The Amber Heart - The Long, Long Story of a Story and Pardon Me While I Scream.

Yesterday, a friend who had just read my new book The Last Lancer, was telling me that she had enjoyed reading it - but she didn't love it as much as one of my novels called The Amber Heart. She went on to tell me how and why she loved it, which is always cheering for an author to hear. And perhaps doubly so, when it was praise for a novel with a long and chequered history. 

Now that it's available as an eBook and in paperback, at long last, I think it's time to revisit the tale of how we got here, what inspired it - and what the connection is with the true story of The Last Lancer. 

Once upon a time, when I was young and optimistic, my first full length adult novel, titled The Golden Apple, was accepted for publication by The Bodley Head, an old and distinguished publisher. To be clear, this wasn't my very first novel. There were others, tucked away in folders, never to see the light of day. Practice novels. And there was a young adult novel, published in Scotland, before young adult was even a thing. But this was my first grown up novel that was fit to be seen.

I considered myself very lucky. My agent for fiction at the time was Pat Kavanagh, and she was a fine agent with a wonderful reputation. Among other things, and unlike almost all agents now, who will tell you that publishers are looking for an 'oven ready book' (that's a direct quote from one of my subsequent agents) she didn't consider it her job to edit. That was the publisher's job. If a book was good enough, she would sell it. Beyond that, the editorial relationship was with the publisher.

Half way through the publishing process, the Bodley Head was taken over by what was then Century, an imprint of mega conglomerate Random House. What should have been a thoughtful, typical Bodley Head novel, about a cross cultural marriage, was published as a beach bonkbuster and sank without trace. It was an early lesson in the power of branding. And the disaster of the wrong branding. My editor at the time, with whom I had no quarrel, wrote to me later to say that she felt guilty about what had happened to my novel, and the knock-on effect on my career.

Still, with Pat's encouragement, I embarked on a new project. That new novel was - in essence - The Amber Heart. Back then. I think it was called Noon Ghosts. It was an epic and passionate love story, a family saga, very loosely inspired by what I knew of episodes from my own family history, not least a somewhat scandalous liaison between an aristocratic forebear and her estate manager, one which you can read all about in The Last Lancer. Knowing that at some point in the future, I might want to tackle the true story of that relationship, I deliberately set my fictional love story in the previous century. 

To my relief, Pat approved. She quickly sent it out and the responses were wonderful. She related some of the reader and editor comments to me. 'I literally could not put this book down,' one of them said. 'I read it through the night and wept buckets at the end.' There were lots in the same vein. They loved it and said so. Cloud nine loomed.

Pat couldn't sell it. 

And she could have sold sand in the desert. 

You know what the stumbling block was? It was the Polish setting. It always fell at the last editorial hurdle. The consensus in every publishing house she tried (and there were already diminishing numbers of possibilities) was that nobody would want to read a piece of historical fiction set in Poland, especially one that was aimed at a largely female readership, never mind that some of those same readers had compared it to a Polish Gone with the Wind, never mind that it was a big, sexy and ultimately tragic love story. It was too foreign and that was that.

Years later, Pat told me how frustrated she had been that she couldn't sell the novel. For her too, it was the 'one that got away'. Sadly, she died far too young. I put the manuscript away, stored all the research in a big box under the bed, and got on with other writing. I forged a pretty successful career as a playwright but I was also working on more novels, finding the pull of fiction irresistible. Many have now been published by Saraband. I'm a compulsive teller of tales, so I finished up with more novels than Saraband could ever reasonably publish.

Three in particular fell through the cracks in the publishing business: Ice Dancing, Bird of Passage and, of course, The Amber Heart.  Sadly and inexplicably, I think these three are among the best books I've written, and I don't say that lightly. Other people have told me so too. 

Time passed. 

I found and retyped the old manuscript of The Amber Heart. You can tell how long this has been going on by the fact that its first faded incarnation was on old fashioned perforated computer paper - the kind that ancient printers spat out in long reams. I expanded it, wondering if it would make a trilogy. Realised that the answer was no. Filed it away on the computer, instead of in the box under the bed. Changed computers. Lost the file. Found it. Opened it up. Cut and edited it. A lot.

Throughout this time, I had several agents. One left the business. One of them decided that she could make more money with other clients (true) and jettisoned me.  My last agent was enthusiastic, but he  disappeared before he could send it out. For all I know he may have gone out for a loaf and never come home because I never heard from him again. All of them read The Amber Heart in its various incarnations, liked it very much, but still pointed out that nobody wanted to read a piece of fiction set in Poland. Two of them told me that it needed pruning. They were right about that, at least, but the problem was that one wanted me to lose the first third, while another wanted me to lose the last third. 

