future?
I was born here, I’ve lived here all my life and with God’s good grace I’ll die here. In my lifetime we’ve built the White Cloth Hall. Every Tuesday and Saturday thousands of pounds change hands at the cloth markets. It’s a trade that grows bigger each year. We’re already the centre of the woollen business in England and that will grow. Leeds will grow with it, the dyers and finishers, even the tanneries and shoemakers and the mercers and grocers. More people come here every month with their dreams. In another ten years, twenty, fifty, Leeds will occupy more land. We’ll push past Town End, out beyond Cavalier Hill and out to the West. If we come back as spirits in the future it will be a place beyond all recognition, except for the space that separates rich from poor. That will never change, I’m sure of that.
And, to finish, a reminder that the next novel featuring Richard Nottingham, At the Dying of the Year, is published in hardback in the UK on February 28th.
From the Leeds Mercury, 1733:
As the citizens of our good town will know, among the public offices in Leeds is one of Constable. Whilst many of those who abide within the letter of the law may be unaware that the role is anything more than ceremonial, those of a nefarious and dubious character know all too well that our Constable is someone to be feared, a man who uses his rank wisely to see that they’re punished for their misdeeds.
Earlier this year our present Constable, Mr. Richard Nottingham, was incapacitated by a grievous knife wound in the act of apprehending some dangerous criminals. For some time the outcome of his life lay in the balance. Praise be to God, however, that he returned from such a brink and currently finds himself recuperating at home.
Constable Nottingham was gracious enough to accede to request from your humble correspondent and answer questions for the Mercury. We deem this interview to be of great account to those in Leeds, that they may acquaint themselves with a man who’s proved himself to be such a valued servant to the city.
We wish you well of the day, sir, and hope your condition’s improving.
Slowly. Another month and I should be back to my work. To tell you the truth, I’ll be glad of it; I wasn’t made to be idle.
You have no thoughts of retirement?
Perhaps my wife would like that but she knows me too well to insist. I love my job. I’ve been doing it sixteen years now (Editor’s note: Mr. Nottingham was named as Constable in 1717) and I can’t imagine anything else. Certainly not doing nothing.
Who has been your greatest foe?
Greatest? I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use for him, but probably the most dangerous was Amos Worthy. He died a year ago, taken by cancer. He was a pimp, a money lender, he had a hand in much of the crime we had here.
And yet he was never in court? Never sentenced to hang or transported?
He was a wealthy man. Money can buy power and protection. Perhaps it’s best just to say that Mr. Worthy used his riches wisely. Those who might testify against him or threaten him would change their minds or decide to leave Leeds. A number of years ago, back before I became Constable, there was a man named Tom Finer. He vanished overnight. We’ve never discovered what happened to him.
Leeds is a place that is changing in every way. It’s growing bigger and richer each year. Has the nature of the crimes from which you defend us altered?
People drink, they argue and fight. Nothing’s changed there and it probably never will. Men grow weary of life and kill themselves. I’ve seen men and woman kill for passion. I’ve seen them steal and even murder to be able to feed their families. I’ve seen things most people could never believe. We have more people in Leeds than ever before. The rich are richer and the poor grow poorer and more desperate. There are plenty hereabouts with next to nothing. When folk are like that they end up feeling they have nothing to lose, and they’re right. Even the danger of having their necks stretched up on Chapeltown Moor doesn’t seem like much. Imagine having empty pockets and an empty belly then seeing a man wearing a coat and breeches that cost more than you’d be able to scrape together in three months. How would you feel?
Those are very radical opinions, sir. You make Leeds sound like a dangerous place.
It can be. It’s my job – and those who work with me – to keep people safe. All the people of Leeds, not only those who live in the grand houses.
The second part of our conversation with Mr. Nottingham will be published in our next edition, which will appear seven days from now. We trust you will find it as edifying as the first.
And a reminder that the next novel featuring Richard Nottingham, At the Dying of the Year, is published in hardback in the UK on February 28th.
He hurried back up the ladder, falling on his knees at the top and gulping down the fresh air. His legs buckled at he tried to stand, and for a moment he was forced to hold on to someone’s arm. The man handed him the jug and he drank deep, swilling the ale around his mouth before spitting out the taste of the pit.
‘Bad,’ was the only thing the man said.
