Me and Forever Amber

As a family we were all avid members of the public library and would make weekly visits to pick up our full quota.

Initially I was happy in the children's library: Enid Blyton, Leon Garfield, Malcolm Saville, Noel Stretfield (Ballet Shoes - definitely my favourite - so sad, so happy).  But by the age of 12 I was bored and keen to move on to the forbidden delights of the adult library.  Unfortunately you had to be 13 to join the 'big' library; after much special pleading from my parents (worn down by my sulking, whining and general surliness) I was allowed to move 'up' on the understanding that the Librarian had the right of veto over anything I borrowed .  It grieves me to say that 'she' could have starred in some awful cliché ridden comedy about librarians - does one actually exist already?  Anyway I think the idea of her intervention was to save me from myself and to stop me borrowing corrupting and salacious books.  Actually the dodgy books were the ones I read in  the library, quickly shoving them on the shelves when 'she' came by.

The great day came when 'she' was ill and the woman from the junior library stood in and I was able to borrow Forever Amber.  A bodice ripper of the first order (as you can see from the selection of covers) the book is set in the 17th century and tells how Amber moves up in society by marrying/having sex with increasingly powerful men, but all the time still longing for original love.

I had a quick look on the Internet and was delighted to find that it had been banned in several American states (it was written in 1944).  This quote is from  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forever_Amber_(novel)  '...The first was Massachusetts, whose attorney general cited 70 references to sexual intercourse, 39 illegitimate pregnancies, 7 abortions, and "10 descriptions of women undressing in front of men" as reasons for banning the novel.'  


 Now I remember it being a good read and a satisfactory introduction to Restoration England (well, better than my A Level textbook as it missed out the boring bits...), but I really don't remember the above.  I shall buy a copy and check to see if it is accurate.  
Kathleen Winsor - I salute you - great heroine, great book.

Me and philosophy

I am interested in either tangible things (preferably decorative or edible) or in human emotions  - I can discuss both with enthusiasm.  But ideas that are just about ideas are not for me - my brain is not built to understand them (bit like maths).  So it probably surprised friends that as a teenager I answered an advert asking for a young person to read philosophy to a mature gentleman for two hours every Wednesday evening - in retrospect this sounds so incredibly dodgy I'm surprised my parents allowed it.

The elderly gentleman was kind (probably wasn't really that elderly - but when you are under 18 anyone over 30 seems positively ancient - I expect my daughter thinks I should sleep in a coffin - just in case) and very keen to teach me about philosophy.

Strangely the male of the species have always wanted to teach me things - do I look like there is room in my brain for esoteric pursuits?  I have been offered lessons on ancient Greek, electronics, plumbing, UDC Classification (well, he was a librarian - turned that one down very smartly), driving (that didn't last long),  how to play Medal of Honour and a few things I really can't bring myself to share (but I shall treasure the thought - nice to be viewed as adventurous even by delusional people).

Anyway decrepit gentleman (DG hereafter) announces we are going to read Plato's The Republic.  I refer you to wikipedia for more information http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Republic_(Plato) as I can remember nothing about it (like physics it has been expunged from my memory).

I would read a page, stumbling over the names - Greek not being a language I had ever studied.  DG patiently corrected my pronunciation - but to no avail I just can not remember them.  Then horror of horrors he would ask me what I thought the recently read section meant; not wanting to disappoint I would waffle on until he took pity on me and explained in great  detail.  About half way through the session his wife would totter in bearing  a tray with two mugs of cocoa - I'd pray that at least one was laced with hemlock - frankly I didn't care if it was his or mine.

My new found passion for philosophy had nothing to do with a thirst for knowledge.  It just meant that Mum was happy for me to go into Oxford on a school night and I could combine the reading with a visit to my boyfriend who was a student.  Students were generally not trusted by parents - especially during the hours of darkness.  I was reminded on a daily (hourly?) basis that students were only after one thing (I felt it tactful not to enlighten them on the libido of the teenage girl), but fortunately combined with philosophy, my virtue was thought to be safe.

Coincidentally the boyfriend was also studying philosophy.  He frequently asked if I would like a philosophy master class (the fool) - I swiftly disabused him of this notion and suggested he saved his thoughts on The Republic for his next tutorial.

Me and Jane Austen

Jane Austen remained a closed book (a pun so awful - I just couldn't resist) to me until I was nineteen.  We didn't go in for the classics of English literature at home and I suppose I was lucky not to have 'done' Austen for A Level. At university I joined the local public library and vowed to read the fiction section from  A - Z; it was pretty heavy going at times and I read an awful lot of second rate books.  Fortunately Jane Austen made it all worthwhile. I had always imagined her books would be austere and humourless - instead they still make me laugh like a drain.  


