Tag: leeds

Another Day

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized1 Comment

Well, the global streamed launch for Two Bronze Pennies is two days away, and this is your final reminder (promiise!). All you need to do is click  https://www.concertwindow.com/89118-chris-nickson   to take part. No registration, no pack drill. 6 pm Sunday UK time, 1 pm Eastern US, 10 am West Coast, 7 or 8 pm in Europe. I hope you’ll log in, even if it’s just for five minutes – it’ll only be about 45 minutes in total.

To sweeten the deal, and try to persuade you, I’m going to tempt you with a brand new Tom Harper story. Can’t say fairer than that, can I? Call it something for the long weekend – and please, enjoy.

He finally found the woman at half-past five on a cold November evening. She was sitting on the pavement, knees clasped against her chest like a small child. Right there on Briggate, in the very centre of Leeds, people moved around her without noticing, without caring, just an impediment as they made their way home.

Detective Inspector Tom Harper bent down next to her.

‘Ada?’ he asked and she turned her head slowly, as if she’d been off and away, thinking of other things.

‘Hello luv,’ she said. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No,’ he told her with a smile, ‘but everyone’s been looking for you. Do you think you can stand up?’

It had started twelve hours before, when a woman had dashed out of her house off St. Peter’s Place. Not even light yet but she was yelling, ‘Mam! Mam! Where are you?’ until the copper on the beat came running.

‘You’ll have the whole street up,’ he told her. ‘What’s the matter? Where’s Ada gone?’

‘If I knew I wouldn’t be shouting for her, would I?’ She gave him a withering look and started to shiver. Just a thin dress with a shawl caught around her shoulders to keep out the winter cold. No stockings, just a pair of clogs on her bare feet. ‘I woke up and looked in on her and she’d gone.’

He looked at her. Constable Earnshaw had been fifteen years on the force, the last five of them around here. It was a poor area, no more than a loud shout from the nick down at Millgarth. Filled with rooming houses, the Mission, a run-down Turkish bathhouse in among the back-to-backs. Too many people crammed into houses that needed to be torn down. But it was what they could afford.

‘Outhouse?’ he asked.

‘I already looked,’ Millie Walker told him. She shook her head, wrapped her arms around herself, trying not to cry. ‘She’s gone again.’

The first time had been the year before. Ada Taylor was old, half-blind, spending more hours lost in the past than she did in the present. She talked to her husband, dead for nigh on twenty years, as if she could see him right there in the room, and to Dollie, Millie’s younger sister who hadn’t lived past the age of eight. Sometimes she was fine, making as much sense as anyone, cackling with the other women who gathered on the doorsteps and gossiped. But when her mind slipped, no one knew how long before it would return. Or even if it would come back.

Everyone in the area kept an eye out for her, leading her back home if she began to wander. One day, though, she managed to just disappear, gone for an hour as people searched, until they found her down by Marsh Lane, standing and talking to someone that no other person could see, calling him granddad, listening to the answers only she could hear.

There’d been two other occasions since. Once at the start of spring, when someone finally spotted her over on Kirkgate, so soaked after a heavy shower of rain that Millie was scared her mother would take a chill and die. Then in the summer when she ended up on the river bank – and God only knew how she’d walked so far with bad knees and swollen ankles – just sitting with her legs dangling and smiling up at the blue sky.

This time, though, there was no telling how long she’d been gone.

‘I felt the sheets in her bed,’ Millie said, ‘and they were cold. Like ice.’ She was trying to keep her face steady and her voice strong. The weather had been bitter the last few days, she could almost taste the snow in the air, along with all the soot and the stink.

‘You get the people out around here,’ Earnshaw told her. ‘Go all around. I’ll get the bobbies out.’ He waited until she gave him a short nod then turned on his heel and dashed away.

Harper was at the station just before the shift changed at six. All the night men looking ready for their beds, faces red with the cold. And the ones on days looking glum at the idea of twelve hours out in the weather.

‘Sir?’

He looked up, setting aside the report he was writing.

‘Morning, Victor. Time to go home for you, isn’t it?’

They knew each other; Earnshaw had shown him some of the ropes when he’d been a recruit, in the days when he’d been too eager to please and believed everything anyone told him. The older man had helped him quickly rub off some of the green and give him an edge.

‘Not this morning, sir. I’ve got something. And old woman who’s vanished in the night. She’s a bit, well, you know.’

‘How long’s she been gone?’

‘Anytime up to eight hours, sir. That’s the problem. She’s done it before, an’ all.’ He explained quickly, giving a short description of the woman. ‘I thought I’d go back and help out if I can.’

‘What do you need?’

‘I know you get out and about. If you can pass the word, please, sir. I’ve let Sergeant Tollman know. Everyone’s going to be watching for her.’

‘I will,’ Harper promised.

‘Bless you, sir. A few of the lads are going to come with me. Happen we’ll find her soon.’

By dinnertime there was no sign of her.

Harper had had a full morning trying to track a thief who’d broken into at least twenty houses. He had the man’s name, but he’d gone to ground somewhere, nowhere to be found. It was a time to go around the pubs and corners, to ask his quiet questions and mention Ada Taylor as he was leaving. Half the men he talked to couldn’t care – they could trip over her and not give a damn – but others nodded with serious eyes. They their mams and their nanas.

To mke it worse, he was working alone; Sergeant Reed was in court, giving evidence in a fraud case and likely to be there all day and half the next.

At three the word reached him. The man he wanted was hiding in an empty cellar on Commercial Street. Sold out for three shillings, and the inspector paid it gladly.

The only way in was a set of steps off Packhorse Yard. At the top he took a deep breath and moved as quietly as possible, keeping one hand against the wall to steady himself. Under his boots he could feel the stone, greasy and slick. One slip and he’d tumble all the way down.

The door at the bottom was pulled to, but gave when he pushed lightly on it. The day was already near dusk, the light dim. Inside it would be black.

God alone knew what the man had in there to protect himself. And all detectives carried were their police whistles. It was going to be bluff.

With a kick, he rattled the door back off the wall.

‘Police, Jem.’ He let his voice ring out. ‘I’ve got three coppers out here who are cold and angry. They wouldn’t mind warming themselves up on you. It’s your choice.’

If he’d been given the wrong information he’d look a right bloody fool. And he’d be getting his money back from someone, no mistake on that.

He waited, flexing his hands into fists. Ready. Harper knew his hearing was poor, all down to a blow six years before. The man could be creeping across the floor right now and he might not even know it.

Then the face was there in the doorway. Dirty, hair ragged, a weeping sore filling one cheek. The inspector grabbed him, turned the man against the wall and snapped on the handcuffs on tight.

One thing done, at least.

Writing out the report took an hour, but at least there was a good coal fire burning in the office. No sign of Ada Taylor, though. The word that she was still missing had rippled through the station. He could only imagine the thoughts going through her daughter’s mind.

Ten past five and the door opened suddenly, Tollman peering through.

‘Disturbance, sir. Corner of Briggate and Boar Lane. Sounds like they need all the help they can get.’

Harper ran, panting, but it was still three full minutes to reach the scene. Traffic was stopped, omnibuses, carts, and trams all one behind the other. There had to be fifteen coppers already there, truncheons out, herding two groups of youths apart and cracking a head or two. All over bar the shouting and the arrests.

In the November darkness it was time to call it a night. And that was when he saw Ada Taylor.

He helped her up. She was cold, shaky, but she could shuffle along if she clung tight to his arm.

‘You’re like Bert,’ she told him with a coy expression. For a moment the years parted and he could see the pretty young girl she’d been so long ago. ‘You should have seen Bert. He was good-looking, too. I should never have turned him away for Eddie. I’d have had handsome children then.’

