Yesterday I did something I’ve never done before: started reading one of my own books. By the time they’ve been written, revised, edited and proofed, I’m usually heartily sick of them. I’ll pick out sections to read at appearances, but usually that’s as far as it goes.
But not yesterday.
I took my copy of Modern Crimes, spine still uncreased, off the shelf and began to read. I liked it. I got caught up in it, in Lottie and how she navigates all the uncertainty.
It’s not even out for just over a week but I believe in this book. I believe in them all, of course I do; each one has a certain quality. But somehow, this one has a certain intangible magic. I can’t describe that, only feel it. Maybe you will, too…here’s a little bit more.
The space behind the Royal Hotel stank. The bins overflowed and there was a strong stench of urine from somewhere. Lottie paced around, waiting and trying to be patient. The sound of traffic was muffled and distant. A train went by on the embankment, the second in ten minutes, making the earth under her shoes shake as it passed.
Finally the door at the back of the building squeaked open on rusty hinges and a heavyset woman emerged. She was dressed in a man’s double-breasted suit, correct down to the collar and tie, shoes polished to a high gloss, short hair in a brutal shingle cut and pomaded down. Blinking in the light, she lit one of her Turkish cigarettes.
‘Hello, Auntie Betty,’ Lottie said. ‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’
At first McMillan refused to go in. They sat in the car on Lower Briggate and looked across the street at the place.
‘They’ll know I’m a copper as soon as I walk through the door,’ McMillan objected.
‘Well, I can’t. I’m in uniform,’ Lottie reminded him.
He pushed the brim of his hat back. ‘It’s just…’ He shook his head and a look of distaste crossed his face.
‘Because they’re different, you mean?’ She chose her words very carefully.
‘Yes. It’s wrong, inverts and mannish girls. It’s not natural.’
‘Sarge,’ she began patiently. ‘John.’ What was the best way to put it? ‘This is the quickest way to get the information. Betty’s lived up on Blackman Lane for years. She knows the place inside and out. Two minutes and she can tell me where we can find Walker.’
‘How do you know her, anyway?’
‘Her niece had a few problems. WPC Taylor and I helped sort them out. Betty came to see us out on patrol and said how grateful she was.’
He glanced at the entrance to the Royal Hotel. ‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘We’ll do it like this: you go to the ginnel at the back and wait. I’ll pop in, have a word with her, say you need to talk to her. Be as quick as you can. We’ll meet back here.’
‘You’re looking well, Lottie.’ Betty smiled. Everyone called her Auntie, a strangely sexless figure, more man than woman and ending up neither. She was a fixture behind the bar, serving drinks for the homosexuals and lesbians who spent their money there, always ready to advise them on their problems but never finding answers to her own.
‘So are you.’
‘That poor man you sent in looked terrified.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘Kept looking around like someone might eat him.’
‘He’s harmless, Auntie. Just scared, that’s all. Did he tell you I need your help?’
‘Yes.’ She stared at the cigarette as she turned it in her thick fingers. ‘Something about Blackman Lane.’
‘We’re looking for someone who has a place there,’ Lottie said. ‘I don’t know if it’s a flat or a room.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ronnie Walker. He’s in his early twenties.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ the woman answered slowly. ‘They come and go so fast these days.’
‘He drives a Standard sedan.’
‘Oh, him.’ Her face brightened. ‘Number seventeen. He has the attic. What’s he done? Why are you after him?’
‘I can’t tell you, Auntie. And please don’t say a word.’
‘Lips locked,’ she promised. ‘And I’ll throw away the key.’
‘Thank you. For everything.’ She leaned forward and gave Betty a quick peck on the cheek, seeing the glimmer of loneliness in the woman’s eyes.
‘Number seventeen,’ Lottie announced with a smile as she closed the door of the Peugeot. ‘I told you Betty would know.’
‘God, she’s an odd creature. Gave me the creeps, dressed like that.’
‘She’s lovely.’ Lottie turned on the seat to look at him. ‘Without her we’d be hunting around and trying to find Walker’s address. I hope you won’t forget that.’
‘I know,’ he said quietly as he wove through the traffic on the Headrow and Woodhouse Lane. ‘I know. It’s just… well, it doesn’t matter.’ He gave her a tight smile.
‘Isn’t that a Standard?’ She pointed at a parked car on Blackman Lane. There were no more than a handful of vehicles, along with a Matthias Robinson’s delivery lorry.
‘That’s the one,’ McMillan agreed. ‘Right outside the house, too. The attic, you said?’
‘That’s what Betty told me.’ She wanted to remind him who’d given them the information.
‘Let’s take a gander. If we’re lucky, your Miss Hill will be here and we can finish this right now.’
The front door of the house was unlocked. They climbed the stairs slowly, one flight, then pausing on the landing before taking the second. At the top, the door stood ajar.
Something felt very wrong.
‘Let me go first,’ the sergeant whispered. He trod carefully, barely making a sound. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before grabbing the door handle and easing it up. Lottie had barely started the climb when she heard him shout, ‘Get in here now.’
You can get both paperback (in the UK) and ebook (everywhere, and very cheap) from September 6. Or simply order it now. And I hope it has magic for you, too.
It’s not long until Modern Crimes is published and yes, I’m going to keep putting out teasers about it. I like Lottie Armstrong. She’s somewhat extraordinary by being ordinary – and you’ll have to read it to make sense of that. And so, here’s another short extract to hopefully whet your appetites.
For those who don’t know, the Market Tavern was Leeds institution, about 100 yards from Millgarth Police Station, and many of the city’s crooks gathered there. The force was happy to let them; it meant they knew where they were. But, at least in the 1920s, it wasn’t a place for a respectable woman, and definitely not for a woman police constable…
At the end you can find out more about Modern Crimes. The ebook comes out the same day as the UK paperback, and it’s decidedly cheap. I’ll just leave that thought in your head.
‘By God,’ Tennison said in admiration as they walked back down the street. ‘Where did you learn to do all that?’
‘What?’
‘Get them to talk. You should be a detective.’
She laughed. ‘And pigs will fly. Come on, he wanted to tell us, you could see it in his face. He loves her, he wants to see her safe as much as anyone.’
‘If you say so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘That touching his hand, what made you do it?’
‘I don’t know. It just seemed to be what he needed. Why? Was it bad?’
‘It was ruddy marvellous.’ He smiled at her and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘What time are you due back on patrol?’
She looked at him. ‘I don’t know. As soon as we’re done, I suppose. Why?’
‘Oh, I just thought we could drop in to the Market Tavern before you went back, that’s all.’ He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a sly grin on his lips.
