The Dark Is Rising Revisited

 

These above are not my books. I do own three out of these five, with these covers, but I also have a single volume omnibus edition of the entire series, which I couldn't find an image of online. That omnibus was published in 1984, when I was eighteen, and you might have thought I would be growing out of middle grade fantasy, but my edition is soft and battered and very well-read, so I mustn't have been too old for it after all.

I re-read The Dark is Rising (volume two, as well as the name of the whole series) a few years ago, as part of a Twitter (RIP) Christmas Eve collective read-through, an enriching and delightful experience. But I haven't read the other titles in the series for years.

As a young teen, I absolutely adored these books, especially the mixture of the everyday and the high stakes magic that evolved once Will Stanton appeared, an eleven year old boy who is also the last of the powerful Old Ones. I loved the simple but potent symbolism of the Six Signs that Will is charged to collect, and the inchoate sea-power of the Greenwitch and its connection to Jane, the only real female protagonist. I loved the enigmatic figure of Merriman Lyon (Merlin), Will's mentor, and the solemn, serious battle between the Light and the Dark.

The last two books of the series, The Grey King and Silver on the Tree, always appealed to me the least, especially the final, climactic volume, where Will and Bran (King Arthur's heir) enter a strange magical city and perform various symbolic ordeals -- this was the point where, for me, the story lost its grounding in reality, and even though the children are left to carry on the fight against the forces of the Dark in our own world, the nature of that battle is left pretty vague (there's only one stand taken against racism, which I did appreciate, but it's mostly Will's brother who fights that battle, so any role the children might take is left largely undefined).

It did feel horribly apt to be reading The Dark is Rising while Trump was being re-elected in the US. It's pretty clear what the battles for us are going to be.

Love, Death and Other Scenes

Nova Weetman is perhaps the most beloved and accomplished young adult and middle grade author in Australia; I've had the pleasure of meeting her in person (spoiler: she's lovely), and I feel an additional connection through my late friend Sandra Eterović, who provided cover illustrations for several of Nova's books. But Love, Death and Other Scenes is not a middle grade novel; it's an adult memoir about the death of her partner, playwright Aidan Fennessy.

Aidan's final illness and death was complicated by the fact that it happened during Covid lockdowns. They chose to keep Aidan at home in the last stages because, under Covid restrictions, if he'd been cared for in hospital, their children wouldn't have been able to see him. But this decision came at a cost for Nova, who became his nurse and carer, perhaps at the expense of being his intimate partner at the end. She is painfully frank about this experience and I'm sure it's a situation that many others can relate to.

Nova's judgement as a writer is always exquisite. In her children's books, she often tackles difficult topics, but she handles them with such a light touch that a young reader won't be overwhelmed. The same is true here; though the material is often heart-breaking, she never wallows, never agonises, as a lesser writer might have been tempted to do. This restraint makes this memoir all the more powerful. Another writer friend is going through the same awful experience with her husband at the moment, and my heart ached for both of them as I read.

The book is divided into three sections: Love is about their relationship, Death -- well, that's self-explanatory; and Other Scenes talks about the aftermath, grief, and the family's life without Aidan. It's also a very Melbourne book; Nova lives just on the other side of the creek from me, and I could see the streets of her suburb in my mind as I read. This is a beautiful, painful, warm and loving book, and it made me want to give Nova a big hug.
 

Death At the Sign of the Rook

Yet another murder mystery! But Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie novels (this is number 6) are a very different beast from Dorothy Simpson's Inspector Thanet stories. There are a couple of murders, and a handful of near misses, but the real mystery centres on theft rather than murder, and the real pleasure of the story lies in Atkinson's witty, wandering, but tightly plotted style. Her characters loop in seemingly aimless spirals, playing with words, following diversions, colliding in implausible coincidences ('A coincidence is an explanation waiting to happen,' says Jackson Brodie), but Atkinson draws the strings tight by the end and ties up every dangling thread.

Death At the Sign of the Rook is full of in-jokes and references for fans of cosy murder mysteries, echoing Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers, the cliches of Cluedo, and even newcomer Richard Osman, and probably others who went over my head. There are some lovely characters to linger with here: a vicar who has lost his faith and his voice; a drifting, depressed ex-soldier; a haughty, delightfully sterotyped lady of the manor. But for the regular reader, it's wonderful to be reunited with amiable detective Jackson Brodie and sharp little Reggie Chase. 

The Sign of the Rook has a feeling of belonging to an earlier time; though there are references to the pandemic and pocket trackers, it doesn't seem totally anchored in the modern world. But I'm not complaining.
 

Inspector Thanet Omnibus 2

I hadn't intended to return to the Inspector Thanet well so soon, but the book I wanted to borrow from the Athenaeum wasn't there, so I grabbed this instead. We are now well into the mid-80s, though the timeline seems to move more swiftly within the novels -- Thanet's daughter has aged ten years by the end of Dead On Arrival, despite only five years passing in publication time (Simpson could really churn them out! Kudos).

Again, though I do enjoy the mysteries themselves, the real appeal is in the social detail. Close Her Eyes (1984) features a fifteen year old victim, and it would be a brave author today who would describe an abused teenager as 'pure evil.' Last Seen Alive (1985) opens with a visit to the town by Princess Diana, at the peak of her popularity and before her marriage to Charles broke down. It also, rather yuckily, features incest, and the social panic de jour, children sniffing glue. Dead On Arrival (1986) (a title which, by the way, has nothing to do with the plot) breaks one of the Golden Age detective rules by centring on identical twins, though perhaps it doesn't strictly break the rule as we know about the existence of both twins from the beginning. Thanet's daughter enters a competition akin to Junior Masterchef, with the gorgeously eighties menu of Pork Chops With Mint and Lemon Flummery.

Looking forward to volume three! But perhaps not quite yet.
 

Look Back With Mixed Feelings

I've now discovered that there are actually four volumes in Dodie Smith's delightful autobiography; I think Look Back With Mixed Feelings might be my favourite title, though. This second book in the series covers Smith's late adolescence and early twenties, a period when she was training at 'the Academy' (later better known as RADA) and beginning to make her way in the theatre. You would barely guess that the First World War was going on during these years, and Smith herself admits to feeling guilty for giving the conflict so little thought. Like a typical teenager, she is mostly preoccupied with falling in and out of love and trying to find work. 

Probably the most important event for Smith during these years was the death of her beloved mother. After this, Smith drifted out of her family's orbit, though the band of Manchester uncles were as loving and supportive as ever, often coming to the rescue with badly needed funds. Again, like any young person, Smith turned to her 'Gang' of friends, mostly fellow members of the Three Arts Club, a home from home-cum-boarding house for women artists, writers and actors, which sounds rather like living in college, though I didn't think much of the cheap cubicle option, windowless, with the partitions not even reaching the ground!

There's much discussion of cocoa made on gas rings, theatrical 'digs' with sympathetic landladies, stage mishaps, flitting from one play to another (or, sadly, in Smith's case, not getting work for ages) and it's remarkable to reflect on this vanished world where even in the thick of war, plays were being constantly mounted, toured and even taken to the battlefront. There must have been thousands of people working in the theatre, and of course Noel Streatfeild also spent years in the same milieu (they were almost exactly the same age, I wonder if they ever came across each other?)

I've already nabbed Look Back in Astonishment (another great title) but incredibly, the usually reliable Athenaeum doesn't have the final volume, Look Back With Gratitude. It's just possible I might have a Christmas present on the way...

Windswept

I bought Annabel Abbs' Windswept: Why Women Walk for my friend Christine, who is a woman who walks herself, and enjoys histories of overlooked women, especially creative ones. Now she's lent it back to me and I loved it (maybe I really wanted to buy it for myself, let's be honest).

Abbs explores some forgotten stories of women who found freedom, strength, consolation and creative inspiration in walking, or what our American friends would call 'hiking.' Most of these women walked along rivers and across mountains at a time when long-distance walking was considered an exclusively masculine preserve. Georgia O'Keeffe gloried in the wide empty plains of Texas, while Simone de Beauvoir soothed her soul by walking through French forests. I had heard of Nan Shepherd's writing about the Scottish wilds, and seen her quoted by other writers I admire, like Robert Macfarlane, but I hadn't known her biography: she was one of the 1920s so-called 'surplus' women after the Great War, who would have expected to marry and have children. Instead, she taught, and walked, and wrote, though her writing wasn't fully appreciated till after her death. Painters, writers, philosophers, all found a new sense of self and purpose through walking.

At one point Abbs talks about the strangely liberating, sense-enhancing experience of night walking, an experience that is too often denied to women, barred to us for our own safety. When you think of all the men down through history who have enjoyed the thrill and oddness of walking at night, it's so unfair that this is something that most women will never be able to do with the same sense of freedom and power. I remember as a student the joys of walking the streets around the university by night -- it was a pretty safe area, but we never went alone.

Windswept is an invigorating and thoughtful book, and it makes me think I ought to get out in nature more. I'm relishing my short suburban morning walks, but perhaps I need to strike out into something more challenging...

Atomic Habits

I had James Clear's bestselling self-help book, Atomic Habits, on hold at the library for so long, I can't remember when or why I originally reserved it -- there were dozens of people in the queue ahead of me. But lo and behold, when my elder daughter saw me reading it, she said, 'You know I've got that book somewhere, Mum...' (Unfortunately, 'somewhere' means in storage on the other side of town, so not that useful after all.)

Various members of the family asked why I was reading it, as I'm notorious in this house as having any number of habits -- morning walks, crossword, Duolingo, yoga, tea, no TV before 6pm, no Candy Crush before 4pm. For someone who works flexibly at home, I actually have a pretty tight daily schedule. But perhaps that's not so paradoxical; it's easy to drift off track without guard rails.

Atomic Habits is a clear, easy read, and a lot of what Clear presents is common sense. He describes 'habit stacking' where you add a desired new habit to an existing one (eg take your meds at the same time as you make your morning cuppa). He points out that you want to try to make good habits easy, attractive, obvious and satisfying (put out your running gear the night before, reward yourself for sucess), while bad habits, the ones you want to lose, should be difficult, invisible, unsatisfying and unattractive (lock yourself out of social media and let a friend guard your passwords, put the naughty snacks at the back of the fridge and the healthy stuff at the front). And you need to be patient. Even the best daily habits won't bring results overnight.

I must admit that I borrowed Atomic Habits mostly so I could feel smug, and after finishing it, I do. It turns out I am pretty good at forming habits. But the difference between me and James Clear is that I'm not going to make a ten million dollar career out of it!