The cocoa house was nearby. He helped her inside and bought her a cup, watching as she gazed around the place, not saying a word, drinking with dainty sips.

‘Come on, we’d better get you home,’ he said finally. ‘Your daughter must be beside herself with worry.’

‘I can see your fortune,’ Ada said. It came out of the blue and took him by surprise. The voice didn’t even sound like hers. It was darker, graver, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Her eyes seemed to be staring at something far away. ‘You’re never going to be a rich man unless you do one thing.’

He’d play along, he thought. Who knew what was going on inside her head?

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

But as quickly as it arrive, the moment passed. The confusion had returned to her face.

‘Who are you again?’ she asked, sounding like an old woman once more.

‘Someone who’s getting you home. There’s bound to be a hackney outside. You fancy a ride in that, Mrs. Taylor?’

It was the best part of seven o’clock before he climbed the stairs at the Victoria. A long day, but then they all were. Still, he had a thief ready to go to trial and there was someone back with her family. He’d experienced worse.

‘Tom?’ Annabelle called from the kitchen as he opened the door.

He walked in and put his arms around her.

‘Busy day?’ he asked.

‘No more than usual. You look all in.’ She stroked his hair.

‘It was interesting,’ he said. ‘I almost found out how to be rich.’

‘What?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t be so daft. What on earth are you talking about?’

He smiled.

‘Honestly,’ he told here, ‘I wish I knew.’

Go on, have a listen

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

The best way to enjoy a book is to feel part of it, to be immersed in it. Well, that’s how it works for me.

With that in mind, here’s a teaser from Two Bronze Pennies, just enough to whet your appetites, I hope, and all read by my own fair larynx.

https://soundcloud.com/chris-nickson-5/tbp

Go on, have a listen.

And after that you can buy it here – the best price I’ve seen – with free worldwide delivery.

And of course, don’t miss the online global launch, 6pm UK time, Sunday May 24. Click the link below and you’re in. No leaving home, no getting dressed up. Read all about it here.

https://www.concertwindow.com/89118-chris-nickson

The Cloth Searcher – 1590

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

‘Hoping is not enough, sir!’ Randall Tenche berated the younger man. ‘You have to act with certainty. Certainty!’

Ebenezer Lister was sweating inside his doublet. It wasn’t just the warm July weather. He’d been nervous about reporting his doubts to Tenche, knowing how excitable and precise the man could be.

It wasn’t as if he wanted the duty of Cloth Searcher. And by rights he shouldn’t have had it. But with Tenche so often gone from Leeds these days, it had to fall on someone. The merchants had elected him as Tenche’s deputy in the post of Cloth Searcher. So, each Tuesday and Saturday morning that Tenche was away, Lister was on Leeds Bridge, examining the lengths of woven cloth displayed for sale on the parapets.

The office brought great responsibility. If Leeds was ever going to be a force in the wool market, the merchants argued, if it was ever going to be greater than York or Beverley, then the quality of the cloth had to be the highest. Unassailable. And so the cloth searcher inspected each piece to make sure it met the standards – and they were high. Any not deemed adequate were rejected.

Yesterday Lister has passed a piece that might not have been good enough. He had his doubts but he’d let it go because it wasn’t sure. Tenche hadn’t been here – he’d been on the road, coming back from Wollaton in Nottinghamshire. Now Lister had confessed his fault and he was feeling the sharp edge of Tenche’s tongue.

He stood and took it, knowing he’d done the wrong thing.

‘God in heaven, man. Don’t you want Leeds to have the best reputation in England?’

‘Of course.’ Lister swallowed.

‘Who bought the piece?’

‘Mr. Atkinson.’

‘I’ll go and see him later. If it’s not good enough, perhaps we can recompense him and it can just vanish. Who was the clothier?’

‘Thompson. From Whitkirk.’

‘I know him,’ Tenche said with a nod. ‘He’s always been a sly devil. I’ve had to refuse his work before.’ He sighed. ‘Never mind, never mind. Just be more careful next time.’

‘Will you be here for Saturday’s market, sir?’

Tenche fixed him with a stare.

‘I think I’d better make sure I am, don’t you?’

Alone, Randall Tenche paced around the room. His strongbox sat in once corner. He knew to the last farthing what lay inside. Always be certain of what you have; that was what his father had drummed into him, and he’d lived by it. The knowledge let him know what risks he could afford to take.

Bidding on the tapestry work the year before had been the biggest chance yet. So far it had paid off handsomely. £50 per annum from Sir Francis Willoughby at Wollaton Hall to execute on cloth the designs a painter created. Handsome money.

He’d been able to pursue the opportunity after two Flemish refugees came to Leeds and asked him for work. All he’d had to offer them was weaving, and they did a good job at that, both of them employing their families to help. But their experience was tapestry work; Flanders was renowned for that.

He stored the fact at the back of his mind. When he heard that Sir Francis was seeking tapestry makers he’d written the man a letter, explaining that he had the workers and imploring Sir Francis to enquire about his reputation. There was no man more honest that Randall Tenche. Everyone in Leeds said so.

After some negotiations he’d signed the contract. A huge sum for himself and six shillings and eight pence to each of the workers for every tapestry. His workers would create them in wool and silk, however Sir Francis demanded. Everything from dyeing and spinning to weaving. And they’d done it all very well; Sir Francis was pleased with the result, displaying them in the rooms at Wollaton Hall.

But on this last trip he’d had a new request: along with the silk Willoughby wanted the tapestry picked out in gold. It was in the contract, Tenche knew that, but this was the first time the man had invoked it.

‘I want something grand,’ Sir Francis told him. ‘Something fit…for a queen.’ And he’d let the words slowly settle.

So that was it. He was expecting Her Majesty to visit Wollaton Hall and he wanted a gift for her. He’d brought back the sketch, a woodland scene with nymphs and deer. Crudely drawn, but the weavers could make art out of it.

The door opened and Catherine, the servant, entered.

‘Mrs Tenche wants me to tell you it’s time for dinner, sir.’

‘Very well. I’ll be along shortly.’

She left and he sat at his desk for a moment. Where in the name of God was he going to find gold thread in Leeds?

‘You’ve been restive since you came back yesterday,’ Meg observed as he pushed the food around the pewter plate. ‘Don’t waste it. That’s good beef. I selected it at the Shambles myself.’

She was a prim woman, always cautious of luxury, even though they could well afford a good life. Meg always dressed plainly, as if all the extravagant silks in a gown could bring sin and danger on her. Every Sunday she attended the Parish Church faithfully. Not simply the morning service that he snored through, but all three during the day, dragging their children along with her.

His son Nicholas was wolfing down his food. Fourteen now, he’d been leaving for the Lowlands in another month. Tenche had arranged the boy’s apprenticeship with a merchant there. Let him learn that end of the business. He’d already been working in Leeds for three years, since he left the Grammar School, and he knew it as well as anyone. By the time he was ready to take over from his father he’d have a thorough understanding of how everything worked. And he’d have contacts. Contacts, they were the invaluable thing about business. Not what you knew but who you knew. Nicholas would do well. His head was firmly on his shoulders.

His daughter, Hannah, though, she was a different matter. She seemed to have no interest in anything. When pressed by her mother, she’d embroider a little, putting the needle aside as soon as she could. She was a year younger than her brother, pretty enough, Tenche supposed. He wondered if he might find a suitable husband for her soon. At least she wouldn’t be brooding around his house then.

‘The meal’s fine.’ He took a bite, chewing slowly to illustrate his enjoyment, and followed it with a gulp of wine. ‘I need to go,’ he said as he stood from the table. ‘I have an appointment.’

