A BOOKSHOP ON BOTANIC

This one's about a bookshop: a little, much-loved, second-hand bookstore that stood for 25 years at the bottom of Belfast's Botanic Avenue; 10 minutes from Queens University, 15 minutes from City Hall, and run by a band of extraordinary volunteers. 

The first time I passed it, the window was full of theological books, so I assumed it was some sort of religious shop, and went on my way. But this was 2001: I wasn't long back from 18 years in Zimbabwe and I badly needed a job, so when I saw an advertisement for a manager some months later, and discovered that the War on Want Bookshop was a charity bookstore with no religious bent, I applied for the job. The position was offered to me with such speed that I suspected no-one else had wanted it, which didn't bode well, but the moment I stepped through the door I knew I'd found my spiritual home. 

It had that slightly dilapidated Bohemian charm that I've always loved in old bookshops - the same could be said of many of the volunteers - and I fell instantly in love with the whole place. (Well, possibly not the toilet facilities and general lack of heating, but you can't have everything.) And the theological display I'd seen was  soon explained: it seemed each volunteer had their own section and they took it in turns to dress the window. So one would fill it with books on gardening and stately homes on Monday and on Tuesday someone else would replace these with the works of Lenin and Mao Tse Tung.

They also had very strong views on what should and shouldn't be sold.  Volunteer in charge of Religion, handing me a book, 'This here's the Catholic religion, Helen. We don't sell Catholic books.' Me, handing it back: 'You do now.' 

In fact, there were Protestants, Catholics, Quakers and Communists on the staff; there were Buddhists, Muslims, Atheists and Ba'hais; housewives, academics and the unemployed. There were ageing Hippies, students both local and foreign, at least one White Witch, and arty types of every sort. In short, it was a glorious, welcoming cultural stew. And I haven't even started on the customers...

The volunteers themselves were altogether the most principled, strong-minded and free-spirited lot you could hope to meet, and they had a shared passion for their work. As one of them said, it was a place full of her favourite sorts of people: readers and lunatics. And although I was foreign, emphatic, and prone to disaster, they treated me with such kindness that I will never be able to thank them enough. They gave me meals and loans and lifts and gifts and included me in their Christmas celebrations; they brought me home-made jam and bread and took me to hospital in emergencies; one of them even shared her car. In short, they treated me, and my children, like members of their own families. 

As for the customers, they were loyal to a fault, although occasionally hard to get rid of. Once, in desperation, after pleading unsuccessfully with the last straggler to go home, I switched out the lights. Whereupon he simply took his book to the window to take advantage of the street light. Books weren't always easy to get rid of either. I carted a pile round to the local dump one evening, only to find a beaming well-wisher on the doorstep the next morning. 'Just look what I found down at the dump' she said, and staggered in with a familiar-looking crate...

But most of our customers went out of their way to help. There was the Queen's academic who sold videos to his students and brought us the proceeds; the then Attorney General who gave his time and expertise to advising us on rare books; the owners of local bookshops who sent us surplus stock; and all the Belfast book lovers who supported us for so long. And then there was John Gamble, owner of Emerald Isle Books on the Antrim Road. He was a gentle, courteous man, a noted authority on Irish books and a generous supporter of War on Want. He came every couple of months to look over anything of particular interest that we'd put aside, and each of these sessions was a master class in book evaluation. He was also a wonderful fund of stories about the book trade.

The shop not only brought me many friends (and a lot of useful material for my first adult novel, 'The Traveller's Guide to Love', which features a second-hand bookshop) it also brought me my husband. We were married in 2015 and all the volunteers were invited to the wedding - each one bringing the only present we had asked for: a second hand book. Or books. Our gifts included a full set of Dickens, a Guinness World Records in which my husband's discovery of the fastest-rotating star was listed (some blighter found a faster one soon after, so the fame was fleeting) and a magnificent collection of novels. We have them all still, reminders of friends past and present.

So along with so many others I have reason to be forever grateful for the part played in my life by the War on Want Bookshop, and to mourn the fact that it is no longer there. After I retired in 2015, the exhausting, poorly-paid, but always satisfying task of running the place passed into the expert care

of my dear friend and colleague, Rosana

Helen & Rosana

Trainor, and in the fullness of time War on Want became Self Help Africa. But in June this year it closed, along with all the other Self Help Africa shops in Northern Ireland. It happened almost overnight, with remarkably little explanation, and the distress caused to both staff and customers has been considerable. But our volunteers were never less than resilient (we threw a final party at the end of July at which the oldest merry-maker was in her nineties) and I hope that every single person who ever worked for War on Want/Self Help Africa will at least look back on their volunteering days with as much affection and gratitude as I do.

This is for them all, but especially Rosana, the Captain who went down, so to speak, with her ship...

 

TRIGGER HAPPY

WARNING!  THE CONTENT OF THIS BLOG MAY CAUSE DISTRESS and I apologise for any hurt caused by previous failures to provide trigger warnings. 

Actually, I had no idea what trigger warnings were until I read some responses to an article in a literary journal, which alerted me to the fact that some modern readers feel they should be warned of any content that might distress them. My own preference would be to make an informed decision based on the blurb, then close the book and/or hurl it across the room if I found the contents displeasing. But of course we all have different requirements, although I do rather wonder where one would draw the line: 'This novel contains scenes of sex/ violence/ gluttony/ shocking behaviour in church' etc, etc? Perhaps publishers should just stick with 'This novel contains scenes from Life'? 

Anyway, I'm afraid this blog does contain shameless self-marketing because my recent novel 'Life Study #2' has been reissued with a greatly improved cover. (See above.) I have also, for the first time in my life - and I take it as a great compliment - acquired Irish Writer status. At least, I have in The Secret Bookshelf in Carrickfergus. (The book can also be bought from Amazon, and from Stewart Miller's in Holywood and Books, Paper, Scissors in Belfast.) 

The reason I'm so happy about this status is that although I have Irish family, and have lived here on and off for more than 30 years, I was born in South Africa, where my novel begins; and even though I grew up there (and later spent 18 years in Zimbabwe) I doubt that anyone thinks of me as an African writer. Of course, literary history is full of expatriate writers - and there's a great difference between choosing exile and being exiled - but there are times when we'd all like to feel we belong.

In my Irish Pages Literary Diary - bought from the Linen Hall Library because it fell open at an excerpt from Kilclief, a book of essays by an old friend, Patricia Craig. One of the quotes is from Deirdre Mask (Fitting In) in which she writes about this struggle to belong that newcomers to Ireland so often face. Mind you, there are degrees of outsider-hood: in Northern Ireland, the Irish, English, Welsh and Scots count as more or less extended family. Americans and Antipodeans are distant relatives (and there are times when we're all grateful for the distance) but by and large the rest of us are Foreign. (Although paler, English-speaking types are less foreign than others.) Anyway, the diary is beautifully produced, with well-chosen literary excerpts opposite each page of entries, just enough room to record essentials, and a few pages for Notes at the end. 

To emulate Pepys, you'll need something different: a notebook or a journal, but if you're planning to bare your soul, just bear in mind who is likely to read your diaries when you're dead. Not all family members will be as brave as Nigel Nicolson. His Portrait of a Marriage, the story of his mother Vita Sackville-West's marriage and affairs is the subject of an article by Ariane Banks in the latest edition of Slightly Foxed. (My favourite literary quarterly, now in its third decade, and long may it continue.)

Keeping a diary, or journal, is still popular, unlike letter-writing. I sometimes think I'm one of the last people on the planet to write actual paper letters and post them. (I also have a passion for stationery: for postcards, origami-inspired letters and - my new favourite - Japanese Haiku note cards.) The incomparable Edward Gorey didn't just write letters, he sent them in illustrated envelopes: 'From Ted to Tom' is a wonderful record of these glorious creations, although how they a) actually made it to the right address and b) weren't stolen en route is a mystery.

Other books I've read lately include Elisabeth de Waal's memorable 'The Exiles Return', an autobiographical novel (in a beautiful Persephone edition) about exile and a postwar return to Vienna. 'Guilty by Definition' is entirely different: an enjoyable mix of crime and language set in Oxford, by Susie Dent, and Antoine Laurain's 'An Astronomer in Love' was bought for my astronomer husband's Christmas stocking and was liked by us both. I'd also recommend Giorgio Bassani's The Gold-Rimmed Spectacles - a powerful novella about a forbidden relationship between a Jewish student and an older doctor in Fascist Italy. Lastly, I'm enjoying Ian McEwan's entertaining Sweet Tooth, as well as a collection of stories with a common theme by a variety of well-known authors: 'Ovid Metamorphosed', edited by Philip Terry, who was himself born in Belfast.

Christmas is now a distant memory, St Patrick's day has just passed and Spring is in the air. Incidentally, St Patrick's falls on the same day as that of St Gertude, the patron saint of cats. But oh no, how thoughtless of me! I've probably triggered panic attacks in half a dozen ailurophobes out there. I do apologise. And if you're thinking of buying my book, I should warn you there are multiple triggers: love, life, loss, art, food, frequent references to nudity, and a journey through changing times. You might want to read something safer.