‘Go on, then,’ she agreed quickly. ‘As long as it stays quiet. Mrs Maitland will have me off the force if she finds out.’
‘I won’t say a word, cross my heart.’ He winked. ‘For a lass, you’re all right, you know that?’
She nudged him in the ribs, hard enough for him to feel. ‘And I’ve come across worse blokes than you.’ Her eyes were laughing. ‘So who’s this rich man, do you think?’
‘Haven’t a clue, but someone’s bound to know. You won’t find many Standards in Leeds, they’re not cheap. Whoever owns it has a bit of brass.’
She’d gone into pubs with Geoff, a few times with gaggles of girls from Barnbow when they enjoyed a night out. A cocktail bar with Cathy. But never anywhere like the Market Tavern. It was early enough in the day to stink of stale beer and old smoke, dust motes hanging in the air.
A few hardened drinkers slumped in the corners, shunning company; a man listlessly mopped the bar. The spittoons hadn’t been emptied and the brass needed a healthy polish.
‘Morning, Bill. Is Nancy about?’ Tennison said, looking around the faces in the place.
‘In the cellar, Henry. She’ll be back in a minute.’ He stared at Lottie, the look becoming a leer as he licked his lips. ‘Who’s the bird?’
‘That’ll be Woman Police Constable Armstrong to you.’ There was an iron edge to his voice. ‘Unless you fancy a belting into next week. Not from me, from her. And don’t go thinking she wouldn’t dare.’
Bill bowed his head and seemed to deflate into himself,.
At Barnbow the men had flirted. Some of them had tried it on, hands free when they thought they could get away with it. But she’d been one girl among many, plenty of them prettier and more happy-go-lucky. Since she put on the uniform it had been worse, as if she was fair game. Plenty of comments, someone trying to grab her breasts on a crowded tram. Even one of the coppers at work had fancied his chances, thinking he could drag her into a cupboard. A sharp knee had ended that idea and kept him off work the next day. Since then they’d treated her warily around the station. Everyone knew what had happened; no-one ever spoke about it.
Footsteps echoed on stone stairs. A door opened and a woman filled the opening. She was large, tall with wide shoulders. Big-boned in every way, around forty, but she carried it handsomely, wearing expensive, stylish clothes, make-up carefully applied to hide the wrinkles, her hair cut to suit her broad face.
‘Well, well, well, look who’s blown in.’ She had a voice like a contented purr, low, pleasant, but with the edge of teasing. ‘Where have you been keeping yourself, Henry?’ Her eyes turned to Lottie. ‘This must be one of them WPCs.’ She nodded approval. ‘The uniform suits you, dear. And Henry wouldn’t be dragging you in here unless you could hold your own.’
‘I’ve got a question for you,’ Tennison said. The attention, and everything that lurked beneath it, didn’t seem to bother him. ‘About someone who drinks in here.’
Nancy took a Woodbine from a packet on the bar and lit it.
‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘Spit it out. I don’t have all day.’
‘He drives a Standard,’ Lottie said quickly. ‘Probably in his twenties or so. Very likely thinks he’s the bees’ knees.’
The woman laughed. ‘You’re not backwards about coming forwards, are you? You’re looking for Ronnie Walker. Comes in here a couple of times a week. Likes to think he’s hard stuff because he’s slumming it. What’s he done?’
‘Maybe nothing,’ Tennison said. ‘We need to talk to him and find out.’
‘You need to take a look in Headingley. Somewhere round there.’ She stared at Lottie. ‘What’s your name, luv?’
‘WPC Armstrong.’
Nancy sighed. ‘Your real name. Like he’s Henry and I’m Nancy.’
‘Lottie.’
The woman extended a large hand and Lottie shook it. ‘You’ll do. You need anything, come and ask for me.’ She nodded at Tennison. ‘You don’t need to wait for him. And no-one will hurt you in here. Not unless they want to answer to me.’ She grinned, showing a set of discoloured teeth. ‘And they don’t, believe you me.’
‘You went in the Market Tavern?’ Cathy put her hands on her hips. ‘Come on, tell me all about it. I keep hoping someone will take me in there.’
They were walking through County Arcade, all the old glamour looking a little faded and dreary, the black and white tiled floor sad and grubby.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ Lottie told her. ‘It’s a dreary place. We weren’t even inside for ten minutes.’
‘What about the woman?’ Cathy asked eagerly. ‘I’ve heard about her.’
‘Nancy? She’s lovely. Big, but… it suits her.’
‘Are they keeping you on the investigation? What did Mrs Maitland say?’
‘The case has gone to the detectives.’
She didn’t want to say more. After her hopes had been raised for a few hours, they’d been dashed again. Still, that was to be expected. Outside the matron’s office Henry had given her a sympathetic look and a shrug before heading back to his beat. It was the way of the world.
Evening report was almost complete when Mrs Maitland looked at her. Her next words seemed to come out grudgingly.
‘Inspector Carter wants you to report upstairs to CID before you leave.’
Want to know more about Lottie and Modern Crimes? Click here.
It’s just under three weeks until Modern Crimes is published. You haven’t really had chance to get to know its heroine, Lottie Armstrong. What better way than in a new short story that gives you the opportunity to know a little more about WPC Lottie Armstrong, and how she wants to be a proper copper.
You can order the book. The paperback comes out on the 7 September, January 2017 in the US. But the ebook edition is published everywhere September 7, and it’s dead cheap (thank my publisher). Details after the story.
Proper Coppers
‘Come on.’ Lottie stopped and turned, hands on her hips. ‘It’ll take us an hour to get there at this rate.’
Cathy Taylor bent over and retied her laces. ‘You’re not the one breaking in new shoes. They’re killing my bunions’
‘Half a dozen men are craning their neck to look at you like that,’ Lottie hissed.
‘Let them.’ Cathy straightened and grinned. ‘I’m don’t mind being the centre of attention.’ She wiggled her toes. ‘That’s a little better. We’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ Cathy began to stride out across Woodhouse Moor and looked over her shoulder. ‘Well? Are you coming?’
1924, and they were the first two women police constables in Leeds, their first year on the beat. WPCs looked after the women and children; those were the orders. Shoplifters, truants, moving on the prostitutes. Not proper coppers, one officer had told them with a sneer.
