Susan Green

It’s a hot day. Stinking hot. We’re going to reach 38 degrees according to the Bureau of Meteorology, but it sounds even hotter in Farenheit – 100. So after a stint of early gardening, I am lying low for the day and devoting myself to paperwork, reading and maybe a DVD in the afternoon.

The paperwork is completing applications for passports. We (self, husband, son) are going to Canada for three weeks in May. Right now in Toronto, it’s 2 degrees (but brrr! according the website, it feels like -4) and there are scattered flurries. That would be snow, I guess. Would they like to swap?                                                                 I have been to Canada before. When I arrived in Montreal in late March 1991, I thought I had never been so cold in my life, and I promised never to complain about Castlemaine’s winters ever again. It was Spring, so I thought it would be spring-like there – but no, there was still snow lying around in dirty drifts in the city, and out in the country there were Christmas-card landscapes and frozen lakes and rivers with great chunks of ice breaking up and slowly drifting along. I remember I had an odd, anxious feeling as we drove through the bare blackened forests and it was only when I realised that they reminded me of the aftermath of fires that I understood why.                                                  I travelled right across the country from Maritime Provinces Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island in the east to Vancouver on the Pacific coast; through the Rockies, into the prairies, up to the frozen sea of Hudson’s Bay and to the Queen Charlotte Islands close to Alaska – in fact, I’ve probably seen more of Canada than I have of Australia. Why Canada? In 1991 I was at a bit of a loose end. I had some money, I wanted to go overseas and I had a friend I could stay with in Montreal.

And I’d had a big crush on Canadian literature since the later 1970s. It started when I picked up a hardcover copy of Lady Oracle by Margaret Attwood on sale in Readings in Carlton. I was entranced. After that, I read everything of hers that I could get my hands on – including her criticism and her poetry. We fit together like a hook and eye. A fish hook. An open eye is still stuck there uncomfortably in my mind and I can’t get it out.                                                 I really was a fan –  I even went to an Age Literary Lunch at one of the posh Melbourne hotels in the late 1980’s. She was a tiny, frizzy haired lady with a soft and drawling voice…how could someone so nice manufacture such grenades from words? I don’t buy everything she writes any more – I think Alias Grace was the last I read with great pleasure – but reading Margaret Attwood was certainly one of the formative writerly experiences.

More Canadians. A bit later I was introduced to the short stories of Alice Munro and really fell in love. Under the spell of Lives of Girls and Women and The Beggar-Maid I wrote a highly imitative suite of stories about growing up in a small country town. Reading, writing; that’s the way I learned to write. I don’t think it’s a bad way. It’s like the way art students used to copy the masters. I still read the odd Munro short story; she’s the master, still. Though I can’t read too many at the one time without feeling that alife is just intolerably sad.

And – this is where I go from the sublime to the ridiculous – we come to Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery. When I was in the Maritimes,  I simply had to do the Prince Edward Island pilgrimage along with a whole lot of sentimental middle aged ladies (mainly American) and a gaggle of Japanese girls. I’d seen the TV series starring Colleen Dewhurst as Marilla and as Anne, the excellent Megan Follows, so I expected the the island to be very beautiful, and it was. In fact, I went so far as to go on the Anne of Green Gables bus tour; just me and the driver and three giggly Japanese girls. But Anne of Green Gables: The Musical was a step too far. The children and teenagers were not played by juveniles but by adults so a cast of particularly short actors had been assembled. The effect was oddly creepy. Actually, very creepy, with these short but mature actors all being so determinedly cutesy and child-like. There was a bomb scare mid-performance, a perfect opportunity to slip away, but I sat it out.                                                The Anne books aren’t on my regular roster of comfort books but I have re-read from time to time another of her series, the Emily books. I think I read somewhere that L. M. Montgomery actually preferred Emily. Both Emily and Anne were aspiring writers, but Montogomery let Emily really get to be a famous author, whereas she made Anne unselfishly realise she was no genius, marry Gilbert and have heaps of children.                                        My favourite Montgomerys are not in either of these series. They are both tear-jerkers of the first magnitude – I dare anyone to read A Tangled Web (for example: uncle kills kitten belonging to orphan; orphan found by lonely spinster sobbing on his mother’s grave etc etc) without blubbing. And The Blue Castle has it all – plain spinster with terminal illness breaks out of her stultifying family circle, nurses local bad girl till she dies, then marries fascinating mystery man who lives in a (very nice) shack in the woods… and lives happily ever after! It turns out she’s not ill and he’s rich. Wonderful.  And actually, with its pine woods and lakes and mountain breezes, The Blue Castle might be  good hot day reading. I’ll give it a go.