I love them all and read them at least once a year since that moment of discovery.  They are comfort when I feel sad or ill and skip along when I feel happy.  Having said that I have to admit that reading Northanger Abbey is a bit of an ordeal, but for the sake of completeness I wade through it.    Also Fanny Price in Mansfield Park needs a good shake, no - let's make that a good slap.  For goodness sake Fanny,  why didn't you accept the handsome (and fairly sexy - for an Austen anti-hero) Henry Crawford - I know Edmund is a good egg, but I reckon he'd bore you silly within a year (if not before).

Pride and Prejudice - such a fantastic range of characters and great story with lots of twist and turns.  It even translates well on TV and at the cinema; especially the Firth/Ehle TV version - no complaints from me about the addition of Darcy jumping in the lake (poor lamb did look a bit warm).  But I do wish Alison Steadman hadn't played Mrs Bennett as a pantomime dame and - while I'm complaining - I'm not convinced by the guy who plays Wickham - would you elope with him and risk social ruin?.  Definitely don't approve of the Keira Knightly/Matthew thingy film - she's too thin and he's just a bit of a drip (Daughter has come in and thinks I am being a little harsh to Matthew thingy). The 1940 film, although not totally true to the book, is good (disappointing that they didn't stick with the Regency period on a costume front).  Laurence Olivier sounds good as Darcy, but his hair is too glossy to be convincing.


 But for me the best of all the books is Persuasion where second chances are possible and faithful love is rewarded. I recently went  to Lyme Regis and en hommage to Ms Austen walked on the Cobb.  Actually I didn't enjoy this very much - it was rainy and windy, the Cobb is high, I got vertigo and was worried I'd replicate Louisa Musgrove's fateful jump.  Fortunately I managed to stagger off the Cobb into the nearest museum (by way of a café and a restorative shopping experience).  


Anne Elliot is a brilliant Austen heroine - long in the tooth (for those days at least - think she was about 28), long suffering (awful father, selfish sisters, interfering friend) and longing for her former beau Captain Wentworth. Frederick Wentworth is my all-time hero, despite being a bit of a chump at times - someone really should have told him that women don't like to overhear their heart's desire telling all and sundry that they haven't worn that well.  But having written (in MHO) the best love letter in literature he redeems himself - you can judge for yourself:


... You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight and a half years ago. Dare not say that a man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.


 I hope they never make another TV/film version as no one can out-do Ciaran Hinds - Captain Wentworth personified.  A note to my colleague (you know who you are)  I will not have Ciaran described as a horse and do not send me images of him pouting - it is very disturbing. Do I insult Michael (office pin-up) Fassbender?  Although I must admit that young Michael makes a more convincing Mr Rochester - less facial hair than poor Ciaran had to sport in 1997 (just had an unpleasant thought - I'm assuming those mutton chop whiskers were stick on - say they were real?).

Me, maths and Rhett Butler

Strangely I am put in the top class for maths at secondary school - either a case of mistaken identity or someone with a twisted sense of humour?  It seems to have escaped my teachers that maths has escaped me - but there was no hiding it when it came to public exams at 16.

The exams are a bit of a chore, but the best thing is that when we have finished a paper we are allowed to give it in and then sit quietly reading a book.  I am reading 'Gone with the Wind' and am obsessed with Rhett Butler (who in my imagination looks nothing like Clark Gable - I was utterly traumatised when I saw the film - much too smooth - no five o'clock shadow - anyway enough of my fevered imaginings...).

On the day of the maths exam I have got to a good bit in the book and can't wait to get back to Rhett.
'Oh Rhett,' - I'm saying that in my fluttery Scarlett O'Hara voice  - 'Oh Rhett, you are such a bad man!'  - these aren't Scarlett's actual words for any purists - just my interpretation of what she should have said, then they'd have got together quite a bit earlier.  Actually this talking to characters from books is becoming quite addictive - must do it more often - definitely Captain Wentworth next.  Slight dilemma do I stick to calling him Captain Wentworth or Frederick - don't want to be thought forward?

Anyway I speed through the simultaneous equations as the siren call of Mr Butler tempts me from the path of righteousness (Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn - sorry, so couldn't resist that).

When the results appeared in August it was not surprisingly that I have failed maths (so you don't think I am utterly sad I have to assure you that Rhett didn't have a negative effect on my other exams - my inner swot won out against the lure of literature).

