Thirty-something years ago in Harare, Zimbabwe, the pupils in my son Daniel's class put on a performance of The Snowman. Dan was the narrator, and my de facto other son, his best friend Maruza, mimed the part of the snowman. It is one of the abiding memories of my life- - even in the school hall of a government primary school in the middle of Africa and the heat of summer, the magic of Raymond Briggs enchanted the audience, most of whom had never seen snow and ice. The Snowman, Fungus the Bogeyman, The Bear, the terrifying When the Wind Blows, Ethel and Ernest: wonderful books, and a glorious antidote to all things saccharine and sentimental.
Briggs died on the 9th of August. Two days later, French illustrator Jean Jacques Sempé also died. I always loved his work, so I'm re-reading my old copy of Marcellin Caillou, which is about the right level for my French, and it's giving me great pleasure. Le petit Marcellin has an embarrassing malady: he blushes all the time, for no reason at all. Luckily he makes friends with René Rateau - 'un enfant délicieux' - who suffers from his own unusual problem: he sneezes constantly. The drawings of these two beleaguered but kind and philosophical little people supporting each other through daily life are hopeful, captivating, funny - and again, in no way sentimental.
So farewell and thank you, Jean Jacques and Raymond, and thank you Bernie McGill for your new collection of short stories, This Train is For. The title story broke my heart. I rarely cry, but this one did for me. I've only read the first three but they were so good that I'm going to sip the rest slowly - like the finest wine. (Note to self: is this the beginning of a whole new career - matching books to wine?)
The other two novels that have stayed in my mind lately are The Tortoise and the Hare, by Elizabeth Jenkins, and Barbara Kingsolver's Lacuna. The former I had read some years ago, but someone mentioned Hilary Mantel's admiration for the book, so I read it again, with more attention. I'd forgotten what a beautiful writer she is, and I love this book for her insight and language, rather than the characters. They are the products - and casualties - of their time: Imogen is the decorative, gentle, placatory wife and solid, tweedy Blanche the older, assertive countrywoman. Both are in competition for the affections of Evelyn - although why anyone would want him remains a mystery.
Lacuna, on the other hand, has a central character for whom I felt such affection that despite an initial disinclination to read a 600-page novel, even by Barbara Kingsolver, that featured Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera and Trotsky (intriguing characters, unquestionably, but all in one book sounded like cultural overload) once I had started, I couldn't put it down. It's also a reminder that books sometimes deserve a second chance: this book has been on my shelf for years but I gave up on the first attempt because of its length.
I began with Zimbabwe - the country that gave me 18 wonderful years and so many lasting friendships - so let me end there. Blind Ambition, a documentary film about four young black Zimbabwean migrants who endure extraordinary hardships to reach South Africa and turn themselves, against all the odds, into award-winning sommeliers. That's the second time this week that I've found myself in tears: heart-breaking, joyous and utterly inspiring - do yourselves a favour and go and see it.
