The Essex Serpent: A book review

 

The Essex Serpent is a novel by Sarah Perry. It was published a couple of years ago. The cover, which is in a style I would classify as decorative medieval tapestry, was an early example of a look which is now common. The story is a multi-layered tale that explores the aftermath of grief, the making and breaking of friendships, the mysterious nature of human attraction and the fragility of life.

It is firmly rooted in time and space and evokes both effortlessly whilst at the same time achieving transcendence from both. Set in the late Victorian era, it has trains, but not cars, letters, but not phones, whilst the Essex coast is still far enough from London to still be a separate world of its own. A particular feature of the novel is the pairing of opposites. The sense of time gives us one such; tradition vs modernity. There is a definite sense that tradition is fighting a losing battle.

Sarah Perry, like me, is a child of the East coast. Her evocation of an Essex estuary, with its mudflats, east wind and fog banks felt like home to me. She captures the sense of a world apart both through physical descriptions and the exposure of the locals state of mind and beliefs. Geography matters, with the action ( and it is sometimes is genuinely exciting and disturbing) unfolding in London, the hamlet of Aldwinter and the intermediate town of Colchester. Aldwinter and London are another pairing of opposites, in size, social make-up and culture, with Colchester a half-way house where characters meet.

Talking of characters, it’s time to meet them. The central character in the story is Cora Seaborne, recently widowed, a woman of means with an interest in science, especially geology and paleontology. Cora is an unconventional woman living in a time when the opposite is expected of a woman of her station. An outsider herself, she attracts, and is attracted by, other outsiders.

Her son Francis clearly has traits of ASD and OCD. Her companion Martha, originally employed as his nanny, is a fierce advocate for social justice. Her friend Luke is a doctor with modern radical ideas of treatment that his medical colleagues look sideways at. Another friend, Spencer, is a social dilettante in search of a purpose, whilst Charles Ambrose and his wife, though part of the rich establishment, are happy to mix beyond their narrow layer of society.

Luke, who first met Cora when treating her husband during his terminal illness, is struck by her physical appearance:

“She was dressed in grey, and simply, but her skirt’s fabric shimmered like a pigeon’s  neck.”

Martha is aware of the changefulness of Cora’s persona:

“Infuriated and entranced, Martha found that no sooner had she grown accustomed to one Cora, another would emerge”

One way and another, Cora holds them all in thrall.

This London-based cast of characters are brought into contact with the inhabitants of Aldwinter, an edge of the world sort of place, by Cora. She has heard tell of the Essex Serpent, a persistent myth that the locals see as a judgement from God, or possibly a pagan monster from the past. Cora, given her interests, is hopeful of a pre-historic survival, a plesiosaur or something like it- a rational explanation that would nonetheless contain its own kind of wonder.

On her way to the village, walking the last stretch, Cora encounters a man she takes for an agricultural worker, but who, it transpires, is the local vicar. Their friendship and growing relationship provides the arc of the main part of the story. Cora Seaborne and the Reverend William Ransome are another pair of opposites, the one a scientific rationalist, the other a religious believer in providence. Their friendship is often spiky and argumentative, yet underlying it is an attraction that they initially refuse to admit, to themselves or each other.

That’s as much plot as I can give away with spoiling the story. As it unfolds, the delight of this novel comes from the vivid earthy descriptions, the subtle changes of character and the subtle interplays between people. Another device that increases the immediacy of the story is the way it moves between tenses. Sometimes events are described in the past tense, but then it switches to the present, which makes the reader a witness of events unfolding, as in this passge from the opening phase of the book:

“But something alters in a turn of the tide or a change of the air: the estuary surface shift- seems (he steps forward) to pulse and throb, then grow slick and still; then soon after to convulse, as if flinching at a touch”.

I read this book slowly, in no particular hurry to finish it. Its that kind of book, not a page turner but a thought provoker. Are the mores of metropolitan London superior or inferior to those of rural Aldwinter. Is attraction worth the pain it brings? Is science really just another set of beliefs, a form of religion?