I went to Melbourne last week, on the train. The purpose of the outing was ostensibly (isn’t this a great word? I had to look it up to make sure it meant what I thought it did – and it did) to take my son and his friend, both 15-year-olds, to watch the Grand Final Parade. But it was rainy and cold, the players would have been inside cars, and the boys couldn’t be bothered so they went off to look in shops. As did I. Into the Bourke Street mall, and the big department stores. If ever I actively enjoyed shopping, I don’t any more. Almost immediately, the whole exercise began to take on a nightmarish quality.  The ground floor cosmetics section was pumping. Lights, mirrors, reflections, signage; thumping music; myriad separate counters and kiosks each with their own uniformed staff spruiking; a constant stream of women moving through the vast space broken up with signage and partitions and shimmering displays of packaged magic.

Up the escalator, and here also were the female hordes moving through the various departments, on their way from here to somewhere else, and the areas set aside for the young and cool were crowded, but in amongst the middle-aged clothes, in the depths, there were only a few browsers hunting and pecking amongst the racks and tables… The clothes seemed be clumped together without logic, packed closely so you had to struggle to remove an item, and then once removed, not what I thought they were. I tried on a shirtdress, because I had some idea in my head that the shirtdress might be It, the style, a solution, a possible uniform for middle-aged me. The shop assistants, two of them, were at the counter bitching about one of their supervisors, and scarcely broke off to acknowledge me. The shirtdress had a strange asymmetric hemline (why?), and in the strange lighting of the dressing-rooms, looked not a cheerful cinnamon brown but a murky cowpat tone. Still hopeful, I thought that perhaps there might be others out there, with normal hems and in less trying shades. The shop assistants were still hot on the topic of the supervisor, so I continued the search but found only bizarre tunics stitched from an assortment of warring fabrics, shifts and sheaths, synthetics with the feel of shower curtains and a really lovely grey wool winter coat reduced by 50% to $200. I gave up. To the twee-sounding ‘Intimate Apparel’.

Who would have thought there are so many variations on the basic bra? Acres of racks and tables, amongst which I could not find what I was looking for; all the bras were the same but different and of course the style I was after had been discontinued, or had never been made. I began to feel that it was all obscurely my fault. After all, every other woman wanted push-up underwire and padded. I picked out a near-approximation. It was in ‘nude’, which is a sallow beige colour.

‘Does it come in black?’ I asked saleslady.
‘If it does, we don’t have it.’
‘Is there anything similar in black?’                                                                                                   ‘You’ll have to speak to the fitter.’

But the fitter had her back to me and was engaged in a long conversation with two old friends – or perhaps colleagues, for they were enumerating the illnesses of retired salesladies. I waited, while the saleslady briskly served three or four younger women with sports bras and moulded T-shirt bras and assertive balconettes. The fitter prattled on. I looked down at my unworthy item of apparel. It was flaccid and nude. I gazed around at the breastplates on display; hundred of paired cups hung expectantly, awaiting animation from splendid young and perky bosoms… Demoralised and defeated, I placed the bra on the counter and left the store. And I realised that I was in Barbara Pym territory.

This is from ‘Excellent Women’.

I had a feeling that I must escape and longed to be lost in a crowd of busy women shopping, which was why I followed blindly the crowd that surged in through the swinging doors of a large store. Some were hurrying, making for this or that department or counter, but others like myself seemed bewildered and aimless, pushed and buffeted as we stood not knowing which way to turn. I strolled through a grove of dress materials and found myself at a counter piled with jars of face-cream and lipsticks…There was a mirror on the counter and I caught sight of my own face, colourless and worried-looking, the eyes large and rather frightened, the lips too pale. I did not feel that I could ever acquire a smooth apricot complexion but I could at least buy a new lipstick, I thought, consulting the shade-card. The colours had such peculiar names but at last I found one that seemed right and began to turn over a pile of lipsticks in a bowl in an effort to find it. But the colour I had chosen was either very elusive or not there at all, and the girl behind the counter, who had been watching my scrabblings in a disinterested way, said at last, ‘What shade was it you wanted, dear?’

I was a little annoyed at being called ‘dear’, though it was perhaps more friendly than ‘madam’, suggesting as it did that I lacked the years and poise to merit the more dignified title.

‘It’s called Hawaiian Fire’, I mumbled, feeling rather foolish, for it had not occurred to me that I should have to say it out loud.

‘Oh, Hawaiian Fire. It’s rather an orange red, dear,’ she said doubtfully, scrutinising my face. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it was quite your colour. Still, I think I’ve got one here.’ She took a box from behind the counter and began to look in it.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter really,’ I said quickly. ‘Perhaps another colour. What would you recommend?’

‘Well, dear, I don’t know, really.’ She looked at me blankly, as if no shade could really do anything for me. ‘Jungle Red is very popular – or Sea Coral, that’s a pretty shade, quite pale, you know.’

‘Thank you, but I think I will have Hawaiian Fire, I said obstinately, savouring the ludicrous words and the full depths of my shame.

Back in the department store, I was desperate for tea. Another Pym situation. There were in-house cafes. But they were brightly lit and exposed, where you would perch amongst the endlessly flowing traffic of shoppers. Worse, you would not be served. No-one would look after you. You’d  have to go up to the counter yourself when the wait-staff called your name. No. I was looking for somewhere quiet, a burrow, a refuge. Was there somewhere an ideal, dream-café where elderly waitresses in black with white aprons would walk on carpet to my dimly-lit corner with bolstering tea leaf in a pot, and extra hot water, and a plate of toasted tomato sandwiches…

In the Melbourne of my childhood and even young adulthood, there were such places. Though coffee culture was burgeoning, the expresso machine wasn’t ubiquitous. Melbourne was still had a tea-drinking town. When I went shopping with my mother in the early sixties, there was a choice of tea-shop bolt-holes. I remember one one downstairs, where each booth had dinky little lamps on the walls but the rest of the place was practically dark. Was it called Raine’s? The waitresses knew us; I would always order a toasted ham sandwich and an orange juice. There were several more in Collins and Little Collins, and they were all dim, quiet, restful, a respite from shopping, where ladies could ease off their stilettos under the tables and slump their corseted bodies back against the padded seat-backs. But here in 2012, eventually I stumbled across the mall, through a couple of arcades – and passing by many crowded noisy cafes – to Dymocks downstairs in Collins Street, and there at last was able to sit out of the foot traffic and have a pot of tea. Pot of tea. Words of comfort and cheer. Even though the tea was in a bag, and far too weak, and there were no toasted sandwiches but a sawdusty muffin, the idea of ‘pot of tea’ and all it stands for was there…

This obsession with tea is also of course classic Pym territory.   I shall have to go to the bookshelf and do a ‘tea’ search. Perhaps when I have  some spare time, I can Google ‘Tea in English Literature.’ But right now, the kettle is whistling and the pot is waiting.  

What a very writerly week I’ve had. On Thursday I went down to Melbourne to the opening night of the Melbourne Writer’s Festival. What forced me out into the rain, wind, hail and cold was the pleasure of meeting up with two writer friends, fellow Varuna-ites Anne Myers and Andrea Gillum. And then going off to the Town Hall to see (and hear, obviously) Simon Callow talking about ‘Charles Dickens and the Great Theatre of the World.’

Well. Wonderful, is all I can say. He spoke about how Dickens, reading from his work, absolutely mesmerised his Victorian audiences. People would laugh, cry, and even faint, such was the drama and intensity of Dicken’s performance…and I can see how ably Callow would reproduce those readings, for he was pretty spell-binding, too. No notes, and even his answers to questions after the talk were polished and witty. Apparently Dickens was addicted to the ‘fix’ of that emotional and almost spiritual bond that forms between audience and actor. I’ve been lucky enough to experience that a few times, and it is a deep, real, moving and absolutely real feeling.

