Harry's Coffin

After Swan Street, which really whacked me mentally in many ways, the time was right for something lighter. Responding to comments that Orphans was too dark and Swan Street too bizarre, I dusted off and reworked an old idea. That's how 'Harry's Coffin' was born, a book that can be enjoyed by all ages. 

Set in England in the early 70s, the story unfolds across a sunshine-filled school summer holiday and follows young Harry Baker. No longer a child, but not quite an adolescent either. Harry, thinking his pet dog Sparks has died, builds a coffin only to realise that Sparks was merely asleep. 

There's an old wisdom that, as you age, time goes in faster. As youngsters, time doesn't exist, does it? A day lasted a week for me, or so it seemed. This was a central theme in my head when writing the book, trying to capture that timelessness of deep summer, doing everything and anything, time to burn. But then, at a certain age, paying more attention to what lies just beyond the hedge or even on the other side of the village. This 'pull away' feels like the prologue to adolescence, the long farewell of childhood. 

It's impossible not to love the world of Harry Baker. It's also probably as close as I'll ever get to a broad appeal. This is a quirky, lovable novella. It shines a bit of sunshine over normality and manages a knowing wink.

I'm naturally quite restless. The brain races from one idea to another, so writing shorter fiction and novelettes is my comfort zone. The Book of Orphans coalesced around a bunch of story ideas, written in the aftermath of the covid lockdown. I mention this because it provides a sense of the tonal background for the whole collection. All the disruption and uncertainty, the distrust, that general sense of not-quite-rightness, of helplessness, of hidden layers and spaces. Settings shift across the stories, some in the future, some in recognizably familiar places - a couple even adopting my common Scots tongue. But all warping in bizarre, paranoid ways. A transgressive work perhaps, definitely dark, laced with shots of black humour. Which makes all of it oddly human I think. It's also the first in a collection of sorts, with more to follow. Maybe a trilogy, who knows. 

I think every writer has a deeply personal project that lingers across time. Like a tropical virus that remains in the system, long after most symptoms have disappeared. For me, Last Days on Swan Street is that illness. My dream logic novel, all fever dreams and freedom, stitched together into a whole that can only ever promise to make sense. A trip of a book. And, like all good trips, coherence might be there but… always fleeting.

I'm acutely aware, like all fascinating journeys, trips don't have passenger seats. This is why the novel is in first person. It's also why the correct way to read Swan Street is out loud. That's why it's written the way it is. Believe me.

At one stage, my editor quipped "there is an audience for this kind of work, Barry…" A polite way of saying, the book has no possibility of broad appeal outside of the, maybe, five or so readers worldwide who do genuinely 'get' this kind of work. And it's true. Unquestionably. It's a novel of gorgeous flaws, stupidities and irrationalities. Enjoy its cult beauty. Read it. Perform it. Rant. And thanks for being one of the five. The world can still shine with that love.