SEARED TO DEATH

My daughters once decided that I had far too many scarves and wraps, so they counted them (the ones they could find anyway) and announced that I had 52 and needed help. Why they were concerned I don't know (they make off with half my clothes anyway, and the dressing-up box and resident cats all benefit) but it's a good thing they've never counted my books. 

I haven't counted them myself, but the thing about living in a house full of books is that there's always something to read, never mind which room you find yourself in. And when you badly need something to distract you from the prevailing gloom (and the last half dozen literary best-sellers you bought were uniformly depressing) then at least you know there's always a PG Wodehouse or an old-fashioned crime novel lurking somewhere to cheer you up.

The last few months have seen the death of a friend and of a much-loved cat, as well as major illness and minor ailments, not to mention dental disasters, ocular migraines, cancelled holidays and death threats to our politician daughter. It has also been unnaturally hot and oppressive for Northern Ireland, and instead of being grateful for the endless dry weather, I've felt deeply homesick for southern Africa. So distraction has been needed, and the first book on top of my bedside pile was a novella. (I'm a big fan of novellas: at least if they're grim the pain is soon over.) 

This one was The Ferryman and his Wife, by Frode Grytten, the lyrical, dreamlike story of the last day of a Norwegian ferryman's life. It was an undeniably beautiful and unusual little book, but given the subject matter  not what I needed at the time. So I turned to Sarah Moss. 

I've enjoyed her books before and The Tidal Zone is a thought-provoking novel about a father's bedside vigil as his teenage daughter's life hangs in the balance following an anaphylactic attack. I've survived anaphylaxis myself on a couple of occasions, so it interested me all the more, but unfortunately I started reading on the same day that my sister in South Africa went into hospital for a routine operation which turned into an 8-week life-and-death nightmare. So in the end it was a bit too close to the bone for comfort.

Next I tried Maggie O'Farrell. I always look forward to reading her books and Land has a beautiful, vibrant cover. Inside though, I found it so utterly searing that despite the fact that she's such a wonderful writer, I had to give up. The terrible suffering of Irish famine victims, workhouse misery, child cruelty...oh god! To be fair though, in a better frame of mind I might have felt differently, and the reports I hear from other people have been good. Perhaps I'll try again another day.

My sister, I'm glad to report, is making progress at last, and luckily there have been things to celebrate.  But I suspect I'm not alone in longing for books that will take me away from the miserable realities of life, not drown me in even more! I want to be cheered, for pity's sake, not seared! 

So grateful thanks to the Slightly Foxed friend who mentioned Miss Read. I used to work in libraries full of her books, which were mostly borrowed by women I then saw as very old and old-fashioned (and who were probably a lot younger than I am now) so I dismissed them out of hand. And yes, Farther Afield is hardly cutting-edge, but it's gentle warmth and humour, and beautiful descriptions of both the English countryside and of Crete, were as comforting as being tucked up in bed with a glass of warm milk and honey. 

Rachel Joyce also did the trick with The Homemade God. In fact, I couldn't put it down. She writes well, her characters enthral you, and the wit and warmth perfectly balance the darker shadows. This one is the story of a famous artist, his adult children and his unexpected marriage to an unknown woman decades younger. There's also a sudden death, and an Italian villa on an island in a lake. What more could you possibly want? Well, a slightly happier ending perhaps, but you can't have everything, and it certainly took my mind off my troubles.

And finally, Arundhati Roy and Mother Mary Comes to Me. I don't read many memoirs or biographies (least of all about writers whose books I admire - authors aren't always as likeable as their books) but I picked this one up in the wonderfully quirky Little Acorns Bookstore in Derry, where we stopped on our way up to Donegal for a few soul-restoring days, and I'm so glad I did.

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Jaw-dropping', 'inspiring', 'a tribute to thorny love and savage grace - a memoir like no other': for once all the praise is merited. And despite the hideous violence, poverty and political upheavals of modern India that she so movingly chronicles, it is a wonderfully funny, captivating and absorbing read. 

A remarkable woman and writer, and a truly remarkable story. Go out and get yourself a copy now.