I think I felt it first when the Royal Shakespeare Company came out to Australia in the 1970’s and my parents took me to see Judi Dench in ‘A Winter’s Tale’ and ‘Twelfth Night’. And another Shakespeare occasion was only a couple of years ago, with the Bell Shakespeare ‘Twelfth Night’. At the end of the play we were all (or it felt like ‘all’) clapping and smiling and some of us – it couldn’t have just been me – were teary as well. It was the wisdom and beauty and encircling joy of the whole thing; the creaky story, Shakespeare’s characters and wonderful words, the actors themselves. I thought as I applauded, how wonderful it must feel to have those waves of emotion flowing towards you on the stage from the invisible people in their seats in the dark. You could feel the love.

But enough of that; Simon Callow certainly communicated his passion for Dickens, and his warmth and humour and wit filled the big hall.

The other writerly-ness was the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Book of the Year awards ceremony in Adelaide. My The Truth About Verity Sparks was awarded (along with Jackie French’s Nanbery) Honour Book in the Younger Readers category. It was like winning silver. Since being shortlisted felt like winning gold to me, this was the cup running (almost) over. Wonderful. It was especially lovely to talk to some of the CBC members and judges, to hear their kind and enthusiastic comments about my book, and to realise the passion they feel for children’s literature. Since the judges had to read around 300 books, it was truly a labour of love. The awards were presented by the Federal Member for Adelaide, Kate Ellis. She is the tall, model-esque one with the long hair. She is also Minister for Childcare and Early Childhood. She spoke about the importance of books and reading not just for those measurable outcomes such as language acquisition and literacy. She recalled her young self under the sheets with a torch, reading after the lights were out, and talked about how books can transport you to other places, indentities, experiences; how they enrich and expand your world, nourish your imagination and your sympathies; help you to grow. Hear, hear! Congratulations to the other award and Honour Book winners (my pick for the Younger Readers was Kate Constable’s Crow Country and I was right) and to those on the shortlist and list of notable books.

I also had lunch with my wonderful editor Mary Verney and the other Walker Books prize-winner, Bob Graham. His ‘A Bus Called Heaven’ was the Picture Book of the Year. I told Bob that in Castlemaine a month or so ago, I had seen a mini-bus with ‘Heaven’ painted on the front; how funny, I said, they must have got the idea from your book.

“No, that was the bus,” Bob said. It was a real bus. Bob saw it in Melbourne while walking his grand-daughter to school and his lovely story with those warm and funny illustrations was born.

Small world, eh?

It’s winter and so of course it should come as no surprise that it’s cold – but it’s really cold. Last night, with the gas heater chugging away as hard as it could, we were still rugged up and feeling draughts of frigid air from the ill-fitting casement and louvre windows and glass doors in our charming old house. I’m sick of charm.  At the moment, I feel that a warm brick bunker would do me. But the days have been sunny and the big freeze doesn’t start till near dark; besides, I’ve just had an email from my brother in New York where it’s breathlessly hot and steamy. So much for complaining about the weather.

Except to say that, cold weather and knitting going together as they do, I’m on the front of my first cable experiment.

I read somewhere that, when deep in the rhythm of plain and purl, the knitter’s brain- waves resemble those of a meditator. Perhaps that’s why I love knitting so. And probably why what I love most is knitting scarves. You don’t have to think. The long straight parts of a jumper or cardigan are fine, too, but all those decreases to make arm-holes and shoulders are troublesome.  This cable pattern looks lovely, but what you don’t see is that I’ve pulled it out and re-knitted about half a dozen times. This is not what I knit for! However – as I know from the bin at my closest Op Shop, where unwanted hand-knitted scarves multiply like multi-coloured rabbits – there are only so many scarves a person needs.

When this cardigan is done, I will look forward to my nightly collapse on the couch with some nice plain knitting. And for a special treat, on Sunday afternoons, as the evening draws in, there can be (this is me in Barbara Pym mode) knitting, a book, a cup of tea and some McVities Digestive biscuits.  Not all at once, of course.

Knitting and reading aren’t really similar, but re-reading is a little like plain knitting. Soothing, with no real surprises, but with much enjoyment. I have just re-read a  children’s novel called Mistress Masham’s Repose by TH White. I haven’t read it since I was twelve or thirteen, but it was hugely influential in making me into the writer I am. I was hesitant, at first, to re-read in case I didn’t like it – in case it wasn’t all I’d cracked it up to be – in case it’d lost its charm. But – amazingly – no.

