Waterline

by Ross Raisin

  It is a massive warehouse-type shop floor, mobbed out with swivel rails of trackie bottoms and luminous shirts. There isn’t much of an order about it, and he has quite a difficulty getting through, squeezing between the huge bulging roundabouts of all this noticeably unsporty-looking clothing.

  In one corner, where football and rugby boots are displayed on a wall, he finds a giant basket full of mini footballs. He rummles about through them on the off chance there’s a Rangers one, but course it’s all Chelsea and Tottenham and Man United, although he does eventually find a plain one, no team markings on it. Probably it isn’t the best present for a toddler, but it’s no bad. No bad at all. He decides he’ll get it, and looks up the way, trying to plot a route through to wherever it is he has to pay. Radio station music playing loudly through giant corner speakers. A shop-assistant boy bent over, bundling up fallen heaps of shirts from the floor. Snooker cues, mounted on the wall like rifles. He snakes his way through, moving past the shop assistant. The clink of metal hangers going onto the rail – and an image comes into his head, distinct, vivid, the wife shopping. Out of nowhere. He puts a hand out to hold the rail, disorientated, needing to sit down. A buffit-step type thing by the wall, next to three cardboard cut-out snooker players with their arms folded, serious looks on their faces. He parks down on it and closes his eyes. Tries to hold on to the image. He can see it clearly. She is fingering through a line of tops, swivelling the rail around. Her face. It is a study of concentration, looking down with a frown, a wee double chin pressing against her throat. Pulling out and discarding the tops back into the wrong place on the rail. He has started greeting. The suddenness of it. An overwhelming feeling of emptiness that he lets come over him, and he stays sat there a long time, minutes, hours maybe, fuck knows.

  He opens his eyes. The cardboard snooker players stood around him and the shop assistant looking over, a grimace of confusion on his face. Probably he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. He gets up and wipes the eyes, gives the boy a wee smile. ‘Don’t worry, pal, I’m away the now.’ And he gets walking off, squeezing hard on the mini football, to see if there’s any tills through this bloody jungle.

  It is going to be another hot day. Already there are people putting up parasols and windbreakers on the beach, arranging cool boxes and pulling down trousers. There is not much wind yet, but the light breeze that comes off the sea is welcome as he jogs along the uncrowded promenade, past hot-dog vans and ice-cream stalls whose shutters are now being opened and awnings stretched out.

  Where the promenade angles toward the town, he turns away onto the beach. He wipes his forehead, looking out over the sea: small still boats moored in the harbour, gently flapping banners mounted on buoys to advertise sea trips, hotels, the amusement arcade. The pleasing crunch of pebbles under his trainers. He continues down the beach, enjoying the stillness of the early morning. Seagulls. Waves sucking back through the shingle. A circle of pensioners doing knee lifts. Further on, along the base of the high wall – above which a line of bars and clubs looks out onto the sea – there is plenty of evidence of the previous night: broken pint glasses, cigarettes, fish-and-chip wrappings, a belt. He smiles, stepping up his pace as the beach arcs round and a long stretch of coastline comes into view – the pier jutting into the ocean, and, in the distance where the beach has ended, miles and miles of rocks and landslips and high, windswept farmland.

  He has a sweat on now, continuing along the base of the town wall. He approaches a part of the beach where the pebbles thin out to reveal small patches of sand. On one of these, a short way ahead of him, there is a body reclined against the wall. He begins to swerve around it, keeping the same speed, until he is almost alongside, at which point he slows, turning to look at the man. Something unnatural about the way his body is positioned. Bent double; unmoving. It is fairly common on his Sunday-morning runs to see late-night revellers passed out on the beach, but this man is clearly homeless; that much is obvious from the state of his clothes. He is wearing no shoes or socks and his feet are hugely swollen and purple, a dirty red woollen hat pulled down over his face, which is bruised and bloodshot, a pink scar running down his cheek and neck and under his coat. He stops, just for a moment, and then begins again into a jog, following the brief wet curve of sand over a stream before it turns again to pebbles, and he continues on towards the pier, where the dim drone and convulsing lights of the amusement arcade have already started up.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Mary Mount and Peter Straus, my editor and my agent, for making it easy, even the difficult bits. Also to Joe Pickering, Jenny Hewson, and everybody else at Penguin and RCW, all of whom I feel very fortunate to work with.

  For his early advice on the book that I thought this would be, thank you to Paul Chambers, and for what it did become, to Corin Pilling at the Cardinal Hume Centre, and Simon Hughes, together with all the staff and residents at St Mungo’s Mare Street.

  I am grateful to Bruce Biddulph for all that you shared with me, and to John Dolan and Jim Moohan of GMB for your willingness to help with my research. Furthermore, and especially, to Jimmy Cloughley and all at Clydebank Asbestos Group, whose aid and advice continue to support so many of the victims of asbestos and their families.

  To my family, and the Tiptons; to David Vann (who had the idea for the title); and, more than anybody else, to Tips. Some of this book comes, however indirectly, from you. And thank you for helping me to make it better, even down to the bloody acknowledgements.

  P.S.

  Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the Author

  A Conversation with Ross Raisin

  ROSS RAISIN’S FIRST NOVEL, Out Backward, was nominated for eleven awards, including the Guardian First Book Award, the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, and the IMPAC, and was awarded the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award and the Betty Trask Award. He is an occasional contributor to the Guardian and holds an MFA from Goldsmiths College in London, where he resides.

  Describe your childhood.

  As a child, you would most likely find me walking on a hill in oversized grey clothing, which may sound idyllic to some, but when you’re thirteen you’d probably disagree. I think because I was always quite skinny, my parents tried to dress me in large shirts as a disguise, and they thought I didn’t like bright colors, so these clothes were usually grey. I am today wearing a medium-size purple jumper.

  Your name, tell us about your name.

  My full name is Ross Radford Raisin, which never fails to amuse people. I hope I’m not giving a bad impression of my mum and dad here. I should just say that they are wonderful, supportive people with a sense of humor, hence the name, which I have always liked. I’m not sure where Raisin comes from, though, as I don’t know much about my dad’s side of the family. I know more about my mum’s: they come partly from Argentina, and my great-grandmother was forced to marry her uncle, so she escaped to Turkey and had an affair with a fighter pilot.

  When did you first take to writing?

  I’m not sure that I have yet. I find writing difficult and slow.

  What were you reading in your teens?

  Horror—James Herbert, Dean R. Koontz, Stephen King, Ben Elton, and Graham Greene.

  Which football team do you root for?

  Root. Well, I root for Bradford City. I begin every day by looking at the club website for news (our reserves just lost to Huddersfield, our local rivals, who, even though a division above us, average much smaller crowds). You might not know much about Bradford City—they are in the bottom division of the English League—so here is a potted recent history:

  1995: Mid-table in the third division, a not-so-local, fat, rasping businessman takes over the club. His name is Geoffrey. He promises us a future beyond our wildest dreams. We are a snowball rolling down the hill, he tells us. He invests money into the club, lots of money. He argues with the Huddersfield chairman in a live radio discussion. We love him.

  1996: We are promo
ted to the second division.

  1997–1999: More and more money invested in the club. We start to dream of the Premiership. We don’t think much about where the money is coming from. We are a snowball rolling down the hill.

  1999: We are promoted to the Premiership, captained by our star player, our hero, Stuart McCall.

  2000–2001: We enjoy a magical time in the top division; we go to Manchester United (and lose 4–0); we buy expensive, celebrated, glorious players, who come from places like Italy, not because we are paying them £20,000 a week, but because they love the cold, windy, ex-industrial feel of the city.

  2001: We are relegated. Our manager leaves. There are allegations that Geoffrey has been trying to pick the team. We begin to realize that the money has been borrowed, at high interest rates. Our snowball is at the bottom of the hill, thawing, unpleasant things it picked up on the way sticking out from it.

  2002–2007: Geoffrey leaves, a rich man (allegedly, allegedly). We are relegated (twice), close to bankruptcy, crowds down 300 percent, the banks want their money back, we have no money or, at some points, it seems, players.

  2007: In the bottom division, it is the end. But then Stuart McCall (the hero) comes back as our manager. A local businessman takes over as chairman and clears the club’s debts with his own money (allegedly). There is a surge in ticket sales, we begin the season well, previously disgruntled supporters feel fresh hope and start looking at the club Web site every morning. We are a snowball rolling down the hill . . . I look forward with interest to seeing how much of this gets edited, and how much of it is libelous.

  Describe the objects on your desk right now.

  Let’s see. To answer this I will need to go over to the desk, which I don’t work at because it is an impenetrable jungle. It is too small, really, with the computer behind it balanced on a fold-out camp bed covered with a piece of cloth. There is: a Bradford City mug containing pens; three manuscripts of God’s Own Country (the novel’s title in England); tissue paper, looks used, not mine; two horse chestnuts; a booklet of new menu descriptions; a Bradford City paperweight; a cutout “win a holiday” competition page from a magazine; books; files; and, I suspect, somewhere, the pile of CVs that my girlfriend has been this morning stamping about trying to find.

  Does music play any part in your writing process?

  None. I struggle unless everything around me is completely silent.

  What is your favorite word in the English language?

  At the moment: crop-dusting. It is a word Australian waiters use to describe when they fart at one end of the restaurant and walk the smell through to the other side.

  Name your pastimes.

  Pubs; theatre; playing squash; camping (I’ve only done it once, but I really liked it); Bradford City.

  What has been your fondest experience on a train?

  A lady in Anne’s dad’s village, who has a season ticket to London, very kindly gave us a booklet of the complimentary tickets she receives. So now, whenever we go to Yorkshire (Anne is from Yorkshire too) we go in the first-class carriage, which is brilliant, because you get as much free tea as you like, they keep filling your cup up. My least fond experience on a train was when I was coming back from holiday and a Frenchman stole all of my underpants.

  What are you reading these days?

  Illywhacker, by Peter Carey; Herzog, by Saul Bellow; So He Takes the Dog, by Jonathan Buckley.

  Can fiction save the world?

  Only if you are posh. This is Anne’s answer, but I kind of agree with her.

  What must you do before you die?

