Catherine Chidgey's ninth novel, The Book of Guilt, was released this month. She is appearing at the Auckland Writers Festival in two events.
Catherine Chidgey's ninth novel, The Book of Guilt, was released this month. She is appearing at the Auckland Writers Festival in two events.
To celebrate the 2025 Auckland Writers Festival, we’ve teamed up with New Zealand publishers to showcase some of the authors who will be on stage over the festival weekend.
This extract is from The Book of Guilt, the new book from NZ author Catherine Chidgey. The story follows 13-year-old tripletsVincent, Lawrence and William living in a sinisterly skewed version of England in 1979.
Chidgey will appear in two events, Bringing the Past to Life: Researching Historical Fiction, with Sonya Wilson, Monty Soutar and Robbie Arnott on Saturday, May 17, 2.30-3.30pm, and The Book of Guilt, on Sunday, May 18, 4-5pm.
Vincent
All our lives we’d wondered about the village just over the river. From our upstairs corner bedroom we could see across the heathland and woodland and down to Ashbridge, where the clock told four different times on its four blue faces, and the church steeple rose above the red roofs. On rainy days the clay tiles looked shiny, slick as wet leaves, and in winter the smoke rose from the chimneys, the fires inside the houses keeping all the families cosy and warm – so we imagined. As little boys, when we’d asked our mothers why we couldn’t go there, they’d told us we were delicate; our health was delicate. If we ventured beyond our gates we might catch something from the villagers, which could prove very dangerous indeed. So that was the rule.
Then, in the spring of 1978, everything changed: provided we were well, we could accompany our mothers when they needed to visit the bank or the Post Office, or treat themselves to the new Woman’s Realm when they’d saved up enough money, or find us some new shoes because we were growing like vines. That was the new rule, which replaced the old rule.
We could hardly believe it. We asked Mother Morning exactly who had decided to let us out – had she?
No, she said, certainly not Dr Roach. The government had decided, although she doubted they’d be the government for much longer.
So a new government could change the rules back?
Perhaps, she said.
And would a new government also start sending boys to Captain Scott again? So we wouldn’t be the last ones?
She didn’t know, she said. She couldn’t see into the future.
The Book of Guilt is out now.
At first we were nervous – we worried we’d pick something up from the villagers. But no, Mother Morning assured us: as long as we felt healthy, and maintained the right attitude, there was no danger. And how thrilling those first outings were! How strange to see the flint wall from the other side, and to leave the Home behind us as we walked with Mother Afternoon along the narrow road! We jumped when we heard a car approach, but it slowed right down to pass us, the driver peering through the window with a puzzled look on his face. Mother Afternoon told us to ignore him. We skipped along by the hedgerows, passing the sleepy-eyed cows and the skittery ponies that flicked their tails in the green air, and the crab-apple tree that was hollow at the heart but still growing, and then we crossed the stone bridge that separated us from the village. Through the high-street windows we saw whole sides of pork and whole jars of sweets, mannequins wearing real clothes and painted-on hair, tins of rice pudding arranged in precarious stacks, and, in the bakery window, a little automaton dressed in a white apron and white hat, nodding his head and tapping on the glass with a wooden spoon. But although we were locals – we’d lived in Ashbridge our whole lives, after all – the villagers never really warmed to us; they gave the briefest of nods if we said hello, and the schoolchildren in their smart uniforms nudged one another and stared wide-eyed, and the shopkeepers stonewalled most attempts at small talk. One man hurried his daughter across the street to avoid us, and when she said that we looked quite normal, he muttered, ‘They’re not like you and me.’ Another man said to his wife, ‘They’ll be wanting the right to vote before too long. The right to marry. You mark my words.’ And Lawrence soon learned not to try to pat people’s dogs.
‘Rise above, rise above,’ Mother Afternoon told us. ‘You’re a hundred times better than they are.’
Only Mr Webb the baker was friendly, slipping an extra cream bun into the bag near closing time, asking if I had a young lady yet, because what was a handsome chap like me doing without one? Mother Morning said he was simple – a bit touched – but I thought he was kind.
Very occasionally, if our mothers were busy – and if we were feeling well – we were allowed to go to the village on errands by ourselves, though we had to promise perfect behaviour. Mother Afternoon would want a card of buttons or a bit of elastic, or she’d decide we’d earned a treacle tart or custard slice for good manners. Mother Morning would discover someone had used the last teabag, so there were no teabags for anyone else, which was a sorry state of affairs.
Catherine Chidgey is the author of nine novels, including The Axeman's Carnival, Pet, and her new release, The Book of Guilt.
I remember the first time I went to the village alone: early that summer, in 1979. A new government had indeed come to power, and my brothers and I were worried that they’d say we couldn’t go out any more, but the days passed and nothing changed. How lucky, we said; we didn’t think we could return to the old rules. When Mother Afternoon needed some wire to support the flowers in a new ikebana arrangement, she gave me some money and told me not to dawdle. I knotted the coins inside a handkerchief, pushed them deep into a pocket so they couldn’t fall out, and set off. Wild strawberries were ripening under the hedgerows, and I stopped and ate as many as I could find, careful to check for weevils. I wiped my fingers on the grass rather than on my trousers, which would have been thoughtless and made more work for Mother Afternoon when she had quite enough on her plate.
In the high street, two young mothers were pushing their babies in gleaming white prams, and they watched me as if they’d never seen me or my brothers before. When they’d passed I heard one murmur to the other: ‘Pitiful creature really – he’s never known love.’ Her friend said, ‘Of course not! They don’t respond like we do!’ Did they mean me? Was I the pitiful creature? I wanted to run back and tell them that even though we were orphans and sometimes felt poorly, we’d known love. We knew love. We had three mothers. Three! Who else could say that? But we weren’t allowed to make conversation with people unconnected with our errands.
Extract from The Book of Guilt by Catherine Chidgey. Published by Te Herenga Waka University Press. Out now. Catherine Chidgey will be appearing at the Auckland Writers Festival May 13-18. For more information and tickets, visit writersfestival.co.nz.
