My Three Sisters by Sheena Wilkinson

I’ve just seen the new film of Little Women and I loved it. Little Women has always been a special story to me, my granny and my mother. I was always sorry that my own sister never got into it (too soppy, not enough ponies) because it’s such a brilliant study of sisterhood. I think that this particular version really captured that – the fighting, the rivalry, the loyalty. 

It’s also a story of sisterhood in its wider sense, like my new book, Hope against Hope, set in a girls’ hostel in 1921 Belfast. 

the eldest sister 

I haven’t had a book out since 2017’s Star by Star. I adored writing Star, my most successful book overall. It’s sold well, won awards, been nominated for things and included on lists, and gained me invitations to lovely festivals and events. Set in Ireland in winter 1918, Star by Star shouldn't have been an easy book to write:  the end of the Great War, the Spanish Influenza pandemic, the first general election open to (some) women voters, and Home Rule all jostled for position in a story which had to be accessible to young readers. But though the issues were complex they all impacted on each other so much in real life that it was easy to fit them into a story. Best of all, though the novel was stand-alone, I was able to bring back some of my favourite characters from 2015’s Name upon Name, making the novels companions to each other, sisters.  Middle sisters are meant to the awkward ones, but Star by Star was always a joy to me. 

middle sister

I loved Star by Star so much that I really wanted to write a third historical novel, so when my publisher, Little Island, asked for one, I was thrilled. After writing about the Easter Rising of 1916, and the General Election of 1918, 1921 was the obvious choice. There was so much going on, in particular the partition of Ireland. Because of Brexit, the UK border in Ireland has once again come to the forefront of political discourse. I grew up with army and customs check points and closed roads, with so-called ‘bandit country’ and no-go areas, but in recent years I’ve enjoyed being able to cross the border freely, often hardly being aware of it. The threat of losing that freedom terrifies me, and I wanted to write a book which showed people, particularly young women, living with the very early days of that border. The hostel setting allowed me to explore a community of young women, something I've been fascinated by ever since my first time at Malory Towers. 

Hope against Hope is a stand-alone: you don’t need to have read its sisters Name upon Name or Star by Star. But I love it when writers create a world where you meet old friends in a new context and I was delighted to be able to explore the futures of some of my characters. Like its sisters, it’s very much a feminist novel, exploring the impact of political turmoil on young women trying to make better lives for themselves. 

youngest sister 

I can’t pretend Hope against Hope was a straightforward book to write. Some stories reveal themselves easily; others are shy and awkward and take their time. This particular sister fought with me the whole time – and she fought dirty. At times I hated her. Why couldn’t she just do what I wanted? Why couldn’t she be amenable like Star by Star? Why did she need so many drafts, so much cajoling? 

But by the time I had wrestled this naughty little sister into shape, I had grown to love and respect her. Sometimes it’s the awkward sister who turns out to be the most exciting. I love how Hope looks -- I have been so lucky in wonderful designer Niall McCormack who has made all three books so beautiful  -- and now I can’t wait for her to take her place in the world with her older sisters. 

Tyler Family Christmas

Early in December I begin reading the annual round of much loved Christmas stories. Among them are the March girls delivering their Christmas breakfast to a hungry family and the Ingalls putting baked potatoes at their visitors feet to keep them from freezing on their sleigh ride home.

This year, I would like to give you the Tyler family Christmas as celebrated in 2010. I don't pretend we have the charm of the March or Ingalls families, but it is ours and I offer it to you with love.

There is nothing more magical than waking up to a world covered in snow. A reverential hush descends, footsteps are muted and activities are transformed to fit a new landscape of breath-taking beauty. But when show falls at Christmas, the world becomes a place of enchantment.

We live in the mountains and have been snowed in for some days. Mum, Dad and the dogs are trudging though the snow to meet the family. Cars cannot reach the farm and must be parked two miles down the hill. As people tumble out of their cars smiling and laughing, everyone is caught up in a bundle of hugs, kisses and happiness. We pile sledges high with luggage and presents and tramp back to the house singing Good King Wenceslas: the girls sing the part of the page and the boys take the King. As usual, we shout the last word in the line ‘heat was in the very sod’ and giggle like naughty children in a school assembly.

Eventually, we tumble into the house with cold noses and numb fingers, stamping life back into our feet. We stand in front of the wood burner and melted snow forms small pools on the rug.

The house has been transformed by Mum into a magical candle-lit wonderland with green boughs and twinkling tree lights. As we put the presents under the tree, Dad brings us mulled wine and Christmas has truly begun.

Christmas Eve ends with Mum reading aloud Lucy and Tom’s Christmas by the light of the Christmas tree. Then we watch The Snowman followed by Father Christmas and we give our annual toast of thanks to Raymond Briggs. As we climb the stairs to bed, we sing a slightly raucous version of Father Blooming Christmas.

Silent Night. Soundlessly, the snow falls outside. Mum lies in bed happy to have her family gathered under the same roof for three deliciously precious nights.

