All Fall Down

by Sally Nicholls

  But my monk in the monastery was right. When you have to work, you work. When you have to live, you live.

  Once I thought that the whole world was going to drown, that no one would survive. But now the flood waters have passed and here we are, like Noah and Mrs Noah in the mystery play, standing on the top of a mountain, looking out at a new world and the land that is ours.

  Historical Note

  The Black Death was the single biggest catastrophe in historical memory. The exact number of casualties is unknown, but was probably somewhere between a third and a half of Europe. Certainly, the population of Europe halved between the beginning and the end of the fourteenth century. The Black Death was not responsible for all this destruction – the Great Famine of 1315-1316, the Hundred Years’ War and the abysmal state of medieval medicine were all factors, but the Black Death was by far the largest. To put those figures into context, the First World War – the worst disaster Britain has suffered in living memory – killed around 1.55% of the British population. The most recent estimates put the victims of the Black Death at around 45%. The American government used records from the Black Death as a reference point when planning its response to a nuclear winter.

  The Black Death – referred to at the time as the pestilence, le morte bleu or the Great Mortality – is believed to be a combination of three diseases: bubonic plague, pneumatic plague and septicaemic plague. Bubonic plague is the disease one imagines on hearing the word plague – black buboes in the groin and armpit, red markings, fever. Pneumatic plague is what happens when bubonic plague combines with pneumonia and the patient starts spitting blood – this form of plague is highly contagious. Septicaemic plague is perhaps the most frightening of the three – the patient appears perfectly healthy one minute, and is dead the next. In All Fall Down, Edward dies of bubonic plague, Simon of pneumatic and Robin of septicaemic.

  Robin was right to wonder whether the pestilence had truly vanished. It would return to Britain in many incarnations over the next three hundred years, finally burning itself out in the Great Plague of London in 1666. Bubonic plague still exists today, although in a much less virulent form. Isabel would experience a second outbreak thirteen years after the events of All Fall Down, in which around 15% of the British population were killed, and again eight years later, in which around 10% died. Cruelly, the second incarnation mainly attacked children who had been born after the Black Death, and therefore did not have whatever genetic protection had enabled their parents to survive. It was known as the Children’s Plague.

  As a teenager, I was fascinated by apocalypse novels. I was born at the end of the Cold War, and – morbid child that I was – loved to read imaginings of nuclear holocaust, as well as depictions of plague, war and attacks by walking plants. I wanted to write about the Black Death because this was a very real apocalypse event. People living through it genuinely expected the world to end. And yet, in real life, this apocalypse behaved very differently to those in John Wyndham novels. Lack of food was not a problem for medieval peasants – in fact, many peasants had enough to eat for the first time in their lives. And society – although it was stretched to the very limits of endurance – survived. The dead were eventually buried. Orphans were eventually taken care of. The parish registers of 1348 and 1349 are full of neat lists of the dead. Wills and manor courts list the orderly succession of ownership as property passed from heir to heir – sometimes changing hands repeatedly in a matter of weeks.

  Like the years after the First World War, the years after the Black Death were ones of great social change. Women like Emma Baker were allowed to take traditionally male professions for the first time, and many women thrived. Feudalism – the system under which Isabel’s family were required to work for nothing on Sir Edmund’s land – was severely weakened, as was the power of the church. Like Thomas, many medieval people were disinclined to blindly worship a God who had destroyed their entire family. Families like Isabel’s went from a world where land was expensive and labour cheap to one where land was in abundant supply and labour hard to come by. Many – like Richard – grew very wealthy in the years that followed.

  Today, we are so used to wealth and security that we forget the possibility of catastrophic suffering. Like the medieval English, we view disasters such as nuclear war or global warming as things which happen to foreigners, never to us. I wanted to write a book which showed that catastrophes have happened here, and could happen again. And I wanted to show that human beings have an astonishing ability to stand in the ruins of their world and to build it up again from the ashes.

