The Happy Tree by Rosalind Murray

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This is one of Persephone’s newest batch of books, and is an evocative, sensitively written and powerfully moving novel that was a pure pleasure to read. I raced through it in two sittings, and even found myself having a little cry at the end, which is always a sign of a good book. It is the story of forty something Helen, a thinly fictionalised Rosalind, whose early life set against an idyllic yet rather unconventional background of wealth, intellect and privilege is destroyed by the First World War. She grows up with her two much-loved cousins; confident, talented Guy and sensitive, introverted Hugh, at Yearsley, a beautiful Georgian manor house in the country made up of honey-coloured, flower-filled rooms furnished in faded chintz where it seems to be forever summer. Helen and Hugh share a particular closeness; they understand one another completely, and as they grow older and more self-aware, it is clear that their feelings run much deeper than that of brother and sister. However, this knowledge pushes them apart as they enter their teen years, and unable to manage their emotions, they spend less and less time together. Before long, Helen is left alone as Guy and Hugh go up to Oxford, but after she finishes school, she enjoys being part of their cosmopolitan, intellectual crowd in Oxford and London, where they all gravitate as they enter their twenties.

Life is full of friendship, fun and frivolity, but beneath the surface of this seemingly privileged existence, Helen is haunted by the distance between herself and Hugh. Knowing she cannot have him, she drifts into a relationship with Walter, a rather dry and earnest academic, who, much to the chagrin of her friends and family, she marries. Shortly afterwards, war breaks out, and Helen must watch her beloved cousins and friends go off to fight, while she struggles alone with the responsibility of a growing family in her grotty house in North London. Life, which once seemed so full of beauty and possibility, has irreparably darkened. She doesn’t love Walter, life has become a daily grind of childcare and housework, and the war is a greedy spectre, sucking joy and hope from the world. As the inevitable casualties start to roll in, Helen, consumed with grief and regret, is devastated to realise that her world as she knew it has been destroyed, and there will be no going back.

I think what made me find this book so touching is because really it isn’t about war at all, but more the way in which life often takes us in directions we didn’t plan for, leaving us cast adrift from the vision of the future we believed we would have. There is a tone of such melancholy in Murray’s words, perfectly exemplified when she says ‘And this is all that has happened. It does not seem very much…I was happy when I was a child, and I married the wrong person, and someone I loved dearly was killed in the war…that is all. And all those things must be true of thousands of people.’ The lost opportunities, the private sorrows, the secret grief that courses under the surface of all of the perfectly ordinary people we see every day…it’s really quite an overwhelming thought. As such, The Happy Tree, despite its name, is not exactly an uplifting read, but it’s certainly a thought provoking, searingly honest portrayal of a woman’s life, and I loved every minute. I wish Rosalind Murray’s other novels were easier to come by, as her writing is definitely something I’d love to explore further.

Where the Chartered Thames Does Flow

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Of late I have been enjoying some glorious journeys along the Thames, exploring the stories the buildings on its banks tell about the changing neighbourhoods it passes on its course through London. Just before Christmas, I finally got around to taking the cable car between Royal Victoria Docks and the Greenwich Peninsula, home of the Millennium Dome (or O2 stadium, as it’s now known). It’s a short ride, but a fascinating one. South East London is the most rapidly expanding and gentrifying area of London, and the amount of building going on in areas that were formerly scrubby wastelands is quite overwhelming. The skyline is dotted with the heads of cranes, and the constant emergence of yet more shimmering skyscrapers and executive apartment buildings has invited a distinctly different demographic to the streets. However, when you are up in the air, looking down over the muddy riverbanks that are crowded with warehouses, factories and boats, it is clear to see that South East London is still very much characterised by its industrial roots. Here the Thames remains a working river, exemplified by the silver sails of the Thames Barrier peeking above the surface of the water. All of this industry might be hidden from tourists, but it is vital to the life of the city, and has a certain aesthetic appeal of its own.

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Last weekend, I went to the Tate to catch the Turner exhibition before it closes, and decided to walk along the river from Waterloo rather than catch the tube. I normally walk on the Westminster side of the bridge, but this time I walked along the other side before crossing the river at Lambeth Bridge, and I noticed Lambeth Palace for the first time. This is the London home of the Archbishop of Canterbury, with much of the building dating back to Tudor times. I stopped and stared at it for ages, completely mesmerised by this wonderful time capsule that is now marooned amongst a tangle of traffic lights and ugly 1980s office buildings. Half way across the bridge, I stopped to turn back, and was amazed at what I could see. The buildings in front of me were a physical map of London’s history. To my right, the Victorian obsession with the medieval exemplified in the Gothic Revival masterpiece that is the Houses of Parliament. To my left, the Shard, the Walkie Talkie and the spindly red heads of cranes building more skyscrapers poking above the skyline, symbols of modern capitalism. In front of them, the red brick Tudor gatehouse of Lambeth Palace, witness to the development of a city that has changed beyond recognition since it was built. This is what I love about London; there is always something new to discover, and every building tells such a fascinating story about how this city has evolved and adapted to the world around it. The past is just as alive as the present.