Dieter and Josef were brothers. They’d made their way to Leeds from Flanders together, wives and children travelling with them. They shared an old house near the top of Vicar Lane, looms set up on the ground floor, everyone living higgledy-piggledy upstairs. It seemed an odd arrangement to Tenche, but they were content enough with it.

He gave them the drawing, listening as they made their suggestions and pointed out what might work and what wouldn’t. Finally he said,

‘This is meant as a gift for Queen Elizabeth,’ and that left them quiet. ‘It needs to be the best you’ve ever made.’

‘It will be,’ Josef assured him. Over the last three years his voice had taken on the Leeds vowels to mix with his guttural speech. It wasn’t attractive. ‘The best ever.’

‘There’s one more thing,’ Tenche told them. ‘Sir Francis wants gold thread worked in to this.’

‘That won’t be easy,’ Josef said after some thought. ‘We’ve worked in gold before, a long time ago. It’s very delicate. Very expensive, too.’

‘Sir Francis understands that. He’s paying us a little extra.’

‘Good, good.’ Josef nodded approvingly.

‘Where will we find the thread?’ Dieter asked, sitting on the bench with his mug of ale. He drank all through the day but he was always in control of himself, hands steady and mind alert. He was the quieter brother, rarely speaking. ‘I’ve never seen any gold thread here.’

‘Nor have I,’ Tenche admitted. ‘I hoped you might know.’

‘York,’ Dieter told him. ‘Isn’t that where your archbishop lives? All those rich garments, they must have it for sale there.’

Tenche smiled.

‘Of course. I’ll go there tomorrow.’

He felt relieved. One problem solved.

‘Buy the best quality,’ Josef advised. ‘If you don’t, it will just snap.’

‘I will.’ It was for the Queen. He wasn’t going to cut corners there.

Atkinson was in his warehouse behind the big house on Briggate. As long as there was daylight, that was where he spent his time. Often long past that, too, his servant almost having to drag him in to supper with his family.

He was a man of profit. Atkinson lived for the excellent bargain and the well-struck deal that brought him good money. He revelled in it. In his forties, hair gone grey, he walked with a small stoop, his face always serious, his gaze forever searching around.

‘Tenche,’ he said. It was his normal greeting, terse and non-committal. ‘How was Nottinghamshire?’

‘Fine.’ He wasn’t about to say much. Keep your mouth closed, his father had also said, and it too had proved to be powerful advice over the years.

‘We missed you at the market yesterday.’

‘I heard you bought some cloth.’

‘Bought and already sold. A fair price for it, too.’ Atkinson gave a satisfied smile. ‘Shipping it out in the morning.’

‘There might be a problem, sir. Mr Lister came to see me this morning. He has his doubts about the quality of the cloth you purchased.’

‘Doubts?’ The word seemed to confuse him. ‘What kind of doubts? He passed it. He never said a word to me.’

‘He thinks he might have acted rashly, that it might not be good enough.’

‘Too late now.’ Atkinson waved the idea away. ‘It’s bought and paid for.’

‘I’d still like to look at it, if you’d be so good…’

‘No,’ the man said firmly. ‘I spent half the morning packing it. I’m not going to get it out again just because young Lister can’t make up his mind. If he doesn’t know how to be a cloth searcher, maybe we need someone else.’ He stared at Tenche. ‘Or one who’s always here for the markets.’

‘You know the reason I was away,’ Tenche said.

‘You’ve been gone a great deal in the last year.’ Atkinson seemed to warm to his idea. ‘It’s not good enough.’

‘It’s business, Hezekiah.’ He tried to make his tone friendly.

‘No doubt it is,’ Atkinson said with a quick nod. ‘But there’s business here, too, and that’s a damned sight more important to me.’

‘Let me at least take a look at the cloth. The reputation of Leeds stands on everything we send out.’

‘Your fellow passed it, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Tenche agreed cautiously. ‘But-’

‘No buts.’ Atkinson slammed his fist down on the desk. The noise rattled through the warehouse. ‘He passed it. If he’s having second thoughts now, it’s too late. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Absolutely, Hezekiah.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘But remember: the trade here is still young. We’ve worked hard to gain a reputation. All of us. It wouldn’t take much for it to vanish.’

‘Then perhaps the cloth searcher should do his job thoroughly and not rely so much on someone who’s little more than a boy.’ Atkinson glowered at him. ‘That cloth leaves tomorrow, and damn the man who tries to stop it.’

Tenche turned away, bidding the man good day. He could argue until his face was blue but he’d have no joy here. Atkinson was determined and Tenche had no power to stop things. The man was right; if Lister had passed the cloth, there was nothing more to be done, and Atkinson had never been a man to care about right or wrong, not when he weighed it against profit.

He knew that for the next fortnight he’d spend every night tossing and turning each night, hoping the quality of the cloth was enough and that the buyers were satisfied. Only then would he be able to sleep properly. Ultimately the responsibility was his. He’d taken on the job of cloth searcher. It had been an honour, one he’d sought, and he’d neglected it.

No more. He’d make sure he was at the cloth markets. Each Tuesday and Saturday on the bridge, Lister with him until he was certain he could trust the lad.

Historical Note: Randall Tenche was indeed deemed an honest many by everyone. His contract with Sir Francis Willoughby was very lucrative – £50 was a huge sum in Elizabethan times – and he made sure everything was executed well. He was also the cloth searcher for Leeds. It was an honorary position, given to someone who could be trusted. The searcher inspected the cloth for sale at the market and rejected anything not considered good enough. It was a way of making sure Leeds only sold high quality cloth, giving it the reputation to surpass other towns.

I Predict A Riot – A Short Story

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

Today, as Two Bronze Pennies is published, might be a good time to post this, a short story set a little later than the 1890/91 of the novel. But still in the Jewish are of Leeds known as they Leylands.

On the nights of third and fourth of June, 1917, large gangs invaded the Leylands – the area where most of Leeds’ Jews lived. – in an anti-Semitic riot They caused plenty of damage, but the Jews did fight back. The estimate from the police is that up to a thousand people were involved. There was no repeat on the third night as the police flooded the area with constables, and no more real incidents to follow.

The first night took us by surprise. We all knew something was going to happen – everywhere we went in Leeds it seemed as if we’d heard something saying ‘Jew this,’ ‘kike that,’ ‘yid something else.’ But we hadn’t expected them to come through the Leylands, breaking windows, daubing their hatred in paint on our walls, and ready for a fight. They beat old Mr. Kazinsky until he bled and left him lying on the street.

The baker, the tailors, the little shops on the corners, they looted them all. And it wasn’t just a few of them who came; they arrived in their hundreds. As soon as we heard the noise, we dashed out, still in our braces and shirts. We grabbed what we could – sticks, stones, bottles, anything – to defend what was ours.

But the first night we never stood a chance. There were just too many of them. Not just young men, but miners and older folk who should have known better. And where were the police?

They came when it was all over. Of course.

When the morning came we counted the cost. Seven in hospital, but they’d all survive, thank God. At least another twenty hurt. More windows broken than people could count. Women worked out on the pavement, heads bowed in sorrow as they swept up the pieces of glass that glinted in the June sun.

‘Jews are cowards.’

Someone had painted that, some bastard who could have been on the front line himself, in a trench. Let him tell that to the two brothers of mine who were dead in France or Belgium, or somewhere like that. The War Office had never told us exactly where they fell. Or they could say it to the other Jews who’d joined the Leeds Pals and lost their lives on the Somme last year.

The old folk here felt the fear from the night. They’d seen it before in the pogroms that made them flee their homes and come to England. They believed they’d be safe here. Now they were busy repacking old suitcases, sorting out the little things they wanted to take, preparing for a new journey, a new life somewhere else. A place where hope might grow.

But for the rest of us, Leeds was the only home we’d ever known. We spoke Yiddish, but that was only at home. In town it was all English, sounding as Yorkshire as anyone.

