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I told him I definitely would and hung up, a little thrill rippling through me.
Now I was fifteen minutes behind schedule.
I had stuff to get on with so slammed the laptop shut, got my things together then whizzed out the door.
The gloomy October morning had bled into a gloomy October afternoon. The light breeze had notched up into a strong south-easterly wind and was whipping rubbish into tiny twisters, screeching through the bare branches of the sycamores that bordered the wide Georgian avenues of Southend’s conservation area. Everybody on the street was buttoned up, faces down, slanting diagonally into its oncoming draughts.
The offices of Mercurial, a quarterly arts magazine, were nestled between an ancient accountancy firm and a design agency. I liked working for them. They were cool: as a freelance writer who specialised in Essex affairs, kudos was rather thin on the ground, and the mag’s cachet rubbed off on me.
It was now eighteen months that I’d been living in the borough of Southend. Initially, my move had been born out of an urge to be closer to Mum. Her health was going downhill and although Dan was around, I wanted to be there for her too. Then after I split up with Christopher, London quickly lost some of its shine and I accelerated the relocation.
It had been good for me. Though I kept my hand in with my old bosses in London, I had enjoyed rediscovering my old patch. Southend had grown and changed. Lots of things were going on and Mercurial reflected that. They were good to know – always had an ear to the ground – and I had actually grown very fond of the staff at the office. For a bunch of artistic individuals they were all pretty down to earth.
I’d known Maggie for nigh on twenty-five years, as we’d attended the same high school. Though you’d never believe it to look at her now, she was actually far more rebellious than I in our youth: we shared clothes; a couple of boyfriends and several cigarettes down the bottom of the sports field, promptly losing touch when we left school and went on to different universities. When our paths crossed again, a couple of years ago, she invited me for lunch and we soon ping-ponged into regular friends again.
I think it was on our third or fourth lunch date, as we knocked back a few glasses of plonk, that Maggie suggested I wrote a small piece for her mag. I leapt at the chance and once the shrewd editor – rather than the friend – worked out that I was as good as I said I was, she began feeding me more assignments.
Mags was what my dad would call a good egg: helping
a lot over the past few months and especially kind when Mum died.
She was sucking on the end of a biro, squinting at a document several pages in length, in the small box room she called her office. The sash window was a couple of inches open. Still, the air was thick with the stink of cigarettes and Yves St Laurent’s Paris.
‘You’ll have to get an air freshener. You must be getting through bottles of perfume,’ I said as I sauntered in and threw my satchel on the floor. ‘And it’s against the law now, you know.’
Maggie’s tangle of pillar-box red hair jerked up. She dropped the pen on the mound of paper. ‘Shit, Sadie! Can’t you knock before you come in?’
She looked funny like that – all indignant eyes and open mouth. ‘Everyone else has to go outside for a fag,’ I chastised her half-heartedly.
She shrugged, relaxing now and held her hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’m giving up. Seriously. Did you know it’s bad for you?’
I said I hadn’t heard that.
‘Just got really into this submission,’ she was justifying herself. ‘New writer. Very good. All about the internet: Facebook, Twitter, blah blah, Generation Z’s youthful rebellion.’
I sauntered over to a filing cabinet that stood by the window. It was sprayed gold and decorated in what was probably a radical artwork but to my uninformed eye looked like bog-standard graffiti. It was very Mercurial. The gurgles from the coffee maker on top indicated it was ready to pour.
‘Interesting spin,’ I said and took two mugs from the shelf above. ‘I think I just experienced some of that, myself.’ Maggie didn’t answer so I coughed and nodded at the coffee. ‘I’m presuming this is for me? Mags, would you like one too?’
She grunted an affirmation and grudgingly gathered up the sheaf of paper, stapling the top right-hand corner and dumping it on an in-tray already several centimetres high.
‘Might as well close that window too,’ she shivered and pulled a fluffy purple cardigan tight over her shoulders. ‘I thought it’d be warmer this week.’
I placed the mugs on her desk, and brought the window down with more force than I intended resulting in a loud bang. Maggie tutted. I ignored her. ‘They say it might turn nice for the weekend.’
Maggie cast her eyes through the windowpane at the fluttering leaves of the sycamores. A plastic bag whipped up from the street and caught a branch directly outside. ‘If only the wind would drop.’ She grimaced and came back to me. ‘How are you going?’
I plucked out my standard response. ‘Coping with it,’ I told her.
She accepted that without further comment. ‘Have you been to the house yet?’
She was referring to my mum’s. ‘I thought I’d wait until I saw Dan.’
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not turned up then?’
I shook my head. I was still livid that he hadn’t been at the funeral. That was another reason why I let off so much steam that night at the club. But beyond the anger there was concern. Or perhaps it was the other way round?
Yesterday I’d nipped into Mum’s hospice to fetch the last of her belongings and had seen one of the day shift nurses, Sally. Her husband, Michael, had once worked at Dan’s school and Mum had known Sally socially prior to her last illness. Not well, but enough to pass the time of day. We had wondered if that might make it awkward but her familiar face reassured Mum. We’d had a chat and she, too, asked about Dan, reminding me that Mum had a key to his flat on her keychain and suggesting that I pop into his place to check it out. We’d phoned endlessly and I’d knocked on his door with no joy, trying to find him before Mum … well, before things came to a head.
‘He’ll need your support more than ever now,’ Sally said. She was a homely woman, with an immense bosom, and an extraordinarily generous nature. I guess you have to be when you’re in that job.
‘I know,’ I had said and promised to go there.
‘And,’ she said. ‘Please do me a favour. I was talking to Doctor Jarvis about Dan going off like this. He said it’d be an idea to check his medication. Can you bring back a bottle, if there’s a spare somewhere, and he’ll have a look? Just to be sure.’
I had told her I would and was planning on swinging by his place after I’d finished up here at Mercurial.
‘Oh dear,’ Maggie was saying though her voice kept steady. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I could be upfront with Maggie. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to check his flat later. To be honest I’d rather talk work.’
‘Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything, yeah?’ Maggie straightened herself out and put on her professional head. The set of her jaw was firm and ready for business. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Fire.’
I tasted the coffee and removed my notebook from my bag. ‘You mentioned another Essex Girls’ piece?’
I’d been fascinated with our regional stereotype for a very long time. Firstly because, as a grey-eyed, raven-haired Essex chick, I adored the leggy, booby, blonde ideal. Surrounded by Barbies and Pippas from an early age I’d cottoned onto the fact that this was the generally accepted notion of beauty. I couldn’t believe it when, as I made more excursions beyond the county’s limits, I discovered it was considered vulgar and stupid and a lot lot worse. The realisation left me feeling cheated and rather annoyed.
Later, as I left the borough I’d lived in all my life to venture North for uni, I found that not only being a joke, mentioning my home county often resulted in humiliation and embarrassment. My surname, Asquith, which I thought sounded a little posh, however did little to temper the constant barrage of wisecracks that I faced, as an Essex Girl called Mercedes, and as a consequence I shortened it to Sadie. Most people called me by that name these days, apart from my dad who stubbornly stuck to my full moniker. Anyway, the whole Essex thing was as exasperating as it was formative and as a consequence of this battle I went on into journalism, ‘to get my voice heard without shouting’, as my mum used to put it.
Although I didn’t relate the writing to my county or my gender I kept an edgy, working-class feel to my tirades. Luckily, people liked them and I was able to make a living from my rants.
Returning to my roots, Maggie indulged me and published a series of articles in which I challenged the negative connotations attached to the stereotype of the Essex Girl.
‘Essex isn’t like other counties. Its daughter isn’t like those of Hertfordshire, Herefordshire or Surrey,’ I had written. ‘She isn’t demure, self-effacing or seeking a husband. She’s audacious, loud, drops her vowels and has fun. Like Essex itself, the Girl is unique. It’s about time we showed some filial pride.’
Got a good reception, that one. Circulation went up. Maggie commissioned another one, and another, then another.
In an attempt to trace the etymology of Essex Girl my last feature harked back to the dark days of the witch hunts and examined whether there was a link between Essex’s reputation as ‘Witch County’ and the genesis of Essex Girl. The two areas collided and, after further consideration, I concluded that there was and readers and commentators alike had not stopped filling up the web forum ever since.
Many comments spilt over into other sites, forums, newspapers and magazines. Positive or intensely outraged, Maggie didn’t care how they reacted, just that they did. ‘This is the kind of thing Mercurial needs. It’s getting our name out there into a broader market. We need more, and I’ll up your rate. Just give me something good and meaty,’ she’d said on the phone a couple of weeks back.
So here I was, with something perhaps a little on the sketchy side, but definitely spicy.
Maggie took a tentative swig of her coffee then blew on it. ‘Go on then – spill it. What you got for Mama?’
‘Okay.’ I flicked open my notepad and traced my notes to the relevant entry.
‘I’m delving deeper into the witch hunts. You know this book deal? Well, I’m churning up a lot of good stuff. I think I can funnel some articles over to you.’ I glanced up to catch a reaction. Maggie was nodding, her tongue licking her top lip, so I ploughed on.
‘Why did Essex lose so many women to the witch hunts?’
Maggie snorted. ‘Did we? It’s a long time ago. Some people might say “so what?”’
I leant in to her. ‘Yes, we did. Significantly more. It’s the sheer volume that warrants attention.’
Maggie picked up the biro and took a drag on the end. ‘You didn’t go into that in your last article did you?’
I shook my head. ‘No, it was more about the witches themselves and the qualities they shared with the contemporary Essex Girl …’
Maggie cut in. ‘Yep, yep. They “were poor, dumb and ‘loose’ as in not controlled by, or protected by men”.’ She was quoting my article. I got her point – she knew it back to front. ‘So why exactly did it happen then? To the extent it did here? I assumed that Essex and its inhabitants already had a reputation for being thick, flat and uninteresting?’
I coughed. ‘No, not at all. Up until the witch hunts, Essex was seen as the “English Goshen”.’
‘I last heard that word in Sunday School. Fertile land and Israelites. Now don’t go all religious on me, Sadie. We’re not the Church Times.’
I sighed. I hated having to explain things to her. She had such a high IQ and always made me feel like I was rambling. ‘Goshen also means place of plenty. And that’s a pretty fair description: Essex has an interesting geology. Sits at the southernmost point of the ice sheet that covered the rest of the island. Soil’s full of mineral deposits brought down from up north via the glacier.’
Maggie pulled a face then converted it into a smile. ‘Geology’s a bit of a turn off for our readership …’
I held my hand up. ‘Hang on. Let me get to the point – it was perfect for farming, for cattle, for livestock. It’s surrounded by rivers and the North Sea for fishing. Until the 1600s it was seen as a pretty cool place to be. But after that it changes a bit.’
Maggie’s eyes blinked. ‘Because?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Well, this is where I come in. I think a) because it was quite the revolutionary county in the Civil War. Backed parliament. Wanted reform. Was seen as the “radical” county. And b) because of the extent of the witch hunts.’
‘Which were because?’ She cocked her head to one side and sat back in her chair.
‘Lots of things, I think. One was class aggression – you look at the European witch hunts and they had it in for all different types of people: aristocrats got burnt at the stake and their lands neatly confiscated by the Church. But in the Essex witch hunts the victims are mostly poor. At the same time you’ve got a mini Ice Age, crop failures, Civil War, a general breakdown of law and order. Indictments in Essex were already higher than elsewhere in the country. Then suddenly in 1644 the numbers spike dramatically. It was down to Matthew Hopkins, whose dick must have fallen off or something.’
