Heroines

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Booking Through Thursday always comes just when my topics are drying up. You might have been treated to the anecdote about how I thought my camera had broken yesterday, only it hadn’t, or a detailed examination of a pillow – instead, there is something you might well find interesting to read and to which to respond!

Who is your favorite female lead character? And why? (And yes, of course, you can name more than one . . . I always have trouble narrowing down these things to one name, why should I force you to?)

Yes, you guessed it – I’mgoing to hedge my bets and pick a few favourites. I’ve even turned them into an Identi-Kit picture, so you can spot my ideal heroine, should you see her misformed body wandering along the street.

So which three females made the grade? First and probably foremost – well, it has to be Elizabeth Bennet, doesn’t it? I’d be astonished if she weren’t the most popular choice this week. Wit, gumption, self-knowledge, affection for those around her, intelligence, beauty, morals, self-deprecation, eventual wisdom – what is there not to like in our Lizzie? She, in case you wondered, makes up the torso and arms of our Ideal Heroine. No particular reason why those bits.

Second (the legs downwards) is the indomitable Miss Hargreaves. For more on Connie, see more or less every post I’ve ever written, or this one in particular. Incorrigible, unflappable, musical, quite selfish but often very loving, and unintentionally hilarious Miss Hargreaves is everything a comic character should be, and my life would be a duller place without her in it. She’s brought along Sarah, her dog, and a cockatoo called Dr. Pepusch, hope that’s not cheating.

And the head – The Provincial Lady. Well, it’s actually her author, E M Delafield, but needs must. Again, witty and self-deprecating, ironic, long-suffering and eternally provincial, she is the architypal everywoman, but also somehow unique.

So there we are. My three favourite female protagonists, and I can’t imagine the landscape of literature without the three of them. How amusing it would be if the three of them were in the same room. I think they’d probably loathe each other, but I would be delighted.

Letters, Pray

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Following on from yesterday’s post about my own personal letters, we’ll move onto published letters. I think the topic has come up here before, and Karen has definitely discussed it, but I had a slightly different angle on the matter today.

I tend to read letters when I’m, um, otherwise occupied – useful to have something to peruse in snatches, where the thread won’t be lost if five minute bursts are the only opportunity nature affords – and have recently finished Dear Friend & Gardener by Beth Chatto and Christopher Lloyd. This is two years of exchanged letters, covering a few topics but almost always gardens and gardening. The scenario is a little unlike most collections of letters, in that these friends appear to have been approached by a publisher before the two years exchange began: this is from the last letter –

I suppose this’ll be my last letter of the year, which means of the series, but it does not mean that we shall stop writing to or telephoning each other. Just that was shall no longer be going public. I don’t think that has inhibited us much. The main difference, from a totally private letter, is the extra explanatory matter that is necessary, as, in this letter, ‘the autumn-flowering Crocus speciosus’. Obviously ‘autumn-flowering’ would be omitted in a wholly private letter, as we both know this perfectly well. Apart from that, perhaps the odd indiscertion had to be forgone, but nothing much.

Quite. I know absolutely nothing about gardening. As I read the letters, I got the feeling I was one of the people Beth and Christopher would most pity – someone who likes seeing gardens, but is content to remain in total ignorance as to how and why it looks like it does. These letters are littered with Latin plant names, and at one point Beth professes quite sweet astonishment that the public might not know them all. For subject matter, I couldn’t grasp this book – I read on because of the friendship and the passion these two writers exchanged. Dear Friend & Gardener is a small window on a practice I know nothing about, but also a thriving love of gardening that is both alien and captivating to me.

Have you ever read a book about something about which you knew nothing, only to be enthralled by the writer’s passion? A biography, perhaps, or letters or just regular non-fiction. I’ve never picked up non-fiction before unless I was confident I’d be interested in the topic, but in this genre – like any other – good writing can be read for itself, and spark an unknown interest.

The next collection of letters I’ve started is Letters to a Friend: The Spiritual Autobiography of a Distinguished Writer by Rose Macaulay. The ‘Friend’ in question is a Catholic priest in America, whose guidance and wisdom helped Macaulay rediscover her faith. Only Macaulay’s side of the correspondance is published, but so far it is proving witty, touching and interesting. And has a beautiful cover…

Boxing Day

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Before I forget, anyone here regularly go to Buenos Aires? My least expected email of late was from some people who have written a guide to bookshops in Buenos Aires – if that meets a corner then have a gander here!