Lottie Armstrong didn’t care. She’d heard worse when she’d worked out at Barnbow during the war. A fews insults ran off her like water from a duck’s bath. She was twenty-five, loved the work, and she had a husband who liked her to be happy. Cathy? Well, her husband spent most of his time away with the merchant marine. Work filled her days, brought in some money, and gave her the chance to flirt with anything in trousers. And she was right; she always liked being the centre of male attention. She didn’t even have to work with it. Skinny as a rail, one of those fashionable figures, and with her hair in a bob, men regularly gave her a second glance. Lottie was…rounder. Not that she really cared. Most of the time.
They knew exactly where they were going. It was May and already their third trip to the same address that year. Once in April, twice this month. Elsie Chalmers. Bold as brass, she nicked things from shops. Classy shops and good department stores. Matthias Robinson, Marks and Spencer, Schofield’s, the Pygmalion, Marshall and Snelgrove – none of them were safe from her. Knickers, gloves, a blouse or two. Everyone knew she did it; they’d simply never managed to catch her with the goods. It had been going on for five years, always in the spring and summer, as if she took winter off.
‘It’s like cricket,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘April rolls around and it’s the start of Elsie’s shoplifting season.’ But no matter how often they searched her house, they’d never found the items she’d taken.
This time, though, she’d outdone herself. Elsie stolen an expensive coat, on sale after the winter season. Heavy wool, with a fox collar. It wasn’t something she could slip into her handbag as she passed. She’d tried it on, admired the fit in the mirror and waltzed out still wearing it. By the time the shop assistant realised, Elsie had vanished into the crowds on Briggate.
That had been two hours before.
Now they had their orders. Go and search Elsie Chalmers’ house. Again. The way she kept coming back here, Lottie thought, she might as well rent a room from the woman. She already knew the layout as well as she knew her own home on Oak Road.
It was a decent three-storey terrace with a front garden no bigger than a postage stamp. A tiny spot of lawn that could be clipped with a pair of nail scissors and a rose bush that climbed awkwardly towards the neighbour’s hedge.
Cathy knocked on the door. They waited a moment then heard footsteps clicking down the hall. Then, finally, Elsie herself.
‘Hello.’ She managed to sound surprised. ‘What brings you two here? Why don’t you come in?’ She stepped aside to let them through.
‘Elsie,’ Lottie began, ‘you’ve been at it again, haven’t you?’
‘At what, dear? What do you mean?’ She was fifty if she was a day, but she tried her best to hide it, always beautifully turned out. A strong girdle to keep her figure under control, neat, stylish clothes, a hair style that hadn’t come from the shop on the parade down the road. And plenty of make-up to hide the wrinkles. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Every visit here meant tea and cake. It was a ritual, part of the game for the woman. Lottie looked at her, wondering what was going on in her head. Why did she do this? What did she gain from it?
‘Where’s the coat, Elise?’ Cathy asked.
‘What coat is that, dear?’
‘The one you stole this afternoon.’
Elsie gave a sweet smile. ‘But I haven’t stolen anything.’ She waved a hand. ‘Take a look around.’
She still wore the wedding ring, although her husband had been dead since the Somme. He’d left her a little, enough to get by. Lottie knew that much from talking to her. She could afford the clothes she took. Maybe stealing brought a little thrill into her life.
Never mind, she thought. Maybe this time they’d catch her.
Cathy was in the bedroom, moving clothes along the rail.
‘She’s got enough dresses to fit an army. I bet she never paid for half of them, either.’ She held one out. ‘Feel that. Real silk. She couldn’t afford that.’
Lottie knelt and checked under the bed, then in the box room, the empty spare bedroom, and finally the attic. She pushed the cobwebs away with her hand, looking for feet marks on the dirty floor. Not a thing.
They marched back downstairs, feeling the frustration. Wherever it was, Elsie had a good hiding place. The best. But this time, Lottie decided, this time she’d find it, even if she had to tear the place apart brick by brick.
The parlour, the kitchen: no coat. That left the cellar. Lottie raised an eyebrow. Cathy sighed. They’d been down there before. Last time they’d found a huge spider over the sink and a rat had scuttled across the floor before vanishing into a hole. But they had to do it. Lottie gritted her teeth.
Five minutes of searching everywhere. They moved old furniture that had been left here, coughing as dust rose into their faces. By the time they climbed back up to the kitchen, their uniforms were filthy. They patted themselves and each other. Best to be immaculate before they reported back in to Millgarth police station or Mrs. Maitland, the matron, would be tearing strips of them both.
Lottie stared out of the windows at the yard.
‘Just wait a minute,’ she said.
It was no more than six steps across the yard to the coal shed up against the back wall. There’d be an opening on the other side, so the coalman could deliver from the ginnel.
Lottie opened the door. She expected a small dark cloud to rise as she stepped inside. Instead the small space was swept spotlessly clean.
A long bag hung from a nail on the wall. A few carefully sealed boxes were stacked on the floor. Lottie began to smile.
‘Elsie,’ she called once she was in the kitchen again, her arms full, ‘Could you come here a moment?’
‘What is it?’ She heard the small sigh of the chair as the woman rose. As soon as she entered the room, her face fell. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear.’
‘How did you know?’ Cathy asked. They stood in the ladies’ at Millgarth Police station, washing off the day’s grime after their shift. Elsie Chalmers was down in the cells, waiting for her solicitor. ‘None of the blokes who’d searched the place before ever thought of it. We didn’t, either. What made you look there?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She studied her reflection. It was true. She’d had a sudden flash, that was all. Seeing the coal shed, remembering that there hadn’t been a fire in the grate, that day or the month before, that the woman only shoplifted when the weather grew warmer. In a moment, everything seemed to fit together. ‘It doesn’t matter. We got her.’ She smiled. ‘Just like proper coppers.’
Want to know more about Modern Crimes? Click here.
Out on September 7. Remember, since a study shows that reading can lengthen your life, reading this book might help you live longer. It’s a thought.
And maybe you’ll love Lottie. I do.
Oh, last thing. The publisher has decided to make the ebook version nice and cheap. I prefer a hard copy, but grab it while you can. Lottie’s depending on you, So is your life.
Here’s the book trailer and the start of the novel, just to whet your appetite.
Leeds, 1924
As she walked into Millgarth Police Station, Charlotte Armstrong nodded to the desk sergeant then strode back along the corridor to the matron’s office. The day shift of bobbies had already gone on patrol and the building was quiet. She rested her hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath and straightened her back.
‘Good morning, ma’am. WPC Armstrong reporting.’
Mrs Maitland looked up, giving her a quick inspection. She was a pinch-faced woman in her late forties, dark hair going grey and pulled back into a tight bun. She’d never mentioned Mr Maitland, but in two years the woman had never revealed anything personal; the job seemed to be her life. She was here first thing in the morning and long into the evening, as if she had no better place to be.