This was our land, too, and we’d be damned if we’d let a bunch of thugs push us off it. We were proud of the place. I’d even wanted to put on a uniform and fight for the King, but my father wouldn’t allow it.

‘Moishe and Abraham are dead,’ he told me in his slow, sad voice, looking at the photographs of them lovingly displayed on the mantel. ‘I’m not going to lose all my sons.’

So while another generation cleared up the debris and trembled, we made our plans. They’d return. If you were Jewish, you knew that; it was deep inside. Once the blood lust rose, they returned. That was history.

We met in the ginnel behind Sam Cohen’s sweatshop. There was no sound of sewing machines from inside. People should have been working, but no one had the heart for it today. They were looking ahead and making plans with fearful eyes.

About twenty of us gathered. David was the leader. A good Jewish name for someone in command, I thought. He was eighteen, big and strong, the kind of person who had the kind of quality you just wanted to follow. He wouldn’t fight for the flag until they conscripted him, but he’d fight for our piece of this city.

‘Ben,’ he nodded as he saw me. I was fourteen, but tall for my age, and he could see the anger burning in my eyes. I knew all the faces there. Not just the boys, but the girls, too. This was their battle as much as ours, and everyone was welcome. We didn’t even need to say it.

David had his two lieutenants, Isaac and Adam. Isaac was a fat boy with spots on his face who waddled rather than walked. But he had a quick mind. He understood things without even seeming to try, one of those who hardly needed to try in school. And there was Adam. He was a fighter. A year younger than me, but I didn’t know anyone who’d dare go up against him. Together, they’d help us win.

‘They’ll be back tonight,’ David said, and we all agreed. ‘Isaac’s had a few ideas…’

They waited until long after dark, until they’d had time to drink down their courage. I’d been sent down to the bottom of Poland Street to be a lookout. It wasn’t dangerous work. I’d grown up here, I knew all the back ways around, and I could run fast. Especially if someone was after me.

In the end I heard them before I saw them. Swearing and shouting, some of them singing “Tipperary” like an army on its way to war. If you’re that keen, join up, I thought bitterly. See how you like the real thing. But they’d be discovering what war was like soon enough.

There were plenty of them, even more than the night before, I could see that. As soon as they came into view I dashed off to give the warning. David gave his instructions. It seemed as if everyone in the Leylands under the age of twenty-five was ready to fight. This time the bastards wouldn’t find it as easy.

A few people stayed in view, just as Adam planned it. Enough to tempt them on, but able to scatter quickly before they were hurt. We’d hidden little arsenals everywhere. Rocks, cobbles, stones. Heavy branches that we’d collected from the trees around Meanwood during the afternoon. We were going to use bits of Leeds to defeat them.

Some of our lads darted towards the invaders, throwing stones that deliberately fell short. It was enough to provoke them, to get them chasing the throwers, to draw them into our territory. They sprinted and our boys disappeared, vanishing down tiny entrances, over walls, through houses, until all the goys found themselves running along an empty street. The ones in front were halfway down when they began to wonder if something was wrong. Those farther back were busy smashing windows and yelling out their taunts. They weren’t thinking of anything but destruction.

We came at them from behind, throwing the rocks first, enough to send them running a little, so they all crowded together. They had their backs to us, turning as soon they heard our boots, some of them going down from the stones. They were armed with sticks, but so were we. And we weren’t afraid. We weren’t the type who thought that the only way to fight was by terrorising people in the night.

A few of them found their bravery and fought back. More of them were startled and bunching in on each other. They hadn’t reckoned on any resistance. In their minds, Jews really were cowards, we didn’t fight. But the surprise was just beginning. As they moved away down the street, bedroom windows opened and pans of hot water that the girls had been heating on their stoves were emptied on them. Hot enough to scald. That got them screaming.

One big goy had Adam pinned on the ground. He’d raised his stick, ready to bring it down, when my branch hit him hard in the back and he collapsed with a cry. Then we were kicking him, giving him bruises to remember for a few weeks.

There was blood running on pavement and men crouched, nursing their wounds, holding their heads and their arms. Some of theirs, some of ours. But the Jewish boys were quickly bustled away indoors, to any house where they could be tended.

We could hear the police whistles blowing from a quarter of a mile away. That was our signal. We melted away so quickly we might never have been a dream. A nightmare. We knew where to run, and before the coppers even arrived we were all back in our own houses, sitting as if nothing had happened.

We hurt, we had wounds, but we’d given better than we got. We’d won.

They ran right into the police when they tried to flee. Plenty arrested. A few unconscious on the cobbles. But no one was likely to die, thank God. No one would have wanted that on their conscience.

The next morning we all met again. No plans this time, but to celebrate. We’d seen them off. There was damage, a few shops looted, some windows broken. But nowhere near as bad as the night before.

We could still see the blood dried on the streets. Some of our boys showed off their injuries, trying to impress the girls.

‘They won’t be back,’ David announced. ‘They won’t want another beating.’

That night the police were out in force. If they’d done their job properly in the first place, there wouldn’t have been a problem. We wouldn’t have been forced to become the law.

People still looked at us in town. Some of theirs still spat. There was the odd scuffle. But the riots were over. It might not be peace in France, but it was closer to it in the Leylands.

In Memory of the Leylands – it’s not always about the Great and the Good

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized2 Comments

Cities change. It’s their nature. They grow. The old comes down and the new rises up, taller, grander, glossier than ever. We hang on to bits of our history as slender reminders but we junk most of our past as if it was rubbish.

And fine, there’s much that should go. The slums are a prime example, those Brutalist office buildings (what were we thinking?), the tower blocks of flats that stand like abominations and threats to the idea of community. But, and it’s a big but, when we tear them all do, we lose sight of who we were and how we got here.

Several months ago I took a walk around Hunslet, Cross Green and on to Marsh Lane in Leeds, on the trail of my ancestors, addresses from census records. Some of the houses still exist – inner city, you’d call them now – but many more have vanished. Big swathes of Hunslet are now for business, not housing (factories and houses used to stand cheek by jowl in the 19th and early 20th century). The old places that remain are derelict, boarded up.

My upcoming book, Two Bronze Pennies, takes place largely in the Leylands, an area that no longer exists on any map of Leeds (much like the place known as the Bank, now Richmond Hill). It runs in a triangle from an area more or less north of Eastgate, bounded on one side by North Street (give or take), and on the other by Regent Street, meeting close to Sheepscar. It was a working-class area, and when Jewish immigrants arrived, this was where they settled, to the degree that it was almost a ghetto. Yiddish was the lingua franca there, the common European Jewish tongue that people of all nationalities used.

They came…and came…and came. In the early years of the 20th century, more than 10,000 of them were packed into the area. Prejudice meant they were safer together. Most worked in tailoring, in the sweatshops dotted around the Leylands, sewing for 12 or 15 hours a day, most of the garments for the big manufacturers who didn’t want to employ Jews in their factories. Male, female, young, old, everyone worked.

Those who acquired some money moved a little farther from the city centre, into Chapteltown – then very genteel and after that to Moortown, Roundhay, and Alwoodley. The relentless march of the middle classes. But human nature means that not everyone is a success. We don’t all make money.

At that time Leeds’ money was still based on manufacturing. We’d been one of the cradles of the Industrial Revolution, one of the great cities of Empire. But one war saw the decline of much of that, and a second was the nail in the coffin. Look at the skyline now and it’s dominated by office buildings, not chimneys. The houses in the Leylands were classified as slums – and indeed, they were – and finally all tumbled down. Those still living there moved out to new housing estates. Better living, less community.