Now onto home territory – I thought I’d share a little purchase with you. Since I’m not buying books in Lent (which was particularly difficult when, in the same half hour, I came across a beautiful, signed book by Margaret Drabble for £3, and a ten-novels-for-ten-pounds boxset of Daphne du Maurier) I keep buying other things. Yes, I know, that’s not really the point… but I went into the shop to get a Mothering Sunday present, honest. In fact I also bought a Mothering Sunday present, but I’ll keep schtum on that for the meantime – Our Vicar’s Wife (along with Our Vicar and, from a different direction, The Caron Copy) is coming on Saturday for my Graduation, and will be given her gift then.

So what did I buy?
For a long time I’ve been looking for a box to keep letters in. Yes, yes, I know – any old shoebox would do. In fact, the shoebox was my container of choice during my degree, the result of which was a revision mountain which resembled Clarks at stock-taking time. But letters are different. I already have a small cream box with roses, for letters from my Aunt Jacq. Pictured above is a beautiful old green/wooden box for ‘general’ letters, but my friend Barbara-from-Ludlow had no receptacle for her letters. And where to find such a thing? The rose box was from a wonderful shop in Worcester, The New England Store, but we moved house and neither Oxford nor Yeovil have anything quite the same. The old wooden box was nabbed whilst sorting donations to a village fete – yes, in Worcestershire (fear not, I made a donation). So what to do?

Ah, Arcadia, you faileth me not. I wrote about this shop a while ago, in my Oxford tour, and it is perfect for gifts. And gifts to myself. In amongst potential Mothering Sunday presents lay a beauty of a box, which just had to be mine. Not too pricey, either. Cheaper than the Mothering Sunday present, which made me feel justified.

We may have chatted about letter writing before – but remind me! Do you write real-life letters to anyone? Or just email? And are there special places you keep letters you receive? Personal ones, of course, rather than bills and bank statements. I love going back and reading through old letters, and surmising (or wildly guessing) at what might have been my words between each received missive…

Mememememememe

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Perhaps someone here knows – is ‘meme’ pronounced to rhyme with ‘dream’, or simply ‘me me’? It is a little navel-gazing-esque, but hopefully you will forgive that when I open up the arena to anyone who fancies joining in!
I took this from Harriet’s blog, and apparently it is quite famous as being James Lipton’s. Must confess I hadn’t heard of him, but perhaps that is not the benchmark of fame.(the picture isn’t relevant – I took it in the Lake District last Summer, and almost put running water as my favourite sound… so it’s staying!)
What is your favorite word? Solemnity What is your least favorite word? Onyx What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? creatively – reading (or reading about) Virginia Woolf; spiritually and emotionally singing worship songs to God!
What turns you off? sleep-deprivation
What is your favourite curse word? Fish. I know it’s not one, but it’s what I say….
What sound or noise do you love? Heavy rain against a window (when I’m on the right side of it) What sound or noise do you hate? things scraping against ice in a freezer
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Showing people around Jane Austen’s house
What profession would you not like to do? Surgery – Harriet’s answer is also mine!
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Wow! Would He need to say anything? “I love you”, I think.

Home From Home

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I remember two revelations dawning on me in my early school years – the first was that girls don’t all like each other. Goodness knows why I’d think they would, but up until the age of 8 or 9 I’d naively and contentedly been under the impression that all girls were friends. Perhaps females thought the same of boys, at that age? When I discovered that Amy and Emma and Felicity and Faith were not all amicable, my life changed a little bit… but the next revelation did not come until I was 11 or so. Guess what – teachers don’t all like each other either! Who’d have thought?

After these learning curves, it came as no surprise that tutors might no like each other in Rosy Thornton’s Hearts and Minds. Though it’s set in The Other Place (Cambridge) Rosy T is a Fellow there, and we can’t hold it against her. Something of my naivety has remained unsullied throughout the battlefield of life, and I tend not to notice the animosities that whirl around me – I remember being asked by my tutor if the “situation” in my English group had settled down, and had to confess ignorance as to its existence. Seems I was blessed by not giving or receiving any of it. And thus it may be that Magdalen was a hotbed of back-stabbing and internal politics, but it all just passed me by.

