100 Years Ago Today – A Family Tale Of sorts

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100 years ago today my father was born.
The enormity of that statement hit me this week as I thought about the date. We think of centenaries as abstract things – this year World War 1 began, for instance – but when it becomes person, it takes on much greater resonance.
100 years ago today my father was born.
Not ‘this would have been my father’s birthday.’ He died at the start of 2001. By now his ashes are scattered hither and yon around the globe and his soul is wherever souls go. All that is history.
His life is history, but it’s also part of me. He was born in Leeds, just five months after his parents married. Not uncommon, and hardly a shame among the working classes in those days. His mother was the daughter of a pub landlord in Hunslet (the Royal Arms on South Accommodation Road), while his father, a boot repairer, lived a few minutes’ walk away in Cross Green.
My father grew up in Hunslet. Went to Cockburn, left at 14 as most people did. He loved music, he loved writing. By the beginning of World War II he was an engineer at A.V. Roe (or so I recollect from what he said). He joined up – the RAF – and end up in India and Burma, seconded as liaison between British and American troops.
But facts hardly tell anyone’s story. He was a very talented pianist who led jazz bands around Leeds in the 1930s. After the war a BBC dance orchestra offered him a job. He turned it down because he didn’t believe he was good enough.

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He was a writer, with a story about Tibet published in the Yorkshire Evening Post sometime in the 1940s (I saw the clipping once, but God knows where it went). He wrote TV plays, two of which were aired in the late 1960s. There was talk of a scriptwriting job for Coronation Street, I believe, but he backed away from it.
From the little he told, his upbringing hadn’t always been easy. My grandfather wasn’t the most reliable person. For weeks on ends he wouldn’t give his sons any pocket money. Then, when he was flush, it would be a whole half-crown, a huge amount then. Around 1920-21 he won a mill in Ireland in a card game and moved his family to Dublin – right at the height of the Troubles. That didn’t last long. My father’s great solace was escaping to the Victoria in Sheepscar, which his mother’s parents now ran, and where he could sit up in the living quarters and play the piano for as long as he liked.
He was never one for stories about his life. He’d dangle threads, but never weave them into cloth. Once he said he’d done volunteer undercover work for Leeds Police in the 1950s. It seemed unlikely, but after he died, I asked my mother: it was true. She made him quit when I was born.
My father inherited some of his father’s impulses. When I was one, he spent £55, a fortune in 1955, on a Tudor watch without consulting my mother. Another time he traded in his Ford Popular for a Wolseley car, a beautiful thing with a walnut dashboard and leather seats. When I was seven he took me to Banks’ Music Shop in County Arcade to buy a mouth organ. We got that, but also a baby grand piano that sat in the front room for a few years.
For most of my teenage years we were at loggerheads. Many reasons, and much of the fault was mine, even if I didn’t see it then. My mother had to be peacekeeper, no easy task. But with a young man continually testing boundaries and an older man hesitant to give up control, it was sometimes a fragile truce.
It eased, thankfully. The last time I saw him in the flesh was two weeks before his final stroke. I was living overseas and came for a visit. He was argumentative as ever, a little deafer each year, scared of leaving the flat (which is another tale).
But that wasn’t the final time I saw him. Early 2001 I was in Seattle, where I lived. It was perhaps 8.45 in the morning. I came out of the bathroom and into my office in the basement. For a split second I saw him in the chair by my desk, wearing his cavalry twills, a jumper and shirt with a cravat. Then the vision was gone. He died later that day. My mother had visited him in the afternoon, though, and he surfaced from unconsciousness briefly to ask her ‘Where’s Chris?’ ‘He’s in Seattle, of course,’ she told him. As best as we can make out, that was right around the time I saw him for a moment.
Make of that what you will. If someone told me the story, I wouldn’t believe it. Well, now I would…
And so it was 100 years ago today that Raymond Ewart Nickson came into the world.

The Tea Merchant’s Daughter

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I don’t write ghost stories. Never have, never intended to. Then this one came to me, quite a while ago now. It floated down out of the blue, as tales do, and said ‘Write me.’ Well, it’s impossible to say no that. As we’re almost a Halloween, it seems like a good time to blow the dust off it…