And all that ground? You won’t find any houses in it. That memory has gone with the bricks. It’s small industry these days. The cries of children yelling in Yiddish on the street are a distant echo of memory. The Polish synagogue, the Great synagogue – they just exist in tales now.

These days it’s…anonymous. Of course, much of Leeds is becoming that way. More shiny shopping for the consumer-led economic recovery.

But if you didn’t know about it, you wouldn’t have a clue now that the Leyland ever existed. It’s been neatly erased from history by the planners, and with it so much of the city’s history, and the fact that the area gave sanctuary to people fleeing pogroms and seeking hope, a better life that many found.

It’s as if those people sitting and working out how our cities should look forgot that the biggest contribution to life isn’t made the those considered to be the great and the good. How can we know where we’re going if we choose to forget the path that brought us here?

You can read about Two Bronze Pennies here or read an extract here.

Two Bronze Pennies – A Short Extract

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized3 Comments

You know – don’t you? – that my second Tom Harper novel, Two Bronze Pennies, comes out in the UK at the end of April (August/September elsewhere). Much of it is set in the Leylands, that area just north of the city centre where most of the Jewish immigrants settled when they came to Leeds.

Just to whet your appetite, here’s the opening few pages. Tom, Annabelle, Billy Reed, the Victoria – a dead body and men speaking in Yiddish. Go on, you know you want to….

One

‘Have you heard a word I said, Tom Harper?’

‘Of course I have.’ He stirred and stretched in the chair beside the fireplace. ‘You were talking about visiting your sister.’

Annabelle’s face softened. ‘It’ll only be for an hour. We can go in the afternoon, after we’ve eaten.’

‘Of course,’ he told her with a smile. He was happy, finally at home and warm for the first time since morning.

He’d spent the day chasing around Leeds on the trail of a burglar, no closer to catching him than he’d been a month before. He’d gone from Burley to Hunslet, and never a sniff of the man. But it was better than being in uniform; half the constables had been on patrol in the outdoor market, cut by the December wind as they tried to nab the pickpockets and sneak thieves. It was still blowing out there, howling and rattling the window frames. As a police inspector, at least he could take hackney cabs and omnibuses and dodge the weather for a while.

Tomorrow he was off duty. Christmas Day. For the last five years he’d worked it. Not this time, though. Christmas 1890, the first together with his wife. He turned his head to look at her and the wedding ring that glinted in the light. Five months married. Annabelle Harper. The words still made him smile.

‘What?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

He often glanced at her when she was busy, working in the kitchen or at her desk, going through the figures for her businesses. Sometimes he could scarcely believe she’d married him. Annabelle had grown up in the slums of the Bank, another daughter in a poor Irish family. She’d started work here in the Victoria public house and eventually married the landlord. Six years later, after he died, everyone advised her to sell. But she’d held on and kept the place, trusting her instincts, and she’d built it into a healthy business. Then she’d seen an opportunity and opened bakeries in Sheepscar and Meanwood that were doing well. Annabelle Harper was a rich woman. Not that anyone round here called her Mrs Harper. To them she’d always be Mrs Atkinson, the name she’d carried for so long.

Whatever they called her, she was his.

‘You look all in,’ she told him.

Harper gave a contented sigh. Where they lived, in the rooms over the pub, felt perfectly comfortable, curtains drawn against the winter night, the fire in the hearth and the soft hiss of the gas lights. He didn’t want to move.

‘I’m cosy,’ he said. ‘Come and give me a cuddle.’

‘A cuddle? You’re lucky I put your supper on the table.’

She stuck out her tongue, her gown swishing as she came and settled in his arms. He could hear the voices in the bar downstairs. Laughter and a snatch of song from the music halls.

‘Don’t worry,’ she told him. ‘I’ll send them on their way early tonight. They all have homes to go to. Then we can have some peace and quiet.’

But only for a few hours. Annabelle would be up before dawn, the way she always was, working next to the servants, stuffing the goose that was waiting in the kitchen, baking the bread and preparing the Christmas dinner. Dan the barman, the girls who worked for her, and God knew who else would join them at the table. They’d light candles on the tree, sing, laugh, exchange gifts and drink their way through the barrel of beer she’d set aside.

Then, after their bellies were full, the two of them would walk over to visit her sister, taking presents for Annabelle’s nieces and nephews. For one day, at least, he could forget all the crime in Leeds. Billy Reed, his sergeant, would cover the holiday. Then Harper would  return on Boxing Day, back to track down the damned burglar.

Annabelle stirred.

‘Did you hear that?’ she asked.

‘What?’

He gazed at her. He hadn’t heard a thing. Six years before, while he was still a constable, he’d taken a blow on the ear that left him partially deaf. The best the doctor could offer was that his hearing might return in time. But in the last few months, since autumn began, it had grown a little worse. Sometimes he missed entire sentences, not just words. His ear simply shut off for a few seconds. He’d never told anyone about the problem, scared that it would go on his record.

‘On the stairs.’

He listened. Still nothing. Then someone was knocking on the door. Before he could move, she rose swiftly to answer it.

‘It’s for you.’ Her voice was dark.

He recognized the young constable from Millgarth station. One of the new intake, his uniform carefully pressed, cap pulled down smartly on his head and face eager with excitement. Had he ever looked as green as that?

‘I’m off duty—’ he began.

‘I know, sir.’ The man blushed. ‘But Superintendent Kendall told me to come and fetch you. There’s been a murder.’

Harper turned helplessly to Annabelle. There’d be no visit to her sister for him tomorrow.

‘You go, Tom.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Just come home as soon as you can.’

Two

The cold clawed his breath away. Stars shone brilliantly in a clear sky. He huddled deeper into his overcoat and pulled the muffler tight around his neck.

‘What’s your name?’ Harper asked as they started down the road.

‘Stone, sir. Constable Stone. Started three month back.’

‘And where are we going, Mr Stone?’

‘The Leylands, sir.’

Harper frowned. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Trafalgar Street.’

He knew the area very well. He’d grown up no more than a stone’s throw from there, up on Noble Street. All of it poverty-scented by the stink of malt and hops from the Brunswick Brewery up the road. Back-to-back houses as far as the eye could see. A place where the pawnbrokers did roaring business each Monday as housewives took anything valuable to exchange for the cash to last until Friday payday.

In the last few years the area had changed. It had filled with Jewish immigrants; almost every house was packed with them, from Russia and Poland and countries whose names he didn’t know, while the English moved out and scattered across the city. Yiddish had become the language of the Leylands. Only the smell of the brewery and the lack of money remained the same.

‘Step out,’ he told the constable. ‘We’ll freeze to the bloody spot if we stand still.’

Harper led the way, through the memory of the streets where he used to run as a boy. The gas lamps threw little circles of light but he hardly needed them; he could have found his way in pitch blackness. The streets were empty, curtains closed tight. People would be huddled together in their beds, trying to keep warm.

As they turned the corner into Trafalgar Street he caught the murmur of voices. Suddenly lights burned in the houses and figures gathered on their doorsteps. Harper raised his eyes questioningly at Stone.

‘The outhouses, sir. About halfway down.’

The cobbles were icy; Harper’s boots slipped as he walked. Conversation ended as they passed, men and women looking at them with fearful, suspicious eyes. They were goys. Worse, they were authority.

They passed two blocks of four houses before Stone turned and moved between a pair of coppers, their faces ruddy and chilled, keeping back a small press of people. Someone had placed a sheet over the body. Harper knelt and pulled it back for a moment. A young man, strangely serene in death. Straggly dark hair, white shirt without a collar, dark suit and overcoat. The inspector ran his hands over the clothes, feeling the blood crusted where the man had been stabbed. Slowly, he counted the wounds. Four of them. All on the chest. The corpse had been carefully arranged, he noticed. The body was straight, the arms out to the sides, making the shape of a cross. Two bronze pennies covered the dead man’s eyes, the face of Queen Victoria looking out.

