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Thank You

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized2 Comments

As 2016 – a spectacularly awful year in some many ways – clops off into the distance with a jingle of seasonal bells, it’s a time to reflect on big things and small (such as why does my hair and stubble grow faster in winter, and why do I eat more in cold weather).

But it’s also a time to thank people. Friends I’ve made, most of them online, but some whom I’ve met in the flesh, a very few of them more than once. The support and warmth is welcome, and hopefully reciprocated.

My publishers, all of whom are incredibly supportive and keep putting out these odd little books I write and publicising them. I’m grateful, more than you can imagine. You give me the chance to do the thing I’ve wanted since I was a teenager – write for a living. And to the booksellers and librarians who keep books on the shelves (okay, I also wanted to be a rock star, but I think we can all admit that ship has long since sailed. Writing is good).

Thanks to all those who come to the events I do. I often wonder whether anyone will show up, so it’s a relief when I see heads out there. Even more so when they’re attached to bodies.

Those I’ve worked with in libraries, festivals, on plays. Thank you for your belief.

To my partner, of course, who’s used to me rising at 4.30 in the morning, and who gamely reads the completed books before they head off to my agent and publisher, and gives comments and love.

And finally, thank you to those who read, whether you buy books or borrow them from a library. My work, of course, where I’m especially thankful. But all authors. Without you we’re just tossing pages into the vacuum.

May 2017 be kind to you all.

A Christmas Tale

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, story, UncategorizedLeave a comment

For someone who doesn’t care about Christmas, I seem to end up writing a Christmas story every year. Most of them have been little present for the wonderful Leeds Book Club, and you can find them here if you scroll down the page. This time, though, I thought I’d simply put it up here. And, in an even more unusual twist, for once it’s very contemporary. I hope you like it, and happy holidays of whatever kind you celebrate (or none).

 

For a moment she didn’t even realise she was doing it. Then Kate caught herself, singing along with Joni Mitchell’s “River” as her car idled at the traffic lights. At least it was a depressing Christmas song. This was always the worst time of year. Both her parents had died in December, years apart, and it always brought back memories, some good, most of them bad.

Ahead of her, the decorations glowed along the Headrow. Four o’clock and it was already full dark. She felt as if she’d barely seen daylight today. In the Magistrates’ Court since nine, waiting, then just five minutes of evidence before she was off the stand. At least she could duck off home early for once.

She glanced out of the passenger window. The big tree in front of the Town Hall was lit up, trying to give some spirit to the city. Kate was about to turn away when something caught her eye. A man looking around cautiously before ducking close to the tree and putting down a pack.

A horn beeped and her eyes slid to the rearview mirror. The lights had changed and traffic was moving. Kate put on her indicator, crept round the corner to Calverley Street, then on to the cobbled forecourt. She could still see the man at the bottom of the steps, gazing up to the top of the tree. Kate turned off the engine and suddenly Joni was silent. She took the radio from her briefcase.

‘This is DI Thornton.’

‘Go ahead, ma’am.’

‘Got something at the Town Hall. A man’s just left something under the big tree outside.’

For a few seconds there was nothing from the other end. She could feel her heart beating fast.

‘Sent out the alert, ma’am.’ The voice was tense now. ‘The super wants to know if you’re you sure you saw it?’

Typical Silver Command question. Don’t believe the bloody officer on the scene.

‘I’m certain. I can make it out. I’m parked close. I can still see the man.’

‘Description, ma’am?’

She stared.

‘White, maybe five feet nine. Wearing a parka. It might be green, hard to tell. Looks a little stocky. Dark bobble cap. Wait, he’s starting to walk away.’

‘We’re going to talk to the CCTV centre. Silver Command says they can track him. He wants you to move away from the area.’

Nobody was saying what could be in that package. These days it was safer to assume the worst.

‘There are people all around. What about them?’

‘Units are on the way. They should be there very soon.’

She could make out the distant wail of the sirens. Five or six of them, maybe more.  Another thirty seconds and they’d probably be here; certainly no more than a minute.

‘I’m going to follow him,’ Kate said. She clicked off the radio, dropped it on the seat and locked the car behind her. Cameras were fine, but nothing beat someone on the ground. Someone there and ready to act. Her heels clicked briskly as she walked. In her pocket the phone was buzzing; she switched it to silent.

He was crossing the road and starting to disappear into the throng on East Parade. Kate hurried, ducking through the traffic and ignoring the blaring horns. Too many people around for him to spot her. He hadn’t even looked back, he wasn’t hurrying.

She kept ten yards away, close enough to keep him in easy sight and rush him if it was needed. A glance over her shoulder. Flashing lights all around the Town Hall, traffic stopped on the Headrow. Good, everything was in hand there.

He left the pavement, going over then along South Parade. For a moment she’d been able to see his face as he turned his head. About fifty, jowly, stubble on his cheeks. Along Park Row, past Becketts Bank, the smokers gathered outside the bar, then on to Bond Street.

Shit.

Kate took out her phone. Five missed calls. She swiped the screen as she walked and pressed the number that had been trying to reach her.

‘What the hell-’

‘Another hundred yards and he’ll be on Commercial Street, sir. How many people do we have close?’

‘Two on Briggate heading your way and another coming up Albion Street. Why-’

Too far away, Kate decided. He needed to be stopped now.

‘I’m moving in on him, sir.’ She ended the call and put the phone back in her pocket.

Deep breath time. Kate could hear the busker on the corner ahead, the old man with the good voice doing his Johnny Cash songs. She walked faster, trying not to run; she didn’t want to panic him. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would break her ribs. Kate checked: the handcuffs were in her pocket. Five yards away now. Three. Two.

He went down easily. Before he could even react she had his wrists cuffed behind his back.

‘Police’ she shouted as people stopped to watch. ‘Move away.’

Then she heard the thud of feet as three uniforms came running.

bond-street

No weapon. There was nothing at all, besides his wallet, a couple of pounds in change, and a bloody nose where his face had hit the pavement. He was sitting on the ground, dazed, wrists cuffed behind him.

Kate had laddered her tights, she saw as she squatted to talk to the man. Brand new pair that morning, too.

‘Right, Kenneth.’ She had his wallet open, looking at the driving licence. Kenneth Mitchell. Fifty one. A Belle Isle address. ‘What did you leave under the tree outside the Town Hall?’

‘Eh?’ He squinted at her.

‘You put a package there. I saw you. That’s why we stopped you.’

His face cleared and he smiled.

‘A present,’ he said. ‘For the kiddies.’

‘What?’ She stood again, hands on hips and looked down at him.