Mistress Masham’s Repose was given to me as an 8th birthday present by a friend of my eldest brother’s. He was a teenager, and he worked at the local bookshop – Stonemans Bookroom – where I work now. How he came to choose this one for me, I don’t know, but re-reading it, I’m surprised that he chose it and that I loved it.

Because, on the face of it, it’s quite a difficult book. Briefly – Maria lives in an almost-ruined great house called Malplaquet in the wilds of Northhamptonshire. She discovers the descendants of a band of escaped Lilliputians on an island; makes friends with them; battles her malicious governess Miss Brown and the unscrupulous Vicar, Mr Hater, in order to prevent them from kidnapping the People (they plan to sell them to circuses); and with the help of the cook, Mrs Noakes, an ancient Professor and the dotty Lord Lieutenant, she foils the plans of the evil pair and comes into her inheritance.

What’s difficult – and wonderful  – is the language. All through the book, TH White plays with words.  Here, on the very first page, he has fun with 18^th century military history, poetry, architecture, and vocabulary;

It had been built by one of her ducal ancestors who had been a friend of the poet Pope, and it was surrounded by Vistas, Obelisks, Pyramids, Columns, Temples, Rotundas and Palladian Bridges, which had been built in honour of General Wolfe, Admiral Byng, the Princess Amelia and others of the same kidney.

I don’t need to pick apart how and why that is difficult for an 8-year-old reader. I can’t imagine that I truly understood much of that. But I kept in reading, and there was more history, more pastiche, lots of humour along with some sadness, lessons in love and respect for Maria who had taken to treating the tiny people as pets (Her apology reads; I am young but tall. You are old but short. I am sorry and will be better), some jokes around Latin and antiquarian book lore, a gallery of English stock types of the 19^th and early 20^th century – Vicar, governess, faithful retainer, dotty Professor, loopy aristocrat, doughty but dopey policeman – and a lot of swooningly beautiful nature writing. Like this;

Under her nose, she watched the mare’s-tail and other flora of the ocean floor, as the prow edged its way between the water lilies. Dragonflies, like blue needles, and damsel-flies, like ruby ones – the husband keeping his wife in order by gripping her tightly round the neck with a special pair of pincers on the end of his tail – hovered over the surface. By going gently, she could sometimes pass over a flight of perch without disturbing them. Or rather, they would raise their spiky fins, blush out the dark anger of their bars and make mouths at her. Once or twice, she passed a pike, only six inches long, basking under the flat green leaves, and once she came close to the meeting place of the tench – who made themselves scarce with a loud plop. They had been lazily scratching their backs on the lilies, like a school of elephants.

 The whole thing ends happily after an extended comic set-piece of the Professor trying to convince the hunt-mad Lord Lieutenant that Maria has been imprisoned in the dungeons. It’s almost all dialogue – a script –

‘Here, have a cigar. We keep them in this filly here, for parties. Look, you just press her tail down, like this, and the cigar comes out of her mouth, like that, oh, I’m sorry, and at the same moment her nostrils burst into flame, so you can light it. Neat, isn’t it?’

The poor Professor is waylaid with an array of ingenious musical devices shaped like horses which spout cigars, chocolates, coffee and cigarettes – and I was on the train laughing helplessly and out loud.

How I made any sense of it at 8, I don’t know. Was I just the most amazingly precocious reader or what? Well, I was stopped in my child-genius tracks when I looked on-line to see that other readers had made of it – and found legions of devoted American fans. They would, I thought, be even less likely than me to get the so-English jokes and references.

Re-reading, I was surprised to find of the source of my writing. Some of it, at any rate. My sense of humour, my love of pastiche, my tendency towards (hopefully) nail-biting pile-ups of suspense and action; red herrings, historical oddities, Capitals, made-up book titles; a semi-delirious swoon of words… I only have to look glancingly at The Truth About Verity Sparks to see a bit, here and there, of Mistress Masham’s Repose.

