THE LOVE OF MUSIC

Benjamin Myers is an extraordinary talent whose latest novel is a visionary time-travelling story rooted in the North of England. He talks to Tina Jackson about medieval saints, regional identity, punk philosophy, and working class writing.

“I never thought that I’d ever be sitting sipping coffee on a sun-bathed boulevard in Rome. And with the most gorgeous girl in the world – soon to be my wife! We’re so lucky. How are you feeling, darling?” said Benjamin, stretching out his hand to clasp hers.

“Happy. Excited. But still a little anxious,” said Leila. “I don’t know. It all seems so surreal. I’d never have imagined it could lead to this – with a man from the other side. And actually marrying him! All thanks to music.”

“Thanks to the Maestro, you mean, and the Unity Orchestra. It’s a good job he didn’t have to break the news to our families! He could also have incurred the wrath of Allah! Imagine him with my Mum. I was lucky to get out alive. ‘Vot you say? Have a Arab for a vife? You vill not be family anymore!”’

“Oh Ben!” she said, leaning back a little in her chair, still squeezing his hand. “That impression gets me every time!” Their sandalled feet were intertwined beneath the cafe table and their eyes fixed on each other.

“You remember we’re going to meet the Maestro this afternoon, right?” he said. “Before we go back to the flat. I’d almost forgotten. So kind of him to arrange the music for our wedding. I hope he likes our choices for the service. And I want to ask him about that right-to-work documentation. Bloody red tape! Do you have the gift for him?”

She nodded, tapping her bag.

“Well, we’ve got this far,” said Benjamin. “Another coffee? And how about discussing names for our babies, eh?”

“I still like Yasmin for a girl, the Arab side, and Jonas for the Jewish side,” said Leila.

“Hmm,” said Benjamin, rubbing his chin. “I was thinking maybe Italian equivalents – you know, as they’ve welcomed us here. It’d help with assimilation, too. Must make a determined effort to become fluent, not just in musical terms. Deviamo imparare Italiano, see? Halfway there!” “Yasmina and Gianni?” said Leila

“Done!” said Benjamin. “Give me a kiss.” She did, not caring about the passing tourists, who were oblivious anyway to these two lovers.

Benjamin Sopel Benjamin was a handsome young man, early twenties, jet-black wavy hair, cleft chin and a slightly aquiline nose. He favoured the clarinet, reflecting his heritage, and was a leader in the woodwind section of the Unity Orchestra.

Leila Hakeem was exceptionally beautiful, with pale olive skin, dark brown eyes and full lips. She took music lessons on the oboe in preference to traditional Arab instruments

Alan Brett

‘We’ve worked very hard together and within a very short time. I thought at first James was rather too forensic and a bit pedantic, but by the third revision of my story it revealed the standard of his expertise as a tutor and I shall forever be very grateful to him. We managed to retain the essence of the story through the characters’ dialogue rather than through the narrator, and the characters have now become far more credible and colourful. I’m very pleased with the outcome and shall apply James’ advice to other stories I have waiting in the wings.’

and played with such aplomb, especially in solo pieces, that it sometimes brought the audience to its feet. The Maestro, an Italian Jew with a mission to heal the wounds of the Middle East, had brought them together.

“Did you ever imagine in Tel Aviv that a couple of years later you’d be drinking coffee in Rome with the Israeli clarinetist next to you in the woodwind section?” said Benjamin.

“Not in my wildest dreams! But I do remember vividly that you couldn’t take your eyes off me! Even missed the score!”

“Yes, and you couldn’t take your eyes off me either! We’d better get going if we want to be on time. You know the Maestro will be!”

The concert hall was dark inside but empty, the janitor having just left the door open for them. They embraced fiercely, Benjamin running a hand through her tresses of long wavy hair then brushing his hand across her breast.

She held it in place. “No, darling – not here, not yet. I think I can hear the Maestro coming.” She took the little gift from her bag. It was a hand-stitched tapestry depicting musical instruments.

The Maestro arrived waving an envelope. “Vostri documenti,” he said before giving both a kiss on each cheek, Italian fashion.

Leila handed him the tapestry with his name embroidered in a corner.

“For the music,” she said, “and for everything else.” He rubbed his eyes with his jacket sleeve, a man of movement and sound rather than words.

“Devo andare, ce tanto da fare – I must go now, my lovebirds. Much to do: ma prima, la musica per la matrimonia.”

“Of course!” said Benjamin. “We agreed on an oboe piece for Leila, Morricone’s Gabriel’s Oboe, and Crusell’s Clarinet Concerto number one for me.”

“Perfetto!” said the Maestro. “In every way.”

He walked towards the exit with a wave, whistling Crussel to himself.

“How about a lasagne and a bottle of vino?” said Benjamin. “Then perhaps we can begin to start coaxing Yasmina and Gianni into this world – a safer one.”

Leila smiled and kissed him to the fading notes of the Maestro’s whistled melody.

