Guest review by Cindy Jefferies: LISTEN WITH FATHER - HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE CLASSICAL MUSIC by Caroline Sanderson

 

"A wonderful journey full of fascinating asides."

First published in 2001 for children, Cindy Jefferies found success with her Fame School series with Usborne Books, obtaining 22 foreign rights deals. Latterly writing fiction for adults as Cynthia Jefferies, her first title The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan was published in 2018, followed a year later by The Honourable Life of Thomas Chayne, set during the English Civil Wars, followed in 2019. Both titles are now available in paperback.

Caroline Sanderson has written a very touching and erudite hymn to her father. I should say at once that I have a personal interest in this book because I know Caroline. She is a kind and generous person, is easily moved and when she does a thing she does it to the best of her ability. This book is a perfect example of that. All the same, I wouldn’t have chosen to review it if I hadn’t been so impressed by it.

When she was a little girl, Sanderson adored her Father and enjoyed listening with him to the classical music he liked so much. As she grew older she still loved her Dad but came to prefer David Bowie’s take on music. It wasn’t until after her Father had died that she began to wonder what exactly he had loved so much about classical music. She decided to choose some of his favourite CDs and listen again. That decision and what followed became a paean to her much loved Father and a new appreciation for her of classical music.

A short overture sets the scene and then she begins with Mozart. The book has chapters on 8 composers and one singer, the unforgettable Kathleen Ferrier. It would be entirely possible to use this book as a primer, a way in to music one has never appreciated before, but there is much more to it than that. This well researched book will tell you about the composers and their lives, as well, importantly, how Sanderson felt when she heard the pieces again as an adult. The audience reaction to the first performance of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring is fascinating, as is Sanderson’s unsettling memory of watching Fantasia with her Dad. How brave of her to re-visit Stravinsky’s work after such a disturbing introduction!

I love the way Sanderson is so down to earth about her musical journey while also thrilled when she realises she is beginning to hear the music at a different level. I also enjoyed the little asides, the realisation, for instance, that she’s probably particularly enjoying the triangle while at a concert, simply because she enjoyed playing the instrument at primary school. Her attention wavers; she notices what members of the audience are wearing, she wishes her Dad were with her to explain why he loved Brahms so much. And yet, she sticks at it and slowly gets there. The hard work of deep listening pays off. And more, she finds other pieces that her Dad didn’t introduce to her, but for which she develops an affection all by herself.

Listen With Father is a wonderful journey full of fascinating asides. There are people and books between these pages as well as music. It is a private journey that is also a wonderful signpost to the world of classical music.

Sanderson doesn’t forget the bibliography, arranged by composer. To complete the work, a useful note of the recordings Sanderson listened to is also there. What a perfect volume to enjoy and maybe to set one off on one’s own journey into deep listening and a new love of music.

Listen with Father is published by Boundless.

More of Cindy's choices:

The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall

The Master by Colm Toibin

Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier

Orbital by Samantha Harvey

Guest review by Tina Jackson: FEATHERHOOD by Charlie Gilmour

 

"A beautiful book about the nature of what is wild, and what can and cannot be tamed; about nature and nurture and how the two can co-exist."

Tina Jackson is a writer and journalist, and the author of the novel The Beloved Children (Fahrenheit Press), a short fiction collection Stories from the Chicken Foot House (Markosia) and a book of non-fiction about working class women and the struggle for the vote in her hometown, Leeds. See more on Tina's website.

In tales of enchantment, the arrival of a talking animal always has a particular significance, taking the person who encounters it – invariably someone in need of its counsel – over the boundary of what is usual and into the realms of the extraordinary. And while Charlie Gilmour’s Featherhood is not fiction, folk, or fairy tale, and Benzene - the magpie whose presence in his life provoked this telling - only ever speaks in crow, it tells a real-life transformation tale that casts an extraordinary spell.

