Melissa Harrison: ‘Fascism grows like a fungus’

Melissa Harrison’s writing, whether in her novels, short stories or nonfiction, has always been driven by a profound sense of the importance of nature, of the turning of the seasons, of the way that an environment works upon the people who live within it. Her first novel, Clay (2013) told the story of three very different characters seeking solace in urban wildlife. Her second, At Hawthorn Time, which was shortlisted for the Costa novel award, again moved between a disparate group of characters, this time in a contemporary countryside that represents something different to each of the complex, conflicted people who live within it. Her most recent novel, All Among the Barley, continues the deep engagement with the natural world. This time, though, it’s the story of one person, Edie, a teenager growing up on a farm in early 1930s Suffolk. It’s a story of place and politics, of nationalism and nostalgia, all told in Harrison’s characteristically precise prose. Harrison grew up in Surrey and now lives in Suffolk and London, where she works part-time as a production editor at Mixmag.

Why did you decide to write about the 1930s?
When I started writing it, I had absolutely no idea that the 30s were going to become such a hot topic, because the referendum was way on the horizon and I naively assumed that when it did happen we would remain and the idea of a Trump presidency was ludicrous. I set it when I set it because I wanted to write about the transition from horses to tractors. I wanted to write about what then changed in our relationship with landscape and agriculture.

This is a novel that feels at once relevant and yet profoundly distant from the England of today.
I felt that there was a world between the wars that was very fragile and my instinct was that it had existed for a very long time and then died out very quickly. It seemed to me to link to a vision of Englishness which felt very powerful and attractive but which was also very dangerous because it came with this payload of nostalgia. A lot of people have been talking about this idea of “deep England” and I’d been interrogating that in myself and recognising that it’s both dangerous and exclusionary. I wanted to explore why we have this nostalgia for a pre-Windrush age.

Did you invent the fascist movement in the book?
Yes I did, although there were a lot of proto-fascist groups operating all over England in those years. Some of them were quite effective. Some were just landscape mysticism, wanting to go back to the old ways; some of them were really vicious. And it’s interesting because it says something about how fascism works, which is not through a coherent belief system but rather as a parasite on other forms of thinking, on fears. It’s a fungus that grows from left and right, if you’re not careful.

This book, like your previous ones, is dense with observations of and information about the natural world. How do you judge how much detail to include in these passages?
I’m always worried about putting in too much of the nature side of things. There are readers who skip those pages, I’m well aware of that. But that’s what I’m interested in. When I go for a walk, I stop and look at things and take photos. I’m not about getting to the end of the walk, I’m about what I see along the way. I think writing is the same for me. You have to write from your own passion and from your own experience of the world. I can’t write for a market – that wouldn’t be genuine.

Did writing the book play a part in your move to Suffolk?
Yes it did. I moved in December, by which time the book was well finished. I didn’t know anyone in Suffolk. I’ve got no family there, it’s somewhere I’ve got no links to. Had I not spent time there researching the book, I wouldn’t have gone in that direction.

How do you feel about social media?
I love Twitter. There are times when it does get out of balance and I feel that everything that happens I’m mentally turning into a tweet and at that point I know that I need to step back. It’s a playground for me. I don’t like getting caught up in bitterness and arguments, because I think it’s feeding an outrage machine that I don’t want to be part of, but I enjoy the playfulness of dancing with strangers with words.

What books are on your bedside table?
A proof copy of Paraic O’Donnell’s new book, The House on Vesper Sands, and Ocean Vuong’s Night Sky With Exit Wounds.

Which other writers do you admire?
Alice Oswald is our greatest living writer in any medium.

How do you organise your bookshelves?
Almost not at all. I’ve just moved house and no – I can’t manage it. I’ve sort of got nature writing in a rough area, but that’s it.

What book would you give a child?
A Black Fox Running by Brian Carter.

What is the best book you’ve ever received as a present?
It was one of the Ladybird series, What to Look for in Spring, which I had as a child. I had all four of them and I’d totally forgotten about them. I was at a house party in Manchester and I found this book just kicking around this quite sketchy student house and it brought on this rush of memory that almost knocked me over. I was excitedly jabbering away to my friend Alex about it, and she said I could have it. I took it home, bought the others, and they really resparked my interest in seasonality and the cycle of the year, which was really deep in me and I’d somehow left behind, living in London. This was maybe 15 years ago and it became part of my reconnecting with the natural world.

What do you read for sheer pleasure?
American novelists like Elizabeth Strout and Marilynne Robinson.