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By the time I was finished in the Tate, darkness had fallen, and the river had changed now it was being viewed under a different light. My mind filled with pictures of Turner’s amazing depictions of light in his work towards the end of his life, I was extra sensitive to the way the artificial lights from the surrounding buildings reflected on the water and contributed to the shifting sense of purpose of the river as night descends. It becomes a place of romance, of mystery, as the light dances across the surface and its depths become unfathomable. Facing Vauxhall, the hyper-modern buildings set against the black waters made London look sleek and futuristic; I could almost have been in Hong Kong. Facing Westminster, however, the soft glow of the Houses of Parliament in the darkling evening light provided such a quintessential vision of England that it would have been impossible for me to imagine I was anywhere else. As I made my way back to the Southbank to meet a friend for dinner, I found myself walking under a haze of fairy lights and the neon glow of the signs attached to the brutalist structures of the National Theatre and Southbank Centre. This section of the river, built solely for the purpose of entertainment and to regenerate a London destroyed by war, is always filled with crowds of people enjoying themselves and the views the promenade offers. It’s amazing how, within the space of a few miles, the Thames transforms from the industrial wasteland I saw on my cable car ride to a cultural metropolis. Walking along its banks is certainly an education, and a way to see London through fresh eyes.

Germany: Memories of a Nation by Neil MacGregor

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When I think about Germany, my first association is always war, followed by Nazis, followed by concentration camps. I imagine that most people who aren’t German would have the same response. So, when I heard that the British Museum was putting on an exhibition about German history and culture, and that there would be an accompanying book and radio series, I was excited to have the opportunity to widen my understanding of Germany as a nation and move beyond the limited view of the country as a place of conflict and terror. I was also interested to see how German people have, in recent years, dealt with their past, especially as there has been so much memorialisation of WWI in Britain lately. Our 20th century history and culture is very much bound up in notions of victory, of tenacity, of bravery, of standing up against evil; how must it feel for your country’s history to be laced with defeat, destruction and guilt? How is that worked into the narrative of a country’s culture, and how does that affect the way Germans feel about their nationhood? There was so much I wanted to find out, and I wondered whether Neil MacGregor, the Director of the British Museum, could answer all of these questions for me. I was delighted to find that he could, as well as giving me much more to think about besides.

The book is organised into six sections, working on a roughly chronological basis through Germany’s history, looking at its most famous sons and daughters as well as its considerable artistic, political, industrial and cultural contributions to the world. Each chapter within the six sections is hinged around a particular object and the story it tells, and all of these objects are on view in the exhibition. It is over 500 pages long, so I’m just going to pick out a couple of things that I found most interesting to tell you about. Firstly, I loved discovering more about the shifting make-up of Germany as a country. For hundreds of years it was a collection of states and principalities encompassing what is now modern day Germany as well as parts of France, Scandinavia, Russia, Austria, Hungary and the Baltic. Overseen centrally by the Holy Roman Emperor, each state was largely autonomous. There was no ‘Germany’ as we know it now, but merely a ‘German people’, linked by a shared language rather than a shared nation, history or culture. This disparate nature of Germany prevents it from having a unified version of history or cultural identity, especially as the constant re-drawing of the borders of Germanic states means that much of what were traditionally Germanic speaking regions are now fully assimilated into other countries. I have always taken it for granted that I can read a history book about England and find an easy, linear account of its development over time; German people do not have that privilege. Theirs is a history of states and regions, with their own cultures, customs and histories that vary enormously. This is seen most powerfully in the monuments in some German cities, which commemorate victories against what are now other parts of Germany. As such, one city’s hero is another’s villain; one city’s victory is another’s humilating defeat. The famous Valhalla monument to the heroes and heroines of the German-speaking lands, built by King Ludwig I, King of Bavaria, is a perfect example of this, with many of the busts placed inside having caused considerable debate as to their worthiness by people from different parts of Germany. MacGregor’s discussion of Germany’s historic make-up being a precursor to the EU was of particular insight, and reveals why Germany is such a supporter of it. Germany as a united nation has only existed for less than 30 years; it is in its blood to be part of a wider collection of states, held together by a common purpose. In comparison, many British people are vehemently anti-EU, and considering our long history of being an independent island nation, this offers an intriguing insight into how historical identities can subconsciously affect people’s emotional responses to governing bodies.

