STRANGER THAN FICTION

In my second adult novel, a woman living in Ireland is sent a nude portrait of herself, painted decades earlier in South Africa, with no indication of who, or where, it has come from. Then, a year after that novel (Life Study #2) was published, a portrait painted of me in Cape Town when I was about 18 years old, arrived, with no letter or explanation, in Northern Ireland. 

In this case I knew who the sender was: a friend and neighbour from my years in Zimbabwe who had gone back to Nebraska with her American husband. We'd never seen each other again after we left Zimbabwe, but we'd had occasional online contact, which was how I discovered she'd been diagnosed with cancer. She also wrote to say that she took my first novel, The Traveller's Guide to Love, to all her chemo sessions because it made her laugh. Then her husband asked for my address because there was something she wanted him to send me, and the painting duly arrived.

 

I have no memory of how that painting left South Africa, and by then my friend was in a hospice and could no longer speak. A few days later she died. So I will never know for certain how this particular portrait went half way round the world to end up here in County Down, but it now hangs on the wall, a constant reminder of someone dear to me, and a link to both my past and my books.

I'm a very slow writer: I've only written 6 books - 3 for children and 3 for adults - and by any reasonable reckoning (and certainly in monetary terms) I am deeply unsuccessful. But there are other books I've made, hand-written and illustrated, for people in my life who have meant a great deal to me: to commemorate births and weddings (my own second marriage is recorded in Professor Gloom Meets His Match) and once for a dog. But it was one I wrote in 1988 that started it off - which brings me to the next strange link between fiction and truth ...

My third novel, as yet unpublished, begins in Zimbabwe (where I lived and worked for 18 years) and ends with a young African visitor picking up a children's book in London and wondering whether the author could possibly be the childhood friend her mother had so often told her about. 

Now, in 1985 in Harare, I made one of the closest friends of my life. Her name was Linda Buchfink. She and her husband, Gary, had come out from Canada on a 3-year contract; their two children were the same ages as ours, and all of us got on so well that we spent a great deal of time together. We shared holidays and weekend trips, meals and books and bottles of wine; and in 1987 we all went to the races to celebrate my son's 9th birthday. (It was his request and I thought that if we gave each of the four children a sum of money which - when they inevitably lost it - it would be a good life lesson about the dangers of betting. In the event, they won.) 

When their contract was up, the Buchfinks went back to Canada, and we were bereft. But before they left we gave them a book about their time in Zimbabwe. It was called The Buchfinks in Africa. I wrote it, our two older children helped me illustrate it, and my then husband designed the cover and wrote it out in beautiful calligraphy. And we all cried.

But Linda and I never lost touch. For the next few years we wrote regularly to each other, sent cards and photographs and family updates, and looked forward to the day when we would visit them in Canada. Then, in January 1994, they flew up in a helicopter to go skiing, hit the side of a mountain, and were all killed. 

Friends and neighbours kindly let me know that copies of our book had been made for all the family, and sent letters and information about their funeral and memorials, but after that we somehow lost touch. A few years later I left Zimbabwe myself, returning to Northern Ireland with my youngest child. But I'd kept all my friend's letters and photos, as well as a smudged black and white photocopy of the book we'd made, and in all the years since, she and her family have never been far from my mind. 

Then, just before Christmas, my daughter (who has a public profile) received an email from a woman in Canada asking if she was any relation to the Nicholl family who had been in Zimbabwe in the 1980s, and whom she'd been trying to contact for a very long time. Many emails, text messages and an hour-long telephone conversation later, I not only find myself in touch with two of Linda's best friends, but for the first time in more than 30 years I can see our book again in colour! 

So there you are: not just two totally unexpected connections to the past, but a reminder that what you write can be rewarded in ways you could never have imagined. It is 32 years this week since our friends died, but as the last lines of that first book read, 'The sun that sets over Africa is the same sun that rises over Canada... and good friends are never very far away if you keep them safe in your hearts.' 

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. 

Old Friends

Long, long ago, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth and I was young, we were taught to respect our elders and listen politely when they told us some boring story for the umpteenth time. This wasn't because of their superior wisdom (by and large, they were even stupider than we were) but because it was understood that life got harder to navigate as one grew older.

Of course, when we all became obsessed with eternal youth, respect went out the window: why would you offer anyone your seat on the bus, or not trample them underfoot in the race to board a train if they're pretending to be the same age that you are? Well, let me tell you something: no matter how hard you try to avoid it, you too will one day be creaking, crotchety, hard of hearing and endlessly repeating yourself. You will also have to say, to people you know perfectly well, I'm so sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name. (Although I suppose that's slightly better than I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten my name...)

Age does bring compensations. Doctors stop caring how much you drink (you can see the younger ones thinking, If I was that old, I'd also drink...) and there's more time to read or listen to podcasts. Professor Gloom, 77 and counting, currently enjoys The Rest is Politics with Rory Stewart and Alastair Campbell, and I  love the Slightly Foxed podcasts, the most recent of which featured Barbara Comyns. She's a writer I always admired, but I had no idea how similar our lives had been. Comyns, like me, went to art college and worked as an artist's model in her misspent youth. My recent novel, Life Study #2, available on Amazon - sorry, I'm officially the world's most hopeless self-publicist so I have to say that - draws on my own experience as a model. (See rare, clothed, example below.) She also moved a great deal and spent 18 years in another country - in her case Spain, in mine Zimbabwe. Anyway, Our Spoons Came from Woolworths - which I've just re-read - is an extraordinary book. As Maggie O'Farrell says in the foreword, Sophia is a heroine in every sense, and one you will never forget. 

Immortalised (with clothes) in 1965

There are a lot of things you shouldn't do when you're over 65 (like run for President) but you can please yourself in so many other things - like not reading anything you don't want to. I often avoid the much-praised, most talked about, novels of the moment but I have to say that I enjoyed Yellowface by Rebecca Kuang more than I expected. And a really interesting and engaging debut novel by Tibilisi-born Leo Vardiashvili is Hard by a Great Forest. 

Old friends bring other benefits. Often you've forgotten so much of the story that it's like reading a new novel, and quite often you enjoy a book more on the second or third reading. (The corollary is that you sometimes re-read a book you loved in your youth and find yourself thinking, what a load of pretentious twaddle.) Of the dozen or so books I've read lately, Rose Tremain's Absolutely and Forever and Willa Cather's A Lost Lady were both new finds, and Jennifer Johnston, Molly Keane and Barbara Pym have all been re-read with pleasure. A good murder is a safe bet too, and for reliably well-written, witty crime, Elly Griffiths is hard to beat. Ruth Galloway, her overweight, untidy, forensic archeologist with a complicated private life, is a particularly endearing character.

Lastly, the book that has most impressed me recently: West, by Carys Davies. Set in American pioneering days, it's been described by critics as spell-binding, haunting, luminous. For me it is a small masterpiece.

I notice there's only one man on this list but I have Sebastian Barry, William Boyd and Adulrazak Gurnah waiting (none of them spring chickens either) as well as The Coast Road, a debut novel by Alan Murrin which looks very promising. And although I think I may have said (more than once) that I'm not going to write any more blogs (or novels, come to that) when you're as old as I am, dear reader, you get a bit forgetful and tend to repeat yourself...because you see, long, long ago, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth...