Susan Green

First, a rant. A rant that I shouldn’t be having, actually, since in the last couple of weeks of sprained-ankle-induced sloth, I have been reading all my Buddhist books and attempting to practice mindfulness. I have managed to make one biscuit seem like a four course meal. I have taken great pleasure in hanging out the clothes and washing dishes. I have been patient in phone queues. I have agreed with Sylvia Boorstein whose little book on practical Buddhism, It’s Easier Than You Think, is still, on my umpteenth reading, a joy and an inspiration.  But it’s no good. I’ve been all steamed up about the Street Art issue, and after stewing as well as steaming, I dashed off a very cross letter to the local paper. That should be the end of it. Why am I still stewing?

Perhaps I’d better explain. As part of the Castlemaine Festival, some students from the secondary college have collaborated on a piece of street art – Text Alley – in our town. Some residents took offence at one of the pieces – a black reindeer with the words “Christmas is a lie” next to it – and the next thing you thing you know, shock! horror! it’s a local scandal. Not just the Castlemaine Mail, but the Midland Express (really one and the same, but the latter is more Kyneton-based. And it’s free) and the Bendigo Advertiser began huffing and puffing. A letter from an affronted local suggested it was libel (or slander, can’t remember which he said) and more seriously, “religious vilification”.

The school principal, the art teacher and the Festival representative all apologised for any offence, the artwork was altered, and the explanation given – the student intended it to be a comment on the commercialisation of Christmas. But this is not good enough. The local paper, scenting a lovely juicy controversy, has inflamed this issue and now we have graffiti on the street art, we have abuse and bad feeling, we have the social media going mad with suggestions that the student in the case be tarred and feathered and then burned at the stake (sorry – made that up) – or rather, expelled from school and the teachers dismissed. It’s hard to believe that adult people are so thin-skinned, so eager to take offence, so little inclined to think and discuss and disagree, while agreeing that we all have a right to our opinion.

Is it because the artist is a young person? Or because it’s street art? Or because it’s art? Or because it’s part of the Festival? Or because the town didn’t get the pokies venue some people wanted, and there’s an element of the community that wants to pay out on the arty-farties and blow-ins and lefties? A customer in the bookshop where I work today came in saying he’d been speaking to one of the locals, who told him that the Festival was done, over, finished. The town was sick of it. This offence was over the top. There would be no more sponsorship.

Over what? An image and some words you can interpret in a number of ways. In some ways Christmas – and by that I mean the credit-card-wipeout family get-together hell turkey-dinner celebration, and not I repeat, not the birth of Christ – is a lie. We don’t know when Christ was actually born. Our 25th December festivities are based on pagan rites, adapted and taken over by the church. And we lie about Christmas to our kids every time we say that Santa is coming and he’ll bring you some presents if you’re good. And then again, the reindeer suggests that perhaps that Northern European imagery isn’t appropriate for this country. Or perhaps the black reindeer is a naughty reindeer, and he’s telling Santa that Christmas is a lie so he doesn’t have to go out with the sleigh in the cold…

I’m upset on behalf of the young artist. How must he or she feel, being at the centre of this ridiculous controversy? I’m dismayed that a young person can’t have an opinion, that he or she can’t put an idea out there without being shot down in flames in the local press in this manner. I’m dismayed that there is no tolerance for differences of opinion. I’m sickened by the zest for hostility and anger that exists, in some parts of the community, in my small town. Oh dear. I am starting to huff and puff too. Another of Sylvia Boorstein’s books is called Pay Attention, for Goodness’ Sake: Practicing the Perfections of the Heart: The Buddhist Path of Kindness. Chapter 9 deals with Lovingkindness – metta in Buddhist practice – and Sylvia talks about how easy it is to think with love and kindness of the people we like. It’s much harder with those we don’t. I find I am thinking some very unkind thoughts at present. Sylvia reminds me that everything that has ever happened to us, and to our parents and their parents (let’s not even go into our past lives) leads us to be in the place where we are right now. Which may be a place of intolerance and thin-skinned anger. Or fear. Or discomfort with change. Who knows?

I’ve sent my letter. The writer John Holton http://johnholtonhereandhome.blogspot.com.au wrote a wonderful opinion piece which was published in the Bendigo Advertiser yesterday. I have done what I can. Time to stop steaming and stewing. The kerfuffle will die down. Hopefully the offended will calm and heal, and the young street artist will come out of the controversy (which would probably totally delight a mature artist!) undamaged and perhaps even stronger. And I will read more Sylvia. Perhaps we all should. http://www.sylviaboorstein.com/

I’ve just read Simmone Howell’s new Young Adult novel Girl Defective. It was an odd experience – kinda new, kinda not – because I was already acquainted with Sky and Gully and Bill in their flat above the record shop in Blessington Street, St Kilda. I knew about heart-breaker Nancy and the brickers and Eve the lady cop and the elusive track “Wishing Well” that gave the shop its name. I’d heard about all of them before; I’d heard Sky’s unforgettable voice and cracked up at her hard-boiled bon mots. And here at last was the whole story.