I also found it fascinating to read about modern German history, and the ways in which the guilt of the atrocities of Hitler’s regime have been handled. Germany is a country of very few war memorials, for obvious reasons, yet those that are in place speak of a nation profoundly ashamed at what it has been responsible for. Many of their most famous memorials are of weeping, grief stricken figures that exemplify a sense of loss and sadness, both for what the people had suffered – their children were killed too – but also for what they had caused others to suffer. Unlike in other countries, where statues and memorials commemorate victory and honour, Germany’s monuments commemorate their recognition of a need for change.  It is a brave nation that is willing to confront its troubled past and make a public commitment to ensuring that such atrocities never happen again, and in Germany now, with a new generation emerging who have not grown up in the shadow of the Berlin Wall, there is an excitement in the air, as the ability to forge a new national identity, free from the shame of the past, becomes possible.

This is genuinely one of the best non-fiction books I’ve ever read, and using it to guide me through the equally fantastic exhibition enabled me to really contextualise the objects that are on display and understand more fully why they had been chosen and what they revealed. Once I’d finished reading, I felt enlightened, educated and eager to find out even more. I can sense a trip to Germany coming up in 2015 – if only I hadn’t forgotten all of my GCSE German! If you can’t make it to the exhibition, which closes on the 25th of January, then I can’t recommend the book, and the accompanying radio series, which can still be listened to here, highly enough.

Celebrate Good Times

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So, another year comes to a close. 2014 has been an interesting experience for me. I learned a lot, professionally and personally. It was tough at times, but in a way that has deepened and broadened and clarified my mind, and helped me gain some much needed perspective and contentment.

I have found that as I have left the university and early twenty-something years behind, where there is so much change and upheaval and opportunity, it can be difficult to adjust when life settles into a more permanent routine. After all, it’s hard to feel like your life is going somewhere when you’re literally not going anywhere. I’ve been in the same place for three years now, and being settled, being static, is a state I am still getting used to. I often have moments where I feel my life lacks excitement and purpose, and my wanderlust begins to kick in, calling me to responsibility-free foreign climes rather than the 9-5 in the Home Counties. It doesn’t help when social media is constantly showing me photographs of friends who are doing all manner of ridiculous things, like saving children in Uganda or kayaking their way around Scandinavia, or getting married on top of a mountain in India, or setting up their own internet company from their penthouse apartment in New York. In comparison, my photos, if I could be bothered to upload any, would consist of the pile of A Level essays I marked, a graveyard I visited or a rubbish cake that I made. I couldn’t be more boring if I tried.

However, as I have been mulling over my year and considering what I will take away from my experiences of the past twelve months, I’ve been amazed at how much I have achieved, and how much I’ve grown. I’ve come to realise that staying put doesn’t mean I’m not going anywhere. Far from it, actually. I don’t need to go travelling around the world to have adventures any more, because I have them every day just by going to work. Even though it is often exhausting and sometimes incredibly frustrating, I find such a deep sense of fulfilment and pleasure in teaching my students that I know, deep down, if someone offered me a free round the world trip tomorrow, I wouldn’t want to take it. Nothing could challenge me more. Nothing could inspire me more. Nothing could teach me more. Nothing could delight me more than the children in my classroom. They teach me more about myself and give me more inspiration than I could ever give them, and they change me for the better, every single day.

I’ve watched my beautiful, clever, brilliant, hilarious, amazing nephews grow another year older and another year wiser. I’ve made some fantastic new friends. I’ve visited two new countries. I’ve started a choir at work. I’ve read a lot of fascinating books and visited a lot of interesting exhibitions and seen a lot of wonderful plays. I’ve truly learned something new every day. I’ve had a lot of fun. I finally stopped talking about writing a book and actually wrote it, which I am enormously proud of, even if I am the only person who ever reads it. And, of course, I got to share all of these moments with you, and notched up another year in the blogosphere in the process, which is always an achievement worth celebrating. I might not have set the world on fire, but it’s been a pretty brilliant year nonetheless.

So, here’s to 2015…it’s got a lot to live up to!

Merry Christmas!

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Thank you for your patience with my sporadic posts this year. It has, as always, been such a joy to have you reading along, sharing in the highs and lows of my various endeavours and offering your ever considerate and insightful comments and advice. Please know how much I appreciate you all, whether you make yourself known to me or not. I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, and I’ll be back with a proper post very soon.