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Articles & Extracts

Counting My Chickens

Counting My Chickens

My extraordinary mother, the writer Elspeth Barker, died in April 2022. She left this life on a balmy, sunny afternoon, just as if she was wandering down through her garden to the river with her dogs, pausing to stare at primroses and notice shades of green brightening on the canopied branches of her beloved beech tree. Her last days had been beatific in some ways as we, her five children, gathered around her and talked to her about some of her favourite things – picnics, beech trees, bluebells, jackdaws, poems, books. We read her Moorland Mousie, which had been a treasured book of her childhood, and felt the incredible privilege of walking beside her on her last journey.
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The Land of Lost Content

The Land of Lost Content

Nineteen twenty-two was a good year for poetry. It saw the publication of two very different works which would prove to be of lasting popularity – A. E. Housman’s Last Poems, and T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. I love that bizarre conjunction, Housman’s traditional, rhyming, apparently artless verse jostling for shelf space with the arch-modernist exciting and outraging the world with his wilful obscurities and cunning vulgarities. None of the doomed country lads who inhabit Housman’s poetic world were ever to ‘wash their feet in soda water’ as Eliot’s Mrs Porter and her daughter did, let alone dry their ‘combinations touched by the sun’s last rays’.
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Brits Behaving Badly

Brits Behaving Badly

The decayed spa town where I grew up during the 1950s was full of people who had been ‘out in’ somewhere or other across the British Empire. If those two semi-detached prepositions denoted something special and exotic about dwellers in the Victorian mansions lining Graham Road or the Italianate Regency villas along the hilltop terrace known as Bello Sguardo, they also suggested a certain precariousness, that of an echelon abruptly robbed of its status and forced to live the life of bewildered refugees.
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Not Utterly Oyster

Not Utterly Oyster

I first picked up Marion Crawford’s The Little Princesses (1950) a few years ago, when I was preparing for a television documentary on the early life of Queen Elizabeth II. Even then, reading in a hurry on a train journey, I remember being struck by the richness of the detail in it. My paperback edition has an off-putting pink jacket, but it would be a mistake to judge The Little Princesses by its cover. Recently I reread it while researching my own book on the late Queen, and I realized that it’s a gem – essential reading for anyone interested in the Royal Family in the twentieth century.
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Live Fast, Die Young

Live Fast, Die Young

Tolkien, C. S. Lewis and Rosemary Sutcliff offer stiff competition; nevertheless I can’t help thinking that Smith (1967) by Leon Garfield might just be the single most accomplished novel for children in the English language. Garfield (1921–96) was a prolific author who also wrote splendid ghost stories, but Smith is his masterpiece. So deeply embedded in literary tradition that it amounts to a child’s gateway to Dickens, Fielding and Stevenson, this London novel par excellence has a brilliance of style, depth of characterization, vividness of description, thrillingly twisty plot and above all an indomitable child hero who wouldn’t disgrace any of those illustrious writers.
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Joining the Grown-ups

Joining the Grown-ups

I’ve been reading The Borrowers books with my daughter. I loved them when I was her age, and it’s been a joy to rediscover Mary Norton’s tales of these tiny people who live alongside humans. Their miniature world is described in glorious detail – they are small enough to take up residence in a boot, make a roaring fire from matchsticks, or feast for days on a single roasted chestnut. We’ve been thrilled as they are menaced by ferrets, scooped up into pockets or swept downstream in a tea kettle.
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From World to World

From World to World

We are observing a group of people trying to find a log. The log is not where they left it. They have been away for some time. Now it is not where it was, and they are perturbed. It is, we gather, a long log. They need it in order to cross a marsh. Finally one of them – he is called Lok – has the bright idea of finding another log, and putting it where the old one was. His companions are deeply impressed by this. A new log is located and moved by communal effort. Now they can cross the marsh to get to where they want to go. They take it in turns to walk along the log, but one of them, an old man, falls into the water. They pull him out, but he is wet and cold, and starts shivering. This seems to trouble them much more than we might expect. We infer that being cold represents a mortal threat.
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So Far Yet So Near

So Far Yet So Near

You do not have to be a paid-up member of the Janeite club to find yourself returning repeatedly to her novels. The urge to idolize Jane Austen is understandable but (in the spirit of the author herself) careful observation from a distance may serve us better. What is remarkable about her writing is not merely the vividness of her creations but the skill with which she inclines us to enter worlds whose manners and morals are in so many respects alien to our own. I cannot be the only reader who has found himself nodding in agreement with actions and expressions of opinion which would cause ructions in today’s world. Which is no more than to say that she is a past master at getting us to suspend our disbelief – or, to put it another way, to persuade us that her world is somehow ours.
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Small Crimes, Big Consequences

Small Crimes, Big Consequences

Even the most beloved authors are not necessarily remembered for the works they themselves considered their best. Famously, Arthur Conan Doyle wrote his Sherlock Holmes stories begrudgingly, and was instead devoted to his historical fiction, in particular The White Company, a charming but somewhat mannered tale of knights in the Hundred Years’ War. Similarly, C. S. Lewis considered his little-known novel Till We Have Faces his best work. A retelling of the Cupid and Psyche myth, it’s a dark and foreboding tale, a far cry from his Narnia stories or even his popular theology.
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A Shameless Old Reprobate

A Shameless Old Reprobate

In 1977 I interviewed Christopher Isherwood about his memoir, Christopher and His Kind. During the interview he said how much he regretted burning the diaries he had kept while living in Berlin in the early 1930s. Why? Because, he told me, they gave a much truer picture of his past than the two novels he based upon them. Instead of being an observer, in the diaries he appeared as a participant, cruising bars in search of ‘boys’, which was why he’d gone to Berlin in the first place. It was okay to admit this now, but in those days you simply couldn’t risk such compromising material falling into the wrong hands. So up in smoke they went.
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The Getting of Wisdom

The Getting of Wisdom

‘If only people knew about Dorothy Whipple, I feel their lives would be so enriched,’ I remember the founder of Persephone Books remarking thoughtfully when I interviewed her for a profile of the firm for the very first issue of Slightly Foxed. And how right she was. It took me a long time – almost twenty years in fact – to catch up with Dorothy Whipple, and although I have enjoyed her fiction, which is compulsively readable, it is her childhood memoir, The Other Day (1936), that has touched and entertained me most.

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