Children's books

The best kind of books are those that take you to a different world, where you can escape your own, immerse yourself somewhere else, so that you're surprised when you eventually look up and find yourself in your own armchair, or bed, or at your kitchen table. This holds for children's books too. As a book-obsessed person, reading to my own children is a mixed blessing. I want to transfer a love of books, so I want to read with passion. But it's hard to fake enthusiasm for the sixty-eighth rendition of Interactive-Sounds-Fireman-Sam. So I'm a mean mummy when it comes to books. I censor. Cue deep intake of breaths all round. Although my little children are allowed to own such terrible wastes of card and paper, they find that they are mysteriously buried at the bottom of the book basket. Or, if I'm in really Terrible Mother mode, I blatantly wrinkle my nose and say "let's read this one instead". Freedom to choose is all well and good, but if I'm the one who has to read and re-read, I want it to be a good book. Anything else is just a wasteful sapping of reading time. So...the favourite reading books for children in this book-dominated house are ones that I love too, where I can enter the world of the book, revel in the sounds, the rhythms, the illustrations. Where dreams take over.

The Katie Morag books, By Mairi Hedderwick, are a constant choice here. The stories are about the wonderful life of a little girl in the Scottish Islands, complete with a cast of characters so well rounded and quirky they could grace any George Eliot novel. There's Grannie Island, the smallholding, tractor-driving grandma who covers her beloved tractor in CND stickers, dad- who is oft found serving in the Island's post office and simultaneously changing a nappy and mum who - gasp - is frequently seen to be breastfeeding a baby. Not only are the stories themselves whimsical and delicious, but the watercolour illustrations invite you to disappear into the colours, the scenery, the homely world of Katie Morag. I could happily spend an hour poring over the pictures of Katie Morag curled up in the rocking chair by Grannie's Rayburn, or the Big Boy Cousins (Hector, Archie, Jamie, Dougal and Murdo Ian) wreaking havoc across the village.



Another favourite is the Alfie books by Shirley Hughes. Similar to the Katie Morag books in that they are not saccharine-sweet, and there is not a fairy or a spaceman in sight. This time, though, Alfie is a city child, who lives with his mum and baby sister, Annie Rose. What I love about these books, is that Shirley Hughes, like Mairi Hedderwick, knows children. So when Alfie goes to Bernard's birthday party, Bernard is naughty and won't take off a tiger mask that frightens one of the other guests, blows bubbles through a straw into his jelly and has it taken away by his mum! Again, the illustrations are beautiful, detailed and create a world you can lose yourself in. I love Bernard's back garden birthday party, decked out with balloons and a table with mismatched chairs, set out under a tree and groaning with the weight of cakes, jelly and sandwiches. In fact, Bernard's garden has inspired some of the decoration of my own garden when we've had parties, with balloons in the trees, bunting and general English tea-party loveliness! But there are also appealing drawings of the urban streets where Alfie lives, and his stories echo the kind of situations many little children encounter.



My First Born is long-past picture books. And although i wince every time I pass the bookshelves in her room and see rows of lurid-coloured paperbacks with titles like Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging, I try to take heart that her bedroom actually has bookshelves filled with books and that she does read, albeit supplemented by piles of gossip mags with titles like Bliss and Sugar. But I remember the illicit thrill of Just Seventeen when I was a mid-teen, devouring the problem page (was it Dear Melanie?) along with the midget gems I used to buy on my Friday after-school trips to the newsagents. Ahh, those were the days. But, as a literate mother, I do poke my nose in unforgivably to my daughter's reading material. She has gone through the Jacqueline Wilson stage - all good in my opinion, as they encouraged her to be an avid reader - and was flailing for a while. So I sneaked in some books of my own. Holes, by Louis Sachar was an instant hit. The His Dark Materials books by Philip Pullman mysteriously appeared on her shelves, but she pooh-poohed these. Not one to give up, they were joined by some less-obviously-fantasy Pullman - The Butterfly Tattoo was a big hit. More hits were Coraline, by Neil Gaiman (once she stopped sniggering at his name) - a creepy pageturner about a girl who gets trapped in a parallel world. There are several illustrations throughout, some of which are terrifying. I enjoyed this one myself (and was a little bit scared). And The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. Of the Asperger's sufferer narrator, she said "he's a bit like Dad, isn't he?" Make of that what you will. And she's currently deeply immersed in Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder - a history of philosophical thought in story form. Still sitting on her reading pile is Finding Violet Park by Jenny Valentine - it got rave reviews. I'll have to see if First Born agrees with them.





My own personal childhood faves were the Famous Five books. As a child I was blithely unaware of any alleged racist and sexist slant and tumbled head first into the adventures. I lived in that world and was often teased at school for using exclamations such as "Bother" and "Blow" rather than the more colourful Anglo-Saxon of the other kids. I couldn't have given a stuff. In my own head, I was off home soon for high tea, with buttered scones and home-made lemonade. That it was more likely to be Ross Beefsteaks and chips didn't bother me. I lived then, as now, in my books.
Another favourite that has followed me into adulthood is the Jennings books by Anthony Buckeridge. The tales, written in the 50s, follow the adventures of a prep school boy and his fellow pupils. I adore these - full of tales of ribbing the masters, and dive-bombing the tuck boxes and originator of phrases such as "What antiseptic eyewash, Jennings, you clod!" Whenever I'm feeling a bit low, even now, I get out my Jennings books. They are absolutely hilarious and open up a lost world of the English post-war prep school. I was dismayed to learn a few years back that they were to be re-issued to appeal to modern children and updated with computers, gameboys etc. No, no,no. This is to kill the essence of Jennings, Derbyshire and Co, who are so immensely of their time and place that to take them out of it would be to destroy them completely. I still root out the orange hardback copies in second-hand bookshops and it's always a thrill to find 'em. The phenomenom of the 'crossover' book didn't start with Harry Potter. A good book is a good book. Why should children be fobbed off with badly written tosh? And why should parents have to read it?!

Persephone Books

If I was living my fantasy life, I'd now be settling down in the drawing room after luncheon. Chances are though, if it were really 1929, I would have been serving the luncheon rather than eating it. So it's always good to escape into a book and live the upstairs life of a nice English lady, where housewifely concerns are the potting of winter bulbs and managing cook's moods rather than pounding the perfect hummous and working up a sweat with the Ecover cream cleaner. As a matter of fact, I've been let off any domestic duties today. First-Born is falsed-tanned to a startling shade of tangerine and off out with her friends for the day, Little Boy is on a trip with the grandparents to see some lambs in Wales, Mr Pram is at home keeing a watchful eye over our builders and I am left with The Babe, so have retreated to my parents' city-centre pad, infant in tow, for some wonderfully liberating unscheduled hanging-out time.
Although we have no luncheon, in the proper sense of the word, I manage to put The Babe in the sling and head out into town. She sleeps while I buy a Pret A Manger cheddar and pickle and amble over to the huge Waterstones branch for a browse in their 3-for-2s. And what rich pickings today! Oh joy of joys! There on the display tables is the re-issue of a Dorothy Whipple by Persephone Books. And only £9. I heart, heart, heart Persephone Books. If the literary and the domestic meet anywhere, it is surely inside the pale grey covers of a Persephone Book. Everything about these books scores top marks on my excitement-o-meter. For years, I've been stalking small branch libraries and second-hand bookshops for fading editions of forgotten twentieth-century women writers. Oh the bliss of discovering an Antonia White behind a pile of Harold Robbins, or a Barbara Pym with it's spine cracked, it's pages yellowed and bent, stuffed between a couple of science fictions.



Many times I wondered how much greater a place the world would be if more of these neglected authors' work was available. And then I discovered it was. Not only was there a rich body of women's writing being re-printed, it was being printed in the most beautiful, strokeable, editions. Every Persephone Book has a distinctive grey jacket on a superior paperback frame, and each has its own coloured endpapers and matching bookmark, with prints from old wallpapers and dress fabrics. Each is an object of desire in itself, a tactile, aesthetic delight in addition to the wonderful content. I normally buy mine directly from Persephone via t'internet. I'd love to visit their shop, in London, but sadly never get the chance to nip on the train and spend a couple of hours traipsing from Liberty to Lamb's Conduit Street to Charing Cross Road (possibly my perfect day). But hey, here is a Persephone, in a new, less swanky jacket - a Persephone Classic - staring at me in Waterstones. I grab the book - Someone At A Distance - and head towards the tillpoint.



But on the way, weaving between leather armchairs and 'Booksellers Recommend' stands, something else catches my eye: a whole display dedicated to Virago Modern Classics. Gone are the bottle green covers. These beauties are hardbacks with fabric print jackets. And the one that catches my eye is covered in Cath Kidston roses. More joy - The Diary of a Provincial Lady by EM Delafield - one of the funniest ever books. I already own Provincial Lady, but in a bog-standard paperback issue. What to do, what to do? I am sensible today, and only buy the Whipple. But I'm coming back!

A Room of One's Own

"There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall." Cyril Connolly, 1957.

So, where does the literary woman turn on realising she's a housewife, and not the all-conquering careerist that she once thought she would become? To a book of course. And it has to be Virginia Woolf's A Room Of One's Own. Any essay on women and fiction that includes the phrases "domesticity prevailed" and "back to nursery tea" (both, surely, promising titles of novels yet to be written) has to be one of my favourite books. The tantalising combination of a certain English gentility (so many references to luncheon), drawing room manners and the between-the-wars era, is so appealing to someone who has learnt to embrace the domestic and find beauty and meaning in the baking of a loaf, while keeping one eye on a Barbara Pym or an Elizabeth Taylor. And of course settling down for a good long read later with a nice cup of tea and a slice of Battenburg.
I can't read A Room Of One's Own without crying. Tears of anger, of indignation, of pity, of inspiration. And of admiration. Woolf was truly a woman's writer. Not just in subject matter, but in essence, embodying in every wonderful, undulating sentence, the ecriture feminine desired, decades later, by Helene Cixous in The Laugh of the Medusa ("Woman must put herself into the text - as into the world and into history - by her own movement."). Woolf's writing disengages from the masculine ordered sentence and revels, plays and dances in long, fluid, loops, letting meaning dip and flow. Here's the description of an Oxbridge college -
The windows of the building, curved like ships' windows among generous waves of red brick, changed from lemon to silver under the flight of the quick spring clouds. Somebody was in a hammock, somebody, but in this light they were phantoms only, half guessed, half seen, raced across the grass - would no one stop her? - and then on the terrace, as if popping out to breathe the air, to glance at the garden, came a bent figure, formidable yet humble, with her great forehead and her shabby dress - could it be the famous scholar, could it be J-- H-- herself? All was dim, yet intense too, as if the scarf which the dusk had flung over the garden were torn asunder by the star or sword - the flash of some terrible reality leaping, as its way is, out of the heart of spring. For youth --
Here was my soup.
Just this one passage holds so many keys to the whole of women's writing, to women's very being. Just as, in the 1970s, Cixous longs for women to write in "white ink" - to enter into the Lacanian Symbolic Order and subvert the masculine - to overthrow the black ink of male writing, of male language and thus of the whole social order - and replace it with the white ink, the milk, the female fluidity, Woolf's writing already is fluidity. The sentences meander, playing with subordinate clauses as if they were undercurrents in a stream (indeed - a stream of consciousness). Even the vocabulary includes fluidity, so that solid walls become "waves", the windows curved. The joyous use of punctuation, of questions within a sentence, of jumps and omissions of ordered, chronological thinking, (here things are "phantoms only, half guessed, half seen") are in themselves, wonderful to read. But also very clever. The very beauty of the writing is in opposition to the staid scholarly articles and monographs written by men that she claims to consult in her research into women and fiction. The above passage reads like a novel, or even poetry - or both - (again muddying the distinction between different genres in a way that is predicitive of post-structuralist theory of the 1970s and 80s) so that the prescription for formal academic language is torn apart. The contrast between dry-as-dust male scholarship and vivid, alive, fluid female scholarship isn't described. It's embodied in her very writing. And that final sentence, "here was my soup" plunges us straight back from the lofty to the domestic. Woolf proves (as she later states) that the domestic is every bit as important in the tradition of literature as wars, battles, politics.
I re-read the Shakespeare's sister section out loud in bed to Mr Pram last night. I cried. Mr Pram didn't (although he did look a little disturbed. I think, in hindsight, that was because he thought I was becoming unhinged, rather than at the power of Virginia Woolf's argument).

My battered old Penguin edition is always on the bedside table pile, so that whenever I feel the weight of that label ,"housewife and mother," dragging me down, I can dip in and revivify my belief in the importance and power - and the subjugation - of women, and be inspired to get out my notebook, hole myself away in the dining room at the desk I inherited from my grandma ("for we think back through our mothers if we are women") surrounded by tottering piles of books and undusted shelves (I didn't say I was an efficient housewife) and begin to write, and to read...

If Woolf is the mother-figure in the great line of domestic authors whom I love to read, Persephone Books is the reading room of the house, in its restful-grey drawing-room palette and it's wallpaper-and-household-fabric endpapers. But more of that later.