Finally we are allowed to sit down for a meal with our family — provided we eat it outside. The other big news of the week was the growth of the Black Lives Matter movement. Despite (or maybe because of) the restrictions, the killing of George Floyd became something that looked as if it might actually change something.
Saturday 6 June 2020
Big event of the week: driving over to Mike’s for a BBQ (now that two households of up to 6 people can meet in a private garden). I skived off work early, took the champagne out of the freezer and piled into the car, wearing a summer dress and floppy hat. Even the drive over seemed interesting: what a lot of people these days have bushy beards. The greetings were a bit awkward – no approaching or hugging. But once we had settled into our suitably distanced seats, life seemed almost normal. We watched kites and squirrels as the sun sank behind the neighbour’s sycamore. I added two cardigans to the summer dress.
Mike served four courses, over a long, long time. Mike and G now have S staying with then, after her plans to travel the world fell apart. S had cooked lager chicken while Mike had baked a swiss roll. Conversation flowed with the Pimms, mainly about house buying, and house prices and how much mortgage to take out. We took Morley (the dog) for a walk around the park in the dark. At 10pm I noticed it was past my bedtime, but it was 12.30 before I got to bed. I’m not used to these late nights anymore.
On Thursday I was invited to a big online civil service meeting about Black Lives Matter. It was huge – up to the full 250 participants the system allows. Black civil servants talked about how they felt after watching the George Floyd video. Answer – emotional: anxious and angry and shocked. And, in lockdown, the “mask” has gone. Civil servants no longer dress up and do their hair and put on their work personas. “This is the first time I’ve shown myself at work with my natural hair”, one woman said. “I’m being my authentic self at last,” said another, “and that self is an angry black woman.” Work is less present, and children are more present. There was a lot of talk about how you explain George Floyd to your kids.
This was followed by a work meeting in which no-one had read the papers. Working from home is starting to fall apart.
My book reviews are usually quite long. (The last one I did ended up being an extended discussion of the life and times of Henrietta Howard.) Lately, though, I’ve read a few books that I’d like to share my enthusiasm for without going on at length. So here are three short reviews.
(Anyone would think that since I finished writing Eat the Poor I’ve been on a writing break and able to catch up on my reading.)
The Shepherd’s Life: James Rebanks
This is the third book review I’ve written recently that starts, “ I don’t generally enjoy memoirs but…” Perhaps it’s a sign of age that I am beginning to get more into this genre. In any case, I loved The Shepherd’s Life. It’s a memoir of a life spent as a hill sheep farmer in the Lake District and it sums up a place and a way of life that deserves to be more celebrated.
Recently my son, having got married and bought a house more conveniently located than a remote part of mid-Wales, decided to sell up the house in sheep country that had passed through three generations of our family. Three generations, according to James Rebanks, is the time it takes to be accepted in a hill farming community. Being English and living most of the time in England, it was only when people said how sorry they were to hear we were leaving that I realised we were, up to point, accepted into that remote community and I miss it more than I can say. Reading this book took me back to misty mornings and hills where sheep wandered apparently randomly.
We had seen life there only as visitors. We had never been up at a winter’s dawn, working with dogs to check the sheep, soaked to the skin and desperate to finish before dark. But I have talked to farmers about the price they get in a bad year when every lamb sold represents an actual financial loss. It’s not a romantic life. It’s hard and economically ruinous. (Rebanks points out that almost all the farmers he knows have a second job to keep the farms afloat. My neighbours had so many, I honestly lost count.) Yet the families stay. I was talking to someone who had a relative who sold up. That person had just vanished from society. You never leave.
Being English, we left. This is a book that reminds me what we’ve let slip away.
Hill farmers have been here for hundreds – maybe thousands – of years. That link with the land is a vital part of what makes a nation. The French, with their near obsession with ‘patrie’ understand this. In Britain that link is being lost. Rebanks explains why it matters. It’s not just a lovely book, but an important one.
