JOHN LE CARRÉ: An Appreciation

What a miserable end to such a rubbish year. After all the suffering caused by the coronavirus, the restrictions on life and liberty, and the grotesque number of deaths, comes the latest: that of a literary hero, John le Carré.

2020 had already taken away two icons of my youth: the beautiful Diana Rigg and the charismatic Sean Connery. Now someone else from that generation, someone whom I discovered a year or two later, someone who also allowed me to follow my imagination into a world apart from my own.

A fan of mysteries, thrillers and spy stories, in film, on television or in print, I came across The Spy Who Came in from the Cold while searching for something a little deeper than Ian Fleming and The Man from UNCLE. At first I was daunted by the demands the writer was putting on the reader: nothing was as it seemed, there was duplicity and lying and smoke and mirrors at every turn. But how I was rewarded by the effort! It was a proper novel: entertaining, yes, but serious too, politically engaged and brilliantly written and plotted - as valid as anything I was being encouraged to read for English Literature A Level.

The BBC serialisation of Tinker Tailor, Soldier, Spy appeared on television at about the same time. People grumbled about it being grim and unfathomable. It was a challenge, granted, but as the plotline slowly revealed itself it became a weekly treasure of story-telling, wonderful acting and electrifying suspense. As far away from Bond as could be imagined, suddenly George Smiley was the spy we loved.

And so to the books: the rest of that majestic Karla trilogy, backtracking for the early works, then onwards, buying each one in hard back as they appeared through the eighties, nineties, into this century. Each book anticipated like a treat, a promise of a great read whatever the subject, each a delight. And each one chiming with a political world view I shared.

The more fiction I have tried to write in recent years, the more I appreciate Le Carré’s skill with a novel’s structure, its pace, the way it opens up; how it challenges the reader and yet carries him/her along at the same time. He is a master of dialogue and not only the clipped sarcasm of the English establishment. He is a master of suspense, of drama, and of pathos.

It is hard to pick a favourite. Anything with Smiley in is up there with the best. Absolute Friends is a brilliant exposé of post-Cold War relationships. And A Perfect Spy is probably his masterpiece.

Le Carré passed away as he approached his nineties. All through the last ten years I have wondered if there was one more story in him; we were rewarded with four. And now, sadly, that marvellous sequence has ended. The agent will no longer run in the field but at least we will always have those books. We can revisit them (I surely will), immerse ourselves in that pithy prose and remind ourselves of the towering figure that English writing lost yesterday.

Home from home

Having just returned to Dorset after another trip up to the north-west of England, the impression I have of having two homes is stronger than ever. My latest novel, Blessed are the Meek, a historical piece set in the middle of the nineteenth century in Hyde, demanded a good deal of local research. I undertook much of that in the early part of last year (2018), visiting Tameside Local Studies Centre, the People's History Museum in Manchester, a working cotton mill and various specific locations where I planned to place the action. The book was published in February of 2019 and since then I have revisited Hyde and other nearby towns to promote and sell the book. As the year comes to a close, and as this most recent trip was the last one for the moment, I can confirm that I have driven up and down the M5/M6 five times, in addition to three other occasions in 2018.

Writing the novel was a labour of love and promoting it has extended the pleasure. I grew up in Hyde and lived there until I was eighteen. My parents and in-laws lived there for most of their lives. I have followed the fortunes of Hyde United FC throughout my life but most of the time that has meant checking the newspapers or these days the internet. I tried, and succeeded, to tie in my visits up north with a home fixture at Ewen Fields. The voices echoing around the ground remain very familiar but of course the town is very different in many ways to the place I knew as a teenager. It was still a mill town in those days, albeit one in gradual decline. Today it is a classic post-industrial town with all the predictable hardships: a struggling high street, deprivation worsened by austerity policies, etc. Nevertheless I love going back.

I have run a book stall on the market and at a village summer fete, I have spoken at several local libraries and a community centre, to the Hyde Rotary Club, to a Ladies Probus group, and to the Hyde Historical Society. The many people I have met (who says writing is a solitary occupation?) have to a man (and woman) been warm, friendly, open-minded, interested and interesting. Many are enterprising, dynamic, and full of positivity. All are proud of the area’s past and present and seem determined to encourage others to feel the same. I have felt energised by every experience.

This reconnection with my home town explains the feeling I have of belonging to two places. I have lived in Dorset for almost thirty years. My daughters grew up in the county and it is their home, and mine too. As for the novel, the story of a mill-worker named James Shore who I thought was a distant relative of mine (but it turns out he isn’t), I sense that I have exhausted the local market but I might be wrong. Promotional talks are lined up for venues closer to my Wessex home but there is no doubt that I will call in on Hyde again next year.

French Markets

With a view to selling copies of An English Impressionist in the part of France in which it is set, my wife and I spent a week in the Dordogne with our camping table and chairs on a series of  markets. I had contacted the mayor’s office in each of the four towns I identified as having a large resident British community, was granted permission to set up a stall and spent a morning at each in turn: Issigeac (Sunday), Bergerac (Wednesday), Eymet (Thursday) and Riberac (Friday).

It was an interesting experience setting up and seeing other market traders at close quarters. I found myself next to a range of marchands, selling baskets and belts, plants and potatoes, wine and jewelry and e-cigarettes. We also found ourselves in the middle of a heatwave and the most important thing became keeping in the shade. The majority of customers were French, of course: many stopped to ask about the book but none could face 400 pages of English! My target audience was English-reading locals and holiday-makers; strangely enough my very first sale was to a Belgian lady. I also sold copies to Dutch and Australian readers.

So, hot, hard work with a succession of early morning rises, but I feel that with a total of 27 copies sold, it was worth the effort. Best market for sales: Issigeac. Worst: Bergerac with no books sold at all  – we had a poor pitch and there were few Brits around. I now wait with interest from reactions to the book from my latest batch of readers.