The Launch Party

The last few weeks have been stressful. It’s not just the holiday cover in the part-time job I do, more than doubling my hours and taking away from writing work (novels and unpaid), it’s the preparation for the launch of Come the Fear.

It went off very smoothly in the end, thanks to those who participated and Blackwell’s Leeds who arrived with copies of the book to sell. And great kudos to everyone at Arts@Trinity (the old Holy Trinity Church), who did a great, unruffled job most professionally and provided the perfect venue, a church built in 1727, right in the period of the books. As I reflect there, the real Richard Nottingham – and there was a real one, the Constable of Leeds – would have walked in that place, probably many times. I was in his footsteps, something that truly gave me pause.

But making sure everything was in place, at a distance of 80 miles, could be fraught at times. The phone calls and emails began in the summer, setting the date, letting people know, working with others, like the fabulous Leeds Book Club and Leeds Libraries in order to involve them (and thankfully they wanted to be part of it). It’s been an interesting and rewarding trip.

The night was all I’d hoped it would be, in its own ways quite magical. It took a good 48 hours to recover fully. The book had come out a fortnight before the launch party, but that saw it well and truly christened. But I will say that I’m not planning a launch for the next one (due in February). It’s not even the work involved. The question is – how do I top that?

Some Thoughts About Leeds

Two nights ago I thoroughly enjoyed the official launch of my new novel, The Constant Lovers, at Leeds Central Library. After from the cock-up – the booksellers actually only had two copies of the book for sale – it was a great event, and as close as I’ve come (geographically at least) to appearing on the stage at Leeds Town Hall.

It made me think about my relationship with my hometown. I haven’t lived there since 1976, and I’ve actually spent more time in another place (Seattle). But Leeds has a claim on me, and exerts a hold, that no other place can ever match. In part it might be genetic. My family’s been there since the end of the 18th century. The place is in my DNA. My father grew up in Hunslet, and spent his summers in the relative countryside of Sheepscar, where a relative ran the Victoria – much bigger in the 1920s that it became later, and with a huge garden and supposedly renowned rhubarb garden. For him, above all, it had a piano he could play. My mother’s family was decidedly more middle-class, out in Alwoodley, with a maid and a chauffeur.

Each time I return to Leeds, which is several times a year now, it renews me. Yet, curiously, I see a place that isn’t that. Several places that aren’t there, really. In my mind I see the place from my books, the jail at the top of Kirkgate, the Moot Hall in the middle of Briggate, close to where Harvey Nick’s is (and I know which I’d prefer), Garroway’s Coffee House on the Headrow. In truth, there’s very little of those days left; about the only private residence of that time is now Nash’s, just off New Briggate.

I also see the Leeds of my childhood. The magical toy shop that was the Doll’s Hospital in the County Arcade, Fuller’s where my other and I would meet my grandmother for tea every week, and the department store Marshall’s, which had a uniformed doorman, and where I, a very innocent four-year-old in 1959, saw my first black person in 1959 and asked my mother why the woman was made from chocolate. My mother apologised to the woman, but I truly had never seen a person of colour before. It was a very, very different time, and not a better one. Then there was the music shop at the corner of County Arcade and Cross Arcade where I went with my father when I was seven. Ostensibly we went in to buy a harmonica for me and came out with a baby grand piano, which appeared a few days later in our front room. And I did get my harmonica.

And then I see the Leeds of my youth, the great bookshop opposite Leeds Poly, sorry, Leeds Met, where I discovered Hamsun, the small, two-storey Virgin shop on King Edward Street (I believe), the head shops close buy, the discos at the Poly, gigs at the Town Hall and the 100 Club not far away where I saw Taste and the Nice. On Saturday mornings I’d go into town (before I had a Saturday job), get off at the ABC, cross the street and go down to the basement coffee bar for a frothy coffee before spending the morning mooching around, and maybe buying a record at Virgin or Vallance’s.

Before this descends into mawkish reminiscence, let me say this is simply a small sampling of memories that tie me irrevocably to Leeds. The city formed me much more than I was willing to admit for many years. It took a long time, and many miles, for me to really understand that, and give me the desire to start studying the city’s history.

Out of that have come my books. Apart from being mysteries with (hopefully) good characters, they stand as love letters to Leeds. The city of the 1730s that I describe might not be a beautiful place. The people, many of them, anyway, a degradingly poor, the place stinks. But it’s mine as much as it’s Richard Nottingham’s, and I love it then as I love it now.

Last Friday I discovered that my second novel, Cold Cruel Winter, had been named one of the Top 10 Mysteries of 2011 by Library Journal. At first I didn’t believe it, even when I saw it, and then I became almost speechless for the rest of the day. Next morning I had to check again, just to be certain it wasn’t all a dream. But the words were still there, still in the same order.
It’s one of those things writers dream about, but never expect to actually happen. When it does, when those dreams come true, shock sets in. It drains away slowly, but even six days later it doesn’t feel completely real.
Library Journal is one of the biggest publishing trade magazines in the US, aimed – as you’d guess – at libraries. It had given the book the kind of review I’d have killed to have, but I’d never expected more. Publishers Weekly had also raved about the book, and Kirkus and Booklist had both been very, very positive. The book has been better-received than I’d dared hope.
Since then I’ve been told by the publisher that Cold Cruel Winter has gone into a small second hardback printing. On January 1 it’ll be available globally as an ebook, and January 26 will see it out – in the UK, at least – as a trade paperback.
That’s the same day the follow-up, The Constant Lovers, appears. The official launch will come a week or so later at Leeds Central Library, and I’m flattered that they’ve agreed to host it. I’ve every reason to be grateful to Leeds Libraries, huge supporters of the books in the branches and reading groups. I’ve learned a great deal since The Broken Token appeared in 2010, and now I just want to make the most of that and write – and continue to learn – as much as possible.

That Library Appearance...

There can be nothing quite so lovely, or so daunting, for an author as to talk to a group about his book. I felt flattered that Chapel Allerton library in Leeds had had all the tickets for my appearance there snapped up, and it was a good crowd sitting there. I talked. They asked questions (after an initial hesitation). Some of them, in the reading group there, had already read The Broken Token. Others hadn’t, so it was a no spoilers situation.

Two members of the library staff remembered my mother, an avid library user until her death, and one even recalled my father. That, perhaps, was the most gratifying thing of all for me, that sense of continuation. Plus the chance to walk around the old neighbourhood (even with blisters on my heels on aching feet from a pair of Doc Marten shoes that didn’t fit as well as they should). Old home week – or afternoon, at least.

As the icing on a delicious cake, a woman arrived bearing a tipstaff or cudgel from the period. It’s a lovely object, dated (apparently) 1719. It might be ceremonial, no one knows. She doesn’t even know how it ended up in her family, but having the chance to hold it gave me a real connection to Richard Nottingham. That was a magical moment for me.

There were great questions that required long answers, even if my voice was giving out towards the end. And, once it was over, they descended on me to buy copies. I’d taken 12 and could have sold more. Always nice, and it more than paid for my train fare and dinner (with a friend and her daughter) beforehand.

The only downside was time spent in the old St. Matthew’s graveyard, now a neglected and overgrown tangle. I know there are some fantastic old graves there, it just seems such a pity when, with a little effort, they could be on show to everyone, and people remembered.