Christmas morning dawns and the snow is deeper still. ‘Happy Christmas!’ echoes round the kitchen as we eat breakfast in front of the Aga. Then we bundle ourselves up to head out into the snow. The dogs chase us as we toboggan down the hills witnessed only by a few startled sheep. The kids perfect the technique of standing on sledges as they career down the slopes. Mum falls off and we all laugh as she staggers to her feet covered in snow. The sun is big and red, just like Lucy and Tom’s, and the camera catches the boys jumping over it and flying through the air like winter super heroes.

Back in the house, the piano and guitars accompany our carol singing. The song sheets are falling apart with age, but they are another tradition. At every exclamation mark we slap our thighs; an unmerited capital letter has us standing up and quickly sitting again. What we lack in piety, we make up for with laughter. We finish, as we do every year, with Mum’s favourite, O Come all ye Faithful. As always, Mum sheds a tear of happiness.

Then, we put on our wellies and venture outside again to see who can pop the bubbly cork the furthest. This year one cork goes out of sight and we suspect it lands two fields away – a family record.

We hurry back into the house for present-opening. The youngest passes a present out from under the tree and the recipient opens it carefully – no paper-ripping in our home – while everyone watches and comments. It takes a while, but no one is in a hurry.

Lunch is mid afternoon. We all eat brussel sprouts not because we like them, but because it’s tradition. The wishbone is pulled and someone gets a wish. Afterwards the oldies are sent to doze by the fire while the youngsters clear away, and by the time they join Mum and Dad night has fallen.

Darkness once more transforms our home into a mystical wonderland and the games begin. They are noisy and boisterous and competitive. Merriment is the key component and we laugh until our sides ache.

Bed is late. Mum and Dad go first and youngsters stay downstairs savouring the company of their siblings. Games from their youth are played and no one notices what time they finally troop up to bed.

Boxing Day is quieter. We walk the snowy hills and try out a new camera. In the evening we watch a film, but it takes ages because we keep stopping to talk, tell a story or make a joke.

After a late and very long breakfast the following morning, we pile up the sledges with bags and suitcases and trudge back to the cars. Mum hides her tears as her children drive away. She watches and waves until they are long out of sight.

Mum, Dad and the dogs walk back to an empty house.

Christmas is over, but the memories remain.”

Again and again and again...... by Miriam Halahmy

What makes us want to read a book again and again and again? I am struck by the desire in the reader to repeat because my first grandbaby is thirteen months now and the fave book currently is Peek A Boo, a baby flap book by Jan Ormerod. Grandbaby absolutely never tires of this book. Our day is Thursday and over the course of the day the book will be read maybe ten to fifteen times and each time the flap is opened the grandbaby laughs. Without fail! I love it.

But I love to reread books. When I was a child I read certain of my favourite books over and over again, Little Women and The Secret Garden being two of those. What did I get out of this repetition? I knew the stories by heart, had a picture of each character firmly in my mind and this was before any film or tv drama I saw of these books. There is an ache I get inside me for books - much stronger when I was younger but it still returns from time to time. And then there is that fever to get back to your reading, a desire so strong you can't wait for the moment when you can settle down again and retrieve that fictional world you have had to exit from for so long - school, shopping, work, childcare, whatever. That dream which we all know so well is part of the desire to re-read. Sometimes it doesn't work. That world only overtook you once and once only.

But with some of these books, like Little Women, you slip back in as though you were stepping out of the front door into the snow, away from the roaring fire and Beth playing the piano, to call out for Laurie next door and sigh as Meg walks away with John. We return to the familiar and the beauty of the world created in the book, to the characters who have become old friends.

The grandbaby is of course doing something different - finding the Peek a Boo book each Thursday in GrandMiri's house is part of establishing our bond, the sense of familiarity which will be created by all the senses - smell, touch, sound, sight and taste. We share our breakfast of bread and butter, peanut butter and bananas, although I'm the only one who has coffee. We press the button on froggie dear which plays the same tunes over and over and we reach for Peek a Boo and share the joke again and again and again and the bond which emerges is one which I hope will last for ever.

As adults the rereading of books my also be the desire to slip back into the world created and to re-engage with old friends. But there is something else too. There are the books which are not quite finished, even though we have read the last page. These are the books which are so tremendously layered that we need to reread them to deepen our understanding and layer our pleasure, our wonder, our questions and our completion of the work.

This year I read Lila by Marilynne Robinson on my Kindle and it had such a profound effect on me I bought it in hardback to reread. But in the past I have made the mistake of rereading a book too soon and so I have put it on my bookshelf to pick up at the right moment when I know it is the only book I really want to be immersed in. Lila is the third title in a loose trilogy which was written over several years. Gilead is the first and I had tried to read that and felt bewildered when it first came out. For me, once I had read Lila, Gilead made so much more sense to me and I would recommend reading them in that order. I wasn't that keen on the middle title, Home.

Again and again is a gift to the reader - it doesn't happen often particularly for me as I have gotten older. I do remember my friend's nephew saying that he and his friend had both read my novel HIDDEN and gone back and reread it immediately a second time. To me that was an enormous endorsement of my book.
But if you are lucky enough to feel that tremendous ache in you to return and reread the book and it rewards and delights you again and maybe again, then I wish you many more agains and agains.

When my youngest was six the Ugly Duckling had to be read aloud every night for six months. Now that was a real challenge...

www.miriamhalahmy.com