by Alex Monroe
Then the track turns right, away from the rolling farmland, and back towards the river through the reeds, still within sight of the single window of the Iken Church tower, which watches us like an eye. Here there is a raised boardwalk of slatted planks covered with chicken wire for extra grip. The kids run bouncing ahead, enjoying the spring and the sound when Jessie comes racing past. Off the boardwalk, we skirt a ploughed field, soft brown and sandy, a grove of stunted oaks at its side. Up on the horizon to our left, Tunstall Forest is looking like a Colourist landscape, blocks of pink and grey and green, textured under a vast pale blue sky.
Then it’s back into reed beds, another open field, and the Maltings are visible ahead of us, white chimneys behind a row of Scots pines. An oversized shire horse stands motionless in the opposite corner of the field, leaning into the harness of a cart carrying nothing but two gigantic concrete marrows. Perceval is a sculpture by Sarah Lucas, an oversized knick-knack of the type you used to find in a teashop window. Connie and Libby rush ahead with Jessie to climb on the horse, but Verity stops Denise and me with a hand on my arm. She has a finger raised to her lips to hush us. There’s nothing to be heard but the faint swish of the breeze in the reeds. Verity points.
A massive blasted oak rises from the greenery. In its sun-bleached branches, two birds sit side by side. Not dainty turtle doves, sadly. These days they’re a threatened species. The birds are bigger than collared doves too. They look like wood pigeons to me. But something about the way they sit together reminds me of that terrifying night thirty-something years ago. I look down at Verity and it’s clear that the picture has captivated her. Of course, I can’t tell exactly what it is that has moved her. The significance of the two birds on the branch is different for everyone who sees them. And that’s just as it should be.
In the distance Jessie barks, and Connie and Libby shout to us from the horse’s back.
Come on. Let’s go and get that drink, I say.
Before reaching the pub, we cross over Snape Bridge. Leaning over the fence, we look down into the muddy brown estuary. It’s high water. The river is perfectly smooth and calm, suspended as if holding a breath. Then we leave it behind, knowing that the tide will continue to ebb and flow, ceaselessly winding its secretive way through the reeds and past blasted oaks, where birds huddle together against the chill wind and the inevitable approaching darkness.
Acknowledgements
The biggest debt of gratitude I owe is to Lydia Syson. Without her, this book would never have happened. When I started jotting down my first doodles and formed the idea for this book, I had no idea how to go about it. My skills were firmly based in the workshop, not on the written page. Lydia took me under her wing and gently encouraged my naive haverings. She praised my infrequent successes and corrected my schoolboy errors. She taught and encouraged me until I was better able to go solo. And whenever I hit the doldrums, she patiently put me back on the right track. Lydia has been much more collaborative than an editor. Perhaps ‘teacher, mentor, editor and friend’ might describe her role better. However I describe her, it is because of her tireless and generous input that this book is what it is. For her intelligence, thoroughness, patience, skill, generosity and hard work, I will for ever be in her debt. A wordsmith to my goldsmith.
To my agent Jane Graham Maw for believing in me from the start.
To Helen Garnons-Williams for seeing potential in my early drafts, her astute suggestions, for giving me a chance and for all her generous support. And to all the team at Bloomsbury.
Thanks to my Mum and Dad for giving me the best ever start in life and to my amazingly generous brothers and sisters for seeing me through in one piece. Sorry you’re not here to read it, Dad.
To all the gang at work for bearing the brunt of my many absences, especially to Emma.
To the kids for helping me see the familiar through youthful eyes.
And of course to my lovely wife Denise, who put up with me working all night for far too long.
A Note on the Author
ALEX MONROE grew up in rural Suffolk and showed a keen interest in art and design from an early age. Alex trained at the Sir John Cass Faculty of Art in Whitechapel. He set up his business in south London in 1986 and Alex Monroe Jewellery is now an iconic and internationally successful brand.
www.alexmonroe.com
@agmonroe
First published in Great Britain 2014
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © 2014 by Alex Monroe
Illustrations and photographs copyright © 2014 by Alex Monroe, except illustrations appearing on chapter openers by Holly Macdonald
Photograph copyright © Ben Rice (benrice.com)
Photograph copyright © David Stockings
The moral right of the author has been asserted
The author and publishers would like to thank Sham 69 for permission to include lyrics from ‘Hersham Boys’ co-written by Jimmy Pursey and Dave Parsons. Epigraph is taken from Swallowdale by Arthur Ransome. Published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Limited. US rights reprinted by permission of David R. Godine, Publisher, Inc. Copyright © 1931 by Arthur Ransome. Quotation taken from Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome. Published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Limited. US rights reprinted by permission of David R. Godine, Publisher, Inc. Copyright © 1930 by Arthur Ransome
Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publishers would be glad to hear from them
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