  Write past page two of my new novel.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  About the Book

  From the Moors to the Banks of the Clyde

  Novelist Opens a New Chapter

  Courtesy of the Yorkshire Post. This article originally appeared in the Yorkshire Post, Wednesday July 6 2011. By Chris Bond.

  A TRENDY CAFÉ in London’s colorful Soho on a sweltering summer’s afternoon is perhaps an unlikely place to meet the author of Out Backward, a widely acclaimed debut novel set against the sparse, untamed backdrop of the North York Moors.

  But the capital has been Ross Raisin’s home for the past few years, during which time he has gone from being a humble waiter to one of the most lauded young novelists of recent times, winning the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year award in 2009 and heralded as one of the most exciting literary talents to emerge from these shores since Martin Amis.

  This week sees the release of the thirty-one-year-old’s much-anticipated follow-up, Waterline, the moving story of an ordinary man who, stricken by grief following the death of his wife, struggles to come to terms with the hard, unrelenting edges of modern life. The story revolves around Mick Little, a former Glasgow shipbuilder, and takes the reader on a journey from the banks of the River Clyde to crowded streets of London.

  “I wanted to write about the journey of a homeless man and the most clichéd shell of a homeless person I could think of was the rough-sleeping Glaswegian alcoholic, an often mocked and decried figure in TV and writing. I wanted to think about that stereotype as a real person and how he became this character,” explains Raisin, a former Bradford Grammar School pupil.

  “It’s not really a plot-twister and part of the idea from the beginning was there would be a sense of inevitability about it which I wanted to plant in the reader’s head. I was also interested in a sense of place and industry and what happens when the industry leaves it and what this does to the people who live there, because shipbuilding is a totemic industry in west Scotland and the Clyde was the biggest shipbuilding center in the world at one time.”

  In Out Backward, he wrote in Yorkshire dialect, and Raisin adopts a similar style in Waterline, this time using the Glaswegian vernacular. As well as spending time in Glasgow researching the city’s shipbuilding heritage, he spent months studying local dictionaries and working with a voice coach to get the dialect right. “The closeness of the narrative to the main character’s voice in both books meant to not use their language would have struck an odd note.”

  Raisin spent three years writing Waterline, about the same length of time it took to complete Out Backward. But given the success of his debut did that create added pressure? “There was a certain amount of acclaim for my first book, but even now it seems silly and a bit odd, welcome and pleasant as it has been. But I don’t think I’ve ever taken it seriously although I did have struggles with Waterline and it would be untrue to say none of that was to do with pressure from the first one. I wrote Out Backward off my own back; nobody else wanted it or expected it, whereas with this one I’d been paid to write it so there is greater expectation.”

  He admits there were times that he hit a brick wall. “You can’t just sit down and reel off page after perfect page; you have to work at it, and what I am still learning is that a lot of the process isn’t enjoyable. There is a lot of struggle and there are times when you feel insecure but that’s part of it.”

  When it comes to writing, as any author worth their salt will tell you, there is no secret formula other than practice. “It’s never a eureka moment where you suddenly think ‘that’s the idea’ and you sit down and write the story,” says Raisin. “It’s usually more subtle and painful than that. It’s about finding the idea for a particular novel and finding a style that suits the idea and when you’ve got that you have the voice of that particular novel. When I finished Waterline I was happy with what I had produced and I do feel it’s a lot stronger than my first book; it’s more relevant and complex.”

  Despite being feted by the publishing world and literary critics, up until a year ago Raisin still worked as a waiter at John Torode’s restaurant, Smiths of Smithfield. He says he misses the camaraderie and bustle of working in a busy restaurant. “There’s something about working a really busy shift and managing your tables that is very enjoyable. But also if I’
d been writing nine to five and it had not gone well and I was feeling a bit low I would forget it instantly when I went to work. I miss working in a team and having a bit of a laugh.”

  He worked on the restaurant’s top floor, which housed the fine dining area and provided the perfect opportunity to indulge in a spot of social observation. “There’s a certain social awkwardness about being in a restaurant that brings people out a little bit and makes them more interesting, especially when they’re drinking. It can make some people much less socially awkward or just very unpleasant sometimes, particularly if you’re working with the City boys,” he says.

  “If you have a table of businessmen who are maybe with clients, they unthinkingly feel they have to make themselves feel bigger. Quite often they like to show they’re a man of the people by having a bit of banter with the waiter and most of the time it’s absolutely fine and enjoyable. But one of the worst instances I ever had was when there was a group in and they asked me where I was from and when I said ‘near Bradford’ one of the businessmen said something flippant about the Bradford City fire disaster which was horrible and I immediately told him he was out of order and the other men at the table didn’t realize what was going on and it changed the atmosphere completely.”

  Although Raisin has lived in London on and off for the past thirteen years, he grew up in Silsden Moor, near Ilkley. “I used to read quite a bit; I liked horror novels, people like James Herbert, Dean Koontz, and Stephen King started me off and then I got into Thomas Hardy and Graham Greene. One of my favorite books is The Return of the Native; the moor in the book is very dark; there’s nothing wishy-washy about it and it has a presence throughout the novel, which I liked.”