Harper stood again and noticed Billy Reed talking to one of the uniforms and scribbling in his notebook. The sergeant nodded as he saw him.

‘Do we know who he was?’

‘Not yet.’ Reed rubbed his hands together and blew on them for warmth. ‘Best as I can make out, that one found him an hour ago. But I don’t speak the lingo.’ He nodded towards a middle-aged man in a dark coat, a black hat that was too large almost covering his eyes. ‘He started shouting and the beat bobby came along. They called me out.’ He shrugged. ‘I told the super I could take care of it but he wanted you.’ His voice was a mixture of apology and resentment.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

It did, of course. He didn’t want to be out here with a corpse in the bitter night. He’d rather be at home with his wife, in bed and feeling the warmth of her skin. But Kendall had given his orders.

The man who’d found the body stood apart from the others, head bowed, muttering to himself. He scarcely glanced up as Harper approached, lips moving in undertone of words.

‘Do you know who the dead man is?’ he asked.

‘Er iz toyt.’ He’s dead.

‘English?’ the inspector asked hopefully, but the man just shook his head. He kept his gaze on the ground, too fearful to look directly at a policeman.

‘Velz is dayn nomen?’ The Yiddish made the man’s head jerk up. What’s your name?

‘Israel Liebermann, mayn ir,’ the man replied nervously. Sir. Growing up here it had been impossible not to absorb a little of the language. It floated in the shops and all around the boys that played in the road.

‘Ikh bin Inspector Harper.’

A hand tapped him on the shoulder and he turned quickly to see a pair of dark eyes staring at him.

‘What?’ He had the sense that the man had spoken; for that moment he hadn’t heard a word. He swallowed and the world came back into both ears.

‘I said it was a good try, Inspector Harper. But your accent needs work.’ The voice was warm, filled with kindness. He extended his hand and Harper took it.

‘I’m Rabbi Feldman.’

The man was dressed for the weather in a heavy overcoat that extended almost to his feet, thick boots, leather gloves and a hat pulled down to his ears. A wiry grey beard flowed down to his chest.

A gust of wind blew hard. Harper shivered, feeling the chill deep in his marrow.

‘If you think this is cold, you never had a winter in Odessa.’ The rabbi grinned, then his face grew serious. ‘Can I help at all?’

‘Someone’s been murdered. This gentleman found him.’

Feldman nodded then began a conversation in Yiddish with Liebermann. A pause, another question and a long answer.

He’d heard of the rabbi. Everyone had. Around the Leylands he was almost a hero. He was one of them; his family had taken the long march west, all the way to England, when the pogroms began. He understood their sorrows and their dreams. In his sixties now, walking with the help of a silver-topped stick, he’d been head of the Belgrave Street Synagogue for over ten years. He taught in the Hebrew school on Gower Street and met with councillors from the Town Hall. He was man of mitzvahs, good deeds. Portly and gentle, with quiet dignity, he was someone in the community, a man everybody respected.

‘He says he needed the outhouse just before ten – he’d looked at his watch in the house so he knew what time it was. He put on his coat and came down.’ Feldman smiled. ‘You understand, it’s cold in these places. You try to finish as soon as possible. When he was done he noticed the shape and went to look. That’s when he began to yell.’

‘Thank you,’ Harper said, although it was no more than they already knew.

‘Murder is a terrible business, Inspector.’ The man hesitated. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

‘We still don’t know the name of the dead man.’

‘May I?’ Feldman gestured at the corpse. Harper nodded and one of the constables drew back the sheet again.

‘Mine Got.’ He drew in his breath sharply.

‘Do you know him?’

It was a few seconds before the rabbi answered, staring intently at the face on the ground. Slowly he took off the hat and tugged a hand through his ragged white hair.

‘Yes, Inspector,’ he said, and there was the sadness of lost years in his voice. ‘I know him. I know him very well. I gave him his bris and his bar mitzvah. He’s my sister’s son.’

His nephew. God, Harper thought, what a way to find out.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Truly.’

The man’s shoulders slumped.

‘He was seventeen.’ The rabbi shook his head in disbelief. ‘Just a boychik. He was going to be the one.’ Feldman tapped a finger against the side of his head. ‘He had the smarts, Inspector. His father, he was already training him to run the business.’

‘What was his name, sir? I need to know.’

‘Abraham. Abraham Levy.’ The rabbi rummaged in a trouser pocket, brought out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. ‘Why?’ he asked quietly. ‘Why would someone kill anyone who was so young?’

And Two Bronze Pennies is now available to order ahead of its publication on April 30. Follow this link.

The White Slaves Of Leeds

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

It’s a title to make you think twice, especially in this day and age. But it was coined in Victorian times by a journalist.Robert Sheracy travelled around Britain, interviewing people for a series called The White Slaves on England, published over a number of issues in 1896 in Pearson’s Magazine. He did come to Leeds, where he talked to a number of people for the article entitled The White Slaves of England: The Slipper-Makers and Tailors of Leeds. Several of the quotes here are taken directly from the testimony given to him. Their words are more powerful than any fiction.

As the train left Leeds, I looked back to see the pall of smoke covering the city. It was a rich place; rich for some, anyway. We gathered steam, moving south at a good pace and I pulled the sheaf of notes from my briefcase.
I’d talked to a number of people, male and female, for my article. The poor and the poorest, each tale sadder than the last. But it was the faces of the girls who stayed with me. So young and so hopeless. Leeds is a city of many industries, but for the girls there are few options but service or the mills.
I’d been fortunate to have a good contact in Miss Isabella Ford, a Quaker and a socialist who’d long battled for these girls, and given me introductions to some of them at the Wholesale Clothiers’ Operatives Union.. First, though, she’d instructed me on the system the master implemented for their own advantage.
‘There are fines for everything,’ Miss Ford told me. ‘Unfortunately, thanks to the judges’ interpretation of the Truck Act, these are legal. A girl came to me who’d been forced to pay a fine of tuppence, when all she earned that day was a penny-ha’penny. Why? Because she was a minute late to work. The masters employ a boy as timekeeper and his earnings are commission from all the fines levied. Another woman had been deducted two shillings from her week’s pay for bad work, when she’d made a total of four shillings and tuppence. But the owners went on to sell the goods as good work, and she never saw that money back.’
She brought in a girl, Mary Ann, who’d been forced to leave her job in the mill because she couldn’t make any money there. She was shy and nervous, wondering if she should even be talking to me, if someone vengeance awaited her. I had to assure Mary Ann that I wouldn’t name her in the article; only then would she speak.
‘How much did you earn in a week?’ I asked her.
‘In a good week I made two shilling and seven pence, sir,’ she said. ‘But often it was less, depending on the work going in the mill. One week it was just a shilling.’
‘And what did you have to pay out?’ Miss Ford said.
‘We had to pay for our sewings, the thread and everything else. That week when I only made a shilling, I’d had to spend eight pence. Often it was ten pence.’
‘Tell him where you worked,’ Miss Ford suggested.
‘They called it a punishing house.’ The girl reddened as she said the words. ‘We hardly had time for our dinner, and the room for it was so small that you could only get a few in there at a time. I never used it. We had to bring our own dinner, but the master charged us a penny or tuppence “for cook” – to heat it for us, I mean. And you had to pay it, no ifs or buts. Everyone did. When I didn’t have enough money, I didn’t eat. It was the same with the other girls. Some of them would beg food from the men, but I couldn’t. Doing that just led to things.”
Miss Ford told me of more tools inflicted on the girls. A penny in the shilling for steam power, no matter if the girl worked from home. In some places the girls have to pay a penny or two towards the rent of the factory. Then the masters will round down the wages to an even number, so the odd pennies vanish from the wage packet.
‘They promise the girls that the money will go towards a trip for them. But in my years working for the union, I’ve never heard of a single trip yet.’
The wages vary from season to season, and in slack times many can earn no more than two shillings a week. Even when they’re busy it’s rare to make more than twelve shillings a week. One or two had made fifteen shillings at times, but they were the quickest, best workers, with full time and overtime.
Often the masters will beat down the prices to line their pockets a little more.
‘One time, when we were all very hungry,’ a girl called Jane explained, ‘the foreman told us there were 400 sailor suits coming up. Would we do them for threepence each? We refused, because the lowest price should have been threepence-halfpenny. The foreman kept us waiting a day and a half, and at last we were so hungry that we gave in.’
Catherine, a woman who looked to be twenty-five, pinch-faced and sallow, her hair greasy, told me,
‘The masters often say they have so many hundred articles to be sewn, if we want to do them at a reduced rate. We prefer not to be idle, so we accept, expecting to have so many to sew. But the masters have lied, and there is much less to sew than had been promised.’
The masters never told them when work would be slack, she said, and the foremen were bullies, using foul language to the girls.
‘We come to the factory, and if there’s no work, we have to stay in case some comes in. They never tell us so people won’t know there’s no business.’
Another girl confirmed this to me.
‘I come in at eight am,’ she told me. ‘If I’m late I’ll be fine a penny or tuppence. There will be nothing for me to do. Then I’ll sit at my machine doing nothing until half-past twelve. Then I’ll ask the foreman if I can go home. He’ll say, “No, there’s orders coming up after dinner.” Dinner? I probably haven’t had any, knowing work was slack and expecting to get home. So I go without it. At half-past one I’ll go back to my machine and sit doing nothing. Foreman will say: “Work hasn’t come up yet”. I have to sit at my machine. Once I fainted from hunger and asked to be allowed to go home. But they wouldn’t let me, and locked me up in the dining room. I sit at my machine till three or four. Then the foreman will say, as though he were conferring a favour: “The orders don’t seem to be coming in, you can go home till the morning”. And I go home without having earned a farthing. Sometimes work may come in the afternoon, and then I will stay on till half-past six, earning a wage for the last two or three hours.’