  Glossary

  AGUE: Malaria. Common in marshy areas of medieval Britain.

  ASSIZES: Courts administered by judges travelling through medieval England, trying all the criminals they encounter.

  ASTROLABE: An instrument, consisting of a disc and a pointer, used to make astronomical measurements.

  BUNTING: An affectionate name for a child, as in Bye, baby bunting.

  CAMPBALL: An early version of football.

  CORDWAINER: A shoemaker.

  COTE: More properly called a cote-hardie, this is a close-fitting jacket with sleeves.

  CROFT: The land surrounding a house. Like a garden, but used for agricultural purposes. Isabel’s family grow herbs on their croft, and keep chickens. Her father also stores his ox-cart here.

  DURESME: Durham.

  FRANKLIN: A landowner of free but not noble birth.

  FLUX: Diarrhoea, or any disease causing excessive flowing of blood.

  HEARTH: A place for a fire, usually in the centre of a room and without a chimney. Isabel’s family’s hearth is a wrought-iron grate with a detachable hood. Thomas’s hearth is a square of stone flags.

  HERBS: A generic term for all vegetables. Medieval people believe that green vegetables are bad for you, and should be boiled thoroughly before eating.

  HERIOT: A tax – usually a villein’s best beast or most valuable possession – paid to the lord of the manor on his or her death.

  HOOD: Medieval hoods are detachable. They cover the head and shoulders, and are often brightly coloured.

  HOSE: Leggings worn by men instead of trousers and by women instead of stockings.

  HUE AND CRY: The means by which the general alarm is raised to prevent a criminal escaping. Anyone hearing the hue and cry is required to stop whatever they are doing and assist in catching the fleeing criminal.

  INFIRMARER: A monk in charge of the abbey’s infirmary, or hospital.

  JONGLEUR: A wandering entertainer, such as a minstrel or a juggler.

  MANOR COURT: A court held several times a year to oversee the running of the manor. It deals with local crimes such as allowing animals to stray on to farmland or failing to turn up to work, and also records the transference of land. Fines and taxes are paid at the manor court.

  MANTLE: A cloak.

  MIASMA: A cloud of bad, pestilential air. Medieval people believe that diseases are carried in bad-smelling air, probably because some diseases – like the plague – cause the patient to smell, and because bad-smelling places such as cesspools are often unhealthy.

  MUMMERS: A troupe of actors.

  MURRAIN: A disease of cattle and sheep.

  MYSTERY PLAY: Plays performed by the guilds, or mysteries, of a town at special occasions. Usually retellings of Biblical stories.

  PALFREY: A horse, for riding.

  PASTER NOSTER: Latin for Our Father, the Lord’s Prayer.

  POTTAGE: The staple food of the English peasantry. Most pottages contain oats, salt, meat stock and herbs, but – depending on what is in season – may also include peas, leeks, bacon, beans, cabbage, onions, garlic and other garden produce. Sweet pottages are also made from fruits such as cherries or blackcurrants.

  QUINSY: A throat infection, still existing today.

  REEVE: A lord’s overseer on a manor. Usually one of the peasantry, a reeve has many responsibilities, including collecting rents, organizing the workers on the lord’s
fields and making sure that the villeins turn up for work.

  SCRIPTORIUM: A room for writing.

  SEXTON: A caretaker for a church and churchyard, often also a gravedigger and bell-ringer.

  SOLAR: A room in a roof, an attic.

  SPINDLE: A wooden spike, used for spinning wool. Spinning is woman’s work in medieval England, as it can be done while minding a child, watching a pot or tending a fire.

  Isabel uses a spindle and a distaff, a staff around which the unspun wool is wrapped while she spins.

  STYCHE: A medieval disease, possibly a form of pneumonia.

  TONSURE: Monks and priests in medieval England shave the top of their heads – or sometimes their entire head. This is called a tonsure.

