THE CHILDREN OF GREEN KNOWE

I started reading The Children of Green Knowe by L M Boston for a Substack read-along (first I’ve ever done; will I do a knit-along next?), and immediately entered another world. It’s like being transported into a beautiful old-fashioned snow globe so as well as following Tolly’s adventures in the book, the story doubles so I see myself wandering alone around the castle-cum-house, going with Mr Boggis into the stables and little by little discovering the garden. I know by heart the carved mouse, the rocking horse, the birdcage. I know the topiary deer, the huge stone St Christopher and the laughter and pattering footsteps of the friendly ghost children. And I sit in front of the fire, leaning against Granny Oldknow’s knees, listening to the first story, Toby’s Story…
Which is where I have to stop if I am going to read along with everyone else. It’s such a special book; its magic has never faded with familiarity and I’m looking forward to being part of a little Green Knowe fan club.

The place where we stopped – Tolly, Granny Oldknow and a family story – echoes a project I’ve just started. My mother left a massive stash of family history research and I’ve really only had a superficial look at it. Until now. A friend has been researching her maternal line, regularly updating me on the discoveries and stories of this chain of fore-mothers. She’s following the mitochondrial DNA. After I had lunch with her recently, the bug has bitten, hard. Another friend – bless her! –  is now transcribing Mum’s handwritten pages and I’ve just subscribed to Ancestry.com.

And I’ve been thinking, too, about my own family stories.  As a small child, I used to ask my parents about when they were little. There was the tale of Dad, sick of being bullied, finding a pair of pliers and using them on his brother’s big fat bum. Mum, walking along the (strictly out-of-bounds) railway line and getting her foot stuck in the track. Luckily for my future existence, the train stopped, the driver got out and released her with a severe scolding. Then there were the stories of their parents. Mum’s father running away to sea and Dad’s father (unbelievably, since he was a grim and crusty old chap) playing in a dance band. Going back into the far past, there were tales of blood feuds and romances among Border Scots from Mum, and religious persecution in Silesia (now part of Poland) from Dad. I only half remember most of them, but Mum, amazingly, made a file called ‘Family Myths and Legends.’ She wrote that she couldn’t vouch for the truth of them, but because they were told and re-told for generations, they make part of her heritage. Part of her.

And therefore part of me. There’s a family surname on my mother’s side that has, for six generations, been carried down as a middle name. I forgot about it for my own son, but I know my cousin’s oldest son has it. I’m hoping that Ancestry will shed some light. Who were these people, where were they from and why did they remain so important to their descendants?

But like Mum, I don’t intend to let the truth get in the way of a good story.