60 Going On 16

The one I would have posted on May Day

I wrote this on May Day and intended to post it there and then. But somehow didn't . . .

I've had family guests staying so I gave them my bedroom, which is the largest in the house; meanwhile, I decamped to what we call the summer bedroom. I rather love it, despite the fact that it is the smallest bedroom and north facing; in summer it just about catches the farther reaches of the sunrise, to the east. To the north are hills and grazing sheep and the view is the best from the house.

And there are bookshelves. There are books in every room in the house (and on the stairs) but this room is one of only two that have their own proper, custom-made bookshelves. So I wake looking at books I have yet to read, books I have loved, and books I have almost but not quite forgotten.

This morning I picked up this

a limited edition, published in 1973, the year it was given to me and inscribed three years later, by the person who gave it to me, with the closing lines of the final poem in the collection known as The Passionate Pilgrim (Shakespeare et al). 

On reflection, I could have gone down the maudlin route as I took this book off the shelf on May Day, remembering that poem is set in the month of May and that the person who had inscribed my book all those years ago died on a May Day just 10 years later. And I could, had I allowed myself to do so, have reflected that even things, people, events, love affairs, marriages that somehow go horribly wrong were once - or at least once seemed - wonderfully right. But I decided not to go there and I tried to look at this book, that had once symbolised so much, with fresh eyes and was astonished at what I discovered. I didn't quite fall out of bed but my jaw dropped, visibly.

The book  is The Cry of a Gull, the journals kept by American writer, Alyse Gregory, between 1923 and 1948. It was published by Out of the Ark Press, or 'Out of the ARK PRESS' as it says on the cover.  In 1973, the press was located in Brushford a small village just few miles from here and which I drive past at least once a week on my way to Dulverton. Somehow, I had missed this connection completely since I moved here in 1998.

There is another Ark Press, which was founded in 2009, but I can find no details of what ultimately happened to Out of the Ark Press. It was founded by Michael Adam, known also as Kim Taylor, a self-taught printer who had joined the University of Texas in 1960 as director of its Book Arts Center. 

The journals chart the years of Gregory's life with the English writer, Llewelyn Powys, and after his death in 1939 until 1948. She had met Powys in New York, when she was managing editor of The Dial, then America's foremost literary journal. They married in 1924 and she remained with him for the rest of his life always devoted, immensely supportive of his work, and nursing him through bouts of tuberculosis, despite having to share his affections with his much younger mistress and muse, the poet, Gamel Woolsey.  (So Wild a Thing, also published by Out of the Ark Press, is a collection of Powys's letters to Woolsey and leave the reader in no doubt as to the depth of his passion. Alyse must have been the most unusually tolerant of wives; she and her husband had met Gamel Woolsey in 1927. Alyse, allegedly, encouraged their affair and Powys's last letter to Gamel Woolsey was written just a few days before his death. Hard to imagine the marital and extra-marital tensions, not least because Woolsey's attachment to Powys continued after her marriage to historian, Gerald Brenan, who had once had an affair with Dora Carrington. . .)

But there was something else I had missed too: The Cry of a Gull includes an afterword by Michael Adam, a summary of Alyse's final years. And rereading this earlier today, my jaw dropped again, for these years were spent in Morebath, another village I know well, not least because, like Brushford it is just a few miles from here. I have friends who live there; I went to yoga classes there for years; all those visits and I never knew. It was just like the Rebecca West discovery. Adam records that' 'Apart from Alyse's friends living on at Morebath, nothing remains there to tell of her.'

That was almost 40 years ago; they are probably there no longer but I think the cottage still stands . . .

(If you know what happened to Out of the Ark Press, do tell.)

Kindling

So . . . I trotted off to my post-radiotherapy appointment with the clinical oncologist earlier this week. Not, thank goodness, the clinical oncologist with zero patient communication skills and disdainful of anything that is not 'scientifically' proven. What a difference attitude makes. This doctor came in smiling, introduced herself, spotted 2010's ubiquitous Christmas present that I was holding and let out an "Ah, a Kindle! What's it like?" 