It seems like a long time ago, but it’s probably only a couple of years since Julie Gittus and Lee Fox, along with Simmone and I, made up a little writer’s workshop quartet. We met regularly – usually once a month – in each other’s kitchens, and read from our respective works in progress. So I’d heard quite a bit of the book, and we’d all talked writerly talk about the plot and the characters.

What can I say, apart from I loved it then, in bits and pieces and unfinished, and I love it now? I love the strong and warm sense of family, even though the family – living-in-the-past, semi-alcoholic Bill and snout-mask wearing Gully – are, as heroine Sky says, “like inverse superheroes, marked by our defects.”  I love the way Sky, a would-be-worldly innocent, fumbles her way through the darkness of adolescent confusion into some kind of light – with a little help from her friends. And the way the story of lost girl Mia weaves sad tendrils right through.

And that that old dame (or is she a broad?) St Kilda is a character in her own right.  The book is noir-ish, funny, moving, happy and sad and wise, with a mystery solved, a little romance and lots of old vinyl.

And I can’t not mention Sky’s fabulous voice. Boy, does that girl have a smart mouth! How’s this, just in the first few pages?

I’d known Nancy three months. She was nineteen and sharp as knives. I was fifteen and fumbling. We met when Dad hired her to clean the shop and the flat. I remember her walking into the room with the vacuum hose hung around her neck, sloppy and insolent like a bad boyfriend’s arm.

And at the end of that paragraph:

Kid, that was what she called me. Or little sister, or girlfriend, or doll baby, or monkey face. Sometimes she even used my name – Skylark, Sky – all in that drawl that felt like fingernails on my back lightly scratching itches I didn’t even know I had.

Reading the whole story for the first time, Girl Defective seemed inevitable and surprising at the same time, like an old acquaintance who becomes a new friend. At long last.

Simmone’s website and blog are at http://simmonehowell.com

…and I went to an International Women’s Day breakfast at the Tea Rooms in the Botanical Gardens. I had to pass on the food – muffins, frittata and the most delicious-looking berry muesli provided and served by our local Secondary College – because of nerves. I was one of the speakers, you see.

The first speaker, Amy O’Neill, does an amazing amount of volunteer stuff in the local community as well as working as a partner in a very successful building business, Vic Restorations. She’s won several awards lately, attended a huge rural women’s conference in Canberra and all I can say is, she must have an impressive load of energy.

She was followed by a local singing group, The Deborah Triangles (local in-joke, that – there is an area of gold-mining called that up the Calder in Bendigo) who did “Georgy Girl” complete with the whistling, camped it up with “I’ve Never Been to Me” and concluded triumphantly with “I Will Survive”. Then I was on. Here’s (more or less) what I said.

The theme today is “Women Inspiring Women.” I’m a writer, so I could have claimed as  inspiration many wonderful female authors going right back to Jane Austen. Especially Jane Austen, though since we’ve just had the 200th anniversary of Pride and Prejudice  she’s practically a deity – certainly an immortal. However my inspiration is human, not a writer and a lot closer to home. But before I tell you about her I’ll give you a little bit of my story.

I’ve lived in Castlemaine since 1986 – with a three-year stint here when I was a child during the middle 1960’s. I moved here at the time I committed career suicide. I’d just given up a secure, well-paid, permanent position as a primary school teacher with the Education Department of Victoria. Why? A year or so before I’d been awarded one of the Age Short Story prizes, and since then I’d been consumed with a mad desire to be a writer. I could have done the sensible thing and written in my spare time or even taken some leave without pay, but no. I thought I wouldn’t take it seriously unless I quit the Department. And so I did.

I had to work part-time of course, but nevertheless in that first year I did a lot of writing.   I won a Victorian Fellowship of Writers short story prize (and that story was later published in an anthology) and I also wrote a children’s story, The Possum Charmers. It was published in 1987 and since then I have had 9 more children’s books published. My 10th book, The Truth About Verity Sparks, was the first to have gained any real traction. It’s sold well, been appreciated by young readers, and – most thrillingly – it was awarded Honour Book in the Younger Readers section of the CBCA awards last year. I’ve got a sequel, Verity Sparks Lost and Found, due to be released in May.

