My Secret Diary (6 page)

I read voraciously right through my teens. I didn't
read teenage books: there were no such things
in those days. Well, there
was
a small shelf in the
library labelled TEENAGE BOOKS, but they were
dull-as-ditchwater career books with ridiculous
titles like
Donald is a Dentist
and
Vera is a Vet
.
Donald and Vera were barely characterized
and there was no plot whatsoever. Each book
was a dreary account of how to pursue the
relevant career. I didn't want to give people fillings
or spay cats so I left them gathering dust on
the shelf. (I
might
have been tempted by
Jacky is
a Journalist
.)

I read children's books up to the age of eleven
or so and then I switched to adult books. I didn't
just read classics like
Wuthering Heights,
of course.
I read all sorts of books – some trashy, some
tremendous, some wildly unsuitable.

I spent most of my pocket money on paperbacks
and borrowed three books from the library every
week, sometimes twice a week. If I was particularly
interested or irritated by a book I wrote about it
in my diary, but sadly I didn't record every book I
read. That would have been like writing 'Today I
brushed my teeth with Colgate toothpaste',
something I simply took for granted as part of my
daily life.

I had various favourite books and I read these
again and again. I kept my bright pink Pan
paperback of
The Diary of Anne Frank
on my
bedside table, with a carefully cut-out photograph
of Anne pinned above my bed. The Holocaust had
happened less than twenty years before. I could
barely take it in. It seemed so unbelievably terrible
that Anne and six million others had lost their lives
because they were Jews.

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.