Similarly, I’ve not met this sort of thing in fiction. When Rosy offered me a review copy of Hearts and Minds, I had to confess to not having read any campus novels. Ever. Apparently they are a male-dominated beast – so setting one in an all-female college is doubtless an intriguing twist to the genre, but I’m afraid it’s the only part of the genre that I’ve read.

I say all-female. Hearts and Minds opens with the controversial arriving of James Rycarte as Head of House at St. Radegund’s College. He’s the first non-female (or ‘male’, if you will) Head of House they’ve ever had, and is even known as Mistress for a while. From Oxford I am familiar with the vague nomenclature for this position – Magdalen has a President, but other colleges opted for Master, Rector, Provost, Principal, Dean, Warden or Regent. Rycarte, as well as being a man, comes from the world of media – perhaps the flipside of the coin from academia.

Joining James on centre stage is loveable Dr. Martha Pearce, the Senior Tutor whose administrative tasks have meant her academic pursuits have slipped, and who struggles to motivate a high-school dropout daughter and inactive husand who writes occasional poetry in Italian. There are a host of others, most notably Rycarte’s nemesis, the cunning uber-feminist Ros Clarke, who bitterly opposes the appointment of a Master rather than a Mistress. What drives the novel forward is the announcement that an old media friend of Rycarte’s, Luigi Alvau, wants to make a donation of £1,000,000 to St. Radegund’s. Oh, and his daughter is applying as well, just thought he’d mention it.

Is it ethical to accept a donation, even if the daughter will be interviewed on her own merits? Must one be seen to do right, as well as actually doing it? At one point the Admissions Tutor is asked what the kids from comprehensives (oo, like me) would say –
“I think they would laugh at us, to be honest – laugh at this whole discussion. It would never cross their minds for a moment that anyone would turn down the offer of a million pounds.”
It is to Thornton’s credit that the reader doesn’t dismiss the dilemma as silly – nobody works harder than Oxbridge to encourage admissions from all sectors and conduct admission honourably, yet nobody is more speedily censured. (Just Google ‘Laura Spence’ for the most ridiculous example).

I was keen throughout to find how Rycarte et al would solve the predicament – but the personal levels were as gripping as the professional. Martha’s attempts to organise and understand her family, without nagging, is depicted honestly and movingly. To be honest, the cover and title of Thornton’s novel don’t do her any favours – it looks and sounds like ‘chick lit’ (for want of a better term) whereas Hearts and Minds is a witty, well-thought-out and excellently structured novel. A perfect glimpse not only into Oxbridge university life, but into the minds of humans doing the best they can in tricky situations.

Keeping it in the family

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I got carried away, yesterday, spreading the merits of Helen Thomas’ books, and forgot to add the bit that I meant to write about afterwards. I sort of hinted at it in the title to the post – “My Husband, The Poet”. Today’s title might make it even more obvious – I fancied chatting about the proliferation of families which spread the wealth when it comes to authorship. Some progress alongside each other (yes, those Haworthians are the archetype); some, like Helen, emerge as a consequence of their relative’s writing prowess.

So we have Emily, Charlotte and Anne scribbling away together – their lives have become romanticised more than any other authors’. I’m frankly astonished that there hasn’t been a film about them in the recent spate of author-films. Scripts must come up all the time, and they can’t all be awful. Half of Hollywood’s finest would be battling over the chance to play Cathy-oops-I-mean-Emily or Jane-sorry-Charlotte. Or The Other One. (What is it about the meeting of the Brontes with commercialism which brings out the cynic in me?) I’m thinking Maggie Gyllenhaal for Emily, Cate Blanchett as Charlotte, and Emily Blunt stepping into Anne’s neglected shoes.

