by Jill Dawson
‘Here I am between Earth and Sky – so help me, God.’ Words of William Dawson, another rioter, from Upwell; friend of Pa. Shipped off to Botany Bay, he was, and never saw his beloved Fens again. Between Earth and Sky. That’s where we are, here: the fog hanging over the marsh and the dykes and you’re nowhere but everywhere, betwixt and between.
‘I would sooner lose my life than go home as I am. Bread I want and Bread I will have.’ William Dawson again. Plain enough. Fen Tigers, that’s us. The Law of the land will always be too strong for its assailants. Maybe . . . maybe. Not wholly convinced, myself. I never more celebrated obedience; I learned a bitter lesson. The riots – the ‘daring act of outrage’ as the newspapers had it – taught me that the law was made not by God but by men and by powerful wealthy men at that, who would not share the wealth of God’s green land with us. If you have money you throw it at any hardship. No hand that life deals you is so cruel that money can’t amend it. Susie’s father had sympathy with our plight, but no sympathy with our anger, our mischief. There was only one farmer who had any sympathy with the rioters. His name was Henry Benson, but they put him down for a madman and he was given notice to quit his farm by the Earl of Hardwicke.
Afterwards, after coming home, I could never speak of Pa to a soul. Grief kept us company in the first years of our marriage and I knew that my Susie understood, and did all in her power to make our life lively and keep turf burning in the stove; to be a helper to me when I took up shoemaking again. Once our first-born Walter arrived the low-ceilinged cottage at Wicken Fen trembled with his lusty cries and I no longer had the queer thought that Pa was just behind me, rushing through the sedge like the wind.
That was my daytimes. Night-times was another story. As I closed my eyes next to Susie’s warm and snoring form, words overheard in gaol the day of the hanging would come back to me:
‘His heart continued alive for a full four hours, expanding and contracting after the body was cut down . . .’
‘Its powers was visible past one o’clock . . .’
And I would dream, night after night, of Pa’s heart soaring through the Fens with powers all its own, a heart travelling alone, flying along the drove like a bird.
Acknowledgements
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is unintentional except for Part Two, which tells the story of Willie Beamiss pretty much as I discovered it. The Littleport Riots took place in 1816 in Cambridgeshire. The names and situation of the five men who were hanged and others involved in those events are as I give them here. (I apologise in advance to any descendants of the Beamisses who feel I have taken liberties with their story.) I used the excellent Bread or Blood by A. J. Peacock (first published in 1965 with a foreword by E. P. Thompson), Report of the Trials for Rioting in Ely and Littleport edited and revised by Philip Warren (Fieldfare Publications, 1997) and Sabine Baring Gould’s novel Cheap Jack Zita (Methuen and Co, 1893) for the context as well as the facts, along with original documents from Cambridge University Library, newspaper reports, letters and writings about the Fens from a variety of sources. I’d like to thank Frank Bowles for his help in uncovering this material; also Louise and Robert Topping, and the brilliant staff at Topping Books in Ely.
Fay Bound Alberti’s book Matters of the Heart (Oxford University Press, 2010) and many first-hand accounts from heart transplant patients have been tremendously instructive. I’d also like thank Dr Leonard Shapiro (Consultant Cardiologist MD FRCP FACC) for his kindness in reading the manuscript and offering his comments on the details of the surgery; also Dr Tim McFarlane for his generosity and patience in answering my probably foolish queries. Any remaining errors are mine.
I’m grateful to Faramerz Dabhoiwala in his book The Origins of Sex (Oxford University Press, 2012) for translating from the Latin and drawing my attention to the phrase ‘you will collect frequently, you will rise up’; words that I gave to Susie Spencer in my novel.
The lines ‘Come back early or never come’ and ‘My mother wore a yellow dress; Gently, gently, gentleness’ are from Louis MacNeice’s poem ‘Autobiography’ published by Faber and Faber.
The lines ‘Happy the man and happy he alone, he who can call today his own. . . .’ are John Dryden’s translation (or paraphrasing) of Horace, Odes, III, 29.
Lines from Dusty Springfield’s ‘Yesterday When I Was Young’, written in 1965 by Charles Aznavour and Herbert Kretsmer. Used by permission: Editions Musicales Charles Aznavour, France, assigned to TRO Essex Music Ltd, London SW10 OS2 International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Released by Dusty in 1972.