Now, back to my inspiration. I said she was close to home and so she is. She’s my mother, Helen Green. She was a primary school teacher, a secondary school teacher, a senior mistress, and then in the 1970s she became vice-principal and finally principal of a large suburban high school. In those days there were few female principals and fewer still female senior bureaucrats in the Education Department. Which was why her next career step was really an enormous leap. She became Assistant Regional Director of Education for the Loddon Mallee region, based in Bendigo but taking in a huge region going down to Kyneton and up as far as Mildura and to the SA border. She held that position for 8 years, and for several of those years was Acting Director.

My mother was a very capable, intelligent and ambitious woman and she was passionate about education and community. Hers was a very public role. She was continually going to meetings and sitting on boards and committees. She did a great deal of public speaking. This was so even after she retired, when she was active in Continuing Education, Friends of the Library and University of the 3rd Age.

Now, I’m a writer. Writing is a private, solitary, even a hermit-like profession. I spend a great deal of my time sitting on my bottom alone – or with the dog – in my office in front of the computer screen. I’m not engaged in the community in the way my mother was. So how has she inspired me? Here’s how.

She gave me a belief that if you love something, if you’re committed to learn everything you can about it, to work hard and persevere – then that’s what you should be doing. No matter what your gender or whether people think you should be at home with your children or whether people think you’re crazy for giving up a steady income – that’s what you should be doing. My mother is inspiring because she was one of those women who opened up a space for the women who followed after her and it’s a great thing that most women in Australia now take it for granted that they can follow their dreams – whether it’s in the building industry, like Amy, or in the study, like me. My mother is also inspiring because she recognised that setbacks and disappointments do occur. Books are rejected, you hit the glass ceiling. Things do not always work out as you hope. But you can maintain the love of what you do. You can stay engaged and curious. You can keep learning and expanding your vision.

My mother hit the glass ceiling. When she applied for the position of Director, despite having acted for several years in the role, she was didn’t get the job. A man did. She appealed, and she lost. But my mother’s passion was for education and community and it was a real force in her life. She put her disappointment behind her and in the last fulfilling years in her job, she did a series of what my father referred to as ‘royal tours’. She didn’t drive, you see, and so she had a driver take her to visit many remote and rural schools whose communities had not seen anyone from the Department for years, sometimes decades. One of her loveliest memories was of a visit to Murrayville, near the SA border. What seemed like the whole school community turned out, there was a band and a fabulous afternoon tea, and a banner saying “We are honoured to welcome Mrs Green”.

Sadly, my mother died before The Truth About Verity Sparks was published. I dedicated it to her, and when I was presented with my CBCA award in Adelaide last year, in my heart I said as I was handed the envelope, “This one’s for you, Mum.”

Thank-you to my husband for the surprise rose-petal heart next to my keyboard.

I was going to post a photo of my black, blue and yellow swollen ankle, just so you’d know I’m not making this up in a pathetic bid for sympathy, but my husband advised against it. Too revolting, he said. It would turn people off. And in the scheme of things, a bung ankle isn’t all that bad, is it? All I have to do is rest and keep the foot elevated, as the doctor ordered.

What do you do with an elevated foot? What else but read? Polyanna-ish, I decided to make the best of it. Now’s the time, I decided, to get stuck into that pile of unread must-reads that keeps growing on my bedside table.

I started off with The Tiger in the Well, one of the Sally Lockhart mysteries by Phillip Pullman. It’s an exciting and complicated historical mystery set in 19th century London with a feisty heroine and a large cast of characters including some great street-kids, Bill and Liam. I do love an urchin in amongst the aspidistras and antimacassars of Victorian correctness. (It means you can have some swearing, too).

Then I read The Extraordinary and Unusual Adventures of Horatio Lyle by Catherine Webb. It was also an exciting and complicated mystery set in 19th century London. Unlike The Tiger in the Well, which dealt with real Victorian themes of anti-Semitism and the (lack of) women’s rights, this was sheer historical fantasy. Hero Horatio Lyle, a former Special Constable and amateur scientist, battles an otherworldly conspiracy that reaches into government and the aristocracy, spawned by a race of dangerous legendary beings with glowing green eyes and supernatural powers. He’s helped by another urchin. She’s Theresa Hatch, pickpocket and burglar by trade, and she gets nearly all the good lines.

I’m 50 or so pages into Fire and Hemlock by Diana Wynne Jones by the time I realise…

Well, not only that my bottom is numb, but perhaps my brain is too. I remember reading Fire and Hemlock when I was a young teenager and loving it, but I’m not making any sense of it at all today. What else can you do with a sprained ankle?

