Hometown Blues

Can you honestly say you love your hometown? The one where you were born? Do you? And do you still live there? 

I rarely meet people in this country who can answer yes to any, let alone all, of those questions. Even here in Lewes, where the Bonfire Societies represent the most loyal local protectionists you are ever like to meet, the natives I encounter generally have an ambiguous relationship with their hometown, albeit because of the influx of DFL (Down From London) interlopers and a growing uneasiness at the incoming tide of gentrification and lack of ‘proper shops’. 

I, too, am an interloper here, having migrated from the Midlands. And, thanks, in part -  I believe - to the diversity of regional accents in the media these days, I no longer have to brace myself for a tirade of derision when I reveal this information. 

That wasn’t always the case. 

The first thing I learned at university was that the Brummie (Birmingham) accent - my accent - was to be ridiculed and derided at every opportunity. During this era of Liverpool super-soap Brookside and the ‘Madchester’ music scene, the Northerners received a free pass on accent bullying, and it was left to us Midlanders to accept that not only did our accent make us sound like lobotomised chimps (one would gather from the obligatory effort at imitating Black Country/Brummie which was deemed an appropriate conversation gambit), but our cities (Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Coventry etc.) were the crappest in the country, lacking culture, and beauty (in fact, anything of interest) and were an abomination to the very concept of architecture and civil engineering. 

Naturally, that’s not quite the memory I have. And despite Birmingham’s magnificent recent renaissance with its blitz on the Bullring, a sexy Selfridges and the awesome Central Library building, I miss its dirty-ugly past, its grunginess, the stained concrete and tatty edges. I remember with fondness the rotting veg stink of the Bullring as I flitted from pub to pub, the massive unapologetic slabs of 60s neo-brutalism which housed bars and night clubs rammed with rockabillies, goths, Chicago house DJs or be-fringed, cardigan-swinging indie chicks.  That’s the Midlands I remember - rich with history, art, music and street fashion. 

Its history is part of my family’s story. Escaping the collapse of Northampton’s rural economy, its steam-belching railway and booming factories provided desperately needed jobs. The magnificently dark, dirty, industrial landscape of this era provides the backdrop for the BBC’s hit drama Peaky Blinders. Never have the grimy back-to-backs of Small Heath been so touched with glamour, the deafening foundries of Deritend so dramatic…

But just hold on there a moment.

I’m guessing that from what I’ve written so far, you might imagine that I hold my hometown dear. Trouble is, I didn’t actually live in Birmingham. I lived and was born in Sutton Coldfield, a half-hour bus ride away. So, the question is, do I feel the same affection and nostalgia for Sutton Coldfield? 

Absolutely not. 

I’ve attempted to rein in the contempt that has taken hold from the time of my teens. Surely, every place has a history, a personality, it’s not merely a bland suburban repository for football players and bigots obsessed with lawns, cars and property prices. Oh come, friendly bombs, fall on Sutton …No, Val, that’s not fair. 

But in even in Bradshaw’s travel guide of 1863, it’s described as “a place of no very particular note, beyond an occaisional pic-nic [sic] excursion”. 

My memories,  from over a century later, struggle to pick out anything of ‘particular note’ and certainly no picnics. However, I can pinpoint my dislike of suburban estates from this time. As a child in the relatively car-free 70s, the quiet, tree-lined streets provided the perfect arena for ambitious bike stunts, sledging and unsupervised excursions to friends’ houses. But, as I grew older, I would experience a post-apocalyptic horror at walking through deserted suburban streets (particularly around 2pm during the week) with their complete dearth of activity, blank windows and trimmed hedges concealing any signs of life. 

I tried to make a go of it socially, but my over-riding memory of a Sutton Coldfield night club is, “If this is what all nightlife is like, I will become a hermit; if this is what all men are like, I think I must be gay.” I was very glad to have Birmingham prove me wrong on both counts. 

I think you can gather why I don’t live in Sutton Coldfield anymore, but why not Birmingham?

Like most people, it’s a mixture of luck and choice, jobs and relationships. And like many people in my age group, I’ve grown out of city life. Brighton’s there if I want it, but it’s nice to leave it behind (and not for suburbia).

It’s true that I travel through places and I wonder why anyone would willingly live there (I am not naming names), but it’s not for me to question their choices. And so many people have no choice, such as those who face being shipped off to some random place because the land they currently occupy is too valuable an opportunity for development. 

I’m lucky enough to have a choice where I live, even if that choice is tempered by my family’s needs and wants. But, ultimately, I’ve changed, and so has Birmingham. I feel a loyalty to it because it was my stomping ground during a significant part of my life, and I had a brilliant time. 

It pisses me off when people mock the Midlands. Usually they have never even been there. Sarcasm may be labelled the lowest form of wit, but in fact laughing at places you’ve never been, and regional accents that are different to your own is scraping the barrel of humour. But, if that makes you feel better about where you live …laugh on. 

Afro-Jam and Jerusalem: How The Proof of the Patois is in the Re-writing

I faced something of a dilemma writing my latest novel set in the Caribbean. I realised as my black and mixed-race Jamaican characters began to spring to life that, to be authentic, they needed their own voices.  As a white British woman, did I have the skill, let alone the temerity, to create patois dialogue? 