She was the daughter of a tea merchant, a man whose soul totted up life into columns of pounds and pennies. He lived in a world made from profit and loss, where China clippers slipped through the seas to arrive and clerks brought him figures and fortunes and messages from captains.
All her life she’d known the smell of that world – the polished wood, cigars and old leather of the offices, the faint tang of salt water and, above all, the scent of the dried tea leaves that hung on his clothes, buried deep in the wool, when he came home in the evenings.
She’d hold her breath as she kissed his cheek, then move quickly away, still feeling the bristles of his beard on her lips.
“Kitty,” he’d call softly, and a few feet from him she’d exhale silently, turn with a smile and say,
“Yes, Papa?”
He was a good man and she loved him deeply. He treated his family with kindness. But the smell of the tea that shrouded him, the smell that was his wealth, was slowly killing her.
He refused to believe it. To him it was nothing more than hysterical nonsense, and impossibility.
“No one ever died from the smell of tea, Kitty,” he tried telling her gently. When she kept her slow insistence he left the room rather than argue with her then made her an appointment with a physician who tried to tell her the same. Her mother shook her head at the girl’s fancy and her younger sisters giggled at anything so unlikely.
But she knew. She knew.
It had begun when she was eleven and the governess has taken the girls to the warehouse.
“It’s only right that you see what your father does,” she told them in the cold voice that Kitty knew was no more than resentment and envy. “It pays for your dresses and the dolls you play with.”
“It pays your wages, too,” Kitty said. She’d hoped the remark would cut the woman but she’d merely nodded and replied,
“It does.”
The carriage had taken them down to the vast brick sprawl of the docks, building upon building pushed and cramped against the river, fighting each other for space. And around them, all the houses, street up street of them, looking like the ruins of a civilisation that had once been great and glorious and now left to rot.
At the warehouse the factor greeted them, escorting them first through the warren of offices where clerks bowed their heads over desks and ledgers and worked ink-stained fingers. Without any reason, Kitty could feel the sense of unease growing, her chest tightening with each breath in the rooms. It was something beyond her understanding, the way her heart fluttered and shook and her skin flushed hot in the place.
Then, finally, they were led through the door into the warehouse itself, a majestic room as big and tall as any cathedral, the light coming through high windows. Tea dust floated in the air, collecting on her face and hands as she entered and the smell overwhelmed her senses. After just three paces she knew she couldn’t move any further. It left her drunk and spinning, unable to think.
She came to outside, sitting in the carriage, the faces pressed around her – the governess hovering too close, her sisters, the factor standing back a few paces and wringing his hands with worry.
Kitty looked at them, blinking three times to bring them into focus.
“You’re all right!” the governess said triumphantly. “We were all so worried about you, my dear. You fainted in the warehouse.”
She remembered then: the way it all seemed to choke her, how she’d believed her throat would close, the fear and panic that filled her body and her mind until everything went dark.
They left then, her sisters a welter of chatter, the governess asking every five minutes how she felt. But how did she feel? As if there was less of her, as if she’d lost something in there. What it was, she didn’t know, no more than a feeling.
At home she studied herself in the mirror. Her cheeks seemed a little more pale, the blue of her eyes a little less bright. Running her hands down her arms her flesh seemed somehow thinner, as if a layer had vanished, as if she could poke through to the muscle and bone that lay underneath.
Her sisters returned to the warehouse every year, a treat for them, but Kitty would stay at home. At first her father tried to insist, then to cajole her into joining them, but once her saw the terror in her eyes he stopped his insistence.
She stopped drinking tea. She began to shrink away from her father when he returned in his work suits, suddenly sensitive to the smell of him after a day in his office. But it was impossible to escape completely, and after each hug, each bearded kiss on her cheek or forehead, she felt one more small part of her vanish from the world.
As she grew a little older she began to consider why this was happening. She read about illnesses and found nothing that resembled hers until she began to wonder if everyone was right and it was all in her head and she really was an hysterical girl. Then, one day with nothing to fill the hours, she glanced at the table in the hall. Her father had thrown a few of his business letters there when he’d returned the night before and forgotten to take them that morning. Her eyes strayed across the writing and she saw the demands he placed on the tea planters in those countries so far away. He reminded them of the contracts they’d signed, of the risks he took in transportation, and if their costs had risen so much, then perhaps they should pay the labourers less.
From there, over the days and weeks and months, when the house was quiet she’d carefully put on the leathers gloves that fitted so smooth and snug over her hands, tie and kerchief around her nose and mouth until she looked like a common bandit, and sneak into her father’s study. It was dangerous – the place smelt of him, the scent of tea a note that hung high in the air over everything – but she’d spend as long as she dare reading his correspondence. Her ears stayed alert from the smallest sound and she was all too aware of what this was doing to her. She could feel the way her heart pounded dully under her ribs, the energy it all took, but she had to know more.
She read it all, every last word and reply. She knew how he’d dealt with the attempt to form a union among the men at the warehouse, how he’d crushed it with dismissals and threats. She knew the money he’d spent in bribes of officials overseas for preferential treatment, the way he’d ridden roughshod over everything to find greater profits.
By the time she was done, she understood. But after that her gowns hung more loosely on her body than they had before, although she was still growing and ate as heartily as she ever had. Her spirit had sunk deeper. She understood.
Kitty knew that her mother and father worried about her. She sometimes heard them talking in hushed, serious tones behind carefully closed doors, and noticed the looks they gave her. But even if she’d tried, even if she’d had the words to make it all clear to them, they’d never have accepted it.
Tea was a plant. It was a commodity, a means to the money that built and furnished this house, that paid for the dressmaker, the tailor and the grocer. It could never be more than that.
But she knew.
They took her from doctor to doctor, tried this remedy and that, some pleasant, some less so. None of them worked. If they’d ever been willing to listen, she could have told them.