‘Me neighbour, like. We were talking and he said wouldn’t it be a good idea if people left presents for the kiddies under that tree? So I bought summat, wrapped it, and came into town. I didn’t mean any harm.’

Christ. She walked few yards away and took out her phone.

‘Detective Inspector…’ Silver Command was purring note, delicious triumph in his voice.

‘He claims he was leaving a present for children, sir.’ Maybe the ground would open up and swallow her so she wouldn’t have to continue this conversation. Kate tapped her foot. Typical luck. No bloody sinkhole.

‘He’s telling the truth. It’s a Fisher Price something or other. You can apologise and let him go. You might take the time to thank him, too, Detective Inspector.’

‘Yes sir.’ Kate swallowed. ‘He had a nosebleed. I’ll have one of the uniforms get a paramedic.’

‘Make sure you do.’ A pause. ‘But good work, eh? These days…’

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. You couldn’t afford to look for the good in people now, only the bad.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Kate ended the call. At least he’d let her off lightly. But it would be all over the station tomorrow.

She turned to look at Mitchell. The cuffs were off now and one of the uniforms was helping him to his feet.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I hope you understand, though, with the ways things are.’ She smiled at him. ‘It was a lovely thought.’

He nodded and she started to walk away.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Mitchell said.

Kate smiled again. ‘Merry Christmas, sir.’

 

I’ll finish with one of those seasonal reminders that books make wonderful gifts any time of the year, and both The Iron Water and Modern Crimes are still warm-ish off the presses. On Copper Street, the firth Tom Harper novel, comes out in February, and you can pre-order it here.

The Last Job

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, richard nottingham, story, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Damn the man.  If Amos Worthy hadn’t bought his debt, he wouldn’t be here now. But Josh had been so relieved when the man did it he was almost willing to give over his soul. Sometimes it felt as he’d done exactly that.

He’d gone up to the hanging on Chapeltown Moor, drunk more good ale than he should, and made a bet on the horse race afterwards with Moreland the Fence. In his stupor he’d wagered more than he had, certain the nag would win. It was the favourite, wearing a ribbon from Mrs. Farley, and Josh was sure he’d walk away with plenty of silver in his breeches. Then the animal galloped into a hole and broke its leg.

Josh didn’t have the money to cover what he owed, not even close, and soon Moreland became insistent. He took a beating one night from two men that left him in bed for two days before he could move properly. That was the threat. Next time would be worse. Broken bones, maybe a broken neck.

Then Worthy came to visit, solicitous as you like. Even brought one of his little whores to minister to Josh. He could buy the debt from Moreland, he suggested. Josh wouldn’t even need to give him the money. All he’d need to do was perform one or two services. He left the girl overnight. When he came back the next morning Josh was ready to agree to anything.

That was a year ago and still the ledger wasn’t clean. He knew what Worthy was like but he’d agreed anyway. What was the choice? At least he was still alive. Once, twice a month, he had to break into a house, under orders to steal this or that and take it to the man’s house on Swinegate. He tried to refuse once, to say he’d paid enough, and Worthy had slashed his face with that silver-topped cane he carried. It slashed his skin like a knife, enough to leave a pale scar. After that he’d agreed meekly and prayed he’d survive. Worthy was a big man, he was older. He was bound to keel over dead one of these days.

The months of 1731 had passed and he’d done as he was ordered. Now it was December, Christmas just three weeks away, and he was creeping round a merchant’s house in the middle of a frigid night.

Stealing was Josh’s trade. It had been since he was a boy, moving from picking pockets to snatching what he could through open windows, then learning the housebreaker’s art. He was good at it, never arrested. At twenty, though, he knew his luck couldn’t hold forever. He wanted away from the life. Something steady, where he could settle and dream there could be a future.

Back in October, still in his cups on a Sunday morning after a long night of drinking, he’d ended up in a Baptist service, not even sure how he’d stumbled in there. But he’d found something, some purity in its severity. He’d gone back every Sunday since then, wanting to repent but not certain he was able. He could almost smell the hope, but wasn’t sure he could reach it. He was ready to be immersed, to be baptised, to find that new life.

If Worthy would ever let him go.

 

Emil Frederiksson was one of a pair of Swedish merchants who’d arrived in Leeds two decades earlier and built a strong, profitable trade exporting cloth to the Baltic. He’d built his new house near to top of Kirkgate, no more than a stone’s throw from the jail. It was the type of place Josh always avoided. Too many rooms, too many servants. And if you stole from the very rich, the law came crashing down hard on your head; he’d seen that happen to men he’d known, transported to America or the Indies and lucky if they lasted long enough for passage back after seven years. But Worthy had ordered. He wanted the mirror that Fredriksson had bought from the silversmith who had his workshop behind the Shambles. And he didn’t accept failure.

Josh had tried to argue. He’d begged. He’d even cried. But Worthy didn’t give an inch. It was only at the end that the man made his promise: do this job and the debt would be forgotten.

Finally he had a ray of light in the distance, if he could reach it. He had to believe it was real.

It would be in the man’s bedroom, the worst place for stealing anything. On the ground floor, he had a chance. He knew how to move around an empty room without a sound. Up the stairs – that was a different matter. People stirred in their sleep. They woke. The servants were just up in the attic.

Josh had watched the house for a night, keeping out of sight in the shadows, standing until he felt frozen by the winter cold. He knew where Frederiksson slept, he spotted a window he could pry open in the larder.

Easily done. He felt the Turkey carpet under his feet in the hall, the slow, soft tick of the longclock. Warmth lingered in the house, enough to bring the feeling back to his fingers and legs after hours of standing and waiting for the town to quieten. Past midnight by the clock on the  Parish Church when he made his move.

He stayed close to the edge of the staircase, where the treads would be less likely to squeak. He held his breath with each step, one hand on the polished bannister to steady himself. It was slow, but he knew it would be.

Josh was alert for any sound, any sense of movement around him. He’d broken into hundreds of houses in his life and knew the rule: always make sure you have a clear way out. It wouldn’t be so easy this time.  But this time, more than ever, he need it. To put all this behind him and then wash away his sins in the freezing river.

Another Turkey carpet on the landing and Josh thank his luck; it would absorb the footfalls and let him move silently. Up here, though, he had his choice of doors. He had to imagine where he was in the house, which one led to Frederiksson’s chamber.

The man was a widower, he slept alone. That made things easier, only one person in the room who might wake. Gingerly, he felt his way along until he was at the right door. Josh stopped, held his breath, and listened. There right at the edge of his hearing, he caught the small snuffles and movements of someone asleep.

His palm was slick as he grasped the door knob. He drew it back and wiped it on his breeches, then gripped again and slowly turned it. Not a sound, no squeak or groan. His eyes were used to the gloom. Gently, inch by inch, he eased the door open, his feet not moving.

