With Fortune, I knew only this: I wanted to write about an explosion. I began by researching personal stories connected to the 7/7 London bombings. Back then, I worked at the Barbican, travelled by tube every day from Maida Vale. My route took me via Baker Street, calling at Edgware Road at the exact time the attacks occurred. I was lucky. On July 7th, 2005, I was away visiting my family in Trinidad. I watched the BBC news in horror.
Of those who died, I wondered how many made a tiny decision that changed their fate – forgetting keys, perhaps, or an argument with a loved one, delayed when a shoelace came loose. I wondered who might have rushed to catch the number 30 bus that blew up in Tavistock Square? Some years ago, I’d heard of a man who protested when the gate closed for his flight, only to later learn that same flight blew up over Lockerbie. I started thinking about fate and destiny.
Around this time, my mother shared with me an excellent essay written by Anthony de Verteuil about the Dome Fire in 1927. An explosion in which 17 people died, it was one of the worst oil disasters in Trinidad’s oil history. I spoke to people who were directly affected, including my stepfather. On the night of the explosion, his father, Charles, had trouble putting on his jacket, his arm caught in the sleeve and his impatient friends drove off without him. Everyone in the car died, including Charles’s brother. Charles was lucky.
My great-grandfather should also have been there that night. But he was called away, unable to get back in time to see the oil strike. He, too, was lucky. The Dome fire was shocking, partly because so many died, but also because they were mostly high society people, gathered there as spectators; picnicking on salmon sandwiches and drinking champagne. When night fell, the mood changed. Along with oil, gas was coming out, and like animals everyone began to retreat to higher ground. By then it was too late.
Ralph Sammy, an investor in the Dome oil field, brought along his wife and daughter. His younger daughter was at boarding school in Port of Spain. She woke at midnight, inconsolable for no apparent reason. The nuns tried to calm her down. She didn’t yet know that her mother, father and sister had been killed in the explosion 40 miles away.
In 2016, I drove to the site of the Dome fire in deep south Trinidad. I looked at the tall elephant grass all around and I tried to imagine life in those early days of oil pioneering: the wooden derricks, the groaning sound of the rotary drill, men in khaki gaberdine, thick heat and sweat, a threat of malaria, dengue, floods.
At the University of West Indies, I read newspaper accounts. I interviewed retired oil men, who’d worked all their lives on rigs. I found an oral account from oil men in Beaumont, Texas, telling of early oil exploration. I was excited to read of diamond bits, roustabouts, roughnecks, divining in the desert. These became Eddie Wade’s stories, my protagonist, based on the real-life oil pioneer Bobby Wade. I imagined him to look like James Dean. I grew to love Eddie, his courage, his hunger, his chutzpah. A woman I knew got in touch, she had Bobby’s watch. Bobby had been engaged to her grandmother. At her house, I saw pictures of Bobby, relaxed, handsome, tanned. He felt like someone I knew.
I found old family photographs taken in Siparia. A woman walking along a platform with two men, an older woman in the background. Oil derricks, like giant leafless trees, were blurry behind them. I began the novel by describing this image.
Understanding the mechanics of early oil drilling was necessary. I watched footage of early rotary drills. I discovered an oil museum in Texas and took many virtual tours. I became obsessed. Above my desk I stuck a drawing of a rotary drill, and black and white photographs of men clearing the land. I framed a poster size photograph of Bobby Wade dripping in oil. Apparently, there was so much oil, if you pushed a stick into the earth it would bubble up, trickle down a path like honey.
I learned about cars, Ford Model Ts, and visited an antique car collector in San Fernando. I hunted down the kind of dream car that would set Eddie’s pulse racing. I stared at images of fires and explosions and tried to imagine the force of these things, the terrible boom, the terrific heat. Would the force of the blast blow off your clothes? How long would it take for the grass to grow back? So many questions. I learned that the explosion set the river alight, fried the fish and cooked the alligators. The fire burned for three, long days. I read about human bones and scraps of jewellery, teeth, belt buckles found amongst the embers.
When people ask about research, I tell them, yes, I researched as much as I could. Then I tried to forget it. I didn’t want the novel to read like a manual. It was about love, dreams, risk, and an explosion – fortune.
By the time Fortune was picked up by Peepal Tree Press, it had done many rounds of publishers. Previous sales on my second novel had me scuppered – Nielsen’s book scanner is the kiss of death for many writers. A mainstream publisher was keen, but their sales and marketing team were not. I was a middle-aged white woman writing about the Caribbean, a historical novel, no less. My agent warned me, we might have to put this one in the drawer.
So much of writing a novel is about holding your nerve. You find an idea, you dig deep, you hope to find something worthwhile. You work hard, and you trust to fortune. You hope to strike lucky. Your dream is to strike lucky.
Amanda Smyth will be at Belfast International Arts Festival alongside Ayanna Lloyd Banwo at 6pm on May 10th at the No Alibis Bookshop at 83 Botanic Ave, Belfast BT7 1JL. The winner of the Walter Scott Prize will be announced at the Borders book festival in June.