Featherhood weaves life writing and nature writing to tell the story of how a gentle and troubled person was helped to make sense of his relationship with his absent father, and to prepare for becoming a father to his own child, by the presence in his life of a baby magpie. As Benzene, who Gilmour initially expects will not survive, thrives, she becomes fiercely attached to Gilmour and his partner Yana, and they to her. Nothing, in the wake of this profound inter-species connection, will ever be the same, and the wild bird is an agent of healing and chaos in equal measure.

Writing in luminous, clear prose, Charlie conjures a cast of human and avian characters no less fantastical or compelling for being real, and relates how he is taught by the magpie that he can also look after a human child and be a good and loving parent.

His biological father Heathcote Williams is the trickster in the tale: a slippery figure whose identities switched seamlessly between poet, magician, anarchist, absentee father and a person whose entire existence reads as a play of smoke and mirrors and leaves a trail of hurt, pain and abandoned relationships, such as the one with his son, in his wake. The twin threads of the story are the unfolding tale of Gilmour’s relationship with Benzene and his attempts to unravel the mystery of why his complex, charismatic father was unable to have anything but a fragmented relationship with his son. The book is shot through with down to earth humour, too, with the antics of the bird an obvious highlight and the succinct dismissal of Heathcote Williams’ mercurial behaviour by Gilmour’s staunch, loving, stepfather. ‘What a wanker,’ he sums him up, with this reader cheering him from a ringside seat.

This is a beautiful book about the nature of what is wild, and what can and cannot be tamed; about nature and nurture and how the two can co-exist; about what can and cannot be known; about families and how the past does not have to repeat into the present, and about the transformative power not just of love, but of care. It’s a story about being open to possibility and accepting responsibility – for the fierce demands of a bird that stashes meat in Gilmour’s hair and for the human baby who arrives after Gilmour has learned that he isn’t fated to repeat the example of his own father. It’s a story about understanding something that is other, whether that’s a creature of another species or a human being who behaves in ways that are less comprehensible than those of a wild creature. It’s a story of reconciliation with the past and accepting the numinous encounters that lead to becoming. Above all, Featherhood is an exceptional, beautiful and wonderfully told story about how to create a stable nest, and feather it with love, compassion and understanding. It may not be fiction, but it really is a magical tale.

Featherhood is published by Weidenfeld and Nicholson.

Tina Jackson's The Beloved Children is reviewed here by Yvonne Coppard.

Easter Saturday extra: guest feature by Paul Dowswell. RETURN TO SENDER - A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG CLOT

 

"Imagine my surprise when I was sacked at the end of the week..."

When there’s not a pandemic going on, Paul Dowswell writes historical fiction and is a frequent visitor to schools, both home and abroad, where he talks about his books and takes creative writing classes. His novels Eleven Eleven and Sektion 20 won the Historical Association Young Quills Award and Ausländer won the Hamelin Associazione Culturale Book Prize and the Trinity Schools Book Award. Recently he has become increasingly concerned about how deranged he looks in Zoom calls.

Readers of  Writers Review will no doubt be familiar with the joke about the rabbit who goes into the butchers and asks ‘Got any carrots?’ The butcher tells him he doesn’t sell carrots. But following four days of the same repeated request from the rabbit the butcher loses his temper and says ‘If you EVER ask me for carrots again, I’m going to nail your ears to the floor.’

The rabbit comes back the next days and says ‘Got any nails?’

The butcher looks perplexed and shakes his head.

‘Got any carrots?’ asks the rabbit.

Reader, as a young man, I was that rabbit.

And evidence of that rabbithood is everywhere in a bundle of my letters home from the age of 13 to 23, which I found whilst recently clearing out my mum’s house.

The early 70s found me incarcerated in a horrible little boarding school in the depths of Shropshire, where, unlike Byron at Harrow, I didn’t spend my pre-University years translating The Iliad from the original Greek into Latin. I was an academic mediocrity. I did write a lot of letters home though. And here, in defiance of the widely held view that texts and emails have destroyed the traditional art of letter writing, I present an extract from my letter home from November 27, 1972:

On Thursday there was the House Music competition. We came 4th. (Woe!) On a happy note I’ve had dioreaha (or however you spell it) recently.’