“Kitty,” he mother said, “we’re going out for the morning tomorrow.”
“Where, Mama?” she asked. “All of us?”
“Into town,” her mother answered. “I’ve ordered the coach for nine, so you’ll need to be ready. And yes, all of us. Except your father, of course. He’ll be at work.”
Excited, she was waiting by the door as the coachman brought the carriage round the next morning. It was a week before Christmas, a bare coating of snow and frost on the ground, the three standing tall in the hallways, decorated with baubles and candles.
Kitty sat between her sisters, listening contentedly to the quick babble of their gossip, the frivolities comforting somehow, like a bolster to hug in a cold bed. The horses clopped along merrily, the countryside changing to suburban terraces then the shops and arcades that bloomed with shoppers glancing into windows and businessmen who strode purposefully as if they were following a higher calling.
Any moment she expected the coach to stop but it didn’t. Her sisters prattled on, not even seeming to notice, but Kitty looked at her mother, the older woman giving a calm, superior smile.
“Where are we going, Mama?”
“To visit your father, dear.”
“What? At the warehouse?” she could feel the panic rising, her throat starting to tighten around her words.
“Where else would he be at this time, Kitty? It’s time you overcame these silly feeling of yours, you know. You’re almost a grown woman now. It’s not seemly.”
“But…” she began but could go no further. Nothing she could do now would make any difference. Weary, heartsick, she saw the landscape change, sliding from money to the poverty of the small back-to-backs where even the sky looked tired. Finally they pulled up at the warehouse.
I could just sit here, she thought. I could refuse to move. But then her mother was tugging at her wrist, saying,
“Get down now, Kitty. I’m not going to take no for an answer any more. Whatever these ridiculous ideas are that you have in your head, you need to get over them.”
But they’re not in my head, Mama, she thought. They’re real.
Then she was standing on the gravel, being ushered along with her mother’s hand at her elbow, half-pushing, half-dragging, the woman’s face set and stern as her sisters trailed behind.
The factor met them at the door of the building, a harried man of middle age with wisps of hair at the sides of his head, sad, bulldog eyes, bowing to the ladies as he led them towards the warehouse door.
It looked so innocuous, Kitty thought. Nothing more than bricks, mortar and wood. But already she felt as if hands were tightening around her throat, the tongue swelling in her mouth, her palms clammy inside the gloves and her skin itching.
First they passed through the offices, the way they had when she’d come here as a girl. Even the smells were exactly as she remembered them, just as if they’d waited for her return. And then they came to the door into the warehouse.
The women stood back as the factor turned the handle and opened it. Kitty could see her father there, off in the distance, talking to a workman in his buff coat, the sacks of tea leaves everywhere piled high.
“Well,” her mother said, “go on, girl.” Four words that brooked no objection.
She breathed in, her chest so tight it hurt and began to walk towards the door, glancing once over her shoulder at her mother and her sisters. They looked so earnest, so hopeful, so alive. Kitty walked through the entrance, her head held high, and gently closed the door behind her.

Two minutes later her father came out, glancing around in confusion.
“Where’s Kitty?” he asked his wife. “I thought you were going to send her in.”
“I did,” his wife objected, looking at him in disbelief. She turned to her daughters. “We watched her go through the door, didn’t we, girls?”
He pointed at the warehouse behind them and shook his head.
“That door?”
The woman nodded firmly
“But she can’t have,” her told her, exasperation edging into voice. “I was standing right there. I was watching the whole time. The only person who came in there was the factor. Then there was a draught and the door closed behind him.” He sighed and took off his glasses. “Where is she? What’s happened to her? You can’t tell me she simply vanished into thin air.”

Friday Leeds Fun

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It’s Friday, the week’s over, and you want something light and fun for the weekend, right. How about the beginning of a book I’ve just finished writing? Well, why not…set in Leeds in the 1930s, think of it as Golden Age meets Elmore Leonard. Or something.

CHAPTER ONE

He parked the Austin Seven Swallow outside the Eagle on North Street. There’d been hardly any traffic on the drive up from London, just a few lorries, the cars bucketing along as fast as they could, the drivers’ faces fierce with concentration.
He buttoned his suit jacket and put on the hat, checking the brim in the wing mirror to see it was just so. A late May evening, some warmth still left in the air, and that feeling of dusk, with daylight starting to seep away and casting long shadows. 1934. The world might be poor, but there was still some beauty in it.
Only a few customers sat in the pub. An old husband and wife, holding hands and chattering away easily, halves of stout on the table in front of them, a dotting of ancient fellows, leftovers from Victorian times, gathered to play dominoes, a young couple out to do their courting, and a group of four middle-aged men, eyes like flints, standing in earnest discussion.
The landlord was cleaning the polished wood shelves, his back turned.
He saw her at the end of the bar, a glass of gin and tonic in front of her, a cigarette between her fingers. She was wearing a nubby tweed skirt and an ochre sweater, the sleeves rolled up on her red cardigan. There was a wedding ring on her finger, but she was on her own.
She’d glanced up when he walked in, then turned away again.
‘Can I buy you another?’ he asked as he stood beside her. She looked at him, eyes carefully appraising. Her hair was neatly set in waves, her lipstick bold red. In her early thirties and definitely pretty.
‘My mother always said I shouldn’t take drinks from strange men.’
‘We’re safe them. I’m not strange.’
She tightened her mouth as she arched her brows.
‘Who told you that? Your wife?’
He grinned. One of his front teeth was slightly chipped. Someone had told him once that it made him look irresistible. Dashing. Wolfish. A little like Ronald Colman.
‘Someone much more reliable.’ He cocked his head. ‘I have to ask, are those eyes of yours eyes blue or grey?’
She was staring at him now, and smiling.
‘Take a guess. If you’re right, you can take me home.’
‘Violet?’
She waited a moment, then started to gather her handbag off the bar.
‘Eyes and name,’ she told him, then asked, ‘Where should we go? Your house or mine?’
‘Oh, yours, I think,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘My wife’s a terrible housekeeper.’
Her elbow dug sharply into his ribs.
‘You’d best be careful, Johnny Williams, or you’ll be sleeping on the settee tonight. What kept you? I thought you’d be home this afternoon.’

CHAPTER TWO

He reported to the police station in his best double-breasted suit, navy blue with a pale pinstripe, his black brogues shining, the hat brim tipped just enough to put his eyes in shadow.
After a fortnight working with the Met in London it felt good to be home again. The capital had its charms, but Johnny Williams knew Leeds. He understood how the city worked with even having to consider it.
He wasn’t even sure why they’d wanted him down there. All he’d done was read the case file, go and talk to four people, then sit back and wait, time enough to tie up a couple of loose ends. Eight days later, they’d started making arrests and he was on his way back up the Great North Road.
Williams slapped the desk. There were files waiting for him. One thing about being a copper, he’d never be short of a job. Count your blessings, he thought, as he took a folder from the pile.
But he hadn’t even finished the first page before Superintendent Randall called his name. Detective Sergeant Williams straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket and walked through to the office.
‘Everything fine down South?’ Randall asked as he sat.
‘Went well, sir.’ He shrugged. They’d made the arrests easily.
‘Head not turned by the glamour?’
‘Well, the King invited me over, but I told him I needed to be back here by teatime…’ Williams grinned.
Randall picked up a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. ‘Something to get your teeth into.’
He read it through quickly. While he was been gone there’d been two bank jobs, one in Horsforth, the other in Morley. Three men, one of them armed with a sawed-off shotgun. Quick, efficient, no violence, just threats and menace. In both cases, the getaway vehicles had been stolen and recovered about a mile away. There were descriptions, for whatever they were worth; none of the witnesses could agree on much. Violet had told him all about it last night. Lying on the bed after his welcome home, smoking cigarettes with the windows open, she’d brought him up to date on the happenings in Leeds. Working as a reporter on the Yorkshire Evening Post, she heard them all.
‘No clues?’ he asked, his arm around her bare shoulders. The slip and brassiere were long gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, and sweat was drying on her skin.
‘If they have, they’re not saying. The rumour is that they’ve nabbed over a thousand pounds.’
That was impressive. Carry on with that and they’d have a good little earner. He moved his hand a little. He needed to feel more welcome.

‘Nasty,’ Williams said.
‘They’ve taken over twelve hundred so far. But keep that to yourself.’ Randall pulled a packet of Black Cats from his pocket and lit one.
‘What’s CID turned up?’
‘Not enough. None of the narks seem to know anything.’
‘I was hoping for a few days’ leave,’ Johnny said.
‘You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.’
But he would. He’d seen the sun shining through the curtains that morning, smelt spring warmth in the air and thought about Sandsend. He and Violet, a few days away, a decent hotel, Whitby just a stroll away along the beach at low tide. Some walking, some fishing, plenty of fresh air.
‘Well…’ he began, but Randall shook his head.
‘I want you on this. If they get away with it, other people are going to get the same idea. Times are bad, Johnny, you know that. We don’t need folk thinking they can be Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde. Not round here.’
Williams picked up the report as he stood. Before he could even take a pace the door flew open and the desk sergeant, old red-faced Murphy, announced,
‘There’s been another one, sir. The Midland Bank on City Square.’
Randall raised an eyebrow.
‘Looks like you know where to start, Johnny.’

A Taste of Dan Markham

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You’ve been discovering Tom Harper and Leeds in 1890 – at least I hope you’re reading Gods of Gold. I’m incredibly proud of it, and I adore Annabelle (if you don’t know who she is, read the book).

But in January I moved ahead to 1954 and Dan Markham, a young enquiry agent in Leeds. Here’s a taster.

