Stanley Middleton

Ross Bradshaw remembers and reflects on Stanley Middleton, Nottingham’s Booker Prize winning author, who died on Saturday 25th July.

Stanley Middleton would have been 90 on 1st August, but he didn’t quite make it. His death was not unexpected as he had been pretty ill for some time, but it will still be a shock to those who knew him or followed his long career, his latest novel, “Her Three Wise Men”, appearing only a year ago. This was, I think, his 44th book, in a career that started with “A Short Answer” in 1958. Apart from national service he lived all his life in Nottingham, working as a teacher, writing in the evening, until he retired in 1981. His father had been a railwayman locally.

Stanley’s novels, set in “Beechnall” – Nottingham, were never exciting, trendy, cutting edge, but rather they were solid novels about people who lived relatively ordinary lives in ordinary streets. That was their strength. He knew the City, the relevance of someone buying a “Bonington” (a card by one of Nottingham’s artists) and of the importance of chapel life to an earlier generation of working men and women. The location was never forced and simply allowed him space to concentrate on the relationship between people in his novels without having to spend too long in setting the scene. His books were full of references to music, theatre, the Bible, but he could use sex when it was necessary.

For his 80th birthday literary Nottingham made a fuss. At Five Leaves we published “Stanley Middleton at Eighty”, which was edited by John Lucas and David Belbin. The book included some uncollected stories by Stanley, an essay by him on the writer and old age and a series of essays by those who had important things to say about his work, including A.S. Byatt, Philip Callow and John Lucas himself. At the same time Five Leaves reprinted his 1974 Booker winning “Holiday”, which had astonishingly been dropped by his publisher. There was a marvellous party at Bromley House Library. For many writers that could have been seen as a full stop, but Stanley continued to publish a book almost every year into his 80s.

But this tells you little so far about the man himself. He was good company, very well read, keeping on top of all the latest important novels. He was generous to new writers and, with his wife Margaret, was always happy to see visitors and to mooch in the background when Margaret proudly showed people round their garden. Stanley was pleased to see “Holiday” back in print, refusing royalties, insisting on buying copies at full price. He wanted to support the press. One small incident: round at his house, discussing books, Stanley casually picked up a magazine and suddenly shoved it in my face saying “Look at her, ain’t she gorgeous!” I thought he’d gone mad, until he said “Have you met my daughter, did you know she was a model?”, before returning to the literary anecdote he was telling.

Stanley influenced some local writers directly, giving great support to Michael Standen (who died last year) and to his school pupil Peter Mortimer, who realised through Stanley that working class people could become writers, and good ones.

Although mostly published by Hutchinson, Stanley was no stranger to the small press scene. Together with Berlie Doherty he edited “Northern Stories Volume Three” for Arc Publications. The current issue of The Reader (issue 34) includes an article about him, together with rare examples of his poetry. Stanley hardly ever sent his poetry out, which is a shame. He also, incidentally, wrote an excellent radio play, “The Captain from Nottingham”, which was broadcast in the early 70s. East Midlands Arts published an undated video interview with Stanley in their Writers in the Region series. Many people consider “Harris’s Requiem” to have been his best book, and it was re-issued by Trent Editions in 2006 with a long introduction by David Belbin. It is certainly a terrific book, first published in 1960, which is set in the classical music world in Nottinghamshire. This book includes one of my favourite scenes in local fiction, as the Blidworth Band is about to start.

The curtain went up and Marby walked in. The band all wore their military caps; we’ve paid for ‘em, you shall see ‘em. The front row applauded, the rest took to it noisily and with whistles and calls. Marby gave the signal and the audience crashed to its feet for the Queen and back with shifting of kit and rustle of comestible bags.

The Harris in question had been commissioned by the colliery band to write a new piece of work which swept the hall in a “great blaze of silver” resulting in a five minute ovation, as if from a football crowd.

I am sure there will be extensive obituaries in the broadsheet press.