Then he was inside, easing across the floor. The shutters were closed, but a fire was banked in the hearth giving a faint glow. Josh remained still, letting his senses adjust. He could feel the man asleep, covers pulled up high. And there, on the table, the reflection of the silver mirror.

Easy, he told himself. Slow and careful. A few more minutes and he’d be gone, he’d be free. One pace and pause. Another. Then a third and fourth, each one seeming as if it might take forever, and he was close enough. Josh reached out, flexing his fingers, then taking hold of the mirror, lifting its weight and pulling it close to his body.

Josh retraced his steps, closing the door behind him without even a click. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but he resisted the impulse to run. You made mistakes when you hurried, and this final time would be perfect.

The stairs took time. His throat felt dry, as if it would take an ocean of ale to quench his thirst. Then he felt the Turkey carpet of the hall under his shoes and he began to believe he would soon be free.

Into the kitchen, dark and shadowy, one hand reaching for the door of the larder with its open window, and someone opened a lantern.

‘There’s no point in trying to run. I have a man waiting outside.’

The speaker raised his arm and showed his face. Josh knew him. Every criminal in Leeds did. Richard Nottingham, the constable. The mirror slipped out of his hand and shattered on the flagstones.

‘Seven years of bad luck,’ Nottingham said. ‘That sounds right enough. Good job it wasn’t the silver mirror.’

Josh could feel himself starting to shake. Right at his core, then moving to his arms as if he was freezing.

‘How?’

‘You need to learn not to talk about your plans. Someone heard you and decided we ought to know. Maybe you’ll like the Indies. It’ll be warmer there.’

Amos Worthy. The bastard would never let him go. He’d been the one who peached. Josh would never be free now.

170px-oliver_twist_-_cruikshank_-_the_burgulary

In November 2017 there will be a new Richard Nottingham novel, Free From All Danger. But I’ll be talking much more about it as the time approaches. Meanwhile, I’d be glad if you’d take a glance at my most recent books, The Iron Water and Modern Crimes. Christmas is coming, after all, and books make excellent presents.

The Factory Lad’s Testimony

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, story, Uncategorized1 Comment

This story appears in my collection, Leeds, The Biography: A History of Leeds in Short Stories, published by Armley Press. But in many ways, it’s not mine at all. It’s taken from John Dawson’s evidence in 1833 to the Factory Commissioners when they came to Leeds, investigating the employment of children in the ‘manufactories.’ John was one of several people interviewed. The facts are exactly as he described them. All I’ve done is paraphrase his words.

 

He came in, walking slowly, almost in a shuffle, using a stick to keep himself balanced. His knees bent inward, making each step awkward. Still holding the doorknob he peered around the room, straining his eyes the way a mole might. He wore thick spectacles, almost a frail old man, although he couldn’t have been more than twenty.

The three members of the factory commission – Mr, Turnbull, Mr. Wakefield, and Sir Edward Jepson – sat behind their table as a clerk put papers in front of them. There was an air of sleekness about them; they all looked comfortable with authority.

The young man was wearing his best clothes, a dark jacket, cut high at the waist, a stock and shirt, with breeches and thick woollen hose. On the other side of the room a fire burned in the grate.

‘Come in, please, sir, and sit yourself down,’ Sir Edward said. ‘Thank you for coming to speak to us.’

The young man bowed his head slowly and crossed the floor, his heels tapping on the boards. He sat as upright as any defendant, his back straight, eyes straining to take in the face: the commissioners, the pair of clerks and the scribe waiting with his paper and steel nib to take down every word.

‘What’s your name and what do you do?’ Mr. Wakefield asked.

‘Yes sir, my name is John Dawson,’ the young man began, repeating the words when he was asked to speak more loudly, ‘and I make my living as a tailor when I’m well enough to work.’ He glanced at his audience. ‘As you can see, sir, that my eyesight is bad. That’s why I wear these glasses.’

‘Do you believe there’s a reason for your bad eyesight?’ Mr Turnbull wondered.

‘I do, sir,’ Dawson answered with a nod. ‘If you ask me, it’s from the flax mills I worked in as a lad. There’s always a powerful lot of dust in the air and it does affect the eyes of some folk. I daresay as I’d be blind now if I still worked there.’

‘When did you begin in the mills?’

‘I started in the mills when I was six, sir, a doffer at Shaw and Tennant’s. The work wasn’t too hard, we had to take the full bobbins off the machines and put on empty ones. But the hours were long, six in the morning to seven at night, six days a week. I was lucky, my da was the overlooker in the room. He beat me, same way he beat the other doffers, but not too bad, not as hard as some,’ he added, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘It was the standing all the time that was worst. Every day my knees ached.’

v_ragged_factory_boys

‘Did you receive any education?’ Sir Edward asked.

‘Not as you’d call it, sir.’ Dawson held his head up to face his audience. ‘I always wanted to learn to read and write. And I went to Sunday school whenever I could, unless my ma wanted me at him with the younger bairns or I had no decent clothes or shoes. My da taught me to read, and I was middling good with the Testament.’

‘But that was all?’

‘It was, sir.’

‘Please continue,’ Mr. Wakefield told him, with a glance at the others.

‘My da left Tennant’s when I was ten, and I went with him to Garside’s Mill.’

‘Do you know why he left?’

‘I do not, sir, no. I was just a boy, so they never told me. At Garside’s they put me to work bobbin-hugging, and that was terrible hard work, sir. I had to carry around a basket full of bobbins, some of them still wet. The basket was on my bag, and big it was, held in place by a strap around my forehead.’ He moved his hands to illustrate, each of the commissioners nodding. ‘I often had to carry full baskets up the stairs to the reelers. My knees were so bad that I had to stop after two or three years. You could see them, all bent, but we had no money for a doctor.’

‘No one looked after you there at all?’

‘No sir. They worked us hard there. After a while my da and I left there. We went to Clayton’s, and I was made a doffer again.’

‘Did that help you at all? Mr Turnbull said.

‘The work was easier but the hours were bad. Sometimes five in the morning to half-past nine at night. They gave us forty minutes for us dinner but nothing for breakfast or drinking.’ The lad’s voice was quite even, not angry. Just remembering his life of a few years before. ‘Wasn’t always six days we worked. Sometimes there was only enough for five or four. Weeks like that didn’t bring home enough money.’ He removed his spectacles and polished them on a piece of linen he took from the pocket of his waistcoat. When he spoke he was quieter. ‘It was dangerous work there, too. I knew one lad whose clothes caught in an upright shaft and he closed, and there were other bad accidents I can recall, too. My da died after I’d been there a few years, and when my ma was taken ill we had to go into the workhouse. By then my knees were bent so bad I couldn’t walk more than thirty yards without a rest.’