If you wanted to pick a strong contender for the author of the most exciting new fiction in the UK, it would have to be Benjamin Myers. An outsider to the traditional literary scene, his electrifying books include Beastings, Pig Iron and The Gallows Pole – all three put out by a small Northern indie publisher and all of which won major prizes. Joining them, and demonstrating the same blazing talent is his new novel, Cuddy. And if you think an experimental novel about a medieval Northern saint might not be for you, think again: Cuddy is a tender, fierce, beautiful and absolutely original book that weaves stories from four historical periods into a breathtaking whole.

Benjamin comes from Durham, where ‘Cuddy’ – or St Cuthbert, to give him his proper name – is still a revered local saint.

‘I grew up two or three miles outside the city, so I was always aware of the figure of Saint Cuthbert and about five years ago I realised I wanted to write something about Durham Cathedral, this amazing building I grew up seeing from a distance,’ he says. ‘And I wanted to write about Lindisfarne, and it was how to put the two together. And Cuthbert was obvious. I started writing what became book four first and went backwards, did lots of research, read loads of books. It’s about the legacy of him and the lives of people who have lived in the shadow of Durham Cathedral.’

Cuddy’s interwoven narratives, including sections of poetry and found material, show a writer at the height of their powers pushing the imaginative boundaries of how a story can be told. ‘I tried to adopt an original approach,’ says Benjamin. ‘It’s experimental and probably indulgent. I’ve been working on it for five years. It developed slowly, one book at a time, so I had four novellas. I started layering it, like a painting, adding details. I think people might be baffled by it. But that’s okay.’

The story of a medieval saint may seem an odd thing to resonate with a 21st-century readership – but in Benjamin’s hands, it does. ‘I wanted to find ways to immerse myself in his worlds, as much as I could, from a modern perspective,’ he says. ‘He was a humble guy, shied away from the limelight, he was more interested in nature, landscapes, animals and leading a quiet life and that’s quite similar to how I feel. So I felt a connection, not a religious connection, but the sort of guy I’d like to hang around with. But many centuries later, it’s possible to feel a connection across time. So I decided to embark on an act of ventriloquism – I feel like a lot of the people in the book.’

Benjamin describes Cuddy as an exercise in time travel. ‘It’s a book where you can peel back the time and see glimpses of past times, is it the same person, is it descendants? The whole book is questioning the concept of time and the concept of history.’

One of the most striking things about Cuddy is the way Benjamin writes the characters in a way that emphasises

their humanity more than their place in history.

‘I think when we think of historical fiction or non-fiction a lot of writing forgets the people are human, with the same motivations and dreams as us,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure people change massively over the centuries. We want to be happy and loved and fed, we’re jealous and ambitious. They weren’t simple and just lived off turnips – and at any point in history they were the most modern people to date.’

The books that initially made Benjamin’s name were brutal, visceral, rural tales: Beastings, Pig Iron, The Gallows Pole. But, defying any attempt at stereotyping, he’s also the author of lyrical, reflective novels: The Offing and The Perfect Golden Circle. ‘When I get into a subject I get really into it and to try to create something as authentic as possible. The next book is set in Berlin but if I am writing about the North I go full Northern and Cuddy is such a north-east story.

The Gallows Pole is such a Yorkshire story that I have the tendency to amplify the details of that place so the reader is on for the ride. So in The Gallows Pole there’s the smells, the food, the climate, the landscape. There’s certain things I keep returning to. The way we treat each other, characters who are morally corrupt who reflect my feeling about elites, landscape and how important it is to conserve nature.’

With Benjamin, whatever the book he’s writing, it’s always about the landscape. ‘Landscape is one of the first characters really,’ he says. ‘I spent a lot of time in Lindisfarne, I saw Durham Cathedral every week. It’s hard not to think, what was it like when it was built, this godlike building in a pretty empty landscape? Most of my novels start with the landscape, or an image – The Gallows Pole started with this man walking through the fog. It’s always landscape. I find it very inspiring. Rural places where I hang around, and lurk, and wonder. And the fact that there were these pilgrims carrying the body of Cuddy through bogs and swamps – it’s hard not to write about that.’

Benjamin now lives in Yorkshire – in Hebden Bridge with his wife, the writer Adelle Stripe. Although not all of his books are set there, the North is a defining part of Benjamin’s identity. ‘I am from the north. All my family. I did one of those DNA tests and it found I’m 91% north-east England going back, 9% Scandinavian so I’m about as north as it can get. I wouldn’t say I’m a flag waver for the north because there is a danger of becoming parochial but it’s important in terms of who I am. The publisher I’m with now is great (Bloomsbury) but the North is a long way from London and the centre of publishing.’

Writing the lives of people, like himself, whose existences are often underrepresented in publishing, is important to Benjamin.