At its heart, the book is a celebration of the fact that whether you live in a mega-city like London or a Hamlet like Aldwinter, what really matters to you is the circle of family, friends  and acquaintances in your immediate orbit.

My final observation is a comment on the magnificent literary creation that is Cora Seaborne. She is by turns inspiring in her independence, infuriating in her selfishness and fascinating to the reader as much as to the characters that revolve around her. But don’t take my word for it- read it yourself.

The river still flows past Fotheringhay, but the currents of history have moved on.

 

The north-east corner of Northamptonshire is a rural backwater which has barely acknowledged the 20^th century, let alone the 21^st. A cluster of villages and small towns largely comprised of stone buildings nestle in a landscape of fields, through which the river Nene meanders towards Peterborough. Many of those houses are still owned by local estates such as Elton and Barnwell, although there has been some new development at Thrapston. There is a time capsule element to the area which is valued by many local people.

This state of affairs may seem to be natural, but it could have turned out differently. In amongst these villages is one, built on the river, barely ten miles from Peterborough, that six  centuries ago was at the centre of the political life of England; Fotheringhay.

Today, Fotheringhay is a hamlet with a population of less then two hundred people. It has an Inn, the Falcon, best described as a Gastro pub, quite close to its historic church and around forty houses. As you approach it you cross the river over an ancient stone bridge; looking to the right there is a mound.

This is the site of Fotheringhay castle, a Norman creation shortly after the conquest. At the beginning of the fifteenth century this was a family home for the Dukes of York. The first Duke, Edmund Langley, was the fourth son of King Edward the third. One of his sons died at Agincourt, the other, Richard, was executed before King Henry V left for France, for plotting to replace him with Roger Mortimer, Earl of March. His son, also called Richard, was a key player in the early rounds of the wars of the Roses.

Fotheringhay castle was therefore a significant locus for one of the factions and would have been visited by Yorkist supporters. Richard married Cecily Neville. Her family was a powerful one, especially in the North of England. She was the mother of two sons who would go on to be king. The second son, Richard, was born at Fotheringhay. His brother Edward reigned as Edward IV, supported by Richard. But when Edward died, his sons were pushed aside by their uncle, who became King Richard the third.

Fotheringhay might have developed into a significant town. Connected by the River Nene to Peterborough, a city that ranked with Norwich and Lincoln in importance during Medieval times, as well as Northampton to the west, there was no reason why it shouldn’t have expanded into a river port and trading town. The Great North Road (now the A1) ran north to Newark, Lincoln and York and south to London and lay less than ten miles to the east. History had other ideas, however. Two years after taking the throne, Richard died at the battle of Bosworth, fifty miles to the west of Fotheringhay. The castle now became suspect, a possession of the losing side. When Elizabeth the first visited, she found the tombs of Cecily Neville and other family members in a state of disrepair in the church.

The castle’s last act on the national stage was a tragic one. Elizabeth had her cousin, Mary Queen of Scots, imprisoned there. The choice of prison was no doubt influenced by the fact that although a “royal” residence, it was remote enough and by then obscure enough to house a troublesome hostage. When Elizabeth decided Mary had to die, the execution took place “out of sight” at Fotheringhay, rather than in London. Mary’s death, ordered reluctantly by Elizabeth, further damaged the reputation of the place and hastened its demise. In 1632, the castle, by then partly ruinous, was demolished. Some of its stones, in a major act of recycling, went to Oundle to be used to construct the Talbot Hotel.

Since then, although the Nene still flows past the site, the currents of history have abandoned Fotheringhay. But if you stand on the Mound you see what a great location for a castle it was, dominating a bend of the river. For those who live there, it is no doubt just home, who appreciate the peace and quiet. For those with imagination or a romantic turn of mind, there is just a hint, if you allow your mind to wander, of the significance of the place in the national story. Fotheringhay in its current incarnation is obscure, yet the fame of the name lives on.