Under Vixens Mere is a gripping crime novel set on a rural marina in the English countryside. A floating house boat community and their passengers reside on these murky waters, close as can be. When Harry Jones takes his life one chilly evening, a long-buried secret is found amongst the silt where he laid himself to rest.
As the closely-knit neighbours finds themselves in disarray, they prove that strength comes with sticking together. But how long will the hidden stories of these waters be concealed? The novel follows six houseboats, each with their own character and charm.
Vixens Mere is brought to life by the stories of its inhabitants. Without forbidden love, murky old histories, and of course, what lies beneath, there would be no story to tell and it would glitter innocently in the warm sunshine.
Under Vixens Mere is a gripping crime novel set on a rural marina in the English countryside. A floating house boat community and their passengers reside on these murky waters, close as can be. When Harry Jones takes his life one chilly evening, a long-buried secret is found amongst the silt where he laid himself to rest.
As the closely-knit neighbours finds themselves in disarray, they prove that strength comes with sticking together. But how long will the hidden stories of these waters be concealed? The novel follows six houseboats, each with their own character and charm.
Vixens Mere is brought to life by the stories of its inhabitants. Without forbidden love, murky old histories, and of course, what lies beneath, there would be no story to tell and it would glitter innocently in the warm sunshine.
Vixens Mere Marina.
Bombardier.
Sunday. One o’clock in the morning.
Moored barges. Tree-shrouded waters dark and deep and silent. Glow of a cigarette from the deck of The Bombardier.
It’s quiet and still, bitterly cold, and Harry Jones has belted his bulky greatcoat, his army remnant, tightly around himself. When he’s smoked his last cigarette, he flicks the butt overboard. He doesn’t see the glowing arc clearly but he hears the hiss as it hits the water. ‘One sense making up for another.’ It must be true because, since his eyesight’s worsened, he’s aware that his hearing has become so much more sensitive.
‘You know, I think I can actually hear a pin drop,’ he’d told Karen and she’d laughed. But it’s not only his hearing. He feels the slight tremor of their boat as Karen turns in her bed. He can read the mildest of vibrations; a quiver of movement, a foot on the gangplank, a visit to the bathroom, a pot set onto the cooker. He imagines the sleepy warmth of her, remembers how they’d wake in the mornings with not a fag paper between them. But that was in the early days. When he was a proper man. He’s gone from Proper man to Useless man, and she’d stuck with him through the transition and beyond. And now? What fucking use am I, Karen? What fucking use to anyone? She’d always calmed him when emotion and the colossal injustice of it all combined in a bitter tirade or a black outburst of temper. All of this is worming around in Harry’s head, and now enough is enough. She’s done her shift. None of this is your fault, Karen. Please forgive me. That’s what he’s written, slowly and laboriously; blurred letters formed into words on the note that’s lying on his pillow. A note signed with love.
Harry stands up slowly, feels the weight of his loaded coat pockets, his trouser pockets, that are packed to overflowing with nuts and bolts and washers of iron. Harry slowly shuffles his way off-board the Bombardier, along the towpath, out onto the end of the jetty, and then painfully struggles to ease himself to sit and dangle his legs like he’s a boy again; a blonde-haired child swishing the cool water against his bare legs on a hot summer’s day. But this is a night twenty-five years later, the moon taking an occasional peep through ragged clouds. Its light falls onto this thin man in a baggy overcoat slowly lowering himself into the marina. Very slowly, so he makes no splash.
Harry knew it was going to be cold, knew that it would steal his breath, chill his body, and cause him to slow in his push towards the depths, until the water’s at his chin, lapping at his mouth. Then he takes the deepest pull of air, a lung-stretch of filling that he’s going to hold onto until he’s under and it’s impossible to turn back.
‘Come on, Harry. One step at a time. Discipline. Discipline. No going back now.’ The water’s over his mouth, seeking into his nose, his ears, until all of his head is covered. Harry raises an arm, breaks the surface of the water in a last brief clutch at this world. Then he opens his eyes, peers into the liquid twilight where the fickle moon is showing a faint path through a thicket of floating weed. He breathes out, waits for the involuntary suck for air, waits for the choking. He’s anchored by nuts and bolts and scraps of metal to the bottom of Vixens Mere expecting the end to start. But nothing is happening except … except for the muffled sound of voices, a break of laughter, the chatter of conversation. Now the light around Harry has grown stronger, brighter, harsher, and the moon is the sun and the waterweed is prickled brush, and there’s desert sand and pebbles under his boots. Through the brush there’s a team of soldiers carelessly arranged around a billy-can brew up. And the wonder of it is that they’re his team, his mates. His pack. There’s Geordie, and Jason, Hoppy, and Tallyman, and Harry can feel their welcome wash over him. He’s come home to his company. They’re pleased to see him, these comrades in arms. Comrades who’ve been through a lot together. Stuck together. Always. Alongside the crew, waiting for their embarkment, the Saladin is in heavy tick-over.
Jason, dashing the dregs from his mug, says, ‘Knew you’d make it back, Harry.’ Hoppy says, ‘Bet you’ve been having a rare old time without us to keep an eye on you, eh, Harry?’
Tallyman, stubbing out his cigarette, says, ‘Enough prattle, let’s get aboard. Get this show on the road.’