‘There’s a hair on your jacket, Armstrong.’
Lottie looked down. One hair, dark blonde, hers. She plucked it away, annoyed at herself and at the matron.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ She stayed at attention.
Maitland returned to the letters on her desk. This was her way. Keeping someone waiting was the way to enforce discipline.
The door opened and Cathy Taylor marched in. She was late and she knew it. Lottie could see it in her eyes. But she just winked, stood to attention and said, ‘WPC Taylor reporting, ma’am.’
‘You were supposed to be here at eight, Taylor,’ Mrs Maitland said.
‘Sorry, ma’am, my watch must be running slow.’
The matron sniffed. There were only two women constables in Leeds and she had to keep them in order.
‘Well, since you’re finally here, I have a job for the pair of you.’ She scribbled an address on a piece of paper. ‘Go and see her. She runs a home for unmarried mothers. One of her girls has been acting strangely and causing a fuss.’ She stared at the pair of them. ‘What are you waiting for? Off you go.’
‘It’s in Woodhouse, we might as well walk,’ Cathy said as they set out up the Headrow. She folded the note and put it in her uniform pocket. Early September but it was already feeling like autumn, enough of a nip in the morning air for their breath to steam. ‘Bet you the girl’s just gone off to find some fun. It’s always old cows who run those places.’
‘At least it makes a change from talking to prossies or chasing lads playing truant.’ Lottie sighed. She loved the job, but she wished the force would let them do more, rather than treat them like delicate flowers with tender sensibilities.
Still, it was better than working in a mill or being a housewife. Like so many others, she’d developed a taste for freedom when she worked. Earning her own money, that was important. Stuff the vote. The government had only given it to women over thirty; she still had five years to go.
Lottie had been a clerk at the Barnbow munitions factory in Cross Gates during the war. 1916, she was just seventeen, fresh in the job with everything to learn, newly promoted from the factory. But she’d managed, even finding time to flirt with the procurement officers who came to check things.
Geoff had been one of them. Shy, diffident, still limping badly from a wound he’d suffered the year before at Gallipoli. He had a modest charm about him, like he had nothing to prove. In his uniform he looked quite dashing.
Lottie was the one who made the running. Someone had to and he wasn’t the type to put himself forward. On his third visit to the factory she’d suggested an outing to the pictures, watching him blush as she spoke. From there it had taken two years until they reached the altar. By then the fighting was over and he’d returned to his job in the Dunlop area office.
She tried to become a housewife, but life chafed around her. Other women were having babies but Geoff’s injuries meant she never would. Lottie needed something, but there was nothing that appealed, until the Leeds Police advertised for policewomen. They particularly wanted married women. And suddenly life excited her again.
‘You’ll be getting yourself shot if you keep coming in late,’ Lottie warned.
Cathy pouted. ‘It was only a couple of minutes. Anyway, Mrs Prissy wouldn’t know what to do if she didn’t have something to complain about.’ She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.
‘Late night?’
‘I went to the pictures with my friends, then they wanted to go on dancing so I couldn’t say no.’
Cathy was twenty-four, a year younger than Lottie, with a husband who was gone most of the year in the merchant marine. No children. Hardly a wonder she liked to be out a few nights a week, dancing and flirting and enjoying herself. Married but single, she called it with a small laugh.
Lottie had gone with her a couple of times after work, changing into civvies at the station then on to a see a film at the Majestic. It had been fun, but not something she’d want to do often. Cathy had wanted to carry on, to have a cocktail. God only knew where she found the energy. By the end of a shift all Lottie wanted was to be at home and off her feet. When the working week was over, she was exhausted. She was lucky to stay up until ten, never mind the wee hours.
But Cathy wanted to embrace life. She was pretty enough for a portrait, always getting looks from men. She wore her hair in a modern bob, and had a pair of shapely legs and that bony, modern figure that always made Lottie feel huge in comparison.
‘What are you going to do when your Jimmy comes home?’ Lottie had asked her. ‘You can’t go gadding about then.’
‘We’ll enjoy our time together. After a month he’ll ship out again. Don’t get me wrong: I love him and I’d never, you know… but I can’t sit at home every evening, can I? He wouldn’t want me to, anyway.’
They matched each other step for step along Woodhouse Lane and out past the university, going towards the Moor, with its library and police sub-station on the corner.
‘Down here,’ Cathy said, turning briskly along Raglan Road, followed by the first right and second left. She scratched at her calf through the skirt. ‘God, I wish they’d do something about this uniform. It’s not bad enough that it itches, it’s so heavy, too. Like wearing a battleship. This is it. Thirty-six.’
On a street of imposing terraced houses, this one loomed on the corner, detached, standing apart at the back of a long, neat garden and looking out over the Meanwood valley, with all the factories and chimneys spewing smoke into the air. Hardly an inspiring view, Lottie thought.
She knocked and waited. Some lovely stained glass in the window; she wouldn’t mind that at home. She was miles away when the knob turned and a small woman in an apron stared up at her.
‘I was wondering how long it would take the police to get here.’ There was no welcome in the voice. The woman raised an eyebrow and stood aside. ‘Well, are you coming in or do we do it all on the street?’
Lottie led the way, following an open door into a neat parlour. A Sunday room, still smelling of wax, the wood on the furniture gleaming.
‘Go on, sit yourselves down.’ The woman bustled around, flicking off some non-existent dust.
‘You run a home for unwed mothers here, Mrs…’ Lottie said.
‘Allen,’ she answered briskly. ‘Yes, I do. It’s a Christian thing to do, and I try to put on them on the right path.’ She sat very primly, back straight, her stare direct.
‘One of your girls has been causing problems, is that right?’ She took her notebook and pencil from her pocket.
‘She has. Then she went out and didn’t come back last night. No word this morning, either.’
That was bad; a missing girl. Lottie’s eyes flickered towards Cathy, and she felt a prickle of fear.
‘Could you tell us a little bit about her, Mrs Allen? Her name, what she looks like, where she’s from.’ Lottie smiled. She kept her voice calm and even. There was usually a simple explanation.
‘She’s called Jocelyn Hill. Seventeen, but she could easily pass for younger. You know the type, looks like butter wouldn’t melt, but she’s a sly little thing. Always out for a chance. A bit extra food, this and that.’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘Half of me wishes I’d never taken her in.’
‘What does she look like?’ Cathy asked. She liked facts, something solid.
‘Only about five feet tall, I suppose. Dark hair in one of those bobs they all seem to wear. Like yours,’ she added. ‘Thin as you like, no figure on her at all. Apart from the baby, of course.’
‘How far along is she?’ Lottie wondered.
‘Eight months,’ Mrs Allen replied, ‘so it’s not like she can hide it.’
‘Has she gone missing before?’
‘Of course not.’ She snorted. ‘They all know the rules when they arrive. No going out, only family to visit, in bed by ten. Break a rule once and they’re gone. I won’t stand for it otherwise. I give them a warm, clean place to have their children and I help find good homes for the little ones. I’m not about to let them take advantage of me.’
‘Have you had others disappear, Mrs Allen?’ Cathy asked quietly.
‘Only the one,’ the woman said after a while. ‘Three years ago. But she was a wild one, wouldn’t ever settle down here. Jocelyn liked to push things, but she was nothing like that.’
‘Where did she come from?’ Lottie had her pencil poised, ready to take down the address. Mrs Allen took a ledger from one of the empty bookshelves, found a pair of glasses in her pocket and began to search.
‘Here we are.’ She read out an address in Cross Green. Lottie glanced towards Cathy and saw a tiny shake of the head.
‘Thank you,’ she said, standing. ‘Is it possible to take a look in her room? Perhaps we could talk to some of the other girls who knew her?’
‘Nothing to see in the room,’ the woman told them. ‘I’ve already packed her case. If she shows up at the door she’s out on her ear. And she never really got along with the others. Kept herself to herself.’
‘Maybe a look in her case, then…’ Lottie suggested.
‘Two dresses and some underwear that’s as flimsy as nothing. Not hard to see how she ended up this way, is it?’
The door closed quickly behind them. As they walked back along the street Cathy looked over her shoulder.
‘She’s watching us from the front window.’ She shivered a little. ‘Blimey, I think I’d run off from that place, too. She’s…’
‘Strange?’ Lottie suggested.
‘Worse than that. Did you smell it in the hall?’
‘You mean the mothballs?’ She crinkled her nose. ‘She must have them everywhere.’
‘I could feel the joy being sucked out of me as soon as I walked through the door.’
They didn’t even need to talk about where they were going next. Over to Cross Green to see if Jocelyn Hill had gone home. A tram back into the city centre, then a walk through the market and up the hill towards St Hilda’s and Cross Green.
Wherever they went, people stopped to look at them. Policewomen were still a novelty in Leeds. By now Lottie was used to it. If she had sixpence for every time someone had asked if she was a real rozzer, she’d be a rich woman. She was every bit as real as the beat bobbies out there. Probably better at her job than half of them, too.
Even Lottie’s mother had been doubtful about her taking the job. It wasn’t becoming, she said. Not like marrying a grocer three months after being widowed and upping sticks to Northallerton. That was perfectly acceptable.
There was nothing inspiring about Cross Green. Not even much that was green. Street after street of tired people and back-to-back houses. Small groups of men hung around on the street corners and outside the pubs. Far more than there should have been, Lottie thought. But what were they supposed to do when there weren’t any jobs?
The men who fought had been promised a home fit for heroes. Fine words, but if they’d built any homes it hadn’t been in Leeds. There had been jobs when the women were sacked, but not much of that work had lasted. According to the newspapers it was the same all over the country.
There was nothing she could do about that. Lottie was just glad Geoff’s position was secure. And that she had work of her own.
‘You’re miles away,’ Cathy said.
‘Sorry.’
They passed another group of men and she was aware of them watching her backside as she walked. Someone said something in a low voice and there was a flurry of laughter.
‘Ten to one that was a mucky remark.’
‘More like two to one.’ Cathy smiled. ‘Look on the bright side. At least they noticed.’
Lottie wasn’t too certain. Just because that was part of life she didn’t have to like it.
‘Charlton Street,’ she said. ‘Down here.’
It was close to the railway embankment. Number nine stood towards the far end, exactly like its neighbours on either side. She assessed it quickly: dirty windows, mud on the doorstep. No pride in the place.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ Cathy said.
The woman who opened the door stared at them with folded arms and a glare on her face.
‘He can’t have done too much wrong if they’re sending the lasses out,’ she said with a sneer. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Jocelyn,’ Lottie said. ‘Is she here?’
‘Here?’ The woman’s expression moved from surprise to panic. ‘Why would she be here? Oh God, something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
‘Why don’t we talk inside?’ It was a gentle question, and Mrs Hill gave a short nod, leading them back to the scullery. A scarred wooden table, battered chairs. Stone sink and a blackleaded range. How many of these had she seen in the job?
‘Right.’ The woman had gathered herself. ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on. What’s happened to our Jocelyn?’
‘She left the home last night and hasn’t come back.’
‘Stupid little bitch.’ She spat out the words like venom. ‘I told her it were for her own good.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ Lottie suggested. ‘Then we can find her.’ She gave Cathy a look: make some tea. As she started to bustle around, Mrs Hill was looking down and biting her lip.
‘Why did you send Jocelyn over there?’ Lottie asked softly but the answer was obvious. Woodhouse was far enough away that no-one would recognise her.
‘She got herself in the family way. Why the bloody hell do you think?’ The woman sneered. ‘It weren’t for the fun of it. Didn’t want everyone round here talking about us like that.’
‘Have you talked to her since she went there?’ It had been a while; there must have been some contact.
‘Oh aye, I pick up the telephone every day and we have a natter.’ She snorted. ‘Course I haven’t. Don’t have time to write letters. She wouldn’t answer if I did, anyway.’
Lottie tightened her lips. ‘Mrs Hill, do you have any idea why she might have run off, or where she might have gone?’
‘Not really. But once our Jos gets an idea in her head there’s no shifting it.’ She shrugged. ‘Been that way since she was little.’
‘Do you have any idea at allwhere she might have gone?’
‘Not really.’ She reached into the pocket of her apron, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, just as Cathy put three mugs of tea on the table. The woman heaped in two spoonfuls of sugar and took a long drink. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll swing for her if she’s done owt daft.’
‘What about the baby’s father? Could she have gone to him?’
‘Possibly,’ Mrs Hill admitted. ‘She’d never say who it were, though, not even when her dad took a belt to her.’
‘No idea who it could be?’
‘One or two.’
And they could easily deny it, Lottie thought. Not much help at all.
‘What about her friends? Who are they?’
‘You’d do best talking to Elizabeth Townend and Eileen Donnelly, then. Thick as thieves, the three of them.’ She gave a dark glance. ‘I’ll warn you, though, they wouldn’t tell me owt.’