One last odd thing about re-reading Mistress Masham’s Repose. I found that I had remembered, since I was a young girl, a particular phrase from the book. Maria, pretending to be a pirate, has paddled her boat out to an island in the middle of an ornamental lake. ‘She boarded the tree bole, brandishing her cutlass, and swarmed ashore with the battle cry of a Maria, her spectacles twinkling fiercely in the sun.’

How I love that. How I loved re-reading that. It’s a kind of key-stone – spectacles, twinkling, fiercely – there’s laughter and affection, imagination and reality, a building-up and cutting back down to size. Why, of all the words in the book – many of them wonderful, long and obscure – those are the ones that encapsulate for me it’s delight, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because, in its own way, ‘spectacles twinkling fiercely’ is simply perfect.

Recently I was invited to give a short talk at the Castlemaine Word Mine (have a look at castlemainewordmine.wordpress.com/ to see what it’s all about). I got the title of my talk from a book (of course). The Child That Books Built by Francis Spufford is a hybrid of, amongst other things, memoir, literary history and criticism and biography, and a record of the children’s books that ‘grew’ the author.*

I began my talk with the key books of my early childhood. When I was four I began school and encountered  John and Betty (the Victorian Schools 1st reader). In grade 2, I started to read Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. Yes, I did. No, I was not a child genius. I’ll explain.

All sorts of things grow a person. There are the real experiences and events, the rock-like solid structure of your life – your family; where you live; how you live.  Rock-like? Solid? I only have to talk to my siblings to find out that there are many subtle and some gross differences in the way we experienced those. And then there are the unreal experiences – the dreams and nightmares, the fears and fantasies. I can probably point the finger of blame at my father for the fact that I’m still scared of the dark. It wasn’t the Hobyahs for  me – it was the Swarbies. The Hobyahs came out of the bush but we lived by the sea-side and the Swarbies, according to Dad, lived in the nearby Carrum Swamp. I vaguely remember that they had pointy heads and were bluish-greenish and rustled in the reeds and rushes. The moral of the tale was and has always been  – little child, don’t wander off and get lost or drowned or stolen.

The pointy-headed Swarbies, Rat and Mole and Mr Badger, Snow White, Orlando the Marmalade Cat, Max and the Wild Things, Little Red Riding Hood…before I could read, I was already enmeshed in the world of story. Not only was I was read to, but I was  allowed to free-range on the bookshelf.  I spent hours with art books, looking at reproductions. Before I was five, I had a favourite dying saint – Saint Sebastian; my adult self sees him as  kinkily homo-erotic, bound to his post not very well-covered with gauzy cloth, six-pack and multiple piercings –  but more to the point, I had images of heroes and heroines galore from secular portraits of the great and glorious; from paintings of history and myth and legend; from the many juicy Old Testament tableaux (head on a platter, anyone?) plus of course the pietas and annunciations and nativities… My imagination seethed with details – jewel-encrusted sleeves, a ferret bright eyed in a woman’s arms, billows and folds of silken cloth, men with pointed ears and goat’s legs, winged babies with fat pink bottoms…so it’s perhaps no wonder that, after all the wonder and magic and splendour and excitement of that world, to be thrown into the cold water of ‘learning to read’ John and Betty at Bonbeach State School with Miss Benson came as a bit of a shock.

 John and Betty. It was a kind of torture. I didn’t get it. Perhaps I didn’t want to get it. John can jump and Betty can jump went on and on and on, miserably, bewilderingly, like the school day itself with its Cuisenaire blocks and folk dancing to scratchy records and finger painting and those powerful, unknowable runes on the blackboard.  Just looking at it, with its orange cover and illustrations of disturbingly bland fifties suburban conformity, gives me the chills to this day. I started school at four, and was far too immature and dreamy for the whole project. I wasn’t a bright child bored. I was a dopey child mystified.

But…when finally I could read, I could read ANYTHING. This time I free-ranged the novels in my parents’ bookshelf, trying Ulysses and Oblomov, understanding some of the words but not penetrating much beyond a page or two. Then I picked up Orlando. I think I must have read twenty pages. Again, without understanding much but – and I remember this clearly – finding words that skimmed, hummed, glittered and shone.  I discovered delight in words. I fell in love with language.