The Adelphi probably hadn’t changed since the turn of the century. An old gas lamp still hung over the front door. Inside, the pub was dark wood, dull brass and bevelled etched glass, all neglected and in need of a thorough cleaning. At the bar he ordered an orange squash.
A table and two chairs sat in the middle of the snug. This room was different; freshly scrubbed, the hearth black-leaded, tiles gleaming and windows shining.
‘Have a seat, Mr Markham,’ the man by the window said. The voice on the telephone. He checked his wristwatch. ‘You’re right on time.’ He smiled. ‘Punctuality is a good sign.’
‘Of what?’
‘An organised man.’ He was probably in his late forties but well-kept, broadly built, neat dark hair shot through with grey. His nose had been broken in the past and there were small scars across his knuckles. But he didn’t have the look of a bruiser. His eyes shone with intelligence. The dark suit was costly, a subdued pinstripe, cut smartly enough to hide the start of a belly. The tie was real silk. He sat and gestured at the chair opposite. ‘We have things to talk about.’
‘One thing, at least.’
‘In my experience one thing always leads to another. It’s the way of the world.’ And he had the air of someone who’d spent a fair bit of time in the heart of the world.
‘I like to know who I’m talking to.’
‘I’m David Carter.’ He brought out a pack of Dunhills and a slim gold lighter. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’ he asked as he blew smoke towards the ceiling.
‘No.’
‘Good.’ He sipped from a glass of whisky, savouring the taste before swallowing it. ‘Never wise to be too public. If people see a name cropping up a few times they tend to become inquisitive.’
‘So what do you want with me?’
The man cocked his head. ‘Your co-operation.’
‘You should have just asked, Mr Carter.’ The words were calm enough, but he was shaking inside. Whoever this man was, he knew exactly what he was doing. ‘You obviously know where my office is.’
Carter reached into the side pocket of his suit and threw a packet of Lucky Strikes onto the table.
‘I’m told you liked those during your National Service in Hamburg. That American colleague of yours used buy them for you from the PX. Have them. My compliments.’
All he could do was sit and stare. Oscar, the American Pfc he’d worked with in Germany, had been able to buy the cigarettes on base for next to nothing. That and the jazz records. Carter possessed a long reach. All the way to the War Office. And far beyond. It was a powerful little gesture. Impressive. And chilling.
‘What do you want in Leeds?’
‘Oh, I’ve been buying some businesses here in the last few months. You won’t have heard.’ He gave a quick, tight smile. ‘And those who work for me are good at staying out of sight. Except for one of the chaps following you today. But you didn’t notice the other, did you?’ He stared at the burning tip of his cigarette for a moment. ‘Tell me, Mr Markham, what do you know about crime in Leeds? This is your home, after all.’
‘I don’t really deal with criminals,’ he answered slowly. ‘If you think I do, you’ve got the wrong man.’
‘Indulge me. What do you know?’
He shrugged. ‘There are tarts. Shebeens. I imagine there’s illegal gambling and some protection rackets. I don’t really know.’
‘Penny ante stuff,’ Carter said dismissively. ‘And if someone’s caught they end up in prison.’ He paused. ‘In some cases, on the gallows.’
Markham unwrapped the cellophane from the Lucky Strikes, broke open the packet and lit one. The taste brought quick memories of Germany.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘I’m more interested in guineas than change. Let’s say a man signs over half a profitable business to someone. A little while later he sells the rest of it to his new partner at a knockdown price. All above board and completely legitimate. Do that with a number of places and there’s good money to be made.’

Waterloo Lake – 1815

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It’s a wet Wednesday in Leeds, and that makes it a good time for a story. If you know Leeds, if you’ve even just visited, there’s a good chance you know Roundhay Park. And so you’d know Waterloo Lake, often just called the Big Lake. Things might not have happened quite this way, but according to the stories passed down it might have been very similar…

The foreman looked at him doubtfully.
“I don’t know, lad. This is a job that needs muscle. You’ve not got much of that.”
Joe breathed deeply. How many times had he gone through this in the last six months?
“I’ve been all over England looking for work, sir. I can do my share and more. If I don’t, just turn me out. But there’s not much food on the road.”
Not much in his belly, either, he thought. Berries that he’d found that morning on his way here, and the charity of his sister’s bench for sleeping and a loaf of bread in Leeds yesterday.
“You were in the army, you said?” The foreman had a grizzled face and wide, scarred knuckles. His breeches were thick and patched, old boots scuffed to nothing.
“Yes, sir. The Fourteenth. Started in the first battalion and then in the second as a corporal.”
“The peninsula?”
“Yes, sir. Spain and we followed Wellington up into France. And served in the Lowlands, too, when we were there.” Joe turned his head and spat at the memory. Half his platoon had died of Walcheren fever and they’d never fired a shot.
The foreman chewed at a fingernail as he thought.
“From Leeds?” he asked.
“Long time ago,” Joe admitted. After twelve years away fighting it didn’t feel like home. But nowhere did. He’d only drifted back because he’d run out of other places to go. And then he’d found that his mam and the bastard she’d married were both dead, his brothers scattered who knew where. Only Emily left, and that husband of hers had been grudging enough about a night’s lodging. At least he’d told them about the work here. A landowner making a lake he’d said, and employing men who’d been in the army. Happen they’d take you on, he said.
“I’ll give you a chance,” the foreman decided finally. “Tuppence a day and two quarts of beer. But if you don’t pull your weight, you’ll be gone. He pointed to a hut in the distance. “Report over there.”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Is it right that this is going to be a lake.”
“Aye. Mr. Nicholson thinks it’ll look better like that. More harmonious, he said.” He scratched his head and looked at the long deep scar in the ground that stretched for a good half mile. “Can’t say as he’s wrong, neither. Better than a bloody quarry, any road.” The creases on the foreman’s face turned into a smile. “Going to name it Waterloo lake, celebrate the victory. Were you there, lad?”
Joe shook his head. The army had paid him off after they’d caught Boney for the first time. Cast him adrift in England without even a thank you for the thousands of miles he’d marched, all the powder and shot he’d fired or the friends left on battlefields. There’d been hundreds like him, thousands maybe. They could spot each other with ease, skin darkened by years of foreign sun and the eyes of men who’d thought they were needed only to discover that they weren’t once the cannon stopped roaring.
He’d been better off than some; he still had all his limbs and his wits. He could work. He would have, too, if there’d been any jobs. He’d worked where he could, begged when he had to. He’d been moved on from parishes by beadles, sentenced to seven days in jail as a vagrant down South when all he wanted was to earn his keep. Tuppence was a fair wage. It was only September. The days were still hot, the nights warm and dry enough to sleep outside. He’d be able to find somewhere around here. God knew, there was enough space.
He marched across to the hut, aware that people would be watching him, judging him. The door was open, a man studying a drawing weighted down on a table. A gentleman, from the cut of his clothes. Joe stood at attention for a minute, waiting for him to turn, then gave a small cough. The man looked up quickly, blinking against the sunlight.
“You must be a new man.”
“Yes, sir. Joseph Colton, sir.”
“Old John decided you were worth a try, did he?” The man had a calm smile and an easy manner.
“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.” He’d say whatever the man wanted. Tuppence a day would see him right for a while.
“Do you have any engineering training, Mr. Colton?”
“No, sir. Just building ramparts in Spain, that’s all.”
“Good.” The man’s smile widened. “That’s more or less what we’re doing here. We’re making a dam to create a lake.” He came out, ducking his head under the low lintel. “You see over there, that low side? We’re digging out from the bottom to dam it all there. There’s another lake. We’re going to bring in water from there and it’ll look perfect.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe gazed around. There had to be fifty or sixty men in the quarry, some digging, others moving earth in carts, by hand or goading donkeys along. “Is that what I’ll be doing, sir?”
“It is, Mr. Colton. We need the dam finished before winter comes.” The man raised his eyes. “Mind you, that might be a while yet if God keeps smiling on us like this. You were a soldier?”
“In the Fourteenth.”
“Ah, good!” The man beamed, the sun catching his fair hair so it almost seemed white. “The West Yorkshires as was. Right. There’s a path cut just over there. Mattocks and spades are at the bottom. And the ale barrel, of course,” he added quickly. “Start at six, dinner at eleven, finish at six.” He drew a watch on a fine gold chain from the pocket of his waistcoat and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It’s just gone eight. You work hard and I think we can stretch to paying you for a full day.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Calling it a path was generous, Joe decided. In places some of the dirt had crumbled away so that the track was less than a foot wide, and a sheer drop down the quarry for anyone who fell. He walked carefully, testing each pace forward, until he reached the bottom.

By six the worst of the heat had faded from the day. He sat in the welcome shade of a tree, sipping from a mug of ale. Simply walking back up from the quarry had seemed like an impossible effort. He’d spent the day shovelling earth onto an endless procession of carts. By dinner he felt as if there was a fire in his back and his shoulders. He’d forced himself to continue through the afternoon, the sun on him. Blisters grew and burst on his hands, then more came until he could barely take hold of anything.
When work was done he’d waited for the foreman to return and pocketed his wages.
“You can come back tomorrow,” he man told him. “You’re hired on.”
He still had half the loaf his sister had given him and a blanket in his pack. All he needed was somewhere by a stream and he’d be fine for the night. A group of workers passed, raising their arms a weary salute.
“Where are you staying?” one of them called and Joe only shrugged. He wanted a little longer here first, settled under the coolness of an oak.
“We’ve got a camp,” another said. “You might as well come and join us.”
Slowly, Joe pushed himself upright. It was like Spain, when every rest only made going on more difficult. You continued because you had to, because not moving meant a whipping or death from the robbers who roamed the country.
He caught up with them close to the top of the lake, where woods came down to the water.
“We’re over there. Plenty of room.” The man gave a hoarse laugh. “Did you I hear you say earlier that you were from Leeds?”
“Aye,” Joe agreed. “Once.”
“Changed much?”
“I suppose so.” More people, the chimneys of the manufactories with their smoke, the streets full and feeling dangerous. Or perhaps he’d been the one to change.
“Welcome home, anyway,” the man said.

October 1914

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This is the second part of Jimmy Morgan’s story, to be updated month by month, until 1918, if Jimmy survives that long.

While you’re here, I’d be very grateful if you’d glance through the site and take a look at my books, too. After all, writing is what I do (that was the ad segment).

It had been a piss poor month. The only good thing was that so many had joined up at the factory that he’d been promoted to fitter. Another shilling a week in the pay packet. But that went to his mam, anyway. And not as good as a uniform and a rifle. He’d had letters from his mates, already off training, saying how good the grub was. Everything found.
Another month and he’d be eighteen. Jimmy Morgan, private. It had a ring to it.
‘Don’t be so bloody daft,’ his father had said. ‘They can’t send you overseas until you’re nineteen, anyway. Don’t you know owt?’
‘Where does it say that?’
‘It’s the law,’ Terry Morgan told him as he put on his cap and left for his evening drink.
‘Don’t you go doing it, Jimmy,’ his mother said as she sat down on the other side of the table. ‘It’ll break your da’s heart.’
‘Him?’ He laughed. His father was made of stone. Ale, fists, and anger, that was all he knew.
‘He’ll not say it, but it’s true. He’s been that worried since you tried to join up.’
‘I’m eighteen soon enough.’
‘I know, luv.’ She reach out a thin, worn hand and took his. ‘And I know it’s a good thing to do. Someone has to defend the country. But just think on it first.’
There wasn’t much thinking to do. Though. Not when you were out of an evening and all the lasses looked at you, wondering why you were still here, if you were a coward. He tried to explain a few times, but it was all wasted words. They didn’t want to listen.
Still, not long until he was eighteen now. Then he could look everyone in the eye.

September 1914

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He’d seen the tram down at the Swinegate Depot. All done up like a bloody dog’s dinner, God Save The King in lights on the side and Berlin as its destination.
Dog’s dinner was right. He read the slogan on the window – Wanted At Once, 5000 Recruits From Leeds. British Bulldogs. Airedale Or Yorkshire Terriers. Line them up and watch them run at the Hun. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride.
There was already a queue hundreds long waiting to join up. In one end of the tram, out the other with big smiles on their faces. He joined at the end, smoking, listening to lads chattering away, full of spunk and fire about how many they’d kill and still be home by Christmas.
He didn’t care when it was over. However long it took, it would be better than what he had here. Grafting away in a factory for next to nowt. No future, just years of the same. His dad drunk Friday and Saturday nights, battering his mam when he came home.
Finally he stood in front of the corporal. The uniform was neat, the moustache clipped, buttons glinting in the light. Eyes full of pride.
‘Name?’
‘James Morgan.’
The corporal looked up.
‘If you want to be in the army, son, you’d better get used to rank.’ He pointed at the stripes. ‘See those? They mean I’m a corporal. So you address me as corporal or sir. Got it?’
‘Yes, corporal,’ he answered. It was like talking to the foreman.
‘Address?’
’31 East Park Road. Corporal.’ And he’d be glad to get shut of that place, too. No room, nowhere to think. Not that he expected the army to be much better. But at least he’d be a man, not just Tommy Morgan’s son.
‘Age?’
‘Eighteen, corporal.’
The man snorted.
‘Pull the other one, lad, it’s got bells on. How old?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Then come back on your birthday.’ He looked down the line. ‘Next!’
Outside, all the ones who’d joined up were congratulating each other, off for a drink to celebrate. He walked off, hands in his pockets.

Remember, Remember – A Leeds Story

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We’re less than a month away from Bonfire Night now. Very soon they’ll start building the pyramid of pallets on Soldiers Field, and on the night there’ll be a grand ooh and aah, when it goes up and all the fireworks begin bursting in the air.

But there was one Bonfire Night that stands out from the others in Leeds’ history – back in 1745. The news that everyone feared arrived that night, that the Scots under Bonnie Prince Charlie – the Young Pretender, as he was known – had crossed the border at Carlisle.

Perhaps some had other things on their minds, though…

REMEMBER, REMEMBER – 1745

He fitted the new string on the fiddle and tightened the peg slowly, plucking it over and over as his wrist moved the tuner until it was close to a G. It would keep going flat during the evening and he’d have to re-tune. But it couldn’t be helped. At least it was the bottom string; he’d just try and use it as little as possible.
“Are you ready, Joshua Walker?” Toby called from outside the door.
“Aye,” he said. “Ready and willing.”