What other literary families are there? Denis Mackail and Angela Thirkell were brother and sister; Colin McInnes is the latter’s son. EM Delafield’s mother – Mrs. Henry de la Pasture (see where Delafield got her penname from…) – was a famous children’s author. The Amises, of course. Mary and Percy Shelley. Charles Dickens and his granddaughter Monica. Leonard and Virginia Woolf. The Powys family. More recently, Jane Gordon-Cumming and Kate Fforde (Jane’s novel A Proper Family Christmas, which I read a while ago, is due to come back into print at some point… will keep you posted). I’m sure I’ve missed out dozens of obvious ones, so do let me know…

What I find even more interesting is the ones, like Helen, who follow in their relative’s footsteps, or who starts writing as a direct and overt consequence. Christopher Robin Milne wrote his wonderful autobiographical trilogy The Enchanted Places, The Path Through The Trees, The Hollow on the Hill to banish some demons, and went on to write some other poetry and stories. Milne’s niece, Angela, also wrote a few bits and pieces. You might have noticed I didn’t include the Mitford sisters in the section above – would Jessica and Deborah have written if Nancy hadn’t led the way? Who knows?

There is something about a family writing together, or writing because of each other, which collides the private and public in a fascinating way – publishing is, of course, nothing if not public. I daresay the etymology even has something to do with it. But if they can show manuscripts to each other beforehand; discuss ideas; become influenced by someone who shared both a nursery and a mass market – just another of those lights which illuminates a little bit of authorship.

I bought Living With An Writer a while ago. Wonder what they have to say…

My Husband, The Poet

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Number 19 in the 50 Books You Must Read But May Not Have Heard About is a double-whammy. Actually, since the 1930s these books haven’t been published separately, as far as I’m aware, so hopefully I shan’t be done for false advertising or anything.

Step forward, Helen Thomas. No, not my aunt (though I do have a very nice aunt of that name) but rather the widow of poet Edward Thomas. Y’know, the ‘Adelstrop’ one. After Edward was killed in the First World War, she wrote As It Was, an autobiographical (though pseudonymical) portrait of their courtship and marriage, up to the birth of their first child. She wrote it cathartically, and was only approached with the idea of publishing a while later (1926). This she did, and followed it a few years later with World Without End (1931), which started where As It Was left off, and continued until David (Edward) leaves for war.

What beautiful books! Helen’s writing is the very opposite of pretension – but she is a natural born storyteller. She raises a family, moves through several small house, joins and leaves communities. Very little that I can see or analyse why she is so good, but these books lilt along with bathos and pathos and every sort of -thos. The final paragraph had my crying:

A thick mist hung everywhere, and there was no sound except, far away in the valley, a train shunting. I stood at the gate watching him go; he turned back to wave until the mist and the hill hid him. I heard his old call coming up to me: ‘Coo-ee!’ he called. ‘Coo-ee!’ I answered, keeping my voice strong to call again. Again through the muffled air came his ‘Coo-ee’. And again went my answer like an echo. ‘Coo-ee’ came fainter next time with the hill between us, but my ‘Coo-ee’ went out of my lungs strong to pierce to him as he strode away from me. ‘Coo-ee!’ So faint now, it might be only my own call flung back from the thick air and muffling snow. I put my hands up to my mouth to make a trumpet, but no sound came. Panic seized me, and I ran through the mist and the snow to the top of the hill, and stood there a moment dumbly, with straining eyes and ears. There was nothing but the mist and the snow and the silence of death.
Then with leaden feet which stumbled in a sudden darkness that overwhelmed me I groped my way back to the empty house.

Wow.

Throughout Helen’s writing, Edward/David doesn’t come off as the best husband, but what saturates these books is Helen’s passionate, loyal and unshaking love for him – the sort of love which would seem a bit far-fetched in fiction, but is obviously true here. Such simple books, but will move you a huge amount, I guarantee it.

I thought they’d gone out of print, but managed to find a new edition called Under Storm’s Wing, which has the two novels alongside some photographs, letters and memoirs. Haven’t looked at the letters and memoirs yet, but I await them with pleasure. They can only add to the touching honesty with which Helen Thomas has written simple, beautiful, affecting works.

Book Through Thursday

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Booking Through Thursday on a Wednesday?

Well, I started writing this post last night, with the intention of waking up early in putting it out there before the good people of the world woke up, but I overslept and so that didn’t happen. Oops. But at least it’s still a Thursday! This week’s question:

All other things (like price and storage space) being equal, given a choice in a perfect world, would you rather have paperbacks in your library? Or hardcovers? And why? Toowoomba storage facilities provide the best service in the self storage.  The ipswich self storage has been designed for easy access, with the highest level of security.