A Bit More Markham 2

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized2 Comments

The notes and scenes for a possible sequel to Dark Briggate Blues continue. Please, be vocal in what you think of this…

It had been an empty Friday evening. Markham was restless, unable to settle. Too early to go to Studio 20. Normally he avoided parties, but tonight it seemed a better alternative to sitting at home. Once he arrived, though, it felt like a bad idea. The house was full of people who were too bright, a fraction too loud, as if they could will themselves into having a good time.
He sat in the front room, letting the conversations and flirtations ebb and flow around him. There were money here, a baby grand sitting by the window. But the only music was skiffle and pop from a record player, muffled by the wall. Guy Mitchell, Pat Boone, Nat King Cole. Emasculated music. Only Little Richard sounded like his wildness hadn’t been tamed.
When someone called out, ‘Charlie. Come on, give us a song,’ he groaned inside and stood by the door to leave without a fuss. The woman who settled on the piano stool and lifted the lid looked uneasy, reluctant. She took a sip of gin and put the glass down before running her hands over the keys. She had thick dark hair that finished in a curl around her shoulders and a black sheath dress. She closed her eyes for a moment then started to play.
At first he couldn’t pick out a tune, listening through the haze of voices. But the room quietened as she continued and he understood she was lulling them, drawing in their attention. The melody began to take shape in the chords of the left hand as the right improvised, hinting here and there before finally settling so that faces began to smile as they recognised it. A Foggy Day In London Town. The woman opened her mouth, her singing low and languorous, as if it was emerging from a distant dream.
She had something. Not an Ella or a Sarah. But there was a velvet sensuality in her tone, hinting at something more intimate than the words themselves, something adrift on soft memories. Then she let her hands take over again, pushing down on the sustain pedal to let chords hang and fade until it all drifted off into the distance.
The applause was polite. People returned to their talk. She took another drink, looking around and blinking, emerging from somewhere else. As she stood he walked over.
‘You’re very good,’ he told her. She didn’t blush, just looked him in the eye.
‘It’s what I do. At night, anyway.’
‘You play well, too. A lot of George Shearing in there.’
That made her smile.
‘I’m Charlotte Taylor.’ She extended a thin, pale arm.
‘Dan Markham,’ he said as they shook.
‘And I only sound like Shearing because I’m not good enough to be Monk or Tatum.’ She spoke the words like a challenge: did he know what he was talking about or was it all bluff?
‘No one else can ever sound like Thelonious,’ he answered. ‘I think he hears things no one else can. And Tatum…’ He shook his head. ‘You’d need two more hands. Are you a professional?’
She looked embarrassed.
‘Trying,’ she admitted. ‘I do nightclubs sometimes. It’s hard to get a gig. Working behind the counter at Boots pays the bills. For now, anyway,’ she added with determination.
He tried to imagine her in the nylon overall, selling medicines and make-up, but he couldn’t reconcile it with the woman he’d just heard singing.
‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an enquiry agent,’ he said and her eyes widened.

The next night they met for a meal and wandered through town to Studio 20. As they walked she told him a little about herself, short sentences with long pauses. She’d grown up in Malton, married young, a couple of years after the war. But wedded bliss had been a fragile peace, and the decree nisi had come through in July. Leeds had been a fresh start, a chance for her to do more with her music.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ she admitted as they went down the stairs to the club. ‘I don’t know anyone who really likes jazz.’
‘You do now,’ he told her with a smile.
The place was packed, hardly room to stand among the young men and women. In the corner a quintet was playing. Three guitars, bass, and a ragged washboard offering rhythm. Skiffle. Markham glanced at Bob Barclay, the club’s owner, sitting in his booth. He gave an eloquent shrug.
‘The Vipers,’ he said. ‘They’re from London, had a big hit. Brings in the money, Dan. You can see for yourself. That lets me put on other things. There’s not the market for jazz there was a few years back.’
Disappointed, they left. She tucked her arm through his.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Hardly your fault.’ She tried to smile, but it was a weak effort. ‘It’s the same all over. Everyone wants pop music.’
He saw her again on Wednesday and the following weekend. Over a month a quick goodnight kiss graduated to passion. Soon she was spending some nights at his flat, or he’d stay over in her bedsit in Hyde Park.
On the occasions she performed Markham would be there, sitting in the corner of a club with endless cups of coffee, applauding every song. She had talent, but Leeds wasn’t a place where it could flower.