‘That’s nice, dear,’ I can hear my mum saying.

Having cocked up my A Levels I got into Goldsmiths’ in 1975 via the clearing system and read History – a subject I wasn’t terribly interested in at the time. Not a lot of work was done. On Nov 3, 1977 I wrote home ‘As for me, I’m ill at the moment – it’s sort of bronchitis and Flu and I don’t feel so good. However I’m taking good care of myself and getting lots of sleep.’

I obviously had no understanding of the laws of cause and effect, for in the very next paragraph I write: ‘John and Johnny P. (my brother and his best friend) came down this last weekend… we played a ridiculous game of spin the knife the low/high point of which was me having to take a paddle in the birdbath, John whipping himself around the garden, and Johnny having to squirt lemon juice down his throat (blaaaaghhh). We got utterly wrecked on Saturday night and all ended up sprawled on the floor playing I-spy and with Johnny P. drinking Italian plonk from his boot.’

I finished with the reassuring words ‘p.s. am taking approx. 5,000 pills a day so don’t worry.’

Other letters from university are full of ramblings about the travails of my rotten band. My dear dad, who hated rock music, wouldn’t have been remotely interested. ‘We did two gigs this week – One on Tuesday at a Psychology society Party at College + the other at some Greenwich rowing club on Friday. The psychology one was alright – only trouble was **** broke a lead, thus we balled up things a bit. The one on Friday was a disaster. **** broke a string and we lost the attention of what little audience we had.’

A pattern was emerging.

The band broke up shortly after, although **** is still a good pal. (Hence the *s.)

I graduated in 1978, and moved to a grisly bedsit in New Cross Gate. (‘Paul’s room is not so bad,’ wrote my girlfriend to my parents, ‘just a bit scabby – but there aren’t any cockroaches or rats.’) Eventually I found work at a market research company, where I collated surveys on fork-lift truck lubricating oil. Desperate to escape, and still not really having A CLUE what to do, I enrolled on a teacher training course back at Goldsmiths’ College. Nowadays, my respect for the teaching profession knows no bounds, but back in 1979 I wasn’t so sure. My course, I wrote to my mum, herself a teacher, ’… contains a million bossy girls/women all called SUSAN (no Sue, Suzie, Suzanne etc just SUSAN) who have been nursing a burning desire to teach since they lined their dollies up at the age of three and told them off for not doing their homework.‘

Mea Maxima Culpa, teacher chums. And friends called Susan.

The autumn of 1980 found me on the dole (again) and subject to the whims of the job centre, who sent me to Woolworths head office on Marylebone Road to act as a security guard in their impressive glass and marble foyer. ‘It’s crushingly boring beyond belief and only suitable for the lobotomised and those in a deep opium trance,’ I wrote home. ‘I try and keep myself amused by seeing which hurts the most when I bang my head on it, (Of Marble, Glass, Plaster and Plastic, Marble is by far the worst), and breathing on the main glass door and drawing Anarchy signs in the condensation.’

Imagine my surprise when I was sacked at the end of the week.

But other more exciting opportunities in the world of work were presenting themselves. One, in particular, promised a life-changing turn in the road. At 22/23 I was desperate to work for the BBC and understood the important thing was to get in, doing anything, and then apply for the more interesting jobs from the inside. With that in mind I wrote home in June 1981 ‘The BBC have been in touch. I had an interview yesterday for a job in the outside broadcasting dept – v. boring – costing transmissions via the G.P.O. (British Telecom)…’

With mounting excitement I relayed the news that ‘the bloke rang that afternoon and told me I didn’t get the job BUT………..

1. They were very impressed (repeated 9 times)

2. The job was ‘way below my capabilities anyway.’

3. He would be in touch with the right people and they would be looking out for a suitable post and I would hear from them shortly.’

40 years later, whenever the phone rings, I still hope that it’ll be them.