I was determined to try. I pored determinedly over L.Emilie Adams’s Understanding Jamaican Patois and by extracting suitable phrases and following the grammar the best I could, I felt much closer to making the Jamaican dialogue real. Nevertheless, as a language teacher myself, I know the myriad pitfalls of such an approach, and I cringed at the prospect of anyone from the Caribbean actually reading my words. 

But fate stepped in by dropping an actual Jamaican into my life. I braced myself, first to plead for his help and then, when he agreed, to hope he would be merciful to someone who had possibly not only butchered his language, but also his national heritage. In my white, well-meaning, liberal-minded way I knew I risked at the very least, being patronising, at the worst clumsy cultural appropriation.

It’s a tricky line to tread. As Joanne Harris recently tweeted: “Diversity is not achieved by one author writing diverse characters. It’s by encouraging a greater number of different voices…” I agree. But I was writing about a diverse cast, because, despite what you might glean from watching Pirates of the Caribbean, Port Royal was not merely populated by gritty (white) commanders and fey (white) governors and their feisty (white)daughters, by the 18th century, according to a contemporary report: ‘sailors and negroes [were] on the most amicable terms’ enjoying ‘ mutual confidence and familiarity’.

And Port Royal was not the only place where an embryo of racial integration had begun to take root. Take France, whose colony Saint Domingue was a hot bed of slave insurrection. The Code Noire may have formalised the right of white French to exploit Africans, but no rule could ever surmount the human desires and emotions that resulted in many a dual heritage baby making their mark in privileged white society. Among them, Marquis Alexandre Davy de la Pailleterie and a freed slave, Marie-Cesette Dumas, whose grandson, Alexandre Dumas went on to write The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers. 

And, while the BBC’s current lavish production of Musketeers might well overflow with heaving bosoms, swaggering leather-clad hotties and feature a Comte de Rochefort  villain cheesy enough to live up to his name, it has to be said, here is a popular historical drama whose cast includes a number of non-white characters. Including, Porthos, one of the eponymous heroes, played by Howard Charles. 

As Stuart Jeffries argues in his Guardian article , “it's worth casting a mixed-race actor as Porthos – to shake some Europeans out of their racist delusions.” Delusions that despite the imperial impositions made on so many races and cultures, European history can only be a sea of white faces and white achievements.  

But back to me, cringing in a cafe, as I attempted to read aloud my Jamaican characters’ dialogue to Duran Mitto-Duckett, a Jamaican academic and language teacher. Luckily, he has a very good sense of humour and much patience. He whittled down my awkward phrases and streamlined my odd sentences and ta-dah! My characters came alive!

We also Frenchified the words of the Saint Dominguan (Haitian) characters. Because, as much as I troubled over neglecting their French patois, I write in English. Patois based on your own language is challenging enough, but another language entirely? Apologies to the Haitians, for that omission. 

I now confidently introduce the Cole family: Pansy, Hepzibah, Isaac, Lorcan and Thomas; mada-woman, Folami, and long-suffering housemaid, Mitzy. You’ll find them in Kin’s Destiny, if you care to buy it. But here’s a little flavour of the Jamaican spice.

1674 Near Spanish Town, Jamaica

“You fool fool gyaal. You jus’ a come? Trouble tek you and dis pikney shirt fit you?” The mada-woman chided tearful Hepzibah who had waddled into the darkened room gasping for breath, her skin glowing with fevered perspiration. It was not merely her advanced pregnancy which took her breath away. She was terrified at what she had done; at what she had neglected to do. 

“But Madame, me sorry! You mussa help de baby dem,” she pleaded. “Is not dem fault dey muma ears-hard!”

Folami steered Hepzy over to a chair, then pulled up a low stool beside the panting girl, her almost-black eyes huge in her tiny, bony face. “Di bad spirit land where di obeah-man set di duppy,” she said, reminding Hepzy of the malevolent force the obeah man claimed lay behind the pregnancy. 

“Some wicked powerful duppy a stir up trouble in a you life. When di obeah-man say di duppy come make baby wid you, me did tell you no fi bother di obeah-man, but you never listen and gaan affa di obeah-man fi get you revenge!” Her advice to Hepzy had been to appease the spirits, not seek vengeance. But the obeah man had a different view. He had everything to gain from vengeance and spite.

All such things, whether for good or ill, were practised in secrecy.  There were planters who dismissed ‘Guinea ways’ as harmless play by ignorant heathens, but others were not so tolerant. To them, any god that wasn’t their god was the devil…

Hepzibah began to weep noisily, her eyes fixed desperately upon the mada-woman, her sobs growing more uncontrolled and hiccupping. Folami placed her hands on her narrow hips. 

“You muma never tell you say you must’n cratch up yourself when you full of fassy!” she continued, her tone softening. “Dem ago get bigger and full o’ pus, nex’ thing you ketch a fever – you might even dead? Just can’t lef di likkle scratch?”

Hepzibah’s chin shook as she managed a nod. Of course she knew not to fuss with a scratch or a scab, how it could become infected enough to kill if you did – but that such a thing also applied to bad spirits, she hadn’t understood – she hadn’t wanted to.