‘Might we see your knees, Mr-’ Sir Edward glanced down at the page ‘-Mr. Dawson. If you’d be so good.’

Holding on to the chair with one hand, Dawson stood and unbuckled the knees of his breeches, rolling them up. His face was red, not from effort but the embarrassment of being watched so closely.

It was just as he’d said. His knees were misshapen things, bent forward and inwards into something grotesque, beyond human.

‘Thank you,’ Sir Edward told him quickly, looking away and conferring with the other commissioners while Dawson closed his breeches buttons and sat once more.

‘You said you went to the workhouse,’ Mr. Turnbull continued.

‘That’s right, sir.’ Dawson gave a quick nod of his head.

‘What was your experience there?’

‘It was good, sir. At the workhouse they taught me my trade, sir, made a tailor out of me. It’s better than I might have had otherwise. And I did see someone about my knees. They sent me to Mr. Chorley at the infirmary.’

‘Was he able to help you at all?’

‘Very much, sir.’ There was heartfelt gratitude in Dawson’s voice. ‘He gave me strengthening plasters and bandages and they did me some good. You can see it’s still difficult for me to walk, sir, and I need a stick to help me. But it’s better than it was, and I’m very grateful for that. It used to be I couldn’t manage thirty yards without a rest. Now I can walk a hundred yards and more before I need to stop.’ He gave a proud smile.

Sir Edward glanced at the other commissioners. Many more waiting outside to be interviewed before the day was done. Surgeons, overseers, workers, people from all walks of life. When Turnbull and Wakefield shook their heads, he turned back to Dawson.

‘Sir, thank you for coming here today. You’ve been most gracious with your time and we wish you well as a tailor.’

They waited silently as John Dawson left the room, leaning heavily on his stick.

 

Old Jem Tales – Child Roland

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, richard nottingham, Uncategorized3 Comments

Back in the days when a man could wander free on the roads there lived a man called Old Jem. He’d always seemed ancient, with his beard slowly turning from brown to snowy, shaggy white and his hair hanging long over his shoulders.

His clothes were older than he was, and even in summer he wore a long coat that trailed almost to the ground. Its buttons were long gone, and in winter he held it together with a belt made from rope.

He’d been coming through Leeds even before Richard Nottingham was a boy, finding a place on Briggate to set down his pack, put out his hat and tell his stories for a penny or two. People would crowd around to listen, carried off by his voice and the magic of his words.

Jem would often stay with Richard and Mary Nottingham at the house on Marsh Lane, grateful for a bowl of stew and a place by the hearth to roll out his blanket for the night. He’d entertain Rose and Emily with his tales of kings and princesses and times when magic was still strong in the land.

This is one of the stories he used to tell.

You know, there were a time – aye, long before you or me or anyone as is alive now – where there were magic all over England. Grand as that might sound, it weren’t always good, even if it somehow stirred some mighty deeds.

I’m minded to think of a lad called Roland. He was an earl’s song, the youngest of four children, with two other brothers and a sister called Ellen. One day they was out playing in the churchyard and the oldest brother kicked the ball over the church roof. Now Ellen, she was a lass full of energy and playful and she ran off to fetch it. The boys waited but she didn’t return, and when they went looking, there weren’t hide nor hair of her.

roland

The oldest brother, he went to the wise man in the village who said that Ellen must have been taken by the King of Elfland because she hadn’t gone widdershins round the church – that is, t’opposite way to’t sun. He told the young man what to do to bring her back, and off her went.

And he didn’t come back, neither, and nor did the second son when he tried.

That left Roland. His man didn’t want to let him so, but she knew he needed to do this. So she gave him his father’s sword that never struck in vain and cast a spell to give the blade victory.

Then Roland went to the wise man.

‘I’ll tell thee what I told thy brothers,’ he said. ‘There are twa things, one you do and one you don’t. After you reach Elfland, whoever speaks to you, you must take your sword and cut off their heads. And the thing you must never do is eat or drink anything in Elfland. Now.’

Roland walked and walked and finally he reached a strange meadow where horses grazed. Elfland horses, he could tell it by the way their eyes glowed red as fire.

‘Where will I find the King of Elfland’s Dark Tower?’ Roland asked.

‘I don’t know,’ one of the horses answered. ‘But go down the road until you find the cow-herder.’ He might be able to tell you.’

Roland lifted his sword and took off the horse’s head in a single blow , then carried on along the road.

He found the cow-herder and said,

‘Where will I find the King of Elfland’s Dark Tower?’

‘I don’t know,’ the cow herder responded. ‘But go down this road until you see the hen wife. She might be able to say.’

Roland struck off the cow-herder’s head and walked on until the saw the hen-wife with her fowl.

‘Where do I find the King of Elfland’s Dark Tower?’ He asked.

‘Look for a round, green hill that’s terraced from top to bottom,’ the woman answered. ‘But tha’s got to walk widdershins round the hill and say three times: Open door, open door, and let me come in.’

Well Roland looked at her, and for a moment he didn’t want to chop off her head as he’d been so helpful. But he knew what was needful, so with a single swift blow he did the deed and walked on until he came to hill. He walked three tines around it, the opposite way to the sun, and said the words she’d given him. And happened, but a great door opened in the hillside and Roland went in.

Inside it were like twilight as the gloom seemed to seep through the earth. The were corridors and rooms, arches made of gleaming feldspar. The fittings gleamed like gold and Roland followed the ways until he came to a great hall, where Ellen sat on a settle with a black velvet cushion, pulling a silver comb through her long fair hair.

‘Roland,’ she said. ‘I’m full happy to see you. But you’ve made your journey in vain. Both our brothers tried but they fell to the King’s enchantments and you’ll do the same.’

He told her what he’d done, and how he was footsore and weary and hungry, and asked her for summat to eat and sup.

Ellen was under her own spell. She was forbidden to warn him of the dangers. All she could do was bring him bread and wine and look sadly as he raised it to his lips. But before he could taste a morsel, he remembered the wise man’s advice and threw it to the floor.

And then he heard a shuddering of the tower and the door to the hall was thrown wide as the King of Elfland entered. Roland rushed at him with the sword that never struck in vain, and the pair fought for an hour or more. Then, with a blow, Roland forced the King to his knees, and demanded he released his sister and his brothers in exchange for mercy. With a bowed head, the king agreed. He took a small vial from a chest and poured drops of a liquid red as blood on the eyes of the enchanted brothers who’d been placed to sleep in a room. They awoke, claiming their souls had left their bodies but had now returned. Then the king whispered some words over Ellen, and suddenly the bright, happy girl returned.