Hmm. Not as simple as it sounds. Ideally, I’d have a mix – old hardbacks and new paperbacks. Nothing I love more than a 1930s hardback (except for God, family, sleep, sandwiches… ahem) but I have little time for modern hardbacks. So cumbersome and attention-seeking. Some beautiful paperbacks, though, add colour and diversity to my mellow shelves. If I had to choose between the two, and not be allowed my compromise… hmm… well, I’m biased in that my favourite authors aren’t available in paperback and never were, so I’ll have to choose hardback. I could always add colour with soft furnishings…

Over to you…?

The Homeland

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As promised, a photographic telling of the trip The Carbon Copy and I took to Bredon Hill. This involved quite a lot of walking, as public transport, though good in Worcestershire, isn’t a door-to-door sort of service. We walked from train station to bus stop (1.75 miles?) then from Eckington’s bus stop to the hill (2 miles?) and then the walk proper began!

The most beautiful day of the year so far – intensely blue sky, not a cloud to be seen, and all with a nice brisk breeze to prevent overheating on the upwards slog. Couldn’t have asked for better weather. Here’s the target:

The walk starts with a fairly wide track, which meanders up through a few fields. The grass alongside provided ideal sledging ground in Winter, being neither too steep nor too tame – and with plenty of space for crash-landings. Yes, that is the moon in the background.


It is essential to stop and “admire the view” often – especially in the steeper areas.

Once up the track, and across the long lumpy-field, we enter a little woodland area. (There used to be various routes up, including one alongside a reservoir and then up a near-sheer bit, involving clutching onto clumps of gras… I don’t miss that…) That’s the wonder of Bredon Hill – something for everyone. For the incautious, or newbies, it is very easy to overshoot a turning in the wood, and end up many miles away…

The summit! This may look ugly to you, but it is Parson’s Folly, and to The Carbon Copy and me represents the symbol of Parson’s, our ‘house’ at First School (and, coincidentally, unquestionably the very best one). Rumour has it that the Folly was built in order to tip the hill into the mountain category, but not sure how true that one is.

Traditionally, children write their names in stones in this big dip on top of the hill. Many a time and oft I have done it, but The Carbon Copy vetoed the idea. I presume ‘Peggy’ made a recent visit, and has not had her handiwork left untouched.


The Elephant Stone – for obvious reasons. A natural climbing frame, and used as such by the intrepid.

Back on flat ground – this is taken from the road, but is more or less the view I had from my bedroom when we lived in Eckington. We had a lovely day, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey!

The Homeland

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As promised, a photographic telling of the trip The Carbon Copy and I took to Bredon Hill. This involved quite a lot of walking, as public transport, though good in Worcestershire, isn’t a door-to-door sort of service. We walked from train station to bus stop (1.75 miles?) then from Eckington’s bus stop to the hill (2 miles?) and then the walk proper began!

The most beautiful day of the year so far – intensely blue sky, not a cloud to be seen, and all with a nice brisk breeze to prevent overheating on the upwards slog. Couldn’t have asked for better weather. Here’s the target:

The walk starts with a fairly wide track, which meanders up through a few fields. The grass alongside provided ideal sledging ground in Winter, being neither too steep nor too tame – and with plenty of space for crash-landings. Yes, that is the moon in the background.


It is essential to stop and “admire the view” often – especially in the steeper areas.

Once up the track, and across the long lumpy-field, we enter a little woodland area. (There used to be various routes up, including one alongside a reservoir and then up a near-sheer bit, involving clutching onto clumps of gras… I don’t miss that…) That’s the wonder of Bredon Hill – something for everyone. For the incautious, or newbies, it is very easy to overshoot a turning in the wood, and end up many miles away…

The summit! This may look ugly to you, but it is Parson’s Folly, and to The Carbon Copy and me represents the symbol of Parson’s, our ‘house’ at First School (and, coincidentally, unquestionably the very best one). Rumour has it that the Folly was built in order to tip the hill into the mountain category, but not sure how true that one is.

Traditionally, children write their names in stones in this big dip on top of the hill. Many a time and oft I have done it, but The Carbon Copy vetoed the idea. I presume ‘Peggy’ made a recent visit, and has not had her handiwork left untouched.


The Elephant Stone – for obvious reasons. A natural climbing frame, and used as such by the intrepid.

Back on flat ground – this is taken from the road, but is more or less the view I had from my bedroom when we lived in Eckington. We had a lovely day, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey!