I am, like all the best heroes of children's literature, an orphan. It's not quite the same thing. I'm 42 years old and everyone should be an orphan eventually, unless the natural order of things has gone horribly wrong somewhere. Still, most people get their parents around for longer perhaps.
My father died at a ripe-ish (but not quite ripe enough) age when I was pregnant with number one Fellow Reviewer. It would have been his 87th birthday on Friday. A day I was happy to celebrate. I raised my glass to the sky; though it didn't contain the whisky he would have chosen himself. He seemed quite close by.
It doesn't need to be his birthday for me to think of him of course. Every night when I read to the boys I find echoes of his voice and mannerisms in my own, whether its an old classic he shared too or something new. It's one of my (many) pleasures in reading aloud- finding myself following a well worn, familiar groove. An act of and active remembrance.
My mother died at a not-ripe-at-all age and when I was 12. That is sad and unfair and not right. But it is also a simple fact that I live with day to day without intrusive sorrow. Remembering her properly can feel trickier. Particularly having a sense of her as a grown up person that I might have had a grown up relationship with rather than "just" a mother.
This week I have been discovering the delights of reading Barbara Pym and a side benefit of that is a sudden joyful sense of following my mother's literary legacy in a new direction and finding her sitting surprisingly close at my shoulder too. I'd forgotten how much our tastes marry. I should have twigged and looked up Barbara earlier. She was always waiting next on the list.
My shared-heart book inheritance from my mother started with Gwynneth Rae's Mary Plain, continued with Noel Streatfeild (my mother knew her a little and I still have some of her personally signed copies-swank-) and then progressed after her death to her extensive Georgette Heyer collection- the first of these handed to me by my canny pa when I was a teenager ill with the flu. And to be honest it is with the peerless Georgette that I have stayed happily for the last 30 years, cycling through them on a yearly or so basis whenever I need to be sure of reading pleasure. Blissfully funny and well crafted Regency romance as comforting and satisfying as a mug of hot chocolate with cream.
If I picture my mother's bedroom bookshelf; her personal ledge of soothing treasures, I can also see the Barbara Pym novels all there in a line. I'm pretty sure I plucked one out as a teenager and gave it a go before abandoning it unable to see the point of all the spinsters and church. It would have all seemed too old and unromantic.
Now I AM old and unromantic I am obviously ready for them. They have been making me snort with laughter like no new-to-me book has for years. Today I wallowed in a bath reading the second half of 'No Fond Return of Love' and every page had perfect lines that would have made me score them with highlighter pen were I bonkers in that particular way. The world of limited gentility they're set in has gone of course but proves quite as pleasurable as the Regency to visit. And a reminder of what a boon social media has been to those of us with gossipy stalkerish habits who no longer have to endure a decaying seaside resort holiday to assuage our curiousity.
'An elderly man with an Aberdeen terrier passed them. "It must be strange to live at the seaside all the year round," Viola observed. "Look- there's the hotel I was thinking of- The Bristol..Shall we go in?"
"Yes, but let's peer first," said Dulcie. "This is the dining room, obviously."
A middle-aged couple, looking like people in an advertisement- she in pearls and a silver fox cape over a black dress, he in a dark suit- sat at a table in the window. A waiter bent over them- 'deferentially', Dulcie supposed, helping them to some fish- turbot, surely? Its white flesh was exposed before them. How near to the heart of things it seemed!'
Back to the children's books after this but just wanted to say thank you Barbara Pym- and welcome to the bedside shelf; Georgette and PG are shuffling along to make space for you. And also; hello and nice to laugh with you grown up Mummy.
My father died at a ripe-ish (but not quite ripe enough) age when I was pregnant with number one Fellow Reviewer. It would have been his 87th birthday on Friday. A day I was happy to celebrate. I raised my glass to the sky; though it didn't contain the whisky he would have chosen himself. He seemed quite close by.
It doesn't need to be his birthday for me to think of him of course. Every night when I read to the boys I find echoes of his voice and mannerisms in my own, whether its an old classic he shared too or something new. It's one of my (many) pleasures in reading aloud- finding myself following a well worn, familiar groove. An act of and active remembrance.
My mother died at a not-ripe-at-all age and when I was 12. That is sad and unfair and not right. But it is also a simple fact that I live with day to day without intrusive sorrow. Remembering her properly can feel trickier. Particularly having a sense of her as a grown up person that I might have had a grown up relationship with rather than "just" a mother.
This week I have been discovering the delights of reading Barbara Pym and a side benefit of that is a sudden joyful sense of following my mother's literary legacy in a new direction and finding her sitting surprisingly close at my shoulder too. I'd forgotten how much our tastes marry. I should have twigged and looked up Barbara earlier. She was always waiting next on the list.
My shared-heart book inheritance from my mother started with Gwynneth Rae's Mary Plain, continued with Noel Streatfeild (my mother knew her a little and I still have some of her personally signed copies-swank-) and then progressed after her death to her extensive Georgette Heyer collection- the first of these handed to me by my canny pa when I was a teenager ill with the flu. And to be honest it is with the peerless Georgette that I have stayed happily for the last 30 years, cycling through them on a yearly or so basis whenever I need to be sure of reading pleasure. Blissfully funny and well crafted Regency romance as comforting and satisfying as a mug of hot chocolate with cream.
If I picture my mother's bedroom bookshelf; her personal ledge of soothing treasures, I can also see the Barbara Pym novels all there in a line. I'm pretty sure I plucked one out as a teenager and gave it a go before abandoning it unable to see the point of all the spinsters and church. It would have all seemed too old and unromantic.
Now I AM old and unromantic I am obviously ready for them. They have been making me snort with laughter like no new-to-me book has for years. Today I wallowed in a bath reading the second half of 'No Fond Return of Love' and every page had perfect lines that would have made me score them with highlighter pen were I bonkers in that particular way. The world of limited gentility they're set in has gone of course but proves quite as pleasurable as the Regency to visit. And a reminder of what a boon social media has been to those of us with gossipy stalkerish habits who no longer have to endure a decaying seaside resort holiday to assuage our curiousity.
'An elderly man with an Aberdeen terrier passed them. "It must be strange to live at the seaside all the year round," Viola observed. "Look- there's the hotel I was thinking of- The Bristol..Shall we go in?"
"Yes, but let's peer first," said Dulcie. "This is the dining room, obviously."
A middle-aged couple, looking like people in an advertisement- she in pearls and a silver fox cape over a black dress, he in a dark suit- sat at a table in the window. A waiter bent over them- 'deferentially', Dulcie supposed, helping them to some fish- turbot, surely? Its white flesh was exposed before them. How near to the heart of things it seemed!'
Back to the children's books after this but just wanted to say thank you Barbara Pym- and welcome to the bedside shelf; Georgette and PG are shuffling along to make space for you. And also; hello and nice to laugh with you grown up Mummy.