I retake the exam twice in the Lower Sixth to no avail.  In desperation I am sent to a private tutor who happens to live in Christ Church - one of the Oxford colleges.  I am not thrilled to spend sunny afternoons doing maths, but I am thrilled to find out that the room where I sit was lived in by the Liddell family (Alice 'in Wonderland' Liddell).  Also that Lewis Carroll possibly sat on the same chair as me (not at the same time -that would have been creepy).  Oddly enough Carroll's academic field was mathematics - this confirming (to me anyway)  the rumours that there was something dubious about him.  I spend a fair bit of time talking to my tutor about Carroll - it is very interesting, the maths less so.

Inevitably I fail again.

Me and sex education: books

In our sitting room was a bookcase with a number of books placed spine down.  As a voracious reader no book escaped me; so at at youngish age I devoured 'Giovanni's Room', 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'  and 'Fanny Hill' which I found interesting, if a little confusing.

Then one day I went back to basics when I found a book by Claire Rayner, 'Sex Education for Girls' or some such.  The pictures left a lot to be desired and filled me with a certain amount of concern as no one in my family looked like that with their clothes off - how many children have been traumatised by black and white line drawings?  But Claire was a nurse (it said so on the back) so she obviously knew what she was talking about and perhaps D. H Lawrence didn't?.

About six months later Mum said that she would tell me where babies came from - I didn't like to tell her that I had a pretty good idea from my extensive reading of our equivalent of the British Library Private Case, from kids at school and not withstanding that my bedroom window overlooked a field full of cows and the occasional bull.  She produced the Claire Rayner book, said we would read it together and learn where babies came from.  I felt it only polite to pretend I hadn't read the book before and whenever she got embarrassed I'd try and help out by asking her leading questions being careful that I didn't bring in the activities of Fanny, Constance or David.

Me and the school library

At primary school I was known (probably also pitied) as the only child who had read every book in the school library (oh yes, my destiny was calling).  Actually it wasn't true, but the headmaster put it on my reference for secondary school and in my final report. I suspect he just wanted to prove that one of his pupils could read.  Education wasn't high on his list of priorities, but we did an awful lot of sport.  Mostly football or running up and down the playground - yelling loudly.  The latter came to an abrupt end when a boy ran so fast (the playground was on a wicked slope -- like Yeovil Town's old pitch)  that he punched his arm through the dining room window and a tourniquet had to be applied by one of the dinner ladies.

Anyway back to the library.  The library consisted of about 300 or 400 books and I vowed I would read everyone of them - goodness knows why - for attention I suspect. 
The books in the school library were largely ancient hardbacks that sat mouldering in a corner waiting for someone to love them.  Lovely 'Little Grey Men' by BB - all about gnomes and nature and, of course,  that seminal work 'The Secret Garden' with fierce Mary Lennox, feeble Colin and Dickon.
There were also lots of school stories, mainly set in girls' boarding schools,  where everyone was called by their surname.  One in particular sticks in my mine, about a family of very plain girls - their faces are described as being like dinner plates -  called Kibble.  At the beginning of the story the Kibbles are just known for being dull and virtuous, but by the end they have saved the school, the true worth of the plain woman is finally appreciated, the glamorous, but unworthy headgirl has been replaced and all is well with the world - 'Hurrah for the Kibbles!'. Sadly complete fantasy - let's face it we plain girls are just not going to get to rule the world.  These books made Mallory Towers (Darrell Rivers - how I loved you and wanted to be your 'bosom chum' - you were the k.d. lang of my pre-teen years) and St Clare's seem very contemporary.  They always wore gymslips which sounded very appealing - I imagine they were something like a floaty nightie  - perhaps made of pale pink or duck egg blue silk with a coffee-coloured trim?  It was a disappointemtn to find they were what we called school pinafores.

Other titles of note included 'The Swish of the Curtain' by Pamela Brown - about some teenagers who start a thetare company - this fueled an acting bug and a book about a girl called Mary who did something with a bible in Wales - can't remember what - but I so wanted to be her (may have been nothing more than a shallow desire to wear one of those red cloaks and a tall black hat).

I loved these books - their very physical nature: heavy and substantial,  thick cream paper  with brown freckles and  covers that would get all gummy when you read them in the bath.  They were good to sniff, musty and a little mouldy, like the smell of green canal water.

A somewhat melancholy link with the past weree the inscriptions inside the books  'To Sylvia, Happy Christmas 1932,  Love Mother and Father' or 'To Bobbity, for being such a good sort, from your pal Ruggles' .  The bookplates recording some child's proudest achievements: books for good conduct, for doing well in algebra, in parsing, in bible studies, for deportment.  Occasionaly you would find some long-forgotten bookmark and feel a fleeting connection with a human being you would never know. Books, lovely books.