Troland granted the kind his mercy. With Ellen and his brothers he left the dark tower and returned to their home, never to go back to Elfland – and never to run widdershins round the church, neither.

Old Jem Tales – The Parson And The Salmon

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, richard nottingham, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Back in the days when a man could wander free on the roads there lived a man called Old Jem. He’d always seemed ancient, with his beard slowly turning from brown to snowy, shaggy white and his hair hanging long over his shoulders.

His clothes were older than he was, and even in summer he wore a long coat that trailed almost to the ground. Its buttons were long gone, and in winter he held it together with a belt made from rope.

He’d been coming through Leeds even before Richard Nottingham was a boy, finding a place on Briggate to set down his pack, put out his hat and tell his stories for a penny or two. People would crowd around to listen, carried off by his voice and the magic of his words.

Jem would often stay with Richard and Mary Nottingham at the house on Marsh Lane, grateful for a bowl of stew and a place by the hearth to roll out his blanket for the night. He’d entertain Rose and Emily with his tales of kings and princesses and times when magic was still strong in the land.

This is one of the stories he used to tell.

 

It’s a bitter cold night and the first snow of the year. So if that’ll just plunge that poker in the ale to warm it, I’ll tell you a tale to make you smile. Aye, that’s better, and good health to you and your’n.

A long time ago – the way I heard it, it wasn’t long after the French came over here and that’s many hundreds of years back – there were a priest up in Norham.  That’s on the River Tweed, right up agin Scotland, and I heard all about it where I were up that way. Now he kept a school in his church, and there were one young lad who were allus getting into trouble.

One morning the lad knew he were on to a hiding from the parson, so he got up early, went to the church and took the key from inside the lock. Back outside he turned it so no-one could get it, because that’s where ‘t parson kept the rod he used for beating. Then the lad tossed the key into the river, thinking no one would ever find it.

But this parson, he were a right holy fellow, and when he took his road and went down to the water to catch summat for his supper, God directed him to a certain spot and told him to cast his line. He did as the Good Lord wanted, and afore he knew it, he had a bite on his line.

He pulled it out and he’d caught hissen a plump, juicy salmon. But when he cut if open to get it ready to cook, what did he find inside but the church key. So he was able to get into the church.

I’ll not bother telling you what happened to the young lad. I daresay you can guess it all already.

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Old Jem’s Tales – The Hand of Glory

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, richard nottingham, Uncategorized2 Comments

Back in the days when a man could wander free on the roads there lived a man called Old Jem. He’d always seemed ancient, with his beard slowly turning from brown to snowy, shaggy white and his hair hanging long over his shoulders.

His clothes were older than he was, and even in summer he wore a long coat that trailed almost to the ground. Its buttons were long gone, and in winter he held it together with a belt made from rope.

He’d been coming through Leeds even before Richard Nottingham was a boy, finding a place on Briggate to set down his pack, put out his hat and tell his stories for a penny or two. People would crowd around to listen, carried off by his voice and the magic of his words.

Jem would often stay with Richard and Mary Nottingham at the house on Marsh Lane, grateful for a bowl of stew and a place by the hearth to roll out his blanket for the night. He’d entertain Rose and Emily with his tales of kings and princesses and times when magic was still strong in the land.

This is one of the stories he used to tell.

 

I don’t know how long ago this happened, but it was afore your time. I heard the tale when I were a young ‘un, and the old lad who told it me swore as it were true.

There were an inn up on the moor past Pickering, on the road to Whitby, and one night a traveller arrived in woman’s clothes, all by hersen and asking to stay until morning. But she needed to leave early, and begged for a little food to be left out to eat before she went on her way.

Now the old couple as kept the inn agreed, but it seemed powerful strange to them, so they told the serving lass to spend the night down by the fire with the woman. The serving lass lay on the settle, but before she closed her eyes she saw that the woman was wearing a man’s shoes and hose under the dress, and suddenly she thought as she’d better pay attention.

She pretended to sleep and watched. The traveller drew out a candle from the pocket of the dress, and then a dead man’s hand. He place the candle in the hand and lit it with a taper from the fire, passing it in front of the lass’ face and saying,

‘Let them as is asleep be asleep, and them as is awake be awake.’

Then he put the hand and the candle on the table, unbolted the door and walked down to the road, where he started to whistle for his thieving companions.

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The serving lass, well, she jumped up, ran out of the door behind the man dressed as a woman and pushed him down before she ran back inside and bolted the door again. Upstairs, she tried to wake the innkeeper and his missus. But they slept on, under the spell, and nowt she could do would rouse them.

The lass took a bowl of milk they’d been saving for morning and threw it over the candle so the flame went out. After that she could wake the innkeeper, and when she told him, he charged his blunderbuss and went to the window, asking what the men outside what they wanted.

They said that if the innkeeper would just throw them the dead man’s hand, they’d leave. Instead he raised his weapon and fired. That was the last they heard of them. But next morning, when they went out, they could see blood on the road, going for nigh on a quarter mile…

 

Old Jem’s stories were told and re-told by others over the years. They must have travelled around England during the centuries, because some were collected and eventually printed in The Penguin Book of English Folktales, although by then Old Jem was long forgotten.

The Old Jem Tales

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

Back in the days when a man could wander free on the roads there lived a man called Old Jem. He’d always seemed ancient, with his beard slowly turning from brown to snowy, shaggy white and his hair hanging long over his shoulders.

His clothes were older than he was, and even in summer he wore a long coat that trailed almost to the ground. Its buttons were long gone, and in winter he held it together with a belt made from rope.

He’d been coming through Leeds even before Richard Nottingham was a boy, finding a place on Briggate to set down his pack, put out his hat and tell his stories for a penny or two. People would crowd around to listen, carried off by his voice and the magic of his words.

Jem would often stay with Richard and Mary Nottingham at the house on Marsh Lane, grateful for a bowl of stew and a place by the hearth to roll out his blanket for the night. He’d entertain Rose and Emily with his tales of kings and princesses and times when magic was still strong in the land.

This is one of the stories he used to tell.

 

Back when I were young, when Leeds were nothing more than a few houses and fields, I heard tell about a lord who had three daughters. Bonny lasses they were, and none of them wed. But this lord, he weren’t well and each day he grew more poorly. The doctor could do nowt to help him, and finally he was so desperate that he sent for a wise man who lived over near York. The wise man examined the lord from the top of his head to the soles of his feet and finally told him,

‘You need a drink of clear water from your own well to get you on your feet again.’

‘That’s all?’ the lord asked, scarcely believing it was that simple.

‘Aye,’ the wise man answered. ‘But one of your own daughters must draw the water.’

The lord called for his oldest lass and asked her to get him a drink of clear water from the well. She did as she was asked, let the bucket fall and pulled it up again. But the water was full of silt; it had never been that way before. She looked down and what did she see put a frog. Aye, a frog, like you’d see in a pond.

But this one jumped up until it was on the rim of the well, staring her in the eye, bold as brass.

‘Tell us you’ll be me sweetheart and you’ll be able to pull all the clear water you like,’ the frog said.

‘Give over,’ the girl said. ‘I’m not going to have a frog for me sweetheart.’

‘Are you sure?’ the frog asked.

‘Of course I’m sure. I’m a lord’s daughter, I can do better than a frog.’

‘Right, my girl,’ the frog said. ‘No clear water for you.’ And he jumped back down the well. Sure enough, as she pulled up three more buckets, all were cloudy.

‘You give it a try,’ the lord told his middle daughter. ‘I feel weaker, luv, and I don’t want to die.’

So she went to the well and pulled up a bucket of water. It was cloudy, and then the frog appeared, asking the same question. She gave it the same answer as her old sister and the water stayed cloudy.

Finally the youngest sister went to the well, drew another bucket of cloudy water and the frog was there, asking his question. At first all she could do was laugh, but when he asked again, she thought, ‘why not’ and said yes. It was a frog, she thought. It couldn’t be serious.

She dropped the bucket again and pulled it back – and this time the water was clear. She took it to her father who drank deep and felt better right away.

The lass was happy to see her father right as rain, and quickly forgot about the frog. But three nights later there was a tapping outside her chamber. She opened the door and the frog sat there.

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‘Tha promised to be my sweetheart,’ he said, and she was an honest lass; she couldn’t deny the truth of it. She crept back under her covers and the frog perched on the end of the bed. When she woke in the morning it were gone. The same thing happened the next night, and she decided, if it returned, she make that the last time; this was getting daft.

The frog came back and that night it settled on the end of the bed again. But as the girl slept it moved up until it was on the pillow right by her face. It was still there when the lass opened her eyes in the morning. She screamed, picked up the frog and threw it on the floor.

But what does tha think happened next?

Right next to the bed a young man stood up, dusting himself off. Handsomest lad you’ve ever seen, he were, too, and dressed in clothes that cost more than any she could afford.

‘Who are you?’ the lord’s youngest daughter asked, She was right scared at having a young man here, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

‘You promised you’d be my sweetheart,’ the man told her. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘That was a frog,’ she said, ‘not a man. ‘And I just said it to get some clear water for my da.’

‘But you said it. A witch had put me under her spell. Saying you’d be my sweetheart broke it. And in return I’ll marry you for your kindness.’ He smiled at her and it was like seeing the morning sun pop over the hills. ‘I’d better talk to your father.’

He does, telling the lord that he comes from a wealthy family that lives na more than twenty mile away, up in another of the dales.

‘That lass of yours saved my life,’ he said. ‘I could have spent eternity as a frog. I’d like to take her hand in marriage, to cherish her as long as we live.’

Her father gives his consent, but he wants to talk to the young man’s father first. He gives him a horse and sends him on home, but has one of his own servants follow, with orders to report on all he sees and return by nightfall.

When the servant returned, the lord questioned him closely.

‘They were happy as owt to see him again,’ the servant said. ‘Over t’moon. And afore I started back, the lad said to tell you that he and his father would be here tomorrow.’

They came, right enough, and after a long morning of haggling, everything was settled. The lord settled a powerful dowry on the daughter who’d saved his life, and the wedding were fixed for the next Sunday, wi’ all the quality folk for miles around invited. The feasting and the music and the dancing lasted all night, long after the bride and groom had slipped happily away.

Did the other daughters ever find husbands for theirselves? Well, that’s another story altogether.

 

Old Jem’s stories were told and re-told by others over the years. They must have travelled around England during the centuries, because some were collected and eventually printed in The Penguin Book of English Folktales, although by then Old Jem was long forgotten.

The Year of the Gun

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, Uncategorized1 Comment

For the last several weeks I’ve been going on about my most recent book, Modern Crimes. In part that’s because I want people to buy it, of course, but also because I love Lottie Armstrong, the main character. She’s extraordinary by being so ordinary, and she’s full of life. She fizzes – at least to me.

I liked her so much that I wasn’t ready to let her go. But the circumstances at the close of the book made that difficult (and yes, you’ll have to read it to find out). So I decided to bring her back 20 years later, not as a police constable, but in her mid-40s, as a member of the Women’s Auxiliary Police Corps in 1944, right in the middle of World War II, in a book titled The Year of the Gun, which will be published Autumn 2017 (and scroll down to the bottom for the spectacular cover).

The first few pages of that book are at the end of Modern Crimes. However, to tempt you to discover Lottie in 1924 and look forward to 1944, here’s another small episode from The Year of the Gun.

 

Right on the dot of ten Helen rang through from the switchboard.

‘There’s an American here to see your boss. A Captain Ellison.’

‘Send him up, will you?’ Lottie said.

‘He’s on his way.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’s very good looking. I could eat him for my tea.’

‘Get away with you,’ Lottie laughed. Never mind; she’d find out for herself in a moment.

Good looking, she wondered as he entered the room, cap under his arm and a diffident grin on his face. Maybe. At least he didn’t have that terrible cropped hair like the other Americans. His had a little style to it, dark, parted at the side, and his smile showed strong white teeth.

‘Hi. I’m Cliff Ellison, US Army CID. Looking for Detective Chief Superintendent McMillan?’ It came out as a question. Helen was right; there was something endearing about him, she decided. Lines around his eyes and mouth that showed he’d lived, but no real brashness to his manner.

‘I’m WAPC Armstrong. I’ll show you through.’

A knock on the door and she entered. ‘It’s Captain Ellison, sir.’ Her mouth twitched into a smile. ‘Here just as you requested.’

‘Could you find three cups of tea, please, then join us?’

‘Yes, sir.’

By the time she returned the men were talking earnestly. Any frostiness in the air had already vanished.

‘It’s not a trickle, Chief Superintendent, it’s a flood,’ Ellison said as he stubbed out a cigarette. ‘We’re never going to officially admit that, but it’s the truth. And before you say anything, it’s the same in your services. I’ve talked to those guys in the Special Investigation Branch and they say it’s pretty much impossible to stop. You arrest one thief and two more take his place.’