Maggie raised an eyebrow. ‘Language, darling.’
‘Well, he’s got serious issues with women. Killed more than any of the other Witchfinders put together. Decided to call himself the Witchfinder General and got rid of whole families of,’ I lifted my fingers to draw imaginary quotation marks, ‘“witches” in his brief career from 1644 to 1647. Some sources suggest that he was from Lancashire, others from Essex or Suffolk. That he worked in shipping as a clerk and spent some time in Amsterdam learning his official trade, where he witnessed several witch trials.’
I looked up to catch her expression. ‘And?’ she said, eyebrows furrowed, not giving anything away.
‘So he comes back and starts on Essex Girls in Manningtree. That’s where he was based. There and Mistley. The Thorn Inn is where he had his headquarters.’ I jerked my chair closer to the desk. ‘Killed a good hundred more people than Harold Shipman, who I might add, we can draw comparisons with – he also enjoyed murdering older women living on their own. But, like I said, it’s thought that Hopkins killed more. Possibly making him the number one serial killer of all time. Conservative estimates look to about 350-odd victims. And,’ I drew breath for emphasis, ‘he was only twenty-six or twenty-seven when he snuffed it. That was in 1647. In 1692 you get the Salem witch hunts – and guess where they were?’
Maggie drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘I’d put my money on Salem.’
‘Okay. I didn’t phrase that well. What county do you reckon Salem is in?’
‘It’s in Massachusetts, no?’
‘Yes, that’s the state though. Salem is in Essex County.’
‘That, I didn’t know,’ said Maggie thoughtfully. ‘You have my full attention. What are you thinking?’
‘Not sure yet. I have to do some digging. I’ve got a tingling feeling going on. I think I could come up with something strong. Perhaps, and this is just a perhaps at the moment, it could be part of a bigger series – The Essex Girls’ History of the World.’
Maggie’s eyes brightened – pound signs were presumably whizzing through her brain. ‘Now you’re talking. What are you saying – six, twelve articles?’
‘I don’t know yet. Let me see what I can come up with.’
‘I like it. I really like it. Sounds like you’re talking ahead of the next deadline. Can you come up with this in three weeks?’
I’d already thought about that and shook my head. ‘I’ll definitely need longer.’
Her eyes dipped and hardened. ‘You’ve got a current deadline. This is like an ongoing column. Readers will be expecting a piece in the next issue. Be a dear and sort something out for that please.’
I already had something up my sleeve. ‘What about little-known Essex Girls of import … ?’
Maggie picked up my line. ‘That go against the stereotype …’
I gave her a stony stare. ‘All Essex Girls go against the stereotype …’
She ignored my comment. ‘Yes, okay, you can have that. But I don’t want you trotting out the regulars: Helen Mirren; Sally Gunnell … yada yada. There was a piece like that in the Standard just the other week.’
‘I’ve got enough research to concoct a decent article pretty quickly. There’s Anne Knight who campaigned against slavery and for women’s suffrage …’
Maggie sniffed. ‘Not too political though please, Sadie. We need an arts or culture steer.’
‘Come on – she’s a notable woman. A lesser-known
notable …’
‘Oh dear. I’m going off the idea. Who else have you got?’
‘Okay,’ I said, reaching mentally for someone a little more exciting. ‘Maggie Smith?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Oh and also Mary Boleyn – the “other Boleyn Girl”. You could run a nice pic of Scarlett beside it.’
‘Was Mary from Essex?’
‘Lived in Rochford for about ten years.’
‘Born here?’
‘Not exactly …’
‘She’ll do. Stick in a couple more like that and think pictures.’
She wrote something down in the book on her desk. ‘Good, good,’ she said to herself and bit the end of her pen with gusto.
‘Then I can go into Hopkins?’
‘Darling,’ she said, replacing the pen and fixing me with one of her scary smiles. ‘After that you can do whatever you like – as long as you hit your deadline and make it contentious. We need debate. Especially on the website. The bigger the better.’