So why didn't I give up?

The answer came to me when, over lockdown, I realised that Pat and all those readers had been right. It is a good book. But the others were right too. It was much too long. Stodgy in places. Going back to it, years later, and with a lot more experience as a writer, I could see clearly enough that it needed rewriting. Just not the kind of pruning that destroys the whole tree. I took about fifteen thousand words out of it, here, there and everywhere. I killed a few darlings. I think now it's tighter, more readable, less verbose. A better book.

I'm still in love with my main characters. Still love the story. And I'm still quite proud of some of the writing in it. Interestingly, I did this while I was deep into research for The Last Lancer, just published by Saraband. My very last enquiry to an agent referencing this proposed new non-fiction book (why on earth did I do it?) elicited the faintly bored response that there were 'so many similar stories out there'. That was not long before the Russian invasion. Since my grandfather was born in what is now Ukraine, in a sleigh, grew up to look like a younger version of Olivier's Maxim de Winter, was a cavalryman who drove a Chrysler and died at the age of 38, at Bukhara on the Silk Road, I suspect that there aren't all that many similar stories out there, but what do I know?

All the same, if I ever again publicly express a desire to find an agent, you will know that it's code for 'I've been kidnapped. Send help immediately.'

Meanwhile, Saraband were at the London Book Fair. I'd have thought the Last Lancer might have been a good candidate for translation into Polish and publication in that country. Poles certainly keep telling me so. And I just got a heartening and glowing testimonial from my hero Neal Ascherson. But my publisher reported no interest in it. 'All the focus is now on Ukraine,' they said. Which is, of course, where the book is set, exploring the troubled history of that region through the history of one family.

Pardon me while I go away and scream.

Before I do though, you can download the Amber Heart as an eBook for the bargain price of 99p, from May 12th to May 19th. It's available in paperback as well. And if you want to know where the idea for the love story at the heart of that novel came from, you might like to read The Last Lancer as well. 

A 17th Century Con Man, Part One - Haunting the Bounds of the Parish

Ancient Yew in our kirkyard

I was browsing through some (very) old records from the Kirkmichael Kirk Session when I came across the intriguing story of a local con-artist named William Houstone.

 These records begin in 1692 with the information that the previous session books are 'away with the curate' who fled during the ‘late revolution’ – that’s the Glorious Revolution of 1688 when William of Orange deposed James Stuart. Presumably the curate had   Catholic sympathies. ‘He was apprehended in rebellion in the north and having escaped out of prison and fled to France as is reported, it is not known if they could be recovered.’

 There follow various accounts, mainly to do with fornication, which preoccupies all these kirk sessions rather more than seems wise, with concerns including   the crime of ‘antenuptual fornication’ i.e. sex before marriage, which demands censure and punishment even when the people named have been married for a while. 

As I observed when I was researching my novel The Jewel, about Robert Burns’s wife, Jean Armour, this keenness to monitor such things often arose from a laudable attempt to force a man to take responsibility for his children at a time when falling pregnant out of wedlock could be disastrous for a young woman. The stool of repentance, upon which the poor penitents had to sit to be admonished before the congregation, is the subject of some discussion in these minutes, since it has fallen into disrepair and a joiner can’t be found to replace it, although whether from disapproval of its function, or because of the stinginess of the kirk session is never reported. Lack of space for the gentry is another problem with the elders suggesting that the gentry themselves pay for the building of a ‘loft’ or gallery to accommodate them and their families well away from the great unwashed. This falls on deaf ears - mostly due to the expense. The local lairds never had any ready cash, a set of circumstances which would make them ripe for exploitation by somebody with the wit of our Mr William Houstone.

In March 5th 1693, the minutes become much more interesting, as they relate the tale of Houstone who, given that he is always accorded his title of ‘Mr’, must have been a person of some status before he achieved a certain notoriety in lowland Scotland.

It’s interesting to read the entries in full. There must be some more information out there about William and if anyone can find any, do let me know. I’m curious about him. How old was he? Had he been born in Maybole where his parents lived?  Did he believe his own tales?  It’s worth noting that the spelling in these very old records retains its inconsistency – the inconsistency that existed before printing meant that spelling became fixed. The clerk will sometimes spell the same word in different ways within the same sentence eg Libell and Lybel, a word which also seems to have changed its meaning over the years from accusation, back then, to its meaning now of possibly false allegations. 