‘The only thing that concerns me right now is these hand guns,’ McMillan said. ‘One in particular and what it’s done.’ He pushed a file across the desk. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

He drank his tea and glanced at Lottie as Ellison skimmed the sheets.

‘Two common factors,’ the captain said when he’d finished. ‘Both in the service, both shot.’

‘Three. Both the bodies were at Kirkstall Abbey. It’s a ruin,’ he explained, ‘an old monastery. One was killed there, the other dumped in the grounds.’

‘Is that important, do you think?’ Ellison asked sharply.

‘I have no idea,’ McMillan told him.

‘Look, I was a cop before I joined the army. Back in Seattle. A lieutenant, detective.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘I’ve seen murders before.’

‘Anything like this?’

‘No, sir.’

He was trying, Lottie thought. And there was something about him; he seemed like a inherently decent man.

‘I have someone running round killing girls. Two of them in two days. The murderer could be anyone – British, American. I’ve got nothing to go on. Nothing at all.’ McMillan cocked his head. ‘You say were a copper. What would you do?’

‘Well…’ Ellison stroked his chin. ‘I’d be using my informers. And I guess I’d try and get someone on the American side to follow things from there.’

‘I have people talking to the snouts. Grasses, informers,’ he explained when the other man look confused.

‘I can try to help from our end,’ Ellison said.

‘I’ll take anything I can get at this stage.’

‘What would make sense is a co-ordinated operation, Chief Superintendent.’

‘John. I never liked being called by my rank.’

‘John.’ Ellison nodded and smiled. ‘I’m Cliff.’

Cliff, Lottie thought. Clifford. Why did Americans have such strange names? Bing. Clark. It sounded like they’d made them up on the spot.

‘If you can help me catch my killer, I’ll be grateful.’

‘No promises, but I’ll do what I can.’ He gestured at the file. ‘Is there any chance I can get a copy of that?’

‘I’ll have one sent to you.’

‘I saw something about a house in there. Where is it?’

‘My evidence people have gone over it.’ McMillan hesitated a moment. ‘I thought it had something to do with the murders, but it seems I was wrong.’

‘Hunch?’ He nodded. ‘We all have them. I’d still like to take a look at the place. It says in there that an American was looking at the place and there was one of our Jeeps.’

‘OK. Lottie can drive you. It’s easier than giving directions.’

She was taken by surprise. He’d never offered her services to anyone before; Ellison was honoured and he didn’t even know it.

‘Of course, sir,’ she said.

 

‘Lottie?’ he asked as she weaved through traffic on the Headrow, past the Town Hall steps where she’d heard Mr Churchill speak a couple of years before. ‘Is that short for something?’

‘Charlotte, sir.’

‘And WAPC?’ He read the letters off her shoulder flash. ‘What’s that?’

‘Women’s Auxiliary Police Corps.’ She glanced in the mirror and smiled. ‘Not a proper copper.’

‘So you’re his driver?’

‘And dogsbody. Conscience, too, if he needs one. We’ve actually known each other for years. It’s a bit of a long story.’ One she wasn’t about to spill to a complete stranger. ‘You said you’re from Seattle. Where’s that?’

‘Kind of the top left hand corner of the country.’ Ellison gazed out at the clouds and the green of Woodhouse Moor. ‘The climate’s pretty much like England, really.’

‘Is it really all cowboys out there?’

He began to laugh so hard Lottie thought she’d need to park and thump him on the back. Finally he stopped, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his eyes.

‘Sorry, but you Brits…’ He took a breath. ‘Really, that’s all history. Seattle’s a big city.’ He looked out of the car window. ‘More modern than this. Newer.’

‘We have history,’ she said defensively. ‘A lot of it.’

By the time she parked at the end of Shire Oak Road she’d learned that he was forty-three, had a degree in history and he’d spent eighteen years in the police. Divorced with a pair of children. Americans were always so open about themselves; she’d noticed that before.

‘Have you been inside the house?’

‘With the superintendent. We did the first search.’

He looked at her more carefully. ‘You’re more than just an auxiliary, aren’t you?’

‘Not really.’ She smiled. ‘I was a real policewoman once. That’s all.’

Ellison gave her a curious look.

‘OK. So show me round.’

There really was nothing to see. Everything had been taken for examination, fingerprint dust over most of the surfaces. She pointed out where things had been as he listened attentively, then left him to poke around the place. Maybe he’d spot something they’d missed.

‘The old guy next door?’ Ellison asked when he’d finished.

‘You’ll need to talk to the Chief Super about him.’ She repeated the man’s claim.

‘Definitely an American star on the Jeep?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Hmm.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. Is there somewhere we can eat?’

‘I think we can find a place,’ Lottie told him with a grin. ‘Come with me.’

Charlie Brett’s had been on North Lane for years, so long that the grease must have soaked into the walls. Fish and chips, about the only food that wasn’t rationed these days. And they did them well here. She and Geoff would cycle to Headingley to eat. Lean against the wall outside, enjoy the meal with a bottle of Tizer while they watched people go past.

‘You know,’ he said as she led him along the path to the old cottage that housed Brett’s, ‘I’ve been here six months and I’ve never eaten this stuff. We had a place back home selling fish and chips for a while but it closed down. Ivar’s’

‘Then it’s time you found out what the real thing is like.’

 

‘That’s not too bad.’ He sounded surprised. At least he’d been chivalrous enough to pay.

‘Well, if you want to understand the English, you’d better enjoy it,’ she said. ‘This is more or less our national dish. With lots of salt and vinegar.’

‘I can’t see it going over big in our mess, but it’s tasty,’ Ellison said. ‘What’s your take on these killings?’

‘Me?’ Lottie was astonished he wanted her opinion.

‘Yes, you.’ He grinned, showing those white teeth again. ‘Come on, you’re more than a driver, you’ve said that. You must have an opinion.’

She allowed herself a smile for a second, then her face turned serious.

‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ Lottie sighed. ‘And I’ve no idea if the Shire Oak Road house is even involved in anything. The boss thinks it is but there’s no real evidence.’

‘Hunches are important to cops.’

‘But they’re not infallible.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But if he feels it that strongly…’

‘We’ll see.’ This conversation would just take them in a circle. Time to change the subject. ‘What’s Seattle like?’

‘Pretty,’ he told her after a moment. ‘There’s water on one side and mountains on the other.’ He scrambled in his pocket, brought out a wallet and dug through for photographs. ‘That’s my house.’

She’d never known anyone who carried a picture of his house. It seemed such a strange thing. People, event pets. But never a house. Still, he was far from home, divorced. Maybe it gave him a kind of anchor. It looked to be a pleasant enough place, a wooden bungalow, a large car sitting next to it in the drive.