Last week was quite a week, one of those that stand out on the calendar in bright, brilliant red. The great highlight was a couple of days with my closest friend and his wife, in Leeds for a couple of days between France, Germany, London, Bath, Bolton, and Bantry Bay in Ireland. He was between the final of the Bath International Short Story Competition, which he didn’t win, and the literary festival in Bantry, where he has a story in a new anthology. Thomas M. Atkinson. Discover his work, you won’t regret it. He’s a far better writer than I’ll ever be.
He lives in the American Midwest. We talk regularly, but the last time we met was in 2000. I was on my way from Seattle to cover Lotus Fest in Bloomington, Indiana and I spent a night with him. It was an occasion to together the band which had been our introduction to each other.
This time we covered York and Whitby on a glorious weekend of weather. We’re older, more crotchety, but, as in every conversation, it was like picking up where we’d left off, only with visuals. The only bad part? Time was too short.
Then on the Wednesday, I received an email from my agent. The publisher wants to publish my fifth Tom Harper novel, On Copper Street. That makes a thrilling opening to the day. It’s a little different to its predecessors, a bit more meditative. To me it seems like a mix of the best of Tom and Richard Nottingham. But others will offer their judgement.
Later in the day, another email. The other publisher I work with wants to publish my third John the Carpenter novel, set in medieval Chesterfield and currently called The Holywell Dead. This on the basis of the first 4,000 words I’d sent them.
Yes, I sold two books in one day. Staggered myself. I’ll never repeat the feat and it doesn’t matter. I was thrilled. But you know what? It didn’t compare to seeing my closest friend again after all this time. Now we need to start making plans for 2032.
Oh, and I should remind you that the fourth Tom Harper Novel, The Iron Water, is published in the UK on Friday. Just to round everything off perfectly.
I discovered that I had a maternal great-uncle called Urban Bowling. Great name, isn’t it? Too good to leave, definitely. I never knew him, or anything about him. But with a little imagination…
I’ve been tossing around the idea of a book set in Leeds in the 1930s. Not a Downton ’30s, but one where people struggled, where the Depression scraped at hearts and lives. And that’s the basis of The Dead On Leave. This is the beginning. There’s more, but we’ll see if it pans out into a full book. I try many ideas, but only some of them reach completion…
Leeds, September 1936
He saw the signs on the shop windows as they strode past. All so familiar. Bisto. Mazawattee Tea. Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls. The names rattled through his mind as hobnails on his boots stuck up tiny sparks from the pavement, a fast rhythm on the flagstones.
He’d set off from City Square, right at the heart of Leeds, a few minutes before. He was dressed in an old suit, shiny at the elbows and seat, a cap on his head, shirt without a collar, and a glum expression on his face. He looked like hundreds of other men out searching for work. God knew there were still plenty of them in 1936. Things might be improving down south; up here the Depression still had its hands round the north’s throat.
But Urban Raven had a job, a very steady one. Detective sergeant with Leeds City Police, fourteen years on the force, working his way up the ranks. Now he was surveying the route Oswald Mosley and his Blackshirts would take for their march and rally on Holbeck Moor. Two more days until it happened. This coming Sunday. Already shopkeepers were starting to nail boards over windows and people were ready for the worst. It would happen. It would definitely happen. The pressure was building all over the city. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.
“It’s going to be a bloody disaster.”
“Sarge?’ The young man beside him jerked his head around. Detective Constable Daniel Noble. Clever, when he put his mind to it. All too often, though, the lad was a dreamer. Never mind, Raven thought; he’d grow out of that sharpish.
“Too many places to attack the bloody fascists.’ He gestured with an arm. ‘All they need to do is wait at the end of every street. It’s going to be a massacre. You might as well hang signs round their necks saying “Please attack me.”’
‘I thought you didn’t like them,’ Noble said.
‘Can’t stand them,’ Raven said sharply. He’d no time for anyone who liked Hitler and thought they had all the answers. Not that the Communists were any better. ‘But it’s the coppers who’ll have to clean up the mess.’
They were close enough to the moor to hear the carpenters building a stage. The sound of hammers, shouting, laughter. Paid work. No one would turn that down. Didn’t matter if you liked Mosley or loathed him.
‘Do you really think it’ll be that bad on Sunday, Sarge?’
He looked at the lad, still so naïve. He hadn’t been on the force during the General Strike, nine years before. There’d been plenty of violence back then, wading in with the truncheons and the boots to get the job done. And Noble had been too young for the Great War. Just as well, maybe; he wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone. With Hitler growing more powerful in Germany, the young man might have his chance of service in a few years.
‘Bad?’ He shook his head. ‘They’ve been out painting swastikas on the Jewish businesses along North Street. Then the Watch committee dithered about whether they’ll allow the march. Meanwhile we’ve got the Communists chalking notices on every street corner about where to meet and what weapons to bring.’ Raven was close to shouting; he stopped himself before heads started turning. ‘That’s worse than bad. I tell you what, Danny boy; you’d better get ready for a pitched battle.’
‘My missus says they won’t be that stupid.’
His missus was going to be surprised, then. By Sunday night they’d be mopping the blood off the cobbles. A pair of motor cars went by, a Morris and a Jowett, a lorry close behind them. All bloody speed these days, he thought. They crossed the road and stood at the bottom of Holbeck Moor. A broad, empty space of hard earth and scrubby grass. Nowhere to hide when things turned ugly. The force was going to need plenty of coppers along the route and many more here. A fair few in plain clothes among the crowd. And even then they didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of stopping the violence.
‘They’ll all be spoiling for a fight,’ Raven said with a sigh. ‘Come on, we might as well go back. Before you know it we’ll be seeing more of this than we want.’
It was a grey day, late September on the slow glide into autumn. But there were precious few trees in Holbeck to shed their leaves. Just street after street of back-to-back houses, brick dulled black from generations of smoke in the air. Here and there, small groups of unemployed men, the future leached from their faces, stood and talked on the corners. The only colour came from the posters; they filled every empty space. Advertising sales at the shops, shows at theatres, the latest and the best. Coming attractions at the City Varieties and the Empire. Everything and anything that was here today and old news tomorrow.
Back in town they walked along Duncan Street, face all around them, moving quickly, waiting in the tram shelters. The light bulbs in the Bovril sign across from the Corn Exchange constantly flickered on and off. Once it had been a distraction; these days, nobody noticed it.