I make a cup of tea standing on one foot and hobble outside. I hobble back in again to get the cup of tea. I sit outside in a cane chair in half-shade with my cup of tea and look at the garden. I think that it’s a bit of a mess and then remember that a kind friend has loaned me enough copies of “Gardens Illustrated” to fill two 42-litre plastic tubs. After flicking through about fifty mags, I realise that my garden is a total mess deserving only annihilation. I attempt to annihilate the leggy tangle of succulents closest to me but hurt my ankle. Falling back into the chair in well-deserved pain (after all, the doctor did say rest, keep the foot elevated, not launch into a deforestation campaign in a rockery), I ponder other ankle-less activities.

Nothing in the housework line. After all, it was housework that got me into this. I was on holiday at the beach – the sea was only a 5 minute walk away and the sun was shining – and I decided that I should go into the back yard and bring in the washing. Why oh why did I think about the washing while on holiday? The long and short of it is that I missed a step and here I am, with new bruises coming out even ten days later, and out of action for 2 to 6 weeks. No gardening. No housework. Then I had a bright idea. I thought, I’ve got it! I can sort out my filing cabinet.

Sad to say, I only got as far as dumping piles of stuff all over my study floor, looking aghast at the mess and then walking out again. I closed the door so I don’t have to look. A big bonfire, once the fire season is over, seems the simplest way of coping with these so-called ‘files’. However, I tucked a couple of scrapbooks under my arm. Perhaps – a manageable, gentle kind of job, this one –  I could paste in all the cuttings from newspapers that have been multiplying in various baskets and boxes around the place. Perhaps. Or maybe I could read…

It’s hot and horrible here in Castlemaine. We’ve had some rain, but not enough, and it’s a bit sticky and damp. (“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” is the handy phrase for this kind of weather). But lucky me, I am going to the beach for a week, and I have just packed my holiday reading.

I have Roy Strong’s diaries (he was the Director of the Victoria&Albert Museum), and following that theme, a biography of Queen Victoria by Edith Sitwell.

I’m also taking a couple of books that I loved when I was a 12 or 13 and had just started High School. I’m wondering if I will still love them. But first, a bit of back-story…

My home town, Chelsea, didn’t have a library when I was growing up. Perhaps in a working-class suburb it wasn’t expected that people needed books. I went to high school in another town, Frankston, a short train ride away, and I was able to get a borrower’s card from the Frankston Library. It was housed in the middle of the shopping centre, and I used to meet my mother (who, probably unfortunately for both of us, was the Vice-Principal of my school) there once a week. We’d borrow our books and then have afternoon tea together. I realise now that this was Quality Time, and think of my mother with renewed respect and love. With her very demanding job, plus a husband and three children, she made this a special time for us, adding many calories worth of extra positive reinforcement by pairing books with toasted sandwiches, hot chocolate and the Svendborg Cafe’s amazing cheesecake. I have, to this day, a thing for toasted sandwiches, and I am never so happy as when eating with a book propped up in front of me.

The Frankston Library had a rule that if you had a Junior card, you were only allowed to borrow Junior books. This kept me in Junior Fiction (JF in big letters on the spine) until I was 14, I think. I must have been a slow developer, for I was quite happy puddling round in the kid’s section, and made a few notable discoveries. This book, A Candle in Her Room by Ruth Arthur, introduced me to the idea of the same story carried on through several generations. A common device in family sagas, but I’d never read one, and it was new to me. It was the first time, also, that I really noticed first-person narration. In this story, there are three characters, Melissa, Dilys and Nina, and they each get to tell their part of the story. It also got me hooked on the gothic. Old houses, hidden secrets, malevolent spirits, evil powers that stretch out to blight future generations…  Later, I was right into the Victoria Holts, but that was not until I had unrestricted access to Senior fiction.

In the same genre – the spooky story – was this book, Moon Eyes by Josephine Poole. I was astounded when I first read it, and I’m wondering what I will think of it now. Why astounded? Because it was so powerfully strange. Here’s the blurb: “The story of Moon Eyes, of compelling and original beauty, tells how 15-year-old Kate overcomes the influence of an aunt who comes, with her strange black dog, to stay at Hurst Camber. Kate and her little brother Thomas, who are alone in the house, and the way she saves him from Aunt Rhoda’s power reflects the conflict between good and evil in our world. Moon Eyes has a spell-binding quality not often found in books for children.”

“Not often found” is right. It was as if no-one had told the author what a children’s book should be. Everything about this seemed unconventional and odd and weird. Will it still?