‘I don’t live in Seattle itself,’ he explained. ‘I’m across Elliott Bay in West Seattle. Long drive round, but it’s nice and peaceful.’

But Lottie was looking at the two other photos that had come out.

‘Are those your children?’

He laid them out on the table and his voice softened. ‘Yeah. Jimmy’s in eighth grade. I’m just hoping all this is over before he’s old enough to be drafted.’

‘It will be,’ she said with certainty. ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’

‘Karen. After my mom. She’s in sixth grade. I get letters from them but it’s not the same. How about you, you have kids?’

‘No. My husband was wounded in the last war. We couldn’t.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He narrowed his eyes a little. ‘What does he do?’

‘He died five years ago. Heart attack.’ It didn’t feel so painful to say these days. Not when so many others had lost family to much worse.

‘That’s terrible.’

‘It happens.’ She pushed the empty plate away and drank the rest of her tea. ‘Come on, I’d better get back or he’ll have me before a firing squad.’

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Storytime Live – Joanne Harris

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

There is a story the bees used to tell, which makes it hard to disbelieve…

Writers enjoy new ways to engage audiences, fresh ways of working that can sometimes take advantage of all the ways of communicating that have sprung up over the last decade. But communicating is the operative word. That’s what we do: we tell stories and communicate. Joanne Harris is one of the best at that, and she’s managed to turn Twitter into an art form with her #storytime stories. For those who don’t know, these are stories told live in 140-character segments. They continue the traditional art of storytelling (and often uses folklore and the oral story tradition as its base) in a digital age. They’re dark fairytales, sometimes allegories, and they’ve proved so popular that there will be a book containing many of them in about 12 months, with illustrations by Charles Vess.

And why not? After all, everyone loves a story.

But she’s gone further than that with Storytime Live, mixing these stories with music from her band of 30 years (husband Kevin Harris on drums, percussion and vocals; Paul Marshall on keyboards, guitar, and vocals, and Matt Cundy drafted in to cover Joanne’s usual bass slot and effects, while Joanne handles the stories, flute, and vocals), along with song and visuals. It’s a multi-media experiment, a great leap into the unknown. There have been a few performances, and the effect is utterly magical. It’s as intimate as sitting in your living room and also completely immersive. Joanne was gracious enough to answer some questions about this new venture.

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picture by Claire Shovelton

Joanne Harris: We tend to associate storytelling with children. I don’t think that’s the way it was always seen. These are alternative traditional stories; they’re all new. I didn’t want to start them with ‘Once upon a time’ because that’s done so often, so I came up with my own beginning.

What made you want to expand into something live, with music?

JH: I think it comes down to the oral storytelling tradition. Music and stories are very close together in the folkloric tradition of the British Isles. I thought it would be quite nice to give it that other dimension. Besides, I’ve been in this band for a long time and we’ve had a lot of different projects. Plenty of them have been on the verge of theatre in one way or another. It seemed a very natural progression to make, so I thought we’ll try it and see what comes of it. It actually works pretty well. There was some resistance from our keyboard player who felt it would be like a kids’ programme like Jackanory. But eventually it turned out to be something none of us expected and it continues to build. It’s very much its infancy.

The nature of the performance places you very much front and centre.

JH: I hadn’t expected that, I wasn’t used to that. It’s been a bit of a learning curve for me. We did think about me playing bass and flute and singing and telling the stories, but that would be too much. It’s hard enough to get me to sing and play bass at the same times; that very rarely happens. Instead we brought in Matt, who does a very good job. He’s on a learning curve, too. He’s much younger than the rest of us, he doesn’t have the sort of history we had. But he’s full of ideas, he’s very different to me in style and he’s brought a lot of new things to the table. He’s given a whole new dynamic to the bassline.

How do you work out the arrangements, the music to use, and the balance between the different elements of story, music, and song?

JH: I’ll send Paul the story and the song lyrics that go with them first and he’ll see what suggests itself. Then he comes with a rough version of something musically. He’ll have some of his keyboard parts down, then we bring it into the practice room and play around with it, and it evolves a shape. In some ways it’s a little easier, because the story is there and the feel is there. With songs it can be a challenge for an audience to process the music they don’t know, but with Storytime Live they’re fed different versions of the musical themes throughout the story and when they listen to the song it’s not unfamiliar any more.

How did it feel the first time you performed Storytime Live in front of an audience?

JH: It was very daunting. This isn’t a familiar role to me and not one I was made for. When we’ve performed as a band before I’ve tended to sit at the back and play bass, and occasionally pop forward and play flute. That’s fine. We never had a front person as such and now I am one. I’m getting used to it little by little.

How full-on do you want to be with this? What are the plans?

JH: I yet have to learn this. What I had in mind initially was once the book is out, the band could do some festivals and tour, and it would be different from the usual author appearances and reading from the book; it would add a different dimension to all that. It would partly show the way the book evolved and what I’ve brought from the oral tradition and folklore and music to put into this. So far we’re practicing and building the show. Hopefully we’ll be recording a CD; people have asked about that whenever we’ve played. And I hope at some point I’ll be able to put something online that isn’t a bad live recording of our first gig. Yes, we’re still making it up as we go along but that’s part of the fun. Things change all the time.

Is it as enjoyable and fulfilling as you’d hoped?

JH: It’s daunting and hard work, much harder than appearing and just reading from my book, but it’s great fun and rewarding. For a start, it’s good for a writer who works in isolation to be able to do something creative with other people and I’ve found various outlets. But this feels like a project close to home and my heart and I hopefully have some control over it. It’s time-consuming, hard work, and a little bit terrifying, but mostly lots of fun.

But you get to combine two of your passions, stories and music.

JH: Exactly! What’s not to love? It’s combining lots of things I love doing in one package. and I get to work with my husband and the band I’ve been in since I was 16. We haven’t done much live performance in the past, but maybe we’re correcting that. At 16 I thought music was where I was heading. It’s taken a little while, but…

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picture by Jonathan Jacobs

Combining these things seems like a natural extension of what you do, certainly in this context.

JH: I’m surprised writers don’t do this more, working with musicians. I know some have, but as far as I’m aware, none of them have written their own material. I know a lot of authors who play in bands, but they don’t often combine it with their books. It’s a great outlet and writing isn’t so far from music. If I had unlimited resources for Storytime Live I’d love to have more visual stuff and ideally dancers and fire eaters and jugglers. I’d like to take this to a more theatrical level, but given the resources…it would need a big venue. And it would be a big commitment of time.

To learn more about #storytime, go here. And for video of the Storytime Band’s first show, click here. You can follow Joanne Harris on Twitter @JoanneChocolat to experience #storytime for yourself (and you should).