A motorcycle roared past, the rider’s head hidden by goggles and a leather crash helmet. Sometimes Raven wished he could cover himself the same way; it might make life easier He noticed how men and women glanced away quickly as they passed. Raven didn’t pay them any mind these days; after the better part of two decades, he was used to it. The people who looked didn’t even see the worst of it.
Born with the century, he’d joined the Leeds Pals on his eighteenth birthday. Training, then a posting to the trenches of the Western Front at the start of October 1918. He’d scarcely been there for two weeks, not even fired a shot, when a Hun shell exploded in a fuel dump as he was walking by.
He was lucky to be alive; that was what they told him later. There were plenty of times he doubted that, when the pain felt like a punishment for something. Months of surgery and skin grafts. Days and weeks when he disappeared into the agony.
The burns covered half his body: his chest, his arm, neck, his left cheek. He knew the surgeons had performed a miracle. He knew it. But whenever he stared in the mirror all he saw the ugly, charmless reality and it was hard to feel grateful. To feel anything at all.
Urban Raven had a face people remembered. It was a face that scared people; maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing when you were a policeman.
Raven sat in the office at Millgarth police station with Inspector Mortimer and Superintendent Kennedy. The sergeant was pointing out the most dangerous spots on a large map of the city centre and Holbeck spread out on the desk.
‘If you want my opinion, sir, the best thing would be to cancel the march,’ he said. ‘We can’t keep anyone safe. There’s a good chance plenty of our own men will be injured.’ They’d wanted his assessment of the route. Now they looked grim as he gave his report.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Kennedy told him. ‘The Watch Committee’s said it can all go ahead. Be grateful they’re not allowing the Blackshirts near the Leylands.’ To let fascists in uniform parade through the city’s Jewish area? That would have been a recipe for disaster.
‘We’d better prepare for the worst, then,’ Raven said.
‘We already have,’ Inspector Mortimer replied. ‘We’ve drafted in special constables to cover the beats. Every other man on the force will be looking after the march.’
‘And the Chief Constable’s authorized three marksmen,’ the superintendent said. His voice was low, sober. ‘But not a word of that goes beyond this office.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Men with guns? In Leeds? That terrified him more than anything.
‘According to our intelligence, Mosely’s bringing his I squad with him. They’re the hard men and they love a scrap. Most of those who’ll be marching won’t be from around here. They’re estimating a thousand, all told.’
‘A thousand? Is that all?’ Raven asked in disbelief. ‘They’ll be eaten alive. I was talking to someone I know from the Communist party, sir. They reckon there’ll be twenty thousand or more out there.’
‘Then we’re going to have our hands full,’ Superintendent Kennedy said. He was in his late forties, an officer during the war, a major, used to command, battle and sacrifice. He had an easy style, the kind of manner people obeyed without thinking. ‘Go home, gentlemen. Be ready for Sunday.’
Just in case you think Annabelle Harper isn’t an important figure in The Iron Water…well, you’d be wrong. But her life has changed a little, as you’ll see. And a new character enters the series…
‘Let’s hope she doesn’t wake us during the night.’ She looked over at the crib next to the bed. Mary was sleeping soundly. Fourteen months old on Wednesday. Mary Grace Harper. Her smile, her hair, her eyes, her laugh… from him and Annabelle.
As soon as the pregnancy was common knowledge, the women around Sheepscar had frowned and clucked and tutted. She was too old to have a bairn. Something would be wrong. A list of the problems that could happen. If he’d believed it he’d have been terrified for her. But that was the way here, always some mutterings under all the care and the smiles. In the end everything had gone smoothly. The labour had been long, but the midwife had done her job and mother and daughter emerged hearty and hale. He could still scarcely believe it when he looked at Mary. She was his, a part of him, named for the girl who’d been his wife’s best friend as she grew up. Dead now but living on this way.
‘Shhh, don’t tempt fate,’ he whispered. Since she’d passed three months and the colic went, their daughter had been a good sleeper. Growing so fast, a hefty weight when he picked her up after arriving back from work. No real illness, touchwood; the worry always remained at the back of his mind.
Annabelle had insisted on feeding the baby herself. No wet nurse; she’d never even considered the idea. ‘Why wouldn’t I give her the breast?’ she asked as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘I have milk, that’s what it there for.’ And that was what she did until she weaned their daughter at nine months.
No nanny either, and no talk of one. They could afford it, but she wasn’t interested. When she went to one of the bakeries she owned, she pushed the child in a baby carriage, wrapped up against the weather.
‘I’ll not have people saying I’m getting above myself,’ she insisted. ‘There’s enough round here work all the hours God sends and still bring up families. If they can do it, so can I.’
He was proud of her. Of both of them. He loved his wife; even now he was still astonished that she’d agreed to marry him. But until Mary was born he hadn’t known how loudly his heart could sing.
Annabelle curled against him. She’d been out this evening at a meeting; the new Independent Labour Party. He couldn’t understand how she found the time for it all. Running the Victoria pub downstairs, keeping an eye on her three bakeries, a baby, and her politics. She’d turned down the chance to become part of the committee of the local Suffrage Society, but she was still very active locally, helping to organize and speaking at meetings. Sometimes she took Mary with her, enjoying the fuss everyone made of the child. This time, though, she’d gone alone and he’d had his little one to himself for two hours, the first time she’d trusted him.
‘The experience will be good for you,’ Annabelle had told him briskly before she left. ‘I showed you what to do, Tom. Just you remember, women have been doing it for thousands of years. I think a man can cope for a little while. Oh,’ she added, ‘after you change her, there’s some lard to use as cream on her bum.’ She gave him a big smile.
He managed, even bathing Mary before reading to her from The Water Babies, watching as her eyes gently closed.
Remember, you can get your order in for the book here – the cheapest price I’ve found and you’ll be supporting independent bookshops. It’s out July 29.
The new Tom Harper novel is coming. The Iron Water, out in the UK on July 29.
Have a taste of it. And if you’re a fan of Annabelle…there’s plenty of her, too. You can order a copy here.
Early July, barely dawn as he strode up Roundhay Road in his best suit, the soft grey wool, his present from Annabelle three Christmases before. Already men were starting to emerge from the streets of back-to-back houses, on their way to the early shift. By the time he reached Harehills the air began to smell cleaner, the houses larger and more prosperous. Out beyond that was wealth. Oakwood was nothing more than a hamlet, a few houses by the road and the terminus for the electric tram by the arched entrance to the park. A copper saluted him as he approached.
‘Anyone here yet?’ Harper asked.
‘They brought the ordnance a few minutes ago. Along the Wetherby Road and the Carriage Drive. And a fire engine right behind it. I daresay the toffs will show up in their own good time. No reporters allowed at this one, sir.’
