Thurifer
A few months ago, Trevor Wood was a new name to me in the genre of crime fiction. He published his first book The Man on the Street in 2019. His detective is homeless, on the streets, once in the Navy, a stint in prison (unfairly) where he committed an offence so serious that he had a life sentence, now out on license. Despite that baggage, he is an engaging, flawed hero. Set in Newcastle, not its gracious, architecturally distinguished main streets but its hidden, murky recesses, the story is vividly set, with sufficient twists and clues to satisfy most readers. I was almost put off his second book One Way Street because it bore this piece of deathless prose on the cover, ‘one of the most unique sleuths in crime fiction’. (Daily Express). That illiteracy was the responsibility of the journalist. That it appears on the cover, the responsibility of the publisher (Quercus) but, possibly, also the author. A pity. His prose within is much better than that, crisp, demotic and fluent. The third in this enjoyable series Dead End Street is newly published. Highly recommended.
*
‘No kneeling for him these days though, arthritis and Catholicism being an uneasy mix. A graveyard, so peaceful, so perfect, [Fr] Mackie thinks it could almost make him believe in God’. One of the entertaining tropes found in Richard Osman’s, The Thursday Murder Club. Mr Osman is a pleasing addition to quiz programmes. Unfeasibly tall, graced with a ready wit, he writes with ease, the same turn of phrase and humour. Like most murder mysteries, you have to take recommendations on trust because much that makes the book appealing cannot be shared without revealing the plot.
*
One of the least attractive aspects of emerging, blinking and sniffing the air, from lockdown was the noise. In my secluded leafy suburb the only sound to disturb and distract is the murmuration of entitlement from the residents. Beyond that is the cacophony of everyday life and of urban living. The underground rattles, screams and screeches. Apart from the deadly silence of electric cars, there remains the noise of traffic, tooting, hooting, vrooming. It reminds of that blissfully inappropriate remark by an old luvvie, actor and embroiderer, Ernest Thesiger who, when asked about his service in the trenches during the First World War is reputed to have replied, ‘Oh, my dear, the noise, the people’.
*
Circumstances took me to Lambeth Palace Library in its newly-constructed manifestation. Approached from Westminster Bridge, an enormous, blank, brick wall predominates, soulless and stark. Inside, however, is an admirable warmth and quiet efficiency. The working conditions for readers are as they were under the old dispensation. A large table at which all sit with sufficient space to write, type or consult books and manuscripts. The ancillary facilities for readers to store bags and coats, are modest in size but adequate and well-maintained. It is still shiningly new and will weather with use. The staff, still masked on my visits, were polite, helpful and unassuming and caused no distraction from scholarly work. Of the dozen or so people researching, there was a preponderance of the young, apart from me and one retired bishop.
*
As spring had not yet sprung when I visited, the Community Orchard in the Archbishop’s Park, next to the Palace and the Library, was rather stark, bare, waiting. The orchard contains fruit trees native to this country, among them the Conference Pear, Victoria Plum, and the Bramley Seeding Apple. The trees were planted in 2010 as part of a scheme for fruit trees throughout London so that Londoners may recover the joy and delight of eating fruit grown close to their homes. The Park also aims to arrest the decline of the Common Toad which has been noticeable (to those who notice such things) over the past thirty years. Toads may not be the most glamorous or appealing of amphibians but are a snack of choice for foxes, among other small carnivores. The slogan, Save the Common Toad may have more traction in Lambeth Palace than Save Our Parishes.
*
My current hero of the art of invective, assuming the mantle of the late A.A. Gill, is John Crace of the Guardian. He writes the sketches of proceedings in Parliament. Outlining the defence of the Prime Minister over Partygate, Sir Michael Ellis, who had drawn the short straw, earned himself this savage onslaught. ‘At which point his last remaining shred of self-worth shrivelled up and died. He was now a mere carapace, masquerading as sentient life.’ Worthy of past masters William Hazlitt and Bernard Levin.
*
Lord Justices Newey, Baker and Snowdon heard an appeal from Martyn Perfect against HMRC. They delivered the Perfect Judgement.
*
Although my transgressions have been plentiful, I can attest to have obeyed at all times the Deuteronomical prohibition and never muzzled an ox when it is treading out the corn.
*
Stop Press! There was no dill to be had in my local Waitrose. The herb section looked like the aftermath of the Blitz. I could hear the wailing and tearing of hair as I went in. How many supper parties were on the brink of ruin and social ostracism? It was too horrifying to contemplate. Chia seeds were still available. Deo Gratias.