See also: I NEVER READ MY REVIEWS, by Paul

Guest review by Jon Appleton: MEMORIAL by Bryan Washington

 

"Memorial is about the impossibilities of love as well as its opportunities ... sometimes tragic, often very funny, always true."

Jon Appleton is a freelance writer and editor based in London.

Just when Benson and Mike consider their relationship has run its course, but are afraid to call it quits (for the reasons that keep couples together), two significant things happen to Mike.

His mother, Mitsuko, arrives from Japan for a visit while his estranged father lays dying in Osaka (Mike is Japanese-American). Mike flees his life in Houston, Texas, leaving Ben with Mitsuko. Something big has already happened to Ben, before he met Mike, which we discover halfway through the story – something he has learned to accommodate but not entirely.

The first part of Memorial is narrated by Ben and deals with his experiences at work, with his friends and family, and his new unlikely flatmate, the dour and laconic mother-in-law. Ben adjusts to living without Mike in their apartment but can he move on without Mike in his life?

The second part of the novel is from Mike’s point of view in Japan. Whereas Ben’s paragraphs are bite-size and brittle (his voice is caustic at times), Mike’s are longer, more elliptical. It is through Mike we learn the story of their coming together and their falling apart.

As his father’s health deteriorates, Mike must take charge of the restaurant he runs – ironically, poignantly, the restaurant is named after his former wife. Mike negotiates new relationships with customers and staff and, like Ben, is offered the chance of new love. But he faces his lover’s dilemma: what does he want?

In the third section, Mike returns to Texas and both men have to make decisions – or do they?

Memorial is about the impossibilities of love as well as its opportunities. The novel challenges the foundations on which we construct our adult lives (including how we re-cast our parents). It poses the question: what is home? Mike writes:

‘I used to wonder what Ma meant when I asked her about Japan, because I could only remember so much of that shit from when I was younger, and she’d tell me it was different from home, but also the same. It was her home, not mine. But it was still home. Whatever that means.’

He also suggests that ‘You shouldn’t make a home out of other people’; people change, but ‘you’re stuck in whatever your idea of home was.’ He says this to his new lover, who doesn’t think it’s a problem. ‘We’ll all have plenty of homes in this life. It’s when you don’t that there’s an issue. That’s settling.’ Another acquaintance challenges Mike’s right to claim Japan as home: ‘But you’re not from here. You get to leave.’

For all his bluster, Ben is equally flummoxed. He tries to pin their projected break-up on Mike but Mitsuko is having none of it.

‘So Mike’s going home, I say and Mitsuko looks my way.

You could also say he’s leaving it, she says.’

Words trip over each other in quickfire banter. The novel brilliantly shows how language gets in the way of how we act and feel. Parents and children tiptoe round each other, wary of causing offence and intruding but equally wanting to make their bedrock beliefs crystal clear.

The novel is full of truisms, line after line, but in Washington’s hands they are never trite but malleable. Early in the book, Mike says, ‘Just because something isn’t working doesn’t mean it’s broken. You just have to want to fix it.’ Easy, right? Can you fault the logic of ‘We take our memories wherever we go, and what’s left are the ones that stick around, and that’s how we make a life’? Other arguments include: is good enough good enough? What about the policy that if something happens we deal with it? Words can be both weapons and shields.

Sometimes, you forget how people are, Mike suggests. And then they remind you. But there are some things you can never forget. Ben, an African-American, is all too aware of hard-line and casual racism. Both men acutely sensitive to homophobia. This is America in 2021 – this is life.

Memorial is sometimes tragic, often very funny, always true. A vital novel, which I’m so glad I’ve read and happily recommend.

------

Memorial is published by Atlantic Books.

Jon is a regular reviewer here. Read more of his choices:

Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stewart

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett

The Biscuit Factory Girls by Elsie Mason

An Honest Man by Ben Fergusson

Clock Dance by Anne Tyler

Carnivore by Jonathan Lyon

Commonwealth by Ann Patchett