The Marvellous Doors Of Mr. Harrison (1626)

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“Sir?” The carpenter frowned as he spoke, as if the request had made no sense. He wiped some sawdust from the hairs on his brawny forearm as he waited to hear it again.
John Harrison smiled patiently.
“I’d like you to cut holes in the bottom of each door in the house,” he repeated. “They haven’t been hung yet, have they?”
“Well, no, sir,” the carpenter agreed. It was obvious, after all. Each doorway in this new house was empty, the finished doors out in the courtyard, covered with canvas in case of rain. He’d been planning to start putting them up after his dinner. But why someone would want to cut holes in perfectly good oak, he really didn’t know.
“They don’t need to be large holes,” Harrison continued, as if it was all the most reasonable thing in the world. “Just about this wide and this tall.” He held his arms apart to offer an idea of the size. “Can you do that, please?”
“I can,” the carpenter allowed slowly, rubbing at the bristles on his chin. He’d been working with wood for thirty years, ever since he was a lad, and no one had asked him this before. He was a craftsman, a master at his trade, a guild member. To be asked to saw holes in work he’d completed seemed wrong. He could carve a bannister so smooth against the fingers that it felt like holding silk. He could polish wood so clear that it shone as brightly as any mirror. He took pride in everything he did. But this? Where was the sense in it?
It offended him, although he was careful not to show it. Not when the man staring at him so hopefully was the richest man in Leeds, the man who’d been paying his wages for months – and generous wages they were, too, he’d admit – as he helped shape the house.
Mr. Harrison had never seemed to be a strange one. A generous soul, yes. He’d inherited plenty of money and made even more as a cloth merchant. He’d paid for a market cross for the town, the one that stood near the top of Briggate. He’d given land for the new Grammar School in that field past the Head Row, which was fine for those who wanted to learn reading and writing and all the things the gentry needed. But it was like everyone said, he had so much money and property that he’d never even miss a hundred pounds.
“I can do it,” he allowed slowly. It would mean more work. His apprentices had cut and shaped the doors. He’d inspected their work, corrected their errors and boxed them round the ears for stupid mistakes. Each one had beautiful panels, dark and lovely. He’d selected the wood himself, sensing how easily they’d work and the way they’d hold their colour once he’d finished with them. As they were they had balance and proportion, all the things he valued. And now he was being asked to ruin that. He shook his head slightly.
“Is something wrong, Mister Cockcroft?” Harrison asked worriedly. He had a lively face, the hair receding along his scalp, with dark, arching eyebrows and a moustache that fluttered as he talked. He was as impeccably dressed as ever, his neckband a starched, brilliant while, his black velvet doublet without a smudge of dirt.
“No, sir, nothing wrong at all.” He gazed around the room, up on the second storey of the house. It looked down on Briggate and out along Boar Lane, a handsome bedroom that would claim the light at the shank of the day. The floorboards were even, fitted together so well that he could just slide a fingernail between them. The mullions on the windows gleamed. It was a beautiful room.
But the whole house suited a man of position, and Harrison certainly had that. The courtyard was cobbled, the warehouse for cloth standing at the other side, and beyond that the garden, fruit trees already planted to make an orchard. It had cost the man a pretty penny and it wasn’t finished yet. It might never be if he kept making ridiculous requests like this.
“Thank you,” Harrison said with a smile and a nod. “My wife and I talked about it and decided it was the best solution.”
That explained it, Cockcroft thought. Women. Marriage. He had no calling to it himself, he was happier by himself, with a housekeeper to keep the place tidy and feed the ‘prentices. Women did odd things to a man’s mind. And Harrison and Mrs. Elizabeth, they’d been together a good twenty years by now, probably more. By now she’d addled his brain if he was coming up with ideas like this.
He’d set the apprentices to work in the morning. The job was simple enough, to measure and cut, then smooth and finish the wood.
“All the doors, sir?” he asked. With front and back there had to be close to fifteen of them.
“Not the front door,” Harrison answered with a quick laugh, then considered. “And perhaps not the rear door, either. After all, we don’t want to let in draughts, do we?”
“Of course not.” That was something, he thought. At least none of the passers-by would see what he’d been made to do to his doors. He wouldn’t be reminded of it every time he walked past. It was unlikely that anyone he knew would be invited inside. He’d make sure the apprentices didn’t tell anyone, swear them to it. With a little luck word wouldn’t spread around town and he wouldn’t be the butt of jokes.
“Right.” Harrison rubbed his pale hands together. “That’s settled. Won’t be long before we can move in, eh?”
“Another week, I think, sir.” It wouldn’t take that long, of course. But over the years he’d learned to say this. Unless something he couldn’t imagine happened, like being asked to cut holes in walls or ceilings, he should be done in three days. Then another day to pad out the bill a little and he’d say he was finished. Mr. Harrison would be happy he’d completed everything early, and he’d be a little fatter in the purse when the account was settled. Everyone would be happy.
“Excellent news, Mr. Cockcroft. Excellent.” He shook the carpenter’s right hand and pumped it. “Thank you once more for this.” He turned to leave.
“Mr Harrison, sir,” Cockcroft said to his back. “Just one question, if I may.”
The merchant turned back, cocking his head quizzically.
“Of course.”
“Why do you want holes in all them doors, anyway?”
“Ah. It’s for the cats, Mr. Cockcroft, the cats. We have five of them and they hate to be confined in one room. So my wife came up with this solution to let them wander where they will. I think it’s a wonderful idea, don’t you?” He gave a small bow. “And now I’ll wish you good day.”

Historical Note: There have been several people who’ve been great benefactors to Leeds, but John Harrison was the first. In the first half of the 17th century, he paid for a market cross, built St. John’s Church (which still remains on New Briggate) and Harrison’s almshouses, gave land and paid for the building of the Grammar School where the Grand Theatre now stands, and more. He inherited money and made more in the wool trade. There’s also a story concerning him, Charles I and a tankard full of gold coins. He did build a house in town that stood around a courtyard; by the 1700s it was an inn. As to the doors, it’s Thoresby who relates that tale. Is it true? Perhaps. But it’s a good tale, which can sometimes be more important than fact.

So Why Do I Write Historical Crime?

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized1 Comment

A number of times people have asked me why I choose to write historical crime novels. The crime part is easy to answer: it offers a good moral frame work on which to rest a novel. All fiction is about conflict in one form or another, and crime – good vs. evil – reduces it to the basics. But it also gives a chance to explore that nebulous grey area between the two, which can be the most interesting.
But historical…well, for me there are a number of reasons. I’m a history buff, most particularly a Leeds history buff. So it’s an excuse to delve into that world. But there’s far more.
I lived abroad for 30 years, and I’ve been back almost 10. That means I haven’t been there for the development of speech patterns in England. And to write convincing dialogue you need to be sure of that. I have no problem with American speech – I have novels set in the ‘80s and ‘90s there – but less in England. By going back in time, to an era that’s closed and over, it’s much easier to capture the speech of the period.
Many of my books are set in Leeds, and that gives me the chance to show how the city has changed over the years, from the 1730s to the 1950s. I try to make Leeds a character in the book, but the Leeds of 1890, industrialised and full of dark, Satanic mills, is a far cry from 1731, when the population was around 7,000 – hardly more than a village. And by 1954 and Dark Briggate Blues it’s changed completely again as we enter a post-industrial age.
And yet there’s continuity, is the layout and names of the streets in the city centre. Richard Nottingham could find his way around 160 years later, and Tom Harper from Gods of Gold would find Dan Markham Leeds relatively familiar. That sense of a thread running through it all is very attractive to a writer.
Going back in time offers the opportunity to view current events through the prism of history. The contracts handed to the gas workers that sparks the Gas Strike which is the backdrop of Gods of Gold has strong echoes in today zero-hours contracts. The anti-Semitism and xenophobia that lies at the heart of the upcoming Two Bronze Pennies can be seen in the rise of the right, Islamophobia and the very recent rise of a fresh wave of anti-Semitism.
Sometimes it’s none of that at all. Dark Briggate Blues was me asking ‘what would a 1950s English provincial noir be like?’ and offering one possible answer.
Technology and life moves so quickly that a contemporary novel can quickly seem dated. No mobile phones on computers in the ‘80s or ‘90s. We’ve only really relied on the Internet since the beginning of this century. Social media is just a few years old, and smartphones only became widespread after 2010. If you write today’s world, it’s changed by tomorrow. Setting a novel in the past, people know going in where they stand. It can’t seem dated because, in a way, it’s timeless, a scene set in amber.
And there’s one final reason. Today we rely on DNA, forensics, all manner of this and that to solve crimes. That’s fine – the tools are there, use them. But for a writer (and hopefully a reader), forcing the main character to use his wits and his brain is far more satisfying.