Rob didn’t reply. He didn’t own the words for what he’d seen. ‘Send someone for Mr Brogden, the coroner,’ he said, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. ‘I’ll bring some men to take the bodies out.’
He marched purposefully up Kirkgate, trying to clear the thoughts and images from his head. For all he knew there were more children down there, hidden by the darkness. He ran a hand through his hair, the stink of the dead clinging fast to his clothes.
***********
The Constable remembered the face of every dead child he’d seen since he’d begun the job. They were impossible to forget, each one clear and sharp in his head. Many had gone from hunger, little more than ghosts even before their hearts gave up the battle to keep beating, some from accidents, crushed by carts or lost to the river. Precious few had been murdered, and he thanked Christ for that, at least.
Some of the workmen were sitting on the grass when he arrived, others stood in a small group. He nodded and asked, ‘Has the coroner arrived yet?’
‘Gone down there with a candle,’ one of the men answered.
When Brogden climbed back out there was dirt on his immaculate coat and he’d vomited on his shoes with their expensive silver buckles. He brought a flask from his waistcoat, fingers shaking so hard he could barely unscrew the top. He took a long drink and saw the Constable.
‘What’s down there?’ Nottingham asked.
The coroner shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. He raised his eyes. ‘Three of them,’ he replied quietly. ‘Someone’s killed them. None of them look older than eight.’ Tears began to roll down his cheeks and he pawed at them angrily before walking away.
The Constable ran a hand across his mouth. His thoughts raced away from him. Three? It seemed impossible. Unless they did belong to the dead man, how could so many children vanish without anyone noticing? For the love of God, why would anyone want to murder them and leave them that way? He was still standing there thinking when Lister returned with four others, a ragtaggle group who looked more like beggars than Constable’s men.
‘You’ll have to be my eyes down there,’ he told Rob. ‘I can’t use a ladder. Not yet.’
‘I’ll tell you what I see, boss.’
A new year is supposed to bring changes, isn’t it? That’s the way of the world, plenty of resolutions to keep or break. Turns out I have my own changes to ring for 2013, although they were quite unintended.
For more than a dozen years I’ve been writing for a music website that I’ll leave nameless, contributing reviews and biographies of artists. They’ve been good to work for, even after they obtained new corporate masters. I pitched stuff I wanted to cover, they said yes to some, I uploaded and they paid very promptly (and as any freelancer can tell you, that last one is very important).
Then, a month ago, I received an email telling me that as of the end of December they would no longer be requiring my services. Nothing to do with my writing at all; they needed to cut back on the freelancers they used. In this economy that happens, although I do suspect that the marginal areas of music that I mined – world, folk and weird – probably contributed. When things are tough, you focus on the core.
Time and money has taken its toll of the outlets that exist for the music I love. Even the wonderful Sing Out! looks as if it won’t exist much longer, so another one will bite the dust. The newspapers have their reviewers already, as do the mainstream music magazines.
So what’s a man to do? He starts a blog, of course. I already have two, one for random things and another covering Danish music. But the Fortnightly-ish review (http://fortnightlyish.blogspot.co.uk) will just be music. Every couple of weeks or so, one review of a new, or at least fairly new, album that’s grabbed me. Because I love writing about music, in case you wondered.
What not more often? Time, for one. And also I’m a lot harder to impress these days. That’s one advantage – or possibly disadvantage – of age. I began listening to music seriously in 1967, and I’ve learned a great deal in all those years since. It doesn’t mean I know everything, of course – I still don’t understand quite how Monk manages to do all that on the piano, for instance, or why Robert Wyatt’s voice could make a stone cry – but I’ve a reasonable knowledge.
Back when I began reviewing world music, as opposed to just rock/electronic/post rock/whatever, I wanted to write about it in terms that didn’t make it seem foreign to people, so it was just as accessible as rock. I think I wandered away from that path. It’s probably time to get back to it, but also to broaden my church. After all, like most people, my tastes are eclectic. I can find joy in some of Johnny Dowd’s work, next to Charley Patton or Nick Cave. They’re all saying something similar, and it’s all art, just as much as a Bach prelude, Spem In Alium or John Coltrane.
I want to communicate that, and probably include some ramblings, too. It’s a blog, you can do that. Whether anyone will care or not, I’ve no idea. Time will tell. But I’m going to be selective about the music in it. It’ll mean something, if only to me. You’re welcome along for the ride, if you like.
Chris Nickson 