Gooseberry: Michael Gallagher
This is the first of Michael Gallagher’s series of stories about boy detective Octavius Guy. Octavius is a minor character in Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone. Other characters from Collins’ book also turn up in Gooseberry. It’s a very long time since I read The Moonstone and I’ve forgotten most of them except for the butler, Betteredge, with his obsession with Robinson Crusoe. It was fun meeting him again and I imagine fans of The Moonstone will enjoy the joke.
You don’t need to have read The Moonstone to enjoy Gooseberry, though. It’s a wonderful romp through the Victorian underworld with a lovely sense of period. There are one or two fantastical elements: Gallagher admits that the Thames Tunnel was never remotely as described and since it’s easily enough visited today that seems an unnecessary invention, but it does allow the plot to bowl along. I’m not going to carp. It’s a great book and I had fun reading it.
Where There’s Doubt: Terry Tyler
I’ve read several of Terry Tyler’s books and always enjoyed her easy writing style and ability to produce convincing characters. With Where There’s Doubt she has upped her game.
There’s been a lot of publicity about Romance Fraudsters lately, particularly Netflix’s The Tinder Swindler, so Terry’s latest is timely. It may even be a useful warning to women who are swept off their feet by men with conveniently vague past lives.
The book starts slowly and reads like so many romances as Kate, a smart cookie with a sweet centre, meets her new man, Nico. We all know, from the blurb and publicity, that Nico is no good, so I did have my doubts as the romance grows. Kate, it turns out, has recently inherited a lot of money. Is Nico after this? You bet he is. All of us reading know he is, but we are wading further and further into Mills & Boon slush. Can this con sustain a whole book?
Suddenly we switch from Kate’s point of view to Nico’s. (His name’s not Nico, of course.) Now we see just what a creep the guy is and how complex the fraud he is building up to. And now it’s not slow (or like Mills & Boon) at all.
I can’t say anything else because of spoilers. The plot twists and turns with some genuine surprises that make perfect sense once they are revealed but which I never saw coming. We see how different victims of Nico’s crimes respond differently. Some are made stronger, other collapse. The victims’ stories are as fascinating as the main plot. We meet good people and bad – those we want to see come to a terrible end and those we have a sneaking sympathy for. (Making a villain simultaneously evil and vulnerable is a very difficult thing to do and one which Terry pulls off very well.)
The end is not the neat and tidy finish that you might expect, but it is very satisfying.
I can’t say any more. I really don’t want to spoil it. But I do hope you read it. It’s very, very good.
Eat the Poor got its first Amazon review this week, which made me very happy. Sue Bavey enjoys the idea of a werewolf who is a Conservative MP:
“I particularly liked how odious the Conservative MP Christopher Garold was. Anyone following British politics lately will not find the idea of a murderous werewolf that far-fetched when it comes to the dirty little secrets of those in power.”
I feel she is being a little harsh on Christopher Garold. He is, by his lights, a good MP, albeit one who disapproves of those he thinks of as “the undeserving poor”. He works hard for his constituents, takes no bribes, and campaigns on environmental issues. As one of his voters says, “He may be a Tory, but his heart’s in the right place.” And he can hardly help being a werewolf.
I had wanted to write a story about a werewolf since people started asking me for a sequel to Something Wicked. That book had started from the idea that if vampires lived among us, they would probably dance tango. I know so many tango dancers I have never seen in daylight that it seemed entirely credible and from that point the whole story just sort of took off. But where would you find a werewolf? What sort of person could turn into a creature that rips open the throats of innocent people who are foolish enough to be out on the night of a full moon?
The honest answer, of course, is that it could be anybody. But that wasn’t really satisfying. I wanted a job where a ruthless killer instinct and an unerring conviction of your own superiority to others made the idea of being a werewolf a natural match with your personality – and I came up with a Conservative MP.
The political edge was just a way of making the story work. Eat the Poor is an entertainment, not a searing bit of political satire. But while I was writing it, I watched our traditional political system falling apart. The ‘Good Chaps’ theory of government, which underlies our unwritten constitution, has given way to an approach to political power which is much better summed up as the Werewolf theory of government: the powerful take what they want and convince themselves that they are making society a better place while they do it. So there are points where the anger slips through. If you haven’t felt angry about Parliament in the past couple of years, you haven’t been paying attention.
Much more important than any political elements is the growing relationship between the all-too-human Chief Inspector Galbraith, very aware of growing older, and his vampire partner, Pole. Both essentially rather lonely individuals, they grow closer through their rather old-fashioned shared values. They believe in decency and protecting society. And, increasingly, they believe in each other.
More important than either the satire or the relationship, though, is the sheer fun of a hunt for the supernatural in the everyday (or everynight) world of today’s London. Wouldn’t you, deep down, enjoy seeing a werewolf in Parliament? Well now you can.
Eat the Poor is available on Kindle, in paperback or on Kindle Unlimited. You can link to it here: mybook.to/EatThePoor.
I think this is the longest of my beloved’s posts so far. The rules were being relaxed but everyone was trying to work out exactly what was and wasn’t allowed. Our son stuck strictly by the letter of the law, refusing to see both of his parents at once, which did not go down well. And then, while most of the country struggled to do the right thing, came Dom Cumming’s infamous trip to Barnard Castle. The journal gives a fair idea of just how angry that made people.
Saturday 23 May 2020
Big event of the week: Mike came over. The plan was for the three of us to have a picnic in the park, I went to M&S for tubs and made a rice salad. Mike would bring a plate and cutlery and a salad of his own.
Then a phone call from Mike. He had just been given a presentation from his colonel that the Army really had to stick to the rules. Mike was responsible for disciplining any soldier who broke them. The rules say that you may only see one of your parents at a time. So he would come over, but see us sequentially, not together. Tom was cross: “I’ve spent enough time doing what this Government says. I’ve had it with rules.” If Mike felt like that, he could just see me.
So Mike took a long lunch hour from his working day and drove over. Which gave us an hour together, walking over to Orleans House Gardens, sitting on a bench and eating pastries. I took a flask of tea. We talked about his friends’ wedding plans, and the Army, and work, as conversation flowed easily. I tried not to point out the large family group having a picnic right in front of us. I was suddenly aware of how central family meals are to a sense of belonging. One parent at a time is a particularly stupid rule.
Mike and Tom then got the car started, with jump leads, and sort of forgave each other by doing manly stuff. And we drove over to Aldi to replenish our stockpile of tins, just in case our economic system lets us down.
Tom has now put a video of our tango waltz on you tube. It’s Flor de Lino (Linseed Flower) and was our attempt to be light and carefree – though, looking at it, there is a lot more tension than I’d hoped. It was good to dress up (with a beret because of lockdown hair). We went through the same dance, over and over again, and then painfully watched our faults, until we finally decide it would have to do. At least we had to concentrate and work on it.
Fred and Ginger we ain’t
I’ve now finished marking. The stragglers weren’t as good as the students who submitted on time, but they weren’t bad. I’ve decided that feedback has to be clearer, even blunter. “Do more reading”; “Write more clearly”, with examples. I’ve written more, as this seems to be the only thing the students are getting for their money.
The big question is whether I’m actually going to retire from the civil service at the end of June, or whether I will try to postpone it once again. Part-time work, and the contact work brings (if only virtual) has been essential to getting through the last few months.
Friday 29 May 2020:
“Are you noticing any difference?” J. asked on the phone yesterday, “For me it’s just the same. Work is OK, but I’m still not seeing anyone or doing anything”.
J summed up the experience of so-called lockdown easing. And explains why I’ve been bad-tempered and fractious all week. Going into lockdown, we phoned up loads of people and cackled uncontrollably at ridiculous skype meetings and no showers. But now jokes about loo paper and the work top/pyjama bottom combo aren’t funny anymore. Nor is the 60,000 death toll. Instead, there are a lot of non-conversations. “How are you? – fine. And you? – fine. What are you up to? – nothing much” etc etc.
Some stuff is coming back. I’m sitting in York House gardens with my first flat white since 14 March. Ahhh: the deep coffee bitterness and cream counterweight. I feel more positive already. And Johnson has announced that as from Monday, two households of up to 6 people can meet in a private garden, which means that we are going over to Mike’s for a BBQ on Tuesday. I’ll take my birthday champagne. A trip around the park shows that the groups of teenagers are now getting closer. I saw 3 lads put their arms around each other. Girls now gather in huddles.