By eight, all the bonfires were burning well, sparks rising up into the darkness, people drinking and passing around the jugs of ale from one person to the next. Josh Walker locked the fiddle away in his room, safe from harm.
In the end it had all gone well. The string had been fair with him, staying in tune until a piece was done, and then all through the procession from the Assembly room up to the big fire on the open ground across from St. John’s. He’d been paid and given his share of scraps from the banquet, enough to feed him for a day if he was careful.
He walked up Briggate, the cudgel swinging from his wrist, eyes alert. It was a night for celebration, one where folk stayed out late, even the children. But who wouldn’t want to remember someone trying to blow up Parliament and all those down in London who only cared for themselves. Even if the plotters were all Papists, they’d done something right.
He rubbed the sleeve of his heavy greatcoat over the Town Waits badge, seeing it shine in the light from the bonfire. He was proud of that. It meant he made his living from the fiddle. Well, that and being part of the night watch, but he’d never heard of anyone earning enough money just from music.
After five years of doing this he knew what to expect. The apprentices would have their plans, staying out long after good folk were off to their beds. They’d be looking for a fight and before it was all done the night watch would give them one. There’d be some broken heads and a few waking up in gaol. The new gaol, they still called it, although it had been built before he was born.
They needed to learn some new tunes before Christmas, he thought. It was always a busy season, a time to line the pockets by playing balls and parties all over town. Last year they’d been invited out to Temple Newsam, the year before as far as Harrogate. He’d made enough to buy a new dress for his wife and clothes for his children. Roger was five and he’d just started the lad playing the fiddle, some simple fingering and learning how to hold it, exactly the way his own father had taught him.
He didn’t read music, none of the Waits did, but he had a quick ear. All he needed was to listen to something twice and he could play it, every note perfect. The others would pick it up from him and within half an hour they’d have it arranged and ready to perform. There was a melody he’d had in his head for days, one that wouldn’t go away. Josh was still trying to decide if he’d heard it somewhere or if it was a gift from God. He hummed it as he walked.
So far it had all been quiet. Several people had shot off muskets and fowling pieces, but no one had been hurt. No children had fallen into the flames, there hadn’t been any fights…all the trouble would happen later, once the families had drifted away. And it would come, it did every year. But then they’d be ready for it. This year, perhaps, the apprentices would at least manage to hit the statue of Queen Anne with their stones, unless they were already too drunk.
He stood close to the large fire, watching the shadows jump and warming his bones. Someone passed him a jug and he took a drink of ale, good twice-brewed that went down perfectly. He started to amble away, then turned at the sound of hooves. Someone riding in along the Newcastle Road.
He stood at the side, a hand raised, hoping they saw him. Three horses, together, slowing to a canter as they reached the houses.
“Welcome, friends,” Josh called loudly. “What brings you here so late?”
The man in front reined in close, his mount wet with sweat and wild-eyed. The two behind kept their distance, the animals pawing the ground as they breathed heavily.
“I need to speak to the magistrates,” the man said urgently. “There’s important news.”
People had begun to drift over from the fire, curious about the newcomers and pressing closer to see their faces.
“I know him!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. “It’s that preacher.”
Josh looked up sharply. The horse moved enough for the light to catch the man’s face. Aye, it was true enough, Josh thought. That was John Wesley. Two months before they’d been quick enough to pelt him with stones when he stood up to speak. Now they were pressing close to hear whatever news he might be carrying.
“I’ll take you,” Josh told him, turning to see Theosophus Johnson and Robert Newman at his side, their cudgels at the ready. “Gentlemen,” he said to the riders, “follow me.”
He’d heard some of the aldermen talking about the Rose and Crown when they’d gathered to light the bonfire. With luck, a few of them might still be there. It was no more than two hundred yards, the light from the flames bright enough to guide them.
The stable lad came out as soon as he heard voices, taking the beasts as Josh led the men inside. Six of the aldermen were gathered around the table closest to the fire. Some of them looked close to sleep, heads lolling, while three of them laughed and drank. Almost a dozen empty bottles sat between them. Josh coughed, hoping one of them would notice him, then again, louder, when no one turned his head.
“Sirs,” he said in the voice he used to keep order in the town, and waited until the men quieted. Eyes blinked open. “Mr. Wesley’s arrived with important information.”
The preacher stepped forward. He stood tall, looking down with distaste.
“I’ve just come down from the north. People are fleeing. I’ve been told that the Pretender’s crossed by Carlisle. He’s in England. You need to prepare, sirs.”
There was a brief moment of silence, when time seemed to stand still, then a babble of voices, each one trying to rise above all the others. Josh saw a couple of men slip out. In the room, Alderman Atkinson tried to calm the noise.
He’d heard all he needed. The Scots were south of the border, the Jacobites were coming. He walked out into the night, the fires still burning. But the crowds had gone, simply vanished into the darkness. A few young men wandered, but they looked lost, without purpose.
He marched down Briggate. What would he do if the Scots arrived? Would he take up a sword and fight? Or would he take his wife and his children on the road south, hoping to find safety somewhere.
Suddenly the tune came back into his mind. It was transformed this time, martial and stirring, an accompaniment to his steps. Yes, he thought, this is it. He could already hear the other instruments. It would be excellent for the upcoming balls. If any of them were still here.

West Seattle Blues

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If you’re interested in hearing the audio version of West Seattle blues, read by the sublime Lorelei King and published by the lovely people at Creative Content, and are willing to submit a review – and honest one, please – after listening, it’s available at Audio Jukebox. I hope you’ll give it a try. My Seattle books are very different from those set in Leeds, but I’m equally proud of them, not least because they’re from a female perspective, which is a good challenge for me. Do I succeed? Have a listen and tell me. Just click here.

Interviews

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A couple of weeks ago I did an interview with a journalist from Library Journal, the biggest trade publication for libraries in America. It’s actually sponsored by my publisher, Severn House, but the writer had her choice of authors. I’m happy and grateful she chose me.

It’s massive exposure, truly massive, the biggest I’ve had. And a huge boost for the US publication of Gods of Gold.

Ineterested? Read it right here. Don’t forget the comments beneath!