Comfort Reading by Sheena Wilkinson

I'm one of those people -- I suspect many writers are -- for whom whether to read isn't a choice. The only choice is what to read.   I read every day, and can't think of a single day when I haven't. But of course there are times when life gets in the way, and there are only certain things you fancy. 

I remember once talking to a friend's elderly mother, who had been widowed and understandably lost her reading mojo, which bothered her. She explained that she didn't want to read anything new as she didn't think she could get into it and it might be upsetting. So why not try an old friend? I suggested, being a re-reader myself. She looked at me in disdain. Oh no, she said: she couldn't possibly read something she'd already read.

It seems contrary, but I sort of understood. Sometimes you want something familiar but not too familiar -- the latest book from a favourite and trusted writer is always ideal. Though when a lot of your favourite authors are long dead that's not so easy -- unless someone like Persephone or Dean Street Press publishes a forgotten masterpiece. 

Recently I had cause to think about this as I unexpectedly had to have a minor surgical procedure. Not having been in hospital since I was six, and never before having had a general anaesthetic, and being, moreover of a catastrophising and over-imaginative turn of mind (I'm a novelist for goodness sake!) it did not seem minor to me. I thought of Ginty in my beloved Antonia Forest books who thinks, when she is accused of making a mountain out of a molehill, Yes, that's all when it's not you it's happening to. 

I knew I would need some books to see me through. It all happened quickly so I was already in the middle of The Priory by Dorothy Whipple (the mid-century novelist who got me out of my Covid reading slump) which was ideal. But what next? I knew I would be resting and therefore needing some comfort reads for at least a week -- something for in between old episodes of Call the Midwife. (Given the nature of my indisposition it was odd that I could fancy CTM but who can fathom the contrary ways of humans.)

I had Covid last summer and had binged all my Malory Towers and St Clare's books. For reasons I shall reveal very soon on this blog, I have been in a vaguely school-storyish mood for some months.  

I thought about the Chalet School -- 59 of them, all neatly ranged in the bookcase on the landing. But I know them too well -- not only what happens, but often the actual wording of sentences. Besides, I wanted to read on kindle, so I wouldn't need my glasses and didn't need to worry about switching on the lamp if I woke up in the middle of the night.

Elizabeth Jane Howard came to my rescue (not for the first time) with her wonderful Cazalet saga, about an English family before, during and after the Second World War. I know them well enough for the characters to feel like old friends, but not so well that I remembered every detail. They are accessible but beautifully written. And Elizabeth Jane Howard is the most accomplished 'head hopper' I know. This makes her sound like a headlouse: what I mean is that she can shift point of view with incredible deftness, mid-scene, even mid-paragraph. I know I could never manage that, but I read her as a masterclass in what can be done. Because of that, and because I am writing a novel set during WW2, I also felt like I was doing a tiny bit of work at the same time. 

I'm glad to say that I'm fine now, with one book still to go! 

What are other people's comfort read go-tos?

Guilty Pleasures by Sheena Wilkinson

I’m doing something I feel ashamed of, and I know I’m not alone. I try not to, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. You might be doing it too. There’s a lot of it about. My friends admit, in whispers, that they’ve been doing it too. 

Who wouldn't like to frolicking here with the Abbey Girls? 

What is this terrible habit?

Switching off the news. Turning over to Classic FM instead. Preferring to hear classical music rather than yet more horrifying current affairs. 

I am not proud of this, and the heroines of the books I read – and write – would be as ashamed of me as I am of myself. And I don't  do it every day. But sometimes you do what you can to get through the days with as much sanity as you muster.

The Austrian location of the Chalet School

The reading equivalent of this is the comfort read. Am I the only reader who’s found herself turning away from Hard Reads? I suspect not. I’ve seldom gone a day without reading since I was five, and I’ve always been a re-reader, but lately I have found myself turning time and again to Old Friends, especially old childhood friends. 

Here are my top three Comfort Reads – not necessarily my favourite children’s books, but books which I can dive into as if they’re a hot bubble bath.  I’d love to hear what other people’s are. 

The Chalet School series (Elinor M Brent-Dyer)

A glorious soap opera, sweeping from the twenties to the sixties and taking in several European locations. The Chalet School shines like a good deed in a naughty world. Like many long series, it deteriorates markedly in quality from about halfway through but by then you are so sucked in that you don’t care.

The Abbey series (Elsie Oxenham)

Folk dancing, abbey ruins and a strong sense of noblesse oblige. I long to frolic in the beechwoods with the Abbey girls in my handwoven frock, and to be adopted into their golden world. 

The Jill books (Ruby Ferguson)

Ideal for a comfort read because nothing bad ever happens – ponies don’t die as they do in other pony books, including my own. And Jill is hilarious. When I’ve had enough of folk-dancing in the beechwoods and eating featherbeds of whipped cream in the Chalet School, a gallop over Neshbury Common with Jill is just the ticket. 

Guilty pleasures, maybe, but I could be doing so much worse. What are other people's comfort reads in these times? 

Old Friends Sheena Wilkinson

At a dinner party last week, a family friend said she was getting rid of an old bookcase. ‘And I’m just getting rid of the books too; after all, I’ve already read them.’  When I had recovered from spitting out my wine, I admitted that I have seventeen bookcases in my house (which is perhaps half the size of hers), full of books I have mostly read.

‘But why do you keep them?’ she asked.

‘I just – have to.’

There are two kinds of people: re-readers and non-re-readers. I became a re-reader out of necessity: as a child the local library couldn’t keep up with me, and besides, re-reading was fun. Reading a new book is like going to a party with strangers – it might be wonderful; you might meet exciting new friends; but it might equally be a disaster as you turn the pages sadly, finding nothing to tempt you and wishing you had stayed at home. Re-reading is like curling up by the fire for a gossip with old friends.

I have certain books which I reread every few years. I don’t know when the need will descend or what will spark it off. Sometimes a new book by a favourite author will inspire me with the desire to catch up on her backlist. Sometimes real life will throw something at me that can only be dealt with with the help of fictional old retainers – Antonia Forest’s Marlows got me through being laid up after an accident ten years ago; the months surrounding my father’s death were partly assuaged by daily escapes to the Chalet School.

But you know what happens! But there are so many new books! non-re-readers proclaim.

Yes, I know. I read lots of new books too. Maybe a hundred a year. And have a ‘to-read’ pile in double figures piling up in one of the seventeen bookcases.

But last week, I don’t know why, possibly because things weren’t going well in my WIP, I found that the only thing I wanted out of the thousands of possibilities in my bookshelves, was the Gemma series by Noel Streatfeild. Nothing else would do. Not her best books, and certainly not a model of good editing (Christmas happens twice in Gemma And Sisters within a couple of months.) I know every line of every gorgeous Betty Maxie illustration; I know not only what event is coming next but often every syllable of dialogue, but it doesn’t matter. I enjoyed every word. Again.

                                 

Lazy? Maybe. But sometimes you just want what you want. One day in 2012 I was walking down the Cromwell Road in London when I thought, This is where the Fossils live. And suddenly I needed to read Ballet Shoes. That moment. (Or at least when I got on the tube.) Because I had my kindle with me, I was able to gratify that. Maybe such instant gratification isn’t good for the character, and I probably stopped reading some worthy tome in order to wonder (again) which of the Fossils I would rather be (Pauline, though I know I’m meant to want to be Petrova); but I didn’t care. I was enjoying Ballet Shoes too much.  

Of course it’s comfort reading, and thank God for it. Christmas is coming, and I expect Santa will bring some new books. Possible new friends. But it’s OK if he doesn’t, because I’m going to be curled up by the fire with the Cazalets (again).

When in Doubt, Rave About the Moomins

I think it's quite a good piece of guidance for life in general, but it's certainly useful for those times when you suddenly notice that you're supposed to be writing a blog post for Saturday and you forgot to start thinking of possible topics in plenty of time.

So I will rave about the Moomins. Just in case you don't know them, they are a family of cuddly and intriguing trolls, created by the Finnish author Tove Jansson back in the 1940s and still delighting children and adults all over the world (including me) today.

Many of the books I loved as a child disappoint me when I go back to read them now. That's not necessarily a fault of the books; it can simply be a matter of intended audience. It always surprises and delights me when books do stand the test of time; especially the test of growing up. 

I often tell myself I read for entertainment and escapism, to alleviate boredom, supply companionship and enjoy language. All those things are true. But I think the main reason I read (and always did) is to discover the magic formula for living. I still haven't found it, I know that much. It's what some people call an instruction manual, a kind of Hitchhiker's Guide to Life, but it's far more than that. Or it would be, should it exist. It would assure me of my place in things. Not too big a place - crushed by responsibility - but not too small, either. The bed and the bowl of porridge that are 'just right'.

So at times when I'm despairing of ever finding a way to accept myself, or when I doubt that the mush I call myself is even worth accepting, it's very important to have the right book - or series - to hand. The Moomins fit that bill. There's a central family: Moominpappa, Moominmamma and their son Moomintroll. They are smooth and round and covered in white, velvety fur. On a bad-weight day, that's exactly how I'd like to look. Tummies are fine in Moomin Valley. In fact, any size or shape or colour or hair/fur-type or personality is fine. You can disappear for months on end like Moomintroll's pal Snufkin, and turn up on the first day of spring to a wondrously warm welcome. You can hibernate all winter, presumably missing Christmas (hurray!) You can be brash and noisy like the Hemulen, a thoughtful philospher or a mischievous child  like Little My.




Life can be dangerous in Moomin Valley and beyond: this is not happy-ever-after land. There are always threats lurking - earthquakes, comets, tidal waves, floods, volcanoes and avalanches. The Hattifatteners, despite their name, are seriously scary electrically-charged beasties thtat grow from the ground in thunderstorms. There's a most unpleasant Groke, who sits on everyone and everything to try to warm herself, squashing the life out of you in the process.

Tove Jansson's love of nature, the sea, boats, landfalls and the offshore islands of her native land permeate these books. That's one of the reasons they work for grown-ups, too. But the main reason they work for me, I think, is that I just know that if I were to turn up in Moomin Valley one sunny April day, Moominmamma would put another leaf-plate on the table and tell me to sit down. I could find my own place in that extended family, which might include spending whole days or weeks alone but knowing there'd be a big velvety cuddle waiting for me when I needed it.

That's my definition of heaven, I think...

These books are inspired and if you, you children and your grand-children haven't discovered them yet, then you have a lifetime of treats in store, so dive in.

View on Amazon.co.uk

What are your favourite comfort books? Have any of them stood the test of your growing up?

Best wishes
Ros

Author of Coping with Chloe (age 11+)
Newly available as an eBook: Charity's Child (age 14+)
Blogging at Rosalie Reviews
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Twitter: @Ros_Warren