I thought of her as a martyr but she was certainly no saint. I loved reading the passages in her diary when she complained bitterly about her mother and longed for a proper boyfriend. But as I said in the first chapter, it was her diary entries about writing that meant the most to me and I learned them by heart. I mentioned my other all-time favourite book in the first chapter too: I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith.
It's the story of Cassandra and her sister Rose, living in poverty in a dilapidated castle with their writer father and eccentric stepmother, Topaz; then two rich American brothers come to live nearby . . . It sounds absolute toffee, a ridiculous romantic fairytale, but trust me, it's a wonderful book and Cassandra is such an endearing and compelling narrator that you are swept into the story and believe every single word of it.
I didn't just envy Cassandra her two-guinea red-leather notebook. I wanted to dab myself with her bluebell scent and drink green crème de menthe and swim in a moat at midnight.
I loved reading sad stories. I found The Wind Cannot Read wondrously moving:
Tuesday 2 February
Morris and Iris [friends of Biddy's] have lent me 'The Wind Cannot Read', by Richard Mason, author of my favourite 'The World of Suzie Wong'. I'm enjoying it very much at the moment.
Wednesday 3 February
I finished reading 'The Wind Cannot Read'. It is a lovely book, but very sad at the end. I almost cried, and I'm definitely not the sentimental type.
I'm sure I'd remain dry-eyed if I ever tried to plough through it now, but one book that would still make me cry is The Story of Gabrielle.
Tuesday 23 February
I went to the library and got 3 books. I have finished one already called 'The Story of Gabrielle'. It is a wonderful story of a truly amazing child who dies of cancer. It is very moving, and I really love and admire Gabby.
The Story of Gabrielle was beautifully and movingly written by Gabrielle's mother. I own it now but can't even bring myself to look at it because I find it unbearable to read about the death of a child, maybe because I've known so many special children who have died of cancer. Over the years I've made many visits to sick children who have written to me. They are always very brave so I try hard to be brave too, though when I get home I often cry.
I know I sometimes write sad books now. I wept when I wrote Kiss – and I cried and cried when I wrote the last chapter of My Sister Jodie. I tried hard not to let Vicky Angel be too upsetting, even though it was very sad. I cut out one of the early chapters, with detailed descriptions of Vicky in hospital.
I was certainly wary of hospital scenes in fiction back in 1960:
Wednesday 3 February
I carried on reading [after finishing The Wind Cannot Read] 'Not As a Stranger', but I'm not going to read it any more. First it told you about digging a boil out of a neck and the pus etc. etc., and it made me feel sick, and then a little boy cuts off his w— with a razor blade. Ugh! I very nearly was sick then, and I'm not going near the horrible book again.
I read historical fiction too. I had a thing about Queen Elizabeth I in my early teens and read anything I could find about her and the times she lived in.
Wednesday 20 January
I got a good book out of the library called 'Young Bess' by Margaret Irwin. It is all about Elizabeth 1st when she was about 12–15. She wasn't half advanced for her age! There is a portrait of her in the book painted when she was 13. She looked at least 18! Also Tom Seymour, a man of over thirty, was in love with her! I can't imagine a man loving me like that at this age.
Thursday 21 January
I'm enjoying 'Young Bess' very much. It makes you think of Elizabeth as if she was still living. The book is very witty, but you have to use your brains to understand the jokes.
Tuesday 17 May
After school I went to the library. I got a very interesting book about Elizabethans. I specially enjoyed the chapters about cosmetics and ailments. It's amazing that the Elizabethans managed to live at all! They used to put cerise (white lead) on face, neck and chest, which slowly turned the skin withered, and gave the women gastro-intestinal diseases and palsy. They put rouge on cheeks and lips that simply ate into the flesh after a time. Also, if they had scars, spots or freckles they put on this ointment that destroyed all skin tissue, which, naturally, left horrible scars. So the Elizabethans put on more and more ointment to get rid of the scars until they had hardly any skin left at all.
I wished we studied the Elizabethans in history. I sat next to a funny, lively, dark-haired girl called Jill in history lessons and we bonded terrifically when she said she hero-worshipped Elizabeth too.
