Just Finished Reading: The Street Philosopher by Matthew Plampin (FP: 2009)

Manchester, Northern England 1857. He was in hiding, there was no denying it. But he couldn’t hide from himself no matter where he went. He couldn’t hide from what he’d seen, the carnage, the death, the suffering. At least here the nightmares had started to subside and the headaches, those awful headaches, had at last started to ease. He still saw them though, most often out of the corner of his eyes, or, when things were really bad, in broad daylight right in front of him. Bodies, bodies of the dead and the dying everywhere. But at least he was away from his erstwhile employer and mentor. At least there was that. Until that damned art exhibition. As a street philosopher, a common purveyor of gossip and the events of the day, it was his job to write about the exhibitions that the newly rich in this so industrial city loved so much. And what a prize it was too – with the Queen and her Prince consort in attendance. Of course the centrepiece, the mysterious portrait from exotic Crimea, was going to be the big attraction and had already put the city on the art map of the Empire. But he knew where it came from, he saw it stolen and he saw the men killed to keep it secret. Now it was in Manchester and no doubt its owner would be here too, and where he was his employer, hell bent on revenge that he was, wouldn’t be far behind. And then he saw him, bold as brass and twice as loud as always. As he had been during the bloody Crimean adventure, as he had been before he lost his illicit love forever, as he had been before he destroyed all of their lives, as he had been before it all came crashing down. There would be a reckoning all right and blood would be spilt and he would be there – to see it end.

Rather embarrassingly I bought this, or at the very least noticed this, because of the word ‘philosopher’ on the cover having only recently (over 10 years ago) completed a degree in the subject. I’m glad that I did. Essentially split into two halves and, mostly, hopping between the two, this told the tale of young Thomas Kitson a reporter for the British press based in the Crimea during the brief but bloody war with Russia. The events of that campaign are viscerally represented throughout a series of (almost) flashbacks beginning with the arrival of a new war artist and his failure to integrate with the journalistic team headed by the mercurial, abrasive and opinionated Irishman Cracknell. Not only does Cracknell, much to the anger of the local military commanders, regularly heap cutting criticism on their heads for an appallingly managed campaign – at all levels of the organisation – but he is a personal thorn in the side to a particular Colonel with a very pretty wife in attendance. He is, on many levels, a thoroughly disreputable character and a LOT of fun because of that! Kitson himself is more of a sensitive soul who, rather than simply report the carnage, is determined to help reduce it as much as he can. As you can imagine clashes of personality ensue! Both characters are very well drawn as are both of the love interests in the Crimea and, much later, in Manchester. What impressed me though – at least in the Crimea sections was the detail underpinning the incompetence of the British war effort. It’s prompted me to investigate further. Part war story, part art theft, part revenge narrative, this was a gripping read that really got my blood moving – in a good way! Well-paced, full of interesting and believable characters and insights both into the Crimean campaign and Victorian society both at war and at home this was a delight from beginning to end. Being about 50% war novel it is rather violent and bloody at times but if you have a reasonably strong stomach for blood and gunpowder you’ll be OK. Highly recommended for all historical fiction buffs.