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When referring to this work, full bibliographic details including the author, title, awarding institution and date of the thesis must be given e.g. AUTHOR (year of submission) "Full thesis title", University of Southampton, name of the University School or Department, PhD Thesis, pagination http://eprints.soton.ac.uk 1 THE BLACKSHAW CHORD Crime Fiction, Literary Fiction: Why the Demarcation? 2 UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHAMPTON ABSTRACT FACULTY OF HUMANITIES English Doctor of Philosophy THE BLACKSHAW CHORD Crime Fiction, Literary Fiction: Why the Demarcation? by Margaret Anne Jones 3 My thesis is in two parts: Part 1 a novel, Part 2 a critical rationale. The novel examines abuse in a range of manifestations – parental power; alcohol; the press; corporate power – all of which combine to perpetrate a catalogue of abuse against my protagonist. But it is the completely innocent protagonist who is perceived as the abuser. The novel quite deliberately has the feel of a crime story although the only serious crime is off-the-page and not connected with any of the characters or locations. This is intentional. The critical rationale seeks to investigate the classification of crime fiction and literary fiction with crime in it, and attempts to examine where the demarcation appears. Much of the critical rationale examines my novel in this regard. Initially I was looking at the debate from the point-of-view of non-whodunnit crime, but my research took me increasingly towards literary authors who have moved into mystery writing, such as, Kate Atkinson, Susan Hill, John Banville (Benjamin Black) and Joanne Harris. I refer to several novels from the crime genre and from novels which occupy a ‘hinterland’ whereby crime is a major element of the narrative but where they are not regarded as crime fiction. I have researched the shelving policies of the local library and bookshops, and interviewed writers with regard to where they wish their work to be placed. I have also considered briefly what is genre and why hinterland novels are placed somewhere outside the classification of any genre. Where appropriate I have quoted from published authors with regard to their position in this debate, and have used four main novels to discuss the development of my novel - John Brown’s Body; Psycho; Rebecca and Brighton Rock. 4 LIST OF CONTENTS Novel Critical Rationale Bibliography 5 The Blackshaw Chord Anne Jones Prologue The fresh morning air burned his tired eyes as Bacon noted that little had changed in Wherwent in thirty years. Mallards still swam in the village pond; the primary school, cottages and offices to the Wherwent Advertiser appeared unaltered; the eleventh century church where his mother had worshiped, and the thirteenth century pub where he had worshiped, stood in unholy alliance; rickety trellis tables displayed mouldy vegetables outside the shop-cum-post office and an aged ‘A’ board proclaimed, ‘The Fight Goes On’. The fumes from a car smelt alien so close to grazing sheep. Once, when researching an article on national defence, he discovered that central London was built in a bowl. In medieval times, beacons were lit high on the bowl to warn of invasion but London now seemed weighed down by houses whereas Hampshire hills rose high and proud. His mother lived on the Goodman Estate behind the village shop. It was an amalgam of 1920s modern and old village charm with its own dipped green and stone pavements. Its development had meant that the halt, where the 60s housing estate now stood, was built into a proper station, with its own porter and frequent trains. As he walked to the dipped green, Bacon fancied he smelt the 6 steam, and heard the whistle blast as the train chuffed away from the station. He could see the old sycamore tree and the red poppies growing outside the tiny ticket office, and old Jack waving his flag, blowing his whistle and tending his flowers. Bacon watched as the smut churned out by the funnel was gently wiped away. Only Jack cried when Bacon left never to return until today. Beecham closed the station in the sixties during his savage slashing of the railways, and if Bacon was honest, Jack was the only thing he actually missed about the village. Delphinium Cottage, or number 76, as he called it, was on the Sparrow Hawk part of the Estate, facing the green. The Goodman Estate was larger than the original village and when his family moved there from Kent everyone was poor and needy. He looked at the cars cluttering the roadway and felt in his journalist’s bones that these belonged to the prosperous and probably used as weekend cottages. Bacon rubbed his sweaty palms together before pressing the door bell only to hear the same old irritating ding-dong. As the door opened he had to force a smile as he realised how out of date his image of her had become. ‘Hello Mum,’ he said. ‘It’s me, Peter.’ She squinted, examining the over-weight, ruddy complexioned man with his watery blue eyes. ‘Peter?’ she said. ‘Yes, Mum. I’ve come home.’ 7 She smiled and stood aside allowing him to enter. In the front room the wallpaper had changed but not much else. It was small, cosy, low ceilinged and dominated by the tile surround fireplace. A two-seater settee snuggled between the door and the wall, with matching armchairs under the window. The television was angled towards the settee and a set of coffee tables nestled in the far alcove. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mrs Bacon asked. ‘Love one, Mum.’ ‘I’ve nothing stronger. I don’t keep drink in the house.’ ‘I don’t want anything stronger. I’m off the bottle.’ He rubbed his hands down his trousers. ‘For how long?’ ‘Forever.’ ‘When did you last have a drink?’ ‘Weeks, months ago. Yesterday.’ ‘I’ll call the doctor.’ He could only make out the odd word coming in from the hallway as she was almost whispering, then she called out, ‘Peter, the doctor wants a word.’ When the call was finished he went to the kitchen where she was pouring tea into two large mugs. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘He’s coming round to give me some tablets and he’ll try and find a rehab place.’ 8 ‘Good boy,’ she said handing him his tea. ‘I'm very proud of you.’ His hand shook so much tea slopped onto the floor. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll clear it up,’ she said. ‘Go into the front room, and I’ll bring it in.’ Bacon returned to the front room and sank gnome-like into one of the armchairs, his elbows squeezed to his sides, wringing his hands and weeping. ***** Roger Blackshaw knew Melissa’s earrings weren’t in the cottage. She had never visited it, but he’d promised to look for them, so he shuffled around the grubby living room examining the mantelpiece and pointlessly lifting dust ridden Capo di Monte roses and assorted junk from the cow’s Welsh dresser. In his mind he could hear the earrings ting as the tiny glass balls tapped against the curved pink petals. It was a pretty sound. Not like the twanging Melissa produced on the piano. Lisa Turner had been his only truly talented pupil. Glass balls – ‘Balls’ Roger thought was such an ugly word, obscene and suggestive. Melissa deserved the proper word. They were stamen, or were they stigma? A Collins English Dictionary stood on the dresser and was the only book left from the dozens he’d returned with from London some twenty-five years ago. The others, 9 the cow threw out as clutter. Her knitting wool clung to the ripped dust cover so he flicked it onto the floor. Stamen, the dictionary said - the male reproductive organ of a flower, and stigma - the terminal part of the ovary. He was none the wiser. In his pockets he found only his handkerchief and the mint sweet Melissa had given to him. He sucked on the mint and threw the wrapper into the pedal bin in the kitchen, bought only that Saturday, and, he noticed, now with three scratches gouged across it. He removed the carrier bag liner, tied the handles and dumped it in the dustbin outside on top of the bags that the cow had clearly been rifling through. He returned to the kitchen, put the kettle on to make tea and emptied the bag of groceries bought from the village shop. The quiche was runny, but the tomatoes and coleslaw were ready to eat. He arranged the food on two small plates, - one, cheap crockery, the other, fine bone china, and left the tea brewing while he phoned Mrs Mulcaster, but getting no reply, poured the tea and laid a tatted doily on a wooden tray. The cow insisted that everything for her had to be elegant and dainty. Everything, thought Roger, except the old cow herself. Her room was the one at the back of the cottage facing the top of the stairs. He knocked loudly, waited a couple of seconds, and getting no reply, entered.