I thought I was reading at a rapid rate (3 books in the last week) until I went to the SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) meeting on Saturday. I even thought that writing and publishing 11 books in 25 years was good going. But I now know that both my reading and writing rate are pitiful. One of the speakers was Michelle Prawer, a judge for the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s annual awards. She’d  finished an entire book that morning and has read her way through more than 300 books in the past few months. One of the great pleasures of attending the CBCA awards in Adelaide last year was finding out how wonderfully passionate about children’s books and reading those judges are. Michelle’s energy, commitment and enthusiasm are inspiring – and she has 7 children, too!

The other part of the meeting was a panel of ‘quiet achievers’. These are writers who mayn’t be household names but whose books are literally everywhere in schools and libraries. The group included Edel Wignell, who’s published over 100 books. What an achievement. (And she told us in a funny little aside that it’s a good idea to have foreign royalty on your side – her recent Bilby Secrets apparently caught the eye of Princess Mary, and it’s been translated into Danish).

I don’t think that I’m that kind of achiever, somehow. I like to go for walks or do the housework or sit staring into space ruminating on my characters and slowly brewing up a story for a few months before I write a single word. There’s no right or wrong way to create and write, but I think you do need to know how you work best. I have written very quickly when I’ve needed to  – once, when I was a Dolly Fiction author, a writer dropped out at the last minute and I agreed to write a 30,000 word novel in 10 weeks. I was working 3 days a week as well, and the whole process was almost intolerably stressful. I revisited that situation in a minor way last year, when I had 5 months to write the next Verity book.  I now know that I do need to time to slowly build the story – or else it ends up a little undercooked. Falls flat, in other words. I chose to re-write (rather than try to fix) the second half of the novel because I just hadn’t thought about it long enough.

Back to summer reading. It’s too hot for Wolf Hall, which has been sitting on my bedside table since early January, so I’ve been dipping into children’s books from my own shelf and from the library. I read Wildwood by Colin Melot (and I must mention the stylish illustrations by Carson Ellis). I dashed though this one, carried along by the exuberant fantasy. It’s like an American The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. Melot’s Wildwood has much in common with Narnia – talking animals, battles, a powerful female character (the White Witch role is taken here by the chilling Dowager Governess) and the quest to find a missing sibling – but Prue and Curtis are fresh and engaging characters, and the geographical/political world building is complicated and convincing. Except for the dietary considerations.

Dietary – what? Yes, I know it’s a mite pedantic of me, but it’s got me worried. What do the animals eat?  Sparrows, eagles, owls, rabbits, foxes, coyotes, bears –  they all live alongside each other. Do they eat each other as well?

I call this the “Market Gardens of Rohan” problem. In the film of The Lord of the Rings, Rohan – which is the home of the horse lords – is set high on a hill, amidst plains that stretch on and on… Where, I wondered out loud, much to the annoyance of my family, were the market gardens? Where did they get their food from? Or are you supposed to just skip these practical issues and get on with enjoying the fantasy?

My other two books were A Brief History of Montmaray which I thought was entrancing. I’ve passed it on to my nearly fifteen-year-old niece. She had loved my Christmas present to her, I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith, and I think this will fit beautifully with the other title.

Montmaray is a minuscule island kingdom ruled by an impoverished, eccentric English family. It’s 1937 and the larger world is poised to come crashing in. Michelle Cooper weaves the rise of fascism, the Spanish Civil War, Nazi grail hunters, post-World War I trauma, homosexuality and issues of class and gender into a riveting coming-of-age drama. With lots of funny bits, too – and you’ll be relieved to hear that Montmaray has an entirely convincing food chain, with vegetable patches, bee-hives, a goat, lots of fish and seafood and whatever supplies they can obtain from passing Portugese fishing vessels.

Finally, before I left for the SCBWI meeting, I grabbed a random thin children’s novel to read on the train. It turned out to be Leon Garfield’s Devil-in- the-Fog. What a wonderful book! I read in the blurb that Garfield originally intended to call it The Dead Little Gentleman, and critic Margery Fisher said that ‘does seem to sum up perfectly its peculiar compound of mystery, violence and Dickensian humour…It is a book to leave firmly out of categories and accept thankfully for what it is – a masterpiece.’  Nothing I need to add.

Except… I’ve been playing around with an idea for a new story, featuring a little heroine from a family of travelling actors. Devil-in-the-Fog’s hero is 14-year-old George Treet, from a family of…yes, strolling players. I take that as a serendipitous nudge that I’m going in the right direction with my thinking and ruminating and brewing.

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.