But, not being a child genius, I couldn’t go on. And thank goodness, not long after that, my mother gave me The Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett to read. And followed it with Seven Little Australians and the Edith Nesbits and the Laura Ingalls Wilders and The Phantom Tollbooth and Alice in Wonderland. School libraries gave me the Billabong books and the Secret Seven mysteries. I was immersed in Children’s literature from classics to crap. None of what I read  had quite the brilliant humming-bird language of Orlando ( I had to wait till Form 6 Literature and The Leopard for that) but some of it approached it… and by the way,  bless you, Saint Enid, for the bliss and balm of Popular Fiction.

I was launched and running, back on track, reading as if my life depended on it. John and Betty and Orlando were the starting points, and and I have never looked back.

*One of the Castlemaine Word Miners has loaned me a great little UK publication called Slightly Foxed which deals with people and their Significant Books. It’s great fun.

I did promise myself that I’d be a more frequent blogger this year, but now into the third month of the year, and with only one post to my credit, it seems that I was misleading myself. I have, however, finished the novel I have been writing for the past three years.

It’s called Anything Worth Keeping. What’s it about? The short answer is; Oh, the usual thing, a dysfunctional family. A slightly longer answer is a little story. Four or five years ago, a friend told me about her stepmother. Not long after he was widowed, her father met an Englishwoman on board a ship. They married. The stepmother was a difficult person; the children, still grieving for their mother, resented her; it was not Happy Families when they settled back in Melbourne. My friend’s father died first, and when the stepmother died, she was intestate, which meant that her father’s money went to the stepmother’s nephew. The family contested this settlement, and won. There was a small detail that fascinated me. The family knew practically nothing about the stepmother except this one thing – she had been the mistress of a high-ranking British diplomat or politician.

So. I hatched a story. It was about the children and how their lives had been all but ruined by this Evil Stepmother. But something happened as I began to write this story – the stepmother took over and I fell in love with her. Her name was Bliss. She hijacked the story and at times I felt she was almost it. Her story – and why she never told it – form the centre of the novel.

So, for three and a bit years I’ve been living for a lot of the time with Bliss. And with the children Paula, Anne, Tom and the ghost of Caroline, with Alec, her last husband and a few husbands and lovers in between, and with Rob and Judith, her  good friends who…but that would be giving the whole thing away. I have been living in London in the early 1950’s – it was still Austerity Britain then, with the city slowly being re-built after the ravages of the Blitz, and some items of food still on the ration, but nevertheless London was a magnet for young Australian artists and writers eager to expand their horizons, to explore art and culture and history, and of course to take off into Europe, to France and Italy and beyond. I’ve been mentally dressing in New Look suits and frocks with their wide skirts, tiny waists and strenuous corsetry; I’ve been eating reconstituted eggs and drooling over Elizabeth David’s inspirational cookery books; I’ve been dreaming on the top of double-decker buses and stuck in the smelly Tube. I’ve been living in 1950’s Australian suburbia, too, and incidentally re-living some of my own personal history, my growing-up days in one of Melbourne’s beach-side suburbs. But that’s all over now Time to call it a day because I can’t go on revising forever. Time to call it quits, write The End. Time to say goodbye.

Ah. (That’s a big sigh) A relieved sigh, a sad sigh, a somewhat exhausted sigh… Yesterday afternoon I went into my workroom and tidied my desk. I put all the books about 1950’s art, fashion, politics, social history and literature up onto a high shelf. Printouts of the various drafts I stacked up neatly to recycle. The sheaves of handwritten notes to myself went into the bin, and a few photocopied references about odd subjects (the Melbourne Metropolitan Board of Works being one) I filed away just in case I need to verify some date or fact… The decks are cleared, ready to start the next book, which is a sequel to The Truth About Verity Sparks. I’m keen to get going on it, I’ve got lots ideas and Verity is a feisty girl who just about writes her own lines. And she may need to, since my deadline is 1st August.

But still. And yet. Not really ready to let go. One door closes and another – Yes, I know all of that. If I didn’t have Verity to get on with, I’d probably spend a lot of time moping and moving commas around, so it’s probably just as well. It feels a lot like moving house. You know – emptying it of furniture, cleaning up, closing the windows and doors on the echoing and empty rooms for one last time, and finally, knowing you can never really go back again, saying goodbye.