Where to start on the week? Let’s go for the big story – Dominic Cummings – a lightening rod for all that frustration with arbitrary rules, uncaring Government decisions and a society which allows cleaners and estate agents into your house, but not lovers or parents. On Saturday, I woke to the news and remembered my resolution not to judge. By evening, though, I was cross. All those Government ministers gaslighting us about the rules, with not a hint of remorse. By Sunday, both Tom and I were furious: “I took a 60 mile trip to test my eyesight”? Are we meant to take this seriously?
On Bank Holiday Monday we cycled along a crowded tow path to the Ham Gate. Locked our bikes, took books, and found new places, including Sidmouth Wood. Hot, hot, hot, but plenty of shade under the oaks. It’s birthing season for deer. Didn’t see any fawns, but noticed hinds, by themselves, hiding in the long grass. Kept our distance and talked about Cummings.
Richmond Park, Late May Bank Holiday 2020
I’m worried about A. who lives alone following a stroke. I phoned him last weekend. “How are you?” “Fine”. Then “No, actually, I’m not fine.” He is drinking too much, and his flat still has bed bugs, and he can’t use his front room, and he’s stuck in the kitchen, watching TV. “I just want to drink and die. I’d kill myself but I can’t bring myself to do it.”
I phoned again yesterday, suggesting we might meet in a park, but the mechanics didn’t work. He seemed more upbeat and talked about a programme he had enjoyed. But the underlying issues remain. Pre-lockdown, A kept going by occasional meals with friends, a bit of gossip, and interest in what other people are doing. Now that’s all stopped. How many other people are sitting at home, drinking and waiting to die?
PS. I’ve just phoned D. “I’m so angry” she started. “Bloody Cummings. Rewriting the rules for one unelected adviser”. “How was your writing group?” I asked. “OK, but I haven’t done any writing. I’m too cross”. D continued: “When we first went into lockdown, I felt really calm and surprisingly happy, but that’s all gone. And it’s making me even crosser”. I’m meeting D on Friday at the Albert Memorial, God willing. We will both cycle there.
Sunday 31 May 2020
It’s a glorious day, and I’m by Richmond riverside with a flat white. It is still early enough to sit in the sun, though midday threatens to be too hot. It’s busy – cyclists, a kayak, boat hire, and a queue for take aways. Richmond Council are still playing around with one-way signs [for pedestrians] on Richmond Bridge, not wholly successfully. They are building wider pavements on Richmond Road.
I swing wildly between zen calm, irritation and outright anger. The scene in front of me is beautiful – the stuff of a thousand tourist paintings – the ripples on the water, willows, geese, a heron. How hard can it be to just relax and enjoy it? Harder than you might think.
Yesterday, Tom vetoed my plans to rollerblade (irritation). Instead he cut branches off the buddleia, which I snipped into small pieces (satisfying). And we sat out in our front garden, reading, drinking coffee and admiring our roses (isn’t this lovely?). We chatted to neighbours, now that the British prohibition on using front gardens (surely only funny foreigners have always enjoyed life on the street?) has gone. We went to Syon Park to buy bedding plants, but it was shut. Cycled on to B&Q (queues too long), Waitrose (too little choice) and Twickenham Green (too late). Irritated.
Came back to catch up on news. Still over 350 deaths a day. A lot of SAGE scientists saying it is too early to ease lockdown. But keeping lockdown going was always going to be difficult with a bored and fractious public. And now, since Cummings, it has become impossible. Angry now. If I hear another politician say “following the science”, we may be in a broken radio situation.
My latest book, Eat the Poor, came out last week, so I should really be telling you all about it and how great it is but, really, I’ve been doing that so much just lately that even I am getting a bit bored with hearing about it. All you need to know is that it’s a sequel to Something Wicked and it features Galbraith and Pole and this time there’s a werewolf. The werewolf is an MP (seems credible) so there is a smidgen of political satire. It’s a lot of fun. Just buy it. It’s £3.99 on Kindle (free on Kindle Unlimited) so it’s not like it’s a major purchase decision.
So what else have I been up to? Well if you follow me on Twitter (I’m @TomCW99), you’ll know that I’ve spent three days in Gothenburg. My beloved was speaking at a conference there and invited me over for the ride and, having never been to Sweden, I went along.
Gothenburg was interesting. It’s the second largest city in Sweden, but it has more the air of a sleepy county town than a bustling metropolis. It’s grown a lot in recent decades and now boasts a population of over 600,000 (a quarter of them born outside Sweden) but most of the new Gothenburghers live in suburbs. The centre dates back to the 17th century (although there have been settlements here since prehistoric times) and you can walk pretty well anywhere you might want to go in half an hour or so. Not that you need to walk anywhere: Gothenburg has buses running everywhere and a huge tram network, not to mention river ferries that are included on your travel card and loads of bikes for hire.
But where to go? It must be said that Gothenburg is not rammed with interesting places to visit and many of the sites are closed (or have very limited opening hours) in May. With unconscious cruelty, Trip Advisor lists the 14th best attraction in Gothenburg as the bus to the airport. Even the municipal authority’s guide to the delights of the city puts the Poseidon statue in the Top 15.
That’s him in the picture. (Don’t have nightmares.) In the end, it’s a fountain in a square. It’s not a particularly big fountain and not a particularly big square, which is odd when you realise that this was the venue for the Gothenburg World’s Fair. Never heard of it? Me neither. It was not, I think, one of the great World’s Fairs.
In fact, there are some fun things to do in Gothenburg. The municipal museum is one of the best I’ve seen, taking you through the history of the city from prehistoric times until today. And it has a Viking ship, dug out of the mud that had preserved it: much like the Mary Rose but about 600 years older.
A trip on the river is a joy and there are art galleries and museums – even a substantial rainforest, complete with monkeys and birds in the Universeum, the National Science Centre of Sweden. (I was sceptical and nearly didn’t go, but I’m very glad I did.)
What I (and most people, I suspect) spent most of my time doing was walking aimlessly around. It’s that sort of town. (You can even hire a local to walk round with you, in case a city full of relaxed people who mostly speak excellent English is too much to cope with on your own.) There are masses of parks, some nice canals, and interesting architecture. Most of the locals seem to enjoy sitting in the parks and passing time with their friends in the many restaurants that fill the place. In fact, the Swedes make a thing of what they call ‘fika’ which means (more or less) enjoying life with coffee, cake and friends.
It was that relaxed approach to life that struck me most about the place. In three days, I never heard a car sound its horn. Everyone drove slowly and if you were near a pedestrian crossing and even looked as if you might cross the road, cars slowed even further just to be on the safe side. We saw just one busker and not a single beggar. Graffiti was rare and litter almost non-existent. Gothenburg is making serious efforts to reduce car use, with considerable success. There are bike lanes everywhere and the air is noticeably cleaner than in London.
Some of this is government policy, some of it is infrastructure, but mostly it seems to be the character of the people. Despite all the cyclists, I didn’t see a single person in lycra. Nobody yelled at pedestrians to get out of their way or raced intimidatingly past their fellow cyclists. There were e-scooters on the roads, in the bike lanes, even on the pavements, but all ridden courteously and considerately. Clean and quiet, they just fit naturally into the Gothenburg street scene.
Gothenburg, it seems to me, will never set the world on fire. One of its main industries is the manufacture of Volvo cars, surely the world’s most boring automobile. Unlike Iceland, Sweden had no desire to ride the banking boom that eventually bankrupted its Scandinavian cousins. The Swedes have left their Viking days far behind (and, in any case, would have you know that most Vikings were farmers and traders and solid folk, just like their descendants).
I’m writing this on the plane back to London. I’ll be happy to get home, where people walk faster, motorists are always in a hurry and, despite the dirty streets and the dirtier air, there is a sense of excitement. Londoners will always be doing things: thrusting, struggling, hurrying ever onwards. It’s the energy that built an Empire and won two World Wars. But already I’m looking back at three days with the calm, clean, relaxed Gothenburghers and wondering if they aren’t better adapted to the world of today than we are.