‘Working class writing is something I feel quite strongly about. Quite a lot of the book world is still quite an upper

“There’s certain things I keep returning to. The way we treat each other, characters who are morally corrupt who reflect my feeling about elites, landscape and how important it is to conserve nature.”

middle-class pursuit in Britain and while I feel diversity and representation in the UK is getting better, a lot of workingclass novels are about crime and the underclass and really it’s people going about their daily lives. So I like a broad cross-section of people. I want to reach readers who don’t necessarily read many books – so you can read books about those characters.’

Benjamin’s use of language in his books is extraordinary – and love of words is what draws him to the page, over and over. ‘Words are my preferred method of communication,’ he says. ‘Really, language, it’s a form of alchemy. There’s only 26 little symbols in the alphabet but if you arrange them in a certain way you can affect people at the other side of the world. That’s like witchcraft, a spell – you can arrange words and make someone scared, or ecstatic – that’s quite a powerful thing. Language is at the core of who we are as people.’

His writing uses vernacular speech to stunning effect. ‘There’s poetry in that,’ says Benjamin. ‘I’m interested in regional accents, slang, how certain words can be specific to certain places – and you can go 10 miles down the road and

that word has no meaning. It’s hard to get it right and it can alienate people but it can be done. If you tune your ears into it, it can be a kind of poetry.’

Benjamin’s own background as a writer was through the indie-punk music scene. ‘No one is going to say just get off your arse and be a writer – especially if you live on a housing estate in Durham,’ he says. Benjamin’s own introduction to writing was through the indie-punk music scene, his first written works probably for a fanzine dedicated to 1990s punk band S*M*A*SH. ‘I played in bands when I was 14 but I couldn’t sing and I couldn’t write songs so my entry was writing about the music I love. So I forced myself upon people really, hassled editors, would they print things of mine. At 21 I moved to London and was staff writer at Melody Maker and the work rate was intense, and some weeks I’d publish thousands of words – and that taught me a sense of discipline. But all the while I knew there were other stories I wanted to tell apart from music.’

The passion and DIY spirit of the punk scene carried over into Benjamin’s writing. ‘In the respect that I never sit around waiting for things to happen or for a publisher to discover me,’ he says. ‘Being involved in punk scenes taught me not to wait around for things to happen. If no one wants to publish you, you do it yourself, not asking permission or needing the right qualifications – if you’ve got something to say then say it. The satisfaction is the act of creation – the most exciting aspect of being a writer for me is writing – that’s why I do it. It’s comparable to being in bands, being able to do something you love as often as possible. Just get off your arse and do it.’

It took Benjamin ten years to get a book published. ‘I did ten years of getting rejected,’ he says. ‘I was signed to Powder before Bluemoose – I did a book with them in 2010 and the editor left. I’d already written Pig Iron and I wanted it out there. I met Kevin Duffy of Bluemoose, who lives near where I live, and he did a good job of it. And I did Beastings, The Gallows Pole. They all had good reviews and won prizes but the result was slightly limited in terms of getting it distributed. Bloomsbury were interested in what I was doing and the reason I signed with them was they were an indie publisher but with a Harry Potter budget. It’s a different world to Bluemoose but I’ve enjoyed both. But it’s a long route.’

The Gallows Pole, which won the Walter Scott Prize, has recently been filmed for TV by Shane Meadows. ‘I deliberately kept out of the way – I said to Shane this is The Gallows Pole by Shane Meadows,’ says Benjamin. ‘He’s one of my favourite directors and there was no way I was going to interfere so I just sat back and watched this thing unfold. It’s a dream come true for me. If I could have chosen anyone to adapt it, it would be Shane.’

Benjamin’s writing practice is part workmanlike, part craftsmanship, part ‘whatever it takes.’

‘I tend to get up and write. It depends on the levels of research. Cuddy involved two stays on Holy Island and wading out into the seas. It’s a discipline – you have to get up and put the hours in. It’s not just turning up at the desk to do 500 or 1,000 words each day. It’s a long slow grind every time. When I’m on a roll I tend to do that thousand words a day. But it’s not always possible. When I’m writing a book I try to write every day. Sometimes seven to eight hours but realistically a couple of hours. And endless revision. And I spend a lot of time writing in libraries, by hand. To get away from the internet and emails. It forces a slower pace. It makes me think a lot about what’s going on the page. It’s a good excuse, no distractions, no Amazon, just me and a cup of tea and pen and paper.’

For all that Benjamin is warm and open and aimable to talk to, alongside his passion for writing there’s a burning determination to this quietly-spoken Northern rebel that he does nothing to conceal – and that he’d like to pass on to writers who, like him, weren’t handed their opportunities on a plate. ‘You have to put the work in, you have to make time – if you can, set aside 20 minutes, half an hour – but the main thing is to enjoy it. A lot of it is editing, trimming, trying to solve problems, but if you can enjoy it you’ve found something you can do for life. And don’t listen to too much advice – it’s such a ridiculous thing. Come up with an idea you believe in and pursue it.’

“Being involved in punk scenes taught me not to wait around for things to happen. If no one wants to publish you, you do it yourself, not asking permission or needing the right ual cat o you e ot something to say then say it.”