  TITHING BARN: Medieval law requires that one-tenth of a family’s earnings are paid to the church in tithes. Since cash plays little part in a village economy, peasants literally hand over one-tenth of their eggs, corn, meat and other produce. These tithes are stored in a tithing barn.

  TRISTAN AND ISEULT: A legend telling of the tragic love between Cornish knight Tristan and Irish princess Iseult. In some versions, Tristan is one of King Arthur’s knights.

  VIRGATE: Because all ploughs are pulled by great teams of oxen, all medieval fields are large – around seven to twelve hundred acres each. The fields are divided into strips, which are farmed by individual families. A virgate is around twenty to thirty acres of land, and for every virgate he owns a villager is required to contribute two oxen to the communal plough.

  WATTLE: A wall or fence made from upright rods with twigs or sticks interlaced between them. Medieval fences are often made of wattle, and the walls of the houses in Isabel’s village are wattle-and-daub – wattle daubed over with mud and left to dry. This means that peasant houses are very easy to build and to extend as families grow.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks go to Phil Hoggart, for telling me about the Black Death in such a way that made me want to write about it (and for all those other strange and fascinating things that I’m going to write books about one day.) Thanks also to the good people at Cosmeston Medieval Village for knowing the answers to the important questions that history books never address, such as “Would medieval brothers and sisters sleep in the same bed?” and “Did medieval peasants have hen houses?”

  Much gratitude to all the many hard-working and creative people who sat in coffee shops and attics and police stations, writing novels and comic strips and PhDs beside me while I worked on this book – Tara Button, Tom Nicholls, Susie Day, Pita Harris, Victoria Still, Carrie Comfort, Emily Hunka, Sarah McIntyre and everyone at the Fleece Station. Thanks for the authorly understanding, and for reminding me that Spider Solitaire really doesn’t count as writing.

  Thanks to the wonderfully-named Jessica Metheringham-Owlett, for her generous donation to the Firefly Project (http://fireflybosnia.org/), as part of a silent auction to win the dedication space in this book.

  Thanks as ever to my editor, Marion Lloyd, for making me happy with editorial suggestions such as “Can we have some more gore?” and my agents – the much-missed Rosemary Canter and the wonderfully efficient Jodie Marsh. And to my dear boyfriend – now husband – Tom Nicholls, world-class provider of hugs, internet, screwdrivers, financial advice, and plausible reasons why the book I’m halfway through writing probably isn’t nearly as bad as I think it is.

  A BOOK ABOUT US 7th January

  Today was our first day back at school after the Christmas holidays.

  We have school three days a week - on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, in the living room. There are only two pupils - me and Felix. Felix doesn’t care about learning anything.

  “What’s the point of being ill if you have to do maths?” he said, the first time he came to school at my house. Mrs Willis, who’s our teacher, didn’t argue. She doesn’t fuss if Felix doesn’t do any work. She just lets him sit there, leaning back in his chair and telling me what’s wrong with whatever I’m doing.

  “That’s not how you spell ammonium! We never spelt ammonium like that at my school!”

  “There’s a planet called Hercules - isn’t there, Mrs Willis?”

  “What’re you doing that for?”

  Felix only comes to school to see me and to give his mum a break.

  Nowadays, Mrs Willis thinks up ploys to interest him. You know the sort of thing; making volcanoes that really erupt, cooking Roman food, making fire with a magnifying glass.

  Only my mum didn’t like that one, because we accidentally burnt a hole in the dining table.

  Sort of accidentally-on-purpose.

  Today, though, Mrs Willis said, “How about you do some writing?” and we both groaned, because we’d been hoping for more fire, or possibly an explosion. Mrs Willis said, “Oh, come on, now. I thought you might like to write something about yourselves. I know you both like reading.”

  Felix looked up. He was playing with two of my Warhammer ores, advancing them on each other and going “Grrrrah!” under his breath.

  “Only ’cause there’s nothing else to do in hospital,” he said.

  Me and Felix are both experts at being in hospital. That’s where we met, last year.

  I didn’t see what reading had to do with writing about me and I said, “Books are just about kids saving the world or getting beaten up at school. You wouldn’t write about us.”

  “Maybe not you,” said Felix. He pressed his hand to his forehead and flopped back in his chair. “The tragic story of Sam McQueen. A poor, frail child! Struggling bravely through terrible suffering and hospitals with no televisions!”

  I made vomiting noises. Felix stretched his hand -the one that wasn’t pressed to his forehead - out to me.

  “Goodbye - goodbye - dear friends—” he said, and collapsed against his chair making choking sounds.

  Mrs Willis said, “No dying at the table, Felix.” But you could tell she wasn’t really angry. She said, “I’d like you both to have a go now, please. Tell me something about yourself. You don’t have to write a whole book by lunchtime.”

  So that’s what we’re doing. Well, I am. Felix isn’t doing it properly. He’s written: “My name is Felix Stranger and”, and then he stopped. Mrs Willis didn’t make him write any more. But I’m on page three already.

  School’s nearly over now, anyway. It’s very quiet. Mrs Willis is pretending to do her marking and really reading 70 Things To Do With Fire under the table. Felix is leading my orcs in a stealth attack on the pot plant. Columbus, the cat, is watching with yellow eyes.

  Next door, in the kitchen, Mum is stirring the soup, which is lunch. Dad is in Middlesbrough, being a solicitor. My sister Ella is at school. Real school. Thomas Street Primary.

  Any minute now-there it is! There’s the doorbell. Felix’s mum is here. School is over.

  WHY I LIKE FACTS

  I like facts. I like knowing things. Grown-ups never understand this. You ask them something like, “Can I have a new bike for Christmas?” and they give you a waffly answer, like, “Why don’t you see how you feel nearer Christmas?” Or you might ask your doctor, “How long do I have to stay in hospital?” and he’ll say something like, “Let’s wait and see how you get on”, which is doctor-speak for “I don’t know”.

  I don’t have to go into hospital ever again. Dr Bill promised. I have to go to clinic - that’s it. If I get really sick, I can stay at home.

  That’s because I’m going to die.

  Probably.

  Going to die is the biggest waffly thing of all. No one will tell you anything. You ask them questions and they cough and change the subject.

  If I grow up, I’m going to be a scientist. Not the sort that mixes chemicals together, but the sort that investigates UFOs and ghosts and things like that. I’m going to go to haunted houses and do tests and prove whether or not poltergeists and aliens and Loch Ness monsters really exist. I’m very good at finding things out. I’m going to find out the answers to all the questions that
nobody answers.

  All of them.

  ELLA 7th January

  My sister Ella went back to school today too. She and Mum had a huge fight this morning about it. She doesn’t get why I stay at home all day and she doesn’t.

  “Sam doesn’t go to school!” she said to Mum. “You don’t go to work!”

  “I have to look after Sam,” Mum said.

  “You do not,” said Ella. “You just do ironing and plant things and talk to Granny.”

  Which is true.

  My mum named me Sam, after Samson in the Bible, and my dad named Ella after his aunt. If they’d talked to each other a bit more while they were doing it, they might not have ended up with kids called Sam ‘n’ Ella, but it’s too late to change that now. I think Dad thinks it’s funny, anyway.

  Ella’s eight. She has dark hair and bright, greeny-brown eyes, like those healing stones you buy in hippie shops. No one else in my family cares what they look like. Granny goes round in trousers with patches and padded waistcoats with pockets for pencils and seed packets and train tickets. And Mum’s clothes are all about a hundred years old. But Ella always fusses about what she wears. She has a big box of nail varnish and all of Mum’s make-up because Mum hardly ever wears it.

  “Why don’t you wear it?” says Ella. “Why?”

  Ella always asks questions. Granny said she was born asking a question and it hasn’t been answered yet.

  “Was I?” said Ella, when she heard this. “What was it?”

  We all laughed.

  “Where am I?” said Mum.