Geordie says, ‘Couldn’t have left without you, Harry. You know we never leave anyone behind.’
They climb into the Saladin and Harry, rifle resting on his forearm, takes his position against the door. They’ve been bumping along the rutted dusty tracks for an hour or so and it’s broiling hot in the armoured vehicle. Oven hot. Geordie reckons that he’ll soon be thoroughly roasted and ready to serve up with some apple sauce. Jason says that there’s enough meat on Geordie to feed the entire division. Hoppy hopes he doesn’t get the parson’s nose and Tallyman says the last thing he’d want is Geordie’s prick in his mouth. Harry’s halfway through saying that he’s thinking of becoming a veggie when nothing happens. No explosion, no ear shattering eye-blinding blast, just a percussive rumble in the distance.
Tallyman laughs without humour. ‘Well. Glad we missed that one, boys.’
There’s a collective nod of agreement and Geordie says, ‘Be glad to get to base. Wash this fucking dust away.’
Jason reckons that he’s counting the days until they’re, ‘back in dear old Blighty.’
Hoppy says to Harry, ‘Bet you can’t wait to get home to that cracker of a wife of yours?’
Harry says that Hoppy’s right, he just can’t wait.
He’s lying on his back under eight feet of water. His bed is a soft mattress of fine mud, soft silt. His imprint, the shape of him, will remain for days after his removal. His eyes are wide open, like he’s amazed to find himself in this place of murk and floating weed. But dead, cold, drowned flesh has no emotions, no feelings, and so there’s no resistance to the nylon ropes as they are threaded around his body, tightened, knotted on his chest, for the dragging of him up to the light.
And that should be that for the Police Rescue team. All done. Mission completed. Body recovered. Morgue and post-mortem awaiting. All going well on this wet Sunday afternoon. Should be home in time for tea. That’s the thought, except that the diver, treading water, facemask dropped under his mouth, is shaking his head and saying, ‘I’m going in again. Need to check on something else.’
The something else has been down here a long time and the tarpaulin shroud wrapped around this body has rotted away in snapshots of exposure, frames of slime-greened bones, tatters of dress, a pale grinning skull, and a release of hair gently wavering in an eddy of current.
If these two drowned could speak and tell how they ended up in these freezing waters, he would gently say that he’d had enough of his painful existence, and that what he’d done was an act of sacrifice, of a selfless love to give a life to another. He had prepared himself to die. It was his duty.
That’s what he’d say.
She would say that she could never have imagined laying lonely and cold and in this place for all of these years. She’d loved the warmth of the sun, mostly loved her life, and always loved her child in her own way. She’d tell that she hadn’t been perfect but she was young and pretty and she wasn’t ready to die.
That’s what she’d say.
And if you could kneel beside her in the mud, in the black silt of these murky cold waters, and take her hand, draw close to her mouth, you might hear her softly, regretfully, whisper the whole of her story.
Under Vixens Mere is a compelling, mystery-tinged novel by Kit Fielding about the lives of the residents of a unique community of wide-beam boat and barge-dwellers moored in the marina of Vixens Mere near the village of Broome. Portrayed over several years, the story reveals the surprising origins of the close interconnectedness between the permanent residents and those who come and go with the seasons. Once I started, I couldn’t put this book down.
The storylines feature the permanent, temporary, and seasonal inhabitant who lives on their barges or boats in Vixens Mere marina: a free-spirited but aging hippie couple and their late-life son, a drug dealer who inherited his barge and berth from his father, a severely wounded ward veteran and his full-time carer-wife, a laborer at a local pig farm, a new arrival looking to start over after the breakup of her long-standing relationship, and a handsome Scotsman who arrives looking much the same as he did when he last came to stay fifteen years earlier. Each resident brings an intriguing backstory, all of which is interwoven with the others to create a captivating whole in the present. Tragic secrets bind the quirky community together, and they continue to come together to offer support and share their burdens.
Each character is endearing in their own unique way, and I would be hard-pressed to select a single favorite, as I was quickly and intimately drawn into all of their lives. Big Ed and Milly the Mystic anchor the community, and though well up in age, remain an earthy, lusty, and loving couple. However, they mask their relationship behind a screen of constant bickering and clever banter. Newbie Lorrie Smith is disillusioned after her breakup with her long-time partner, Petra, but is determined to start afresh after getting back in healthy physical shape, and I rooted for her personal transformation from the start. Drug dealer Jed Rawlins shows a softer nature when he takes in Anna, who’s on the run from a really bad situation. Karen Jones, full-time caregiver to her husband Harry, is at the breaking point and plays a pivotal role in many of the others’ stories. Not only is Harry’s condition rapidly deteriorating, but she’s carrying a load of guilt and regret, which is compounded by the arrival of a figure from the past.
The plot unfolds from multiple perspectives and an unusual shift in point of view as the individual storylines are established and converge. While most of the narrative is expressed in the third person, Brodie Stewart’s story is delivered in the second person. He enters the tale blissfully unaware of the permanent impact his actions fifteen years earlier have had on the current situation in the floating community. Similarly, Harry Jones has no idea of the collateral consequences of his final actions, believing the results will only be positive. Every resident on the mere has long-held secrets, and even the water itself hides a few.
I recommend UNDER VIXENS MERE to readers of contemporary fiction, mystery, and drama.