He strolled along Park Avenue, relishing the quiet and the soft early light. Along the hillside, a few large houses stood back from the road, only the servants up and around at this hour.
There was plenty of activity by the lake, men manoeuvring a wagon into place with a welter of shouting and swearing. The brass of the fire engine glittered in the early sunlight, the horses that drew it enjoying their feed bags. And Harper spotted a familiar figure.
‘Hello, Billy.’
Inspector Billy Reed of the Fire Brigade, looking uncomfortable in his best blue uniform. Detective Sergeant Reed once, until he transferred over and earned his promotion.
‘Hello, Tom.’ They shook hands. ‘Here for the spectacle?’
He nodded.
‘Whatever it is. How about you? For show, or just in case there’s a problem?’
‘We’ve been involved from the start.’ He pointed along the length of the lake and explained, ‘They’ll tow the boat out soon. If everything goes to plan, at seven they’ll fire two of those rocket-powered torpedoes and they’ll destroy it.’
‘Sounds simple enough.’
Reed snorted. ‘As long as the damn things work. Half the time they fizzle out. Are you showing the flag for the police?’
‘Something like that. I’m not even sure why they need me.’
‘They just like us all on our toes.’ A small pause. ‘How’s crime? Are they keeping you busy?’
Harper shrugged. ‘It never stops. You know what it’s like.’ He should, they worked together for several years. ‘And then there’s always Mary.’
‘How is she?’ He smiled. Reed’s wife, Elizabeth, was the manageress for Annabelle’s bakeries; the two women were close.
‘Wonderful.’ It felt like a stilted, awkward conversation, like two friends who hadn’t met in years and realizing they had little in common any more. ‘I think I’ll take a walk and see this boat.’
By a quarter to seven the important folk had arrived in their carriages. Sir James Kitson, from the engineering company, top hat gleaming. Charles Parsons, an industry grandee, greeted with proper deference. The Lord Mayor and men in the bright braid of naval uniforms. Harper bowed as he was introduced, then kept his distance.
It all seemed like a waste of his time. The important people were making an early picnic of the event, wicker baskets full of food, popping bottles of champagne. Enough to remind him that he hadn’t eaten yet. And no one was offering him a bite. Of course.
Then the sharp whistle blew and the men were making their final adjustment to the metal torpedoes, checking the angle and the fuses. Finally, exactly on the order, the missiles were launched, vanishing into Waterloo Lake. All that remained was a thin wake through water the colour of iron, bubbles rising to the surface.
And then the explosion.
Three hundred yards and it was still loud enough to make his ears ring. Complete destruction. My God, Harper thought, is that what war at sea was going to be like in future? How would anyone survive? He glanced across at Billy; the man’s face was impassive. Reed had been a soldier, he’d fought with the West Yorkshires in Afghanistan.
‘What do you think of that?’
‘Impressive, I suppose.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Dreadful, too.’ He turned and walked away towards the fire engine.
Harper was lost in his thoughts for a few seconds. Then he heard shouting in the distance. Somewhere along the bank of the lake. Even with the hearing almost gone in his right ear he could make out one of the words: ‘Police.’
It’s been quite a moving week. Digging deeper into my family tree, I discovered that my great-great grandparents both rest in common graves at Beckett St. Cemetery in Leeds, bundled in there with quite a few others. The man from the Friends of the Cemetery – it’s no longer in use – show me the overgrown places.
But plenty more of my relatives lie there. Several members of the extended family sharing one plot. One of the pleasure of this week has been finding a couple of them, and cleaning off the weeds around one of them.
I’m trying to clean the stone on the other, but things I have don’t seem to work well, so I’m open to ideas if anyone has good suggestions.
And then the discovery that one relative is buried in a guinea grave. The idea is much as it sounds. You share the grave with a number of others, but for your guinea, your name is on the headstone. You’re remembered, and that’s important. For Edward Nickson, who died in 1900 aged three months, what else could there be from such a short life.
There was one more family grave, but it was shown as not having a headstone. When we reached the plot, though, there was a broken headstone, face down I the ground, looking as if it had been that way for many years.
Yesterday I returned with a spade and was able to turn the top part of the stone. For the first time in decades, the names of my relatives saw the light of day. That meant something to me.
I couldn’t shift the bottom part of the stone until I returned today with help. And we put the two of them together.
It’s an odd feeling to be in such close contact with family members who’ve died. Especially as I’ve never been a big one for family. But this exploration of the past becomes more important with the great sense of mortality. I feel them saying to me ‘As we are now, so shall you be.’ But we all will, in time.
The Empress on the Corner appeared in public. In part, anyway. As part of Leeds Big Bookend festival, Carolyn Eden became Annabelle Harper. She’d done it briefly, at the launch for Skin Like Silver. But this was longer, more intense, as she recounted some of the scenes from Annabelle’s life.
It wasn’t the entire play, and there were different formats – a couple of scenes performed live, script-in-hand, two recorded on audio, like a radio play, and one on video, filmed in the Victorian pub at Abbey House Museum in Leeds.
A sharing, to explore the possibilities for the future.
Pretty much a full house, about 50 people, more than I could have hoped, really. And we’d had a good build-up. Friday brought this piece in the Yorkshire Post.
Then, Saturday morning, we were on BBC Radio Leeds with Nick Ahad. Listen here; it starts about 40 minutes in – plus you’ll hear a fragment of one of the audio scenes.
The play tells the story of Annabelle’s life, as you’ll have gathered. The compressed version from yesterday is very much a work in progress. The festival believed in the idea enough to put it on, and Leeds Libraries believes in it enough to give us a grant, for which we’re very grateful (not a royal we; this has become very much a joint enterprise between myself and Carolyn, who’s also teaching me a lot about theatre. It’s very different from the publishing end of things). And there are plenty of others to thank, too, who’ve helped us – more than I can name here. But I hope you know who you are and that we’re grateful.
From the feedback forms, people enjoyed it. And that, of course, was the whole intention. But with a performance as good as this, that’s understandable.
One of the highlights for many was the performance of the suffragist speech from Skin Like Silver. While we didn’t film the Bookend performance, this was Carolyn’s first outing as Annabelle from the book launch, just as a reminder.
We intend to do more with the play. Quite what directions remain to be seen. But for an author, it’s so wonderful to see someone come to such perfect life. I don’t feel I created Annabelle. She found me. Maybe she found Carolyn, but that would be a silly idea, wouldn’t it? But I feel lucky to have found someone who is Annabelle.
Chris Nickson 