I'll post this in two parts, with the occasional comment of my own in italics.

The session taking to their consideration that Mr William Houstone, lately excommunicate by the Synod, does frequently haunt the bounds and sometimes resides in Maybole, the very next parish and endeavours to make division and draw away some ignorant people from ordinances dispensed by their ministers, pretending that he is a more clean, honest and pure preacher than any other in Scotland at this time, notwithstanding his notorious villainy. Therefore they think it fit and necessary that a copy of said Houstone’s process and excommunication, (which was intimate to the congregation between sermons on Sabbath the 19th day of February last) be kept in the Session minutes that any who desyres may have access to read the same and be confirmed that this man is notoriously wicked and unworthy of the name of a preacher, and for this end they appoint it to be recorded in the Session book. The tenor whereof follows.

(This record was kept in Kirkmichael, only three miles from Maybole, where we can assume William's parents lived - although I've been unable to find out where.)  

At Air, (Ayr) the eleventh day of January 1693, the qlk (which) day the Synod of Glasgow and Air here convened having required ane account of the execution of the summons against Mr Wm Houstone, pretended preacher, issued forth by the Synod to be publicly intimated in all the respective churches within their precinct, upon the first Sabbath of November 1692 allowing him sixty days in case of his absence out of the kingdome, to compeir at this session of the Synod to answer to the points of the Lybel hereafter insert which Libell was publickly read in the several congregations at the intimation of the said summonds and having got a sufficient account of the execution of the said summonds, they did call the said Mr William Houstone three several times two Synod days viz the tenth and eleventh of January now instant at the most patent doors of the church of Air and he not compeiring, but adding contumacy to his other guilt libelled against him in sleighting these summonds as he had done the summonds of the Synod several times before, the Synod did proceed to cognosce upon the probation of that it contained in the several articles as follows.

Art 1 The said Mr William Houstone did in his several letters directed to the Laird of Craigy, signed with the sign of the cross, declare that the last time he took the sacrament he did it after the Romish manner. This is attested by famous witnesses, one of them adding moreover that the said Mr William did in the Tolbooth of Air renounce the protestant religion in the presence of Sir William Wallace of Craigie, Colonel Buchan and Major Duglas. To this renunciation one of the foresaid witnesses was clerk. 

(William obviously inclines to the Roman Catholic persuasion, although whether this is a matter of conscience or politics is hard to decide.) 

Art 2nd. That the said Mr William Houstone while in the tolbooth (prison) of Air did frequently curse and swear, yea, did curse his own parents, saying ‘let them goe to the devil for the devil will get them.’ And all the reason of this was because they had not obtained of Craigie that he should be let out of prison. This is likewise attested by famous witnesses.

(Telling anyone to go to the devil, let alone his own parents, was unwise, to say the least, at a time when the devil was a very real threat and an accusation of witchcraft might spell big trouble. See also, the accusation below.)   

Art 3rd That the said Mr William Houstone while in the tolbooth of Edinburgh did likewise curse and swear to the scandal and offence of the company where he was. This is attested by many famous witnesses, one of them adding that he did curse his own brother in these terms. 'Let him goe to the divel. The divel take him and you and all togither.’

Art 4th The said Mr Wm Houstone is guilty of notorious forgeries. Instance first, he did forge a call to himself to the parish of Kilsyth, subscribed by several of the inhabitants of the said parish, who being inquired concerning their subscribing of the said call, did judicially declare before the presbytery of Glasgow that they had never seen the said call, and that the subscriptions were forged which is clear by the records of the presbytery of Glasgow.

Mr William Wishart, minister att Leith, having given a testificat of the honesty of Kemp, the said Mr William Houstone did counterfeit Mr Wishart’s handwriting, inserting in the counterfit testificat several things relating to himself as if the said Kemp had asserted that he knew the subscriptions of Mr Wm Thomsone and some other ministers attesting the License and Ordination of the said Mr Wm Houstone and that the said Mr Wm Wishart did believe the testimony of the said Kemp to be true, which testimonial the foresaid Mr Wishart declared to be forged.

(Today, we might well draw the conclusion that William had some mental health problems, given his very grandiose schemes, carried out with a certain attention to detail, followed by possible spells of depression. But we should also remember that the people recording the tale are far from impartial observers. As we shall see in the following post, his behaviour was to become even more outrageous.)