‘Out of the tree of life I just picked me a plum’ is from the song ‘Best is Yet to Come’ sung by Frank Sinatra. Lyrics written by Kurtis Henneberry, Michael Nadeau, Leif Christensen, Anton Yurack and John O’Leary. Permission to use that line has been sought from Universal Publishing Group, EMI Publishing Group.
The lines ‘Oh it’s what you do to me’ are from ‘Hey There Delilah’ by the Plain White T’s, words and music by Tom Higgenson © 2005 WB Music Corp. (ASCAP), Fear More Music (ASCAP) and So Happy Publishing (ASCAP). All rights administered by WB Music Corp.
My thanks are also due to the best agent and editor a writer could have: Caroline Dawnay and Carole Welch respectively. Also to their assistants Sophie Scard and Lucy Foster and to the copy-editor, Celia Levett. Most of all, I’d like to thank the friends who sustain me during the writing of my novels: Sally Cline, Louise Doughty, Kathryn Heyman, Suzanne Howlett and Geraldine Maxwell.
If you enjoyed this book, don’t miss the latest from Jill Dawson.
THE CRIME WRITER
From acclaimed novelist Jill Dawson comes this imaginative psychological thriller—a dark and compelling snapshot into the life of Patricia Highsmith that immerses readers into the intoxicating, nightmarish psyche of this brilliant, complex author.
When novelist Patricia Highsmith moves into a small cottage in Suffolk, England, in the mid-1960s, she’s seeking seclusion and time to write. There’s another reason for seeking privacy too—Pat is involved in a secret romance with Sam, a married woman living in London.
But even in this quaint village, Pat can’t escape the obligations of her success. A young reporter, Virginia “Ginny” Smythson-Balby, sets her sights on Pat for an article she’s writing. Ginny is both tenacious and oddly familiar, but Pat can’t quite place where she’s seen her before. Intent on unearthing details about Pat’s fascination with not just the subject of murder but the psychology of a murderer, Ginny constantly intrudes into the sanctuary Pat had hoped to create, much to her dismay.
As Pat observes, love is a kind of madness. And when Sam comes for a visit, tension between Pat and Sam’s husband escalates with deadly results. For so long she’s wondered what it would feel like to commit the ultimate transgression. Now she’s not just a chronicler of murder and violence, but a participant as she becomes a character from her own thrilling, disturbing novels. But just like her books, she discovers crime has consequences…dark, surprising, and inescapable.
Jill Dawson deftly explores the public and private life of one of the most intriguing writers of our time, blending fact and fiction in a novel as thrilling as Patricia Highsmith’s own work.
An Excerpt from THE CRIME WRITER
Something pursued her. Dreams–phantoms–woke her in the small hours, driving her from her bed to walk the darkness of the strange English village. She’d thrown a coat over striped pyjamas–what was the likelihood of meeting another person at this late hour on a Thursday night?–and pushed bare feet into the cold men’s brogues she kept by the door for the purpose of these night-time prowls. There was no light in Bridge House, the house behind hers, Bridge Cottage, which meant that the old hag, Mrs Ingham, was not awake at any rate. High, bristling hedges hid her, lining the long road that she now stepped onto, there being no sidewalk here–or, pavement, as the British would call it. This road sliced through the village in a ‘nice bit of straight’, encouraging a fell
ow to drive on through. Down towards the Victoria bar or up toward the cemetery? A quick glance assured her there was a hunter’s moon and a clean sheet of stars. She chose the cemetery.
A car approached: a soft sound like a waterfall. She quickened her steps in their tap-tapping shiny shoes, and pulled closer to the hedges, tugging her coat collar up to hide her face: was someone following her? The car released her from its beam and slid past, and her thoughts returned to Sam and the Problem. The situation was this: Sam was married. Sam had been married since the age of twenty: for fifteen years. Sam had a child, a girl called Araminta–Minty. Sam would never leave. Love was a kind of madness, not very logical.
The smell of woodsmoke and onions told her that someone was awake, even at this hour, perhaps enjoying a cosy fireside meal. Her stomach contracted. That reminded her: she must chop some wood–perhaps she should offer to chop a pile for Mrs Ingham too. Fall was almost here, the season turning. And Sam was coming to visit for the first time this weekend.
As she reached the cemetery another car appeared, illuminating the gravestones, each with their shock of mossy hair: malevolent trolls. She tensed: two cars in one late evening in a place like this was unusual, she was sure. An inner voice started up immediately: Don’t be silly, he couldn’t possibly find you here, no one knows this place . . . She had barely been at Bridge Cottage a week, half of her boxes were still packed, but she was already sure that for most of the obedient people of Earl Soham, chosen for its anonymity and its proximity to London and to Sam, not much happened after the local bars closed. And in this second car–a white car, she’d noticed, in the moonlight–it wasn’t a man but a young woman. Even so, it had been a woman she’d thought she recognised. Red hair? No, not really possible to see the hair colour, she’d concede that much; she was being dumb. But the shape of the head then, the familiar silhouette made by that particular hairstyle. Something of a Jackie Kennedy swing to it, that image seen over and over on TV screens at the end of last year. Bouffant on top; flicks at the end.
The car rolled out of sight and she realised she was breathing hard, although the walk was short and not uphill. She felt in her coat pockets for the gold Dunhill lighter and the cigarettes she’d brought with her from Paris. The fat white moon looked about ready to pop. There was easily enough light to see the bench, so she sat down and breathed out noisily. It’s all in your head, it’s all in your head. Then, as she flicked the lighter on, she was startled by a noise, a noise as if someone was standing close behind her angrily sucking in their cheeks. She sprang up and crashed down again, her hand trembling as she slipped the lighter back in her pocket and put the cigarette to her lips. Just a branch, rubbing against another. This place had some impressive, old, old trees, well established, like everything here. A rope swinging, squeaking in the breeze. She longed for a bottle of Scotch to go with the cigarettes–why had she not thought to bring that out too?
Tomorrow–Friday–would be the visit from the lousy journalist, at 10 a.m., which didn’t help her mood any. She ought to telephone from the booth outside the cottage and call the whole thing off. Jesus–how could she be anonymous, safe, if people wrote about her and named Bridge Cottage? The earlier conversation, making the arrangement for the interview, had been awkward and no doubt offered a foretaste of how it would be. ‘Matter of fact, I was rather hoping to keep my stay here private, as I’m having a hard time getting to finish a couple of books,’ she had begun, only to be cut off with ‘But it’s sooooo exciting to have a famous crime writer in Earl Soham . . .’
She’d had to explain, for possibly the hundredth time in her career, that she didn’t write crime novels; she wasn’t a crime writer. The damn fool girl had protested by naming some of the best-known novels, as if Pat didn’t know her own work, to which she’d patiently explained: ‘Would you call Dostoevsky a crime writer for writing Crime and Punishment? Edgar Allan Poe? Theodore Dreiser? I don’t happen to care for the label “crime writer”. There is not much detection in my novels. There’s rarely any police involvement at all . . .’
She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out under her shoe. She thought she heard sounds of car tyres popping on gravel near the village hall beside the church. And then she gave in to a powerful compulsion to bend forward and scuff out signs of her smoking with her hand, picking up the cigarette butt and stuffing it into the pocket of her coat, then looking left and right up the street, as if she was in a bad movie, covering up the evidence. She felt as if she watched herself doing this, carefully. She’d had that feeling from childhood. Narrating herself, was how she thought of it. Pat did this, Pat did that: a running commentary that she couldn’t tune out.
As her hand dug into the pocket, she discovered a tiny snail she’d snuck in there yesterday, meaning to return it to its home. She held it close to her face, to examine it in the moonlight. A less-experienced observer might believe the baby snail to have vacated the shell but she knew it was in there, hiding. She had torn off a piece of lettuce and felt the crumpled pieces of it now, inside her pocket, along with the little snail, bouncing in there as she walked, like a lucky pebble.
Her mood lifted as she pictured herself showing the snail–with its beautiful stippled brown and cream shell, its tiny body cautiously extending, its horns flailing inquisitively–to Sam. She picked up speed, striding back towards Bridge Cottage in her brogues, finding her way without a flashlight because the moon drenched everything in milky light–the telephone booth, the allotments, the gas pumps on the little forecourt next to her cottage. Rain threatened, and she didn’t want to get the shiny brogues muddy. The smell of woodsmoke had evaporated. This time no cars passed her. Not one single house in that dull, pleasant place had a light on. She’d forgotten to lock the front door, she realised, as she grabbed the handle, brushing aside a dried-up rose that trailed near her face; another tense moment. What if someone had managed to sneak inside while she was out?
The door gave its customary jerk as she opened it and stepped inside: the living room in darkness, a faded Turkish mat, sludge colours, which had once been red and blue. She sniffed, relaxing her shoulders. No one was here. No one had been following her. Maybe she was half cracked. Ready for the booby hatch. The cottage smelt just as it had when she’d left it: damp, English and ridiculous. Sure, it was exactly as she’d said to herself. Earl Soham wasn’t much of a place. Once again, she’d ended up in the middle of nowhere. It was a lonely neighbourhood. She was hidden, invisible; she wasn’t being watched. It was perfect.
In the morning, she fixed herself the breakfast she always had, the one that made her feel terribly British: hardboiled eggs doused in salt. She knew the English actually ate them soft with a spoon in a little cup but she drew the line at that. She drank from the bottle most of the creamy milk she’d found at the front door, which the milkman had left with a note saying that if she wanted more she was to leave him her request along with the empty bottle. The mail arrived–she had not written to Mother since Paris, she remembered–and this bunch was only a letter about a new bank account, a letter from Peggy in London, and one she wasn’t yet ready to read from her agent. She went out back to check the garden before the journalist arrived, taking the walk she did in every new property she rented in whatever country; the one where she imagined the prowler. (‘Having a prowler or being a prowler?’ Sam had teased her.)
The garden was large, wet with dew and unkempt. At the front, trees protected it from the road, and there was also a ghastly, oversized hedge that Pat rather admired for its unruliness. She wouldn’t trim it, she thought. The front lawn was pretty bad. The back lawn was in better shape, and a murky green ribbon of water ran along the bottom. The colours in the garden, in the entire village, were the limited palette of an English autumn. A russet apple. Brown, rusty red, green: the water pulsed with these colours. Upstairs she had her easel set up already and her watercolours and she knew the lozenges of colour that would soon be wet and mucky; knew the exact shade the water would turn in the
jam jar, and knew whose portrait was the only one she wanted to paint–Sam’s.
Well, now that she was standing in the back garden–shaking off a damp leaf that had stuck to the toe of one shoe–she wondered whether this little strip of soupy water would more properly be described as a stream or a brook. She imagined the prowler hatless, young, damp hair, tufty like the patchy lawn, face down in the cold water, where she had pushed him, after finding him crouching in the garden casing Bridge Cottage. A bloodied stone lay beside his head where she’d clouted him and pressed his face into the sluggish stream. Brook. A man can drown in a couple of inches of bath water, every schoolchild knows that. Then she remembered that she had no tea; the English journalist could probably use a cup of tea.
It wasn’t that she minded a brisk walk to the village store–putting her coat on over her pyjamas for the second time in twenty-four hours–but that crank Mr Fremlin (Mr Gremlin in her mind) would so want to yak, as if it wasn’t bad enough that she had to gird herself for the intense conversation she was undoubtedly about to have at 10 a.m. with Miss Virginia Smythson-Balby. As a precaution against this, she stuffed some wads of cotton-wool into one cheek, preparing to pantomime and point to her swollen face, implying that she couldn’t talk to the grocer on account of toothache. Matter of fact, now she came to remember it, this was dimly true. She did have some residual aching in one tooth; probably why the idea had suggested itself to her. Perhaps the Earl Soham store stocked tincture of myrrh or clove oil.
It didn’t. It sold Fry’s Chocolate Cream and Gold Cup Jaffa Juice and Limmits cookies and a brand new newspaper, the Sun, which she bought too when the old Gremlin pressed it on her, though privately she thought it looked about as goddamn awful as one might expect. ‘Election soon,’ he’d said. ‘Wilson’s the man for me. We do it differently to you Yanks. Quieter, you know.’