Something about neither sewage nor ships: Rest in peace, Dick Francis, an excellent writer in his glory years (about 1965-1985, roughly). In memoriam, here is something I wrote about him years ago for the Guardian. I still maintain that his economy of prose and mastery of narrative are as good as any “literary” fiction.
Why I love Dick Francis
by Rose George
My bookshelves always get the same reaction. Vague respect for the French and Italian novels (first degree), the international politics texts (from another degree that made less sense than the foreign language one). Hilarity at the Saddam Hussein collection (“Revolution and the woman,” “One trench or two?”). Then a pause. A paperback is extracted, and eyebrows are raised. “Dick Francis?” Aye. And not just the one. A whole shelf-full, from the great early days in the 1960s when the prose was taut and the horses were heroes. When the human protagonists were called Sid or Roger, who always reacted to their unasked for troubles – a dastardly plot, a man with a syringe at Kempton Park – with mild surprise but unflappable mastery.
Even the later days, when the horses gave way to glass-blowing, merchant banking and non horsey-trades (Perry the aeroplane-crashing meteorologist? Too much time in the library, Dick) haven’t put me off. Nor the unfailing conservatism (royals always good; totty invariably posh; greatest fan the Queen Mother). As long as the Dick Francis USP remains unchanged: That the hero is a he. That he is always superior to everyone else, in a nice English way, and that even the most cutting of remarks is always made “mildly.” And that he unfailingly gets beaten, tortured or nearly killed, round about the two-thirds mark. A poker smashing down on a withered hand, a barbecued limb, delivered in prose so polished, it would impress judges, if they could turn from overinflated Booker prizewinners long enough to look. Even if his late wife Mary actually did the writing, as the rumour now goes. Who cares? I’ve had hours of procrastination, I can shock literary snobs, and I know what the Jockey Club does. So long as no-one expects me to like Catherine Cookson, too.