I was reading A Tale of Two Cities (downloadable free from Amazon: bargain!), which, she said, just happened to be her favourite novel and which has the very best opening lines of any novel except, perhaps, for Anna Karenina. So I was more than happy to give the doctor her very own personal demonstration, right there in the consulting room. Forget breast cancer, forget radiotherapy, we talked Dickens instead and of the small miracle that is a Kindle, which would enable you to take the great man's entire works on holiday, in your handbag, should you so wish.

But, of course, I wasn't seeing the doc to talk about Victorian literature, nor about 21st century technology, so we did, eventually, get down to breast cancer business. The good news is that I passed the radiotherapy test with flying colours and no side effects and I have now been signed off and returned to the continuing care of my surgeon (ie regular check-ups for the next five years).

We also discussed the decision I had made about what is called 'adjuvant' (ie hormone) treatment and she was wholly supportive of that decision. I'm not going to say what the decision was because it relates specifically to the nature of my cancer, the excellent prognosis I had been given, and my particular family medical history. Suffice it to say that I feel greatly encouraged that both my GP and this particular oncologist take such an enlightened view of the patient's right to make informed decisions about their treatment. And, unlike her colleague, this oncologist is all for patients doing the best they can to support themselves, in terms of healthy eating and keeping fit and focused on recovery.

I wonder if her more flexible attitude is in any way related to maturity experience (ahem), as she is much closer in age to me than her much younger colleague. Will the younger doctor's ideas mellow as she gains more experience, sees more patients? Will she ever reach a point where she might be prepared to acknowledge that science does not, as yet, have all the answers? Let us hope so, for her patients' sake.

But back to kindling (and, yes, I am - much to my amazement - already a huge fan). My Kindle hasn't replaced real, proper books - printed on paper, with covers - for me. How could it? But I love being able to slip it into my bag to read at the dentist while I await the joys of root canal work or when I am travelling. The acid test, for any dedicated reader, is . . . can you curl up with a Kindle in your favourite reading spot? (Under the duvet for me.) And the answer is, yes, you can. Well, yes, I can.  So, a huge thank you to the Dear Daughter and her Best Beloved for such an ace pressie.

On a far more mundane level, kindling of the wooden sort is languishing beside my cherished woodburner, as I managed to smash one of its glass panes recently. Just in time for the latest cold snap. So, essential repairs to this have now been added to the tedious and ever-growing list of boring household maintenance chores, a list that has spiralled out of control over the past six months while my mind has been on other things. Along with correspondence, paperwork, stuff for my long-suffering accountant, and general domestic flotsam and jetsam. But (she said) stifling a yawn, who wants to read about that? I'm sure you have enough of your own to contend with.

In any case, I am doing my best to start the year in positive mode. For example, Christmas Holly, the dog who has come to stay permanently, is doing well and recovering, like me, from surgery. She too has had a lumpectomy . . . we've formed our very own home-based support group.

And I've just been given a year's contract to write a monthly blog elsewhere, which comes in very handy, especially as it should pay for three-quarters of a tank of heating oil. Or enough petrol to keep the car running for 20 weeks, which, living in the middle of nowhere as I do, is very welcome indeed. Always good to know that one hasn't completely lost one's professional touch when one has not only reached a certain age but moved well beyond it. 

Meanwhile, a plague on all the houses of the purveyors of now hugely expensive heating oil. As soon as the woodburner is fixed, it will be back to the logs for me as I'm still using my own wood - the trees that were felled here a couple of years ago. Come Saturday, my own personal logger AKA the window cleaner, will be here with his chainsaw and trusty assistant AKA his son. There will be coffee; there will be cinnamon flapjacks; there will be a store full of logs cut to exactly the right size - and there will be kindling.

The West fest takes an entirely unexpected turn

Rebecca West (cover photo: Family Memories)

Do you indulge in saturation reading? As in immersing oneself in a single author, book after book after book? I've done this at various points in my life, starting in childhood with C.S Lewis's Narnia Chronicles, all of E H Nesbit, etc etc, and then on to adolescence and Thomas Hardy and, at 15, Turgenev, who proved to be the point of departure for my journey of discovery of the works of so many other pre and post-revolutionary Russian authors. In my late twenties, Graham Greene grabbed hold of me and refused to let go, until I abandoned him for Lawrence Durrell after reading The Alexandria Quartet. In the past year, and as described on this blog, I embraced Nuala O'Faolain's writing. There have been many other authors who have exerted a similar hold, across the decades.

But the writer whose books above all others have seen me through the rollercoaster of the months spent confronting the Massive Inconvenience is Rebecca West. I'd envisaged putting together a post at some point, explaining what it was about her writing that resonated for me but kept delaying - just so that I could read another book and then another. Because, if I'm honest (and possession of an Eng Lit degree notwithstanding), I'd much rather read than write about what I've read.

Nothing, however, had prepared me for the twist in the tale that emerged as I started reading Family Memories, a collection of West's memoirs that she worked on, rewrote and embellished during the final 20 years of her long and eventful life. It opens with the author recalling a journey with her husband, Henry Andrews, from their home in the Chilterns to London, via the northern part of Notting Hill. A chance detour takes them into:

'a delapidated square that looked more than shabby, that looked as if it had been devastated by street battles . . . as we drove away my eye fell on the name of the street and I saw that this was the place where I had been born.'

Notting Hill having been my home for so much of my adult life, I rushed to the notes at the end of Family Memories, to find the precise location, which turned out to be a road in Westbourne Park. Something of a puzzle this, as we had lived right in the middle of Westbourne Park, an area on the eastern fringe of Notting Hill, but I'd never heard of the road. And yet, like the Dear Daughter, I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of these streets; over the years, we must have walked up and down every single road, square, street, mews, passage and alleyway. However, it's not uncommon for London street names to change; moreover, thousands of London's houses and entire streets and neighbourhoods were destroyed during the Blitz in WWII, although many of Westbourne Park's fine Victorian houses still stand and are now regarded, once again, as highly desirable properties.

There was also the Rachman factor. In the 1960s, Peter Rachman, a Holocaust survivor from Lvov, achieved notoriety as a slum landlord, initially in Notting Hill before extending his property empire to other parts of London. He featured in what came to be known as the Profumo scandal and the term Rachmanism found its way into the OED. For my generation, his name brings back vivid memories of events that were unfolding as we stood on the cusp of that era in which to be young truly was 'very heaven'.

Writers have grappled with the nature of the man; dramatist Peter Flannery based the eponymous lead character in his play, Singer, on Rachman. (I was fortunate enough to see this when Singer was first performed by the RSC in 1989, with Anthony Sher in the title role.) More recently, Sandor Kovacs in Linda Grant's Booker shortlisted The Clothes on Their Backs, was loosely based on Rachman.

The heart of Rachman's Notting Hill operation was a relatively small complex of streets, rows of multi-storey Victorian houses that were eventually demolished in 1974, as so many of them had fallen into total disrepair. It was a move that divided - and continues to divide - the residents of Westbourne Park. These days, more effort might have been made to restore the damage and save these once elegant houses.

In the 1960s, at the height of the Rachman era and before demolition

Could this explain why I could find no record of the road in which Rebecca West had been born? I thought that it might be the case and it was at this point that I began to experience that anticipatory tingle of an impending discovery. The most obvious source of information was likely to be one of Charles Booth's Poverty Maps of London, which date from 1889; Rebecca (birth name Cicely Fairfield) was born in 1893. There was every chance that the road would appear on that map. It did.

And that was when the tingle assumed quite different proportions. The road in question, whose name had subsequently been changed, had been located in the area that was demolished. After demolition, new homes - flats and maisonettes, with private gardens, including roof gardens, communal gardens and play areas - were built, creating homes for 300 families. The project was something of an experiment in community cohesion, a mix of social housing and homes for sale only to people who had lived or worked in the City of Westminster for more than 10 years. By the end of the decade, the properties were filling up rapidly and it was here that we bought our very first home.

It was here that I read my first two novels by Rebecca West: The Judge and Harriet Hume, just after they were republished by Virago in 1980 and just yards, as I now know, from the author's birthplace. I had had no idea and I am still reeling from the discovery.

* * * * * 

Throughout her life, Rebecca West remained fascinated by coincidences.

Slightly foxed by Betjeman

I seem to be several weeks adrift with everything at the moment and here is another post (like yesterday's) that I had fully intended to write last week, as it involves a deadline. And now I realise that the deadline is imminent (next Monday, in fact) so let us press on.

On her last visit here, my good friend M, who blogs at Random Distractions, recommended an excellent literary magazine called Slightly Foxed, to which she subscribes. As it happens, a promotional flyer for this quarterly had been included with my latest copy of Mslexia but I had resisted the temptation as I am trying to limit subscriptions of all kinds. The cuts, the cuts . . . who knows if the winter fuel allowance is safe?

And then she mentioned that over at The Dabbler, there is a competition, about which M blogged here. You, or I, or some other lucky personage, could win a subscription to Slightly Foxed. (If you can quote Betjeman at will, you'll be at a distinct advantage.)

My mum would have been over there like a shot; she loved books, she loved reading about books, she even worked in a bookshop for years, and she particularly loved John Betjeman, who was born a few months before her in the same part of London, and whose father shared the same trade as her father. I think she would have agreed with every word of this appreciation by Hugo Williams, which appeared in the Guardian in 2006.

(And she would have loved this recording of Betjeman reading The Subaltern's Love Song, over at the Poetry Archive.)

Competitions apart, The Dabbler is definitely worth a visit: it's a proudly cultural blog - ideas, books, good writing and much more. Today, for example, there is a post that I find irresistible as it features photographs from Martin Usborne's series MUTE: the silence of dogs in cars. (Hurry, hurry - exhibition ends 9 November.) Wonderful title, although I suspect that Martin has never had a pack of terriers in the back of his car.

I am just a tad miffed that the fall-out from the Massive Inconvenience means that I have to be here, in the South West, being zapped by gamma rays and the whole shebang, instead of jumping on a train and heading over to East London to see MUTE. So I will just settle for taking my chances with The Dabbler's competition and if I don't win, I might start dropping a few heavy hints to my loved ones, in case they're wondering what to buy me for Christmas.

In the meantime, I must get back to my Rebecca West fest, which brings with it the pleasure of the sort of saturation reading one does prior to writing a dissertation, without the fag of actually having to write a single word on the subject. (Although I just might. Write that is. About Miss West . . . )

Breast cancer: stuff that's helping

I keep starting posts and then get distracted so, rather than anything too discursive, here are some of the things that have helped over the past few weeks, just in case they can help you or someone you know. It's fairly - mmm - random and highly subjective but I may just cross-post it on chum Robert's shiny new website, The Listbook.

1. Laughter. Yes, a challenge, I know but think about all those good-health endorphins that will be released. Best example to date thanks to Barry, my anaesthetist, who, on hearing in pre-med that, as well as being a writer, I do dog care, told me about his hermaphrodite dog's behavioural problems. (I know, I know.) So, the last thing I remember before theatre was snorting with laughter. Not at the poor dog. Heaven forfend. It was the way Barry told it.

2. A saga. As in an all-absorbing literary saga. Personal taste rules here but I can strongly recommend The Fountain Overflows (followed by This Real Night and Cousin Rosamund) by Rebecca West. A superbly written series of semi-autobiographical novels about music, coming-of-age (and beyond) and the complexities of family life, in particular, the shifting dynamics between siblings. The Fountain Overflows was a BBC Radio 4 Classic Serial four years ago; I missed the last episode but hadn't realised that the novel on which it was based was sitting on the bookshelf with all my other beloved old Virago editions. A cracking introduction by Victoria Glendinning too. 