Tuesday 1 March
Had double History. Mr Stokes looked at Jill's library book and roared with laughter when he saw it was entitled 'Lovers of my Lord Admiral'. Jill explained that she was an Elizabeth fan, and when Mr S. looked at my book and saw it was 'The Bright Pavilions' (an Eliz. Book) he realised I was too.
Jill was more flexible than me when it came to periods of history.
Friday 12 February
Jill lent me a book 'Our Dearest Emma' by Lozania Prole. Never have I read a book in which there are so many different romances. I am sure Emy, when she was alive, found it difficult to keep track of so many bedfellows.
Biddy didn't mind me reading about historical bed-hopping, but she did fuss about contemporary sexy books. Sandra, a girl I knew at dancing classes, told me that 'Peyton Place was a shocking book, her friend had showed it to her at school. I asked Mum if I could read it but she said wait till you're 16.'
I didn't waste time arguing. I knew Biddy wouldn't let me buy it and I wasn't sure the staid librarians in Kingston library would let me check it out. So I secretly borrowed Peyton Place from Sandra.
Wednesday 13 April
This morning I phoned Cherry to arrange about the flicks, and then spent a good half hour reading 'Peyton Place' which is strictly taboo. As I flipped through I found the interesting bits Sandra referred to, but oh, what a storm in a teacup! The parts about Alison's adolescence are a little boring, as in thousands of books it mentions, sometimes being far more frank, these things. I thought Stella conceiving her stepfather's baby a little peculiar, but when it told you about Betty's seduction, and her tight shorts being easy to slip off, well, I thought it sheer trash. In fact I had a good laugh to think that sensible adults are 'shocked' by this 'outspoken book'. I think my dear parents would get a shock if they knew some of the books I read that are far worse.
Thursday 14 April
This morning I finished skimming through 'Peyton Place'. It went on in the same manner as before, ending up when Alison finally launches upon 'The Fate Worse Than Death', and discovers that she loves Peyton Place and is no longer afraid of it.
The next day was Good Friday – and I wanted something else to keep me going all over the Easter weekend. My longest book was Gone with the Wind, over a thousand pages, but for some reason I'd lent it to Uncle Ron – Biddy's friend, not a real uncle.
Friday 15 April
I phoned Ron up to ask him if he was coming over on Saturday. He said he definitely was so I asked if he would return my book 'Gone with the Wind' when he came. He promised he would, then I rang off after chattering a little. I hope he does remember to bring it as I am stuck over the weekend without any books to read, as I have either finished my library books or else they're boring. I cannot bear persevering with a book when I don't like it.
Re-reading Gone with the Wind kept me going right through Easter and beyond. I guzzled my chocolate eggs and then tried to suck my tummy in, sighing over Scarlett O'Hara's minuscule waist. I didn't envy her any of her men. I didn't even care for Rhett Butler – but I did envy Scarlett her green velvet gown and all her rustling petticoats.
Ga and Biddy and I all unusually agreed that Gone with the Wind was a great read. We all also liked Monica Dickens.
Friday 8 April
I finished reading 'Joy and Josephine' by Monica Dickens. It was a very good book
, with a really smashing plot.
I spent the day at my grandma's on 20 April, helping her with the spring cleaning at Fassett Road.
Ga armed me with a ladder, a rag, and a bucket of hot water and Flash. I washed down all the upstairs doors and frameworks, then all the banisters, both the landing and the stairs, and the cupboard door, and all that enormous panel, and in all the little crevices where dirt miraculously collects. Ga was very pleased, and paid me 4 bob! Then after a fish and chips lunch (home cooked) Ga and I lay out in the sun in deckchairs. My, it was as warm as the middle of Summer. I stayed out there so long that I regretfully finished reading a very funny book. 'One Pair of Feet' by Monica Dickens.
I met Monica Dickens many years later, when we were both judging a children's writing competition, and I shyly told her how much I'd enjoyed her books. She was lovely to me, but a terrible stickler for correct grammar and punctuation while judging those children's stories, worse than any teacher!
Ga owned very few books herself, and she didn't belong to the public library. She had a subscription to Boots library and fed her reading habit that way. Sometimes she lent me her library books too.
My father brought me books from Westminster library. He worked at the nearby Treasury. He was such a strange man. He could be so moody and unpredictable, losing his temper violently and then sulking, sometimes for weeks. He rarely chatted with me and never tried to understand me – and yet he had an unerring knack for picking out unusual books for me that I loved.
It was through Harry that I discovered Rumer Godden, a favourite author of mine for many years. He brought The River home for me first, a beautiful bittersweet story of a family in India, narrated by thirteen-year-old Harriet, who wants to be a writer. It took me a few pages to get into the story. I was a little dismayed to see the Latin declensions and conjugations for love and war on the first page. I hated Latin lessons even more than maths – but wonderfully, Harriet seemed equally hopeless at Latin.
I read The River over and over, begging Harry to renew it for me. He then found Rumer Godden's The Greengage Summer on the library shelves, and I liked this even more. I identified with Cecil this time and suffered painfully with her. I was angry with her elder sister, Joss. I envied Joss her beauty and confidence. I especially envied her because Eliot was attracted to her. I adored Eliot, even when it turned out he was a criminal.
The Greengage Summer was a story about children but it was told in the most adult way. It was wonderful when I bought my own copy with my pocket money. I could read it whenever I wanted. I soon knew the first paragraph off by heart. It starts: 'On and off, all that hot French August, we made ourselves ill from eating the greengages' – and on and off, all that year when I was fourteen in 1960, I read that book until it seeped into my soul.
I don't think I've ever read as widely as I did then. If I particularly liked a library book I'd copy out appealing passages and then stick them into my diary.
Wednesday 30 March
I got a good book from the library called 'Dress Rehearsal' by Monica Sterling. Parts of it are boring, but the rest is very, very good. I like chapter seven best, about Olive, an Irish girl, who first obtained Jocelyn's admiration by shouting at her teacher 'Oh you and your damn Girl Guides.'
There are then two pages of weeny biro writing to remind me why I liked it so much. It looks embarrassingly mawkish now.
However, I did occasionally show good taste in literature. Harry bought a copy of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita, a very controversial literary novel much tutted over in Biddy's Daily Mail. It was the story of a middle-aged man who runs away with a twelve-year-old girl, a subject justifiably considered shocking. I was told I was far too young to read it. Harry started it at once but gave up after the first chapter.
'It's not really my sort of thing,' he said, and handed it over to Biddy. I wrote in my diary: 'At the moment Mummy is sitting with her nose buried in the book taking in every word!' There were rather too many obscure baroque words for Biddy's taste. She abandoned Lolita just a few pages in too.
'It's stupid, all this fancy stuff. You can't tell what he's on about,' she said. She skimmed through the book, pausing here and there. 'There doesn't seem anything in it anyway.'
'Then can I read it?' I asked.
'No, you can't! And you wouldn't understand a word of it anyway,' said Biddy.
Again I didn't argue. I waited until I was in our flat on my own, and then I flew to the bookcase and started reading – and reading and reading and reading. It was a revelation. I hadn't known language could be used in such a rich and elegant way. I whispered each sentence, tasting the words on my tongue.
I knew I simply had to read the whole novel. I was a fast reader but I couldn't possibly whiz through it before Biddy came home from work. The dust jacket was a distinct brown, with the word LOLITA in enormous capitals on the front. The solution was simple. I took the cover off, and swapped it for a Catherine Cookson novel of a similar size.
I took my disguised copy of Lolita everywhere, reading it at the tea table, on the bus, in the playground. If any of my friends glanced curiously over my shoulder, they didn't see anything on the page to make them gasp or giggle. It wasn't a so-called 'dirty book', one to pass round with all the rude pages carefully marked with old bus tickets. Humbert and Lolita were alarmingly real. Lolita was very like some of the tough, pretty, scary girls at school and I thought I understood why Humbert was so enchanted by her. I wasn't particularly shocked, just enormously interested. It's strange, nowadays I find the whole story so troubling, so distressingly offensive, that I can't bear to read it. I strongly recommend that you don't read it either. It's truly not a book for children.
Very occasionally a child wrote a book that got published. When I was nine or ten I'd enjoyed reading Pamela Brown's The Swish of the Curtain, written in her early teens. I was very impressed – but there was a good five-year gap between us then. But that June when I was fourteen I borrowed a book called Strange Evil from the library.
Monday 13 June
At the moment I'm reading a book by a fourteen-year- old, Jane Gaskell. The girl's a genius. She must be terribly mature for her age: I won't be ready to attempt to write a book for at least another four years.
I don't know why I wrote that. I seemed to be starting to write a book almost every week of 1960 – starting, but never finishing!
8
Writing
I was often inspired to write by the book I was currently reading.
Saturday 16 January
I did a little homework like a good girl and then read some more of 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie Smith. It is a very good book. I also started writing a story. It has its possibilities.
Sunday 17 January
I continued writing my story. I'm quite pleased with it. The trouble is that I'm neglecting my homework because of it.
I wish I'd said what the story was about. I wrote hundreds of thousands of words when I was twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . . and they've nearly all vanished now. I threw them out myself, ashamed because they were so childish, so awkward, so derivative. Biddy frequently had a purge of my possessions too in one of her regular spring cleans. Once or twice as I got older she sneakily read something that infuriated or offended her in my diaries and journals and notebooks and she threw them down the rubbish chute.
However, she didn't ever throw any of my writing away if it was in a school notebook, so The Story of Latina survived. Maybe Biddy thought it was an English project rather than my own private scribbling. I think I'd probably stolen the big blue notebook from the school stationery cupboard.
At the top of the first page I wrote in capitals 'A BOOK OF TEN STORIES FOR TEENAGERS' which seemed overly ambitious. I only managed thirteen pages and three lines of the first story, and that was mostly preliminary passages before Latina herself came into the story. Latina! Why did I make up such a weird name? I didn't like Latin, I hated it. I suppose Latina was one stage better than Mathematica! I ju
st had time for a detailed description of Latina before I lost interest in the story.
Her eyes gazed into his, a soft, intelligent bright blue, which reminded him very much of the sea for although they were now calm and peaceful they had tints of violet, green, grey and black which showed they could change colour in accordance to her mood. They appeared big in her pointed sensitive face which was framed with a tumble of dark straight hair that fell in a cascade past her shoulders. She was of average height as far as he could judge, and slim. Her skin was a golden tan and she wore a faded cotton dress.
I rather think I must have based Latina on a clay model of a girl's head that I'd had as a holiday present from St Ives. I called her Tasmania (goodness knows why – I think I just wanted it to sound exotic) and kept her on my bedside table. While I did my homework or wrote my stories, my hand would reach out and I'd stroke Tasmania's shiny black hair, smooth her arched clay eyebrows, and finger her pointed chin.
Now here she was, re-christened with an even odder name and given an indeterminate age. I had her at fourteen at first, but I clearly intended her to have a full-blooded romance with my hero so I added another three years to make it more respectable.
I called my hero Alan. I was still feeling very fond of the Alan who had been my boyfriend when I was in Year Six at Latchmere, my primary school. My fictional Alan was a grown man, not a young boy, and, as the opening pages make clear, going through a pretty traumatic time. I'll embarrass myself and give you another quote:
As soon as Alan found out, after thinking for a while and knowing that he could not keep it a secret, he notified the authorities and then returned home. He undressed and had a shower and a shave, and redressed in clean underwear, clean blue open-necked shirt and navy trousers, and an old windcheater. His socks were also clean, and his sandals well polished. A knife in a sheath was fixed to his belt, a comb, handkerchief, map, wallet and some chocolate went into his trouser pockets and his windcheater pockets were filled with a packet of sandwiches, and two bottles, one containing brandy and one of plain water. He then packed a small case with a change of clothes, pyjamas and washing things.