3. Relaxation and / or meditation and complementary therapies. Make time every day. Even five minutes of deep relaxation makes a difference. If you're not familiar with the work of Breast Cancer Haven, which provides free information, advice and complementary therapies to anyone affected by breast cancer, do take a look at this excellent voluntary organisation's website. I don't live near any of the three centres but I asked for a copy of Breast Cancer Haven at Home, a combined audio CD/DVD programme and it arrived overnight. A donation of £10 is suggested and that, I can assure you, is an extraordinarily small sum for something so beneficial. I'm also using the Healing download from the Quest Institute*. Again, it's free but a donation is suggested; it goes to St Nicholas Hospice, Bury St Edmunds, which Quest supports. And a big plug for Maggie's Cancer Caring Centres, along with the organisations that I mentioned in an earlier post.

(*The Dear Daughter, who introduced me to the Quest Institute downloads reminded me to mention that she first came across details in Katie Pearson's 'The Wee Beastie' column in The Times. Worth paying whatever it costs to get to the other side of the newspaper's paywall for Katie's column which is about, to quote one of her headlines, 'juggling family, cancer and a puppy'. Beautifully written and very, very moving. The Wee Beastie is Katie's equivalent of my Massive Inconvenience. This 'naming of parts' is, as you can see, an integral element of the journey.)

4. Eat to save your life. That means eating as healthily as you possibly can; a healthy diet is no more expensive than an unhealthy one, probably cheaper. I'm following The Plant Programme, devised by Professor Jane Plant of Imperial College, for the reasons that she sets out in great detail in her book, Your Life in Your Hands. It's not that far removed from my normal diet but dairy produce doesn't get even the tiniest of look-ins, so no more cheese sarnies. You'll need to read the book to find out why but - and forgive the apparent hyperbole - it's a book that every woman should read. And sooner rather than later.

5. Allow others to be kind to you and to do things for you. This doesn't always come easily to people who pride themselves on being strong and resourceful, especially those of us who live alone and are used to doing everything for ourselves, from the shopping to the cooking, and all the running around and fetching and carrying and multi-tasking that is part of everyday life.

6. Do the post-op exercises religiously. Sound advice from a Twitter chum who is two years further along the breast cancer journey. Do not, under any circumstances, ever be tempted to give them a miss. They take no time at all.

7. Small steps make a difference. Try to give yourself achievable daily/weekly goals but don't be hard on yourself when you have a 'non-day'. Just do the exercises. We all mend differently and at different rates. It's your journey and you have to do it your way. I have been making demonstrable daily progress but today, for example, I feel lethargic and uncomfortable and am on the tail-end of a migraine. The walk I planned to do on the moor can wait until I have more energy. And I'm sure the moor will wait for me.

8. Cake. Because it's allowed on the Plant Programme. (Well, some cake is . . .)

9. Music. The hospital where I had surgery last week is conducting trials into the efficacy of music in the pre-op period. (You take your own iPod, mp3 or CD player and choice of music. Classical strings or something of that ilk probably a better bet than heavy metal.) I chose this version of Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis by Vaughan Williams and listened to it just after what had been the worst experience for me (the ultrasound-guided wire insertion and the radioisotope injection that reduced me to tears) and while I was waiting to go down to pre-med and theatre. It's a glorious  and profound piece of music and provided the balm that only music can. And, as you'll have seen from item number one above, by the time I was wheeled into theatre, I had rediscovered laughter. 

10. Feel the love. You will feel overwhelmed by the kindness and compassion you receive, from so many different and sometimes unexpected quarters. Take it, it's yours - and give thanks, as I am taking this opportunity, here and now. Thank you to everyone who has walked alongside me so far, above all to my extraordinary daughter, whom I can never thank enough (but will keep thanking anyway). 

Here's the Vaughan Williams, with footage from my adopted county, Devon - the River Torridge and its wildlife: