Mary's Blog

The Queen's Perk or How to Meet (almost) Anyone

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 14:50:23 +0000

The perk I have always most envied the Queen - I mean, beyond Her Majesty’s nice collection of tiaras (among which I have my favourites, o yes) - is the fact that she can meet and talk with, for however long, anyone in this whole world she wants to.

Imagine!

Nelson Mandelaω No problem. The Dalai Lamaω Done. Tom Stoppardω Tina Turnerω Alec Baldwinω (Yeah, Alec Baldwin!) Or, for that matter, anyone who has ever contributed anything whatsoever to The New Yorkerω Piece of cake!

In this way, actually meeting them, all these people would become - even as they must, surely, to the Queen, herself - just that, people. Or, anyway, not just photographs in the papers, images on TV, voices on the radio, a face on the inside cover.

Some would surprise. Some wouldn’t.

But which onesω And whyω I am desperate to know!

But forget all these famous people, it’s not going to happen, I mean, what do I think, the Dalai Lama is going to come into our bookshop, Do you have a copy of Lost Horizonω

All right, then, how about those lesser mortals, the rising famous – all those people you’ve never heard of before but you’re hearing about now, and only time will tell if they rise up to the full soufflé or if they collapse back down into that same great black hole of anonymity wherein reside (to their envy, say the famous) thee and me.

Like whoω

Like, I don’t know, any one of a zillion people, how about the writer, James Leverω

Never heard of himω Nevermind, neither had I. You’re sitting there doing a bit of light reading (The Nietzche Quarterly) and one of the book reviews is about this parody of the Hollywood memoir, one which, like those memoirs, occasionally includes the odd escapee fact. It’s called Me Cheeta after its ‘author’, Tarzan’s chimp. (Yes, Tarzan’s chimp.) And in it, Lever has Cheeta going on about his impoverished childhood, how he was discovered, how he became a part of the Hollywood cocktail party circuit (cut to photos showing Cheeta clowning around with various glam stars, David Niven, etc), but most of all about how much he loved Tarzan and hated Jane. And you can’t resist this book, so you buy it, and OK, it’s not Dostoevsky but, hey!, it’s absolutely brilliant - all at once amusing, poignant, and original. And while the Queen could obviously just ring James Lever up, invite him over, talk to me, James, you can't. Merde! You can barely even meet the person who lives next door, forget the Dalai Lama, forget James Lever!

Which takes me back to Square One, who canω The Queen and who elseω Barack and Michelle, who elseω

It’s how to meet them, famous or not, if you’re not the Queen or Barack and Michelle or if you don’t know the right (sometimes even the wrong) people, that’s the tricky bit.

What you have to do is get inventive.

I got inventive.

And I am here to tell you that at least to some degree, and without resorting to even the tiniest libidinous exploit, it worked.

What I did was this:

First, I started a little Talks Series in the bookshop, one which would (and still does) allow me to ask various speakers to give a talk once a month between September to June. That was my platform, that’s Step One.

Then, Step Two, I set about finding speakers (pestered friends, wrote on spec) who were either: a) unknown but had a good story to tell; or b) unknown but only outside their field; or c) unknown but only to those living outside our planet.

Then for Step Three, the hard bit: how to get a, b, or c to agreeω Or, to put it another way, how do you make an offer which doesn’t involve copious amounts of money (some hope!) sound like an offer which involves copious amounts of moneyω

Answer: you blind them with razzle-dazzle.

Like whatω

Me, I talk up:

1) Our fantastic location:

The location, I tell them, breathless, is in Northumberland, one of the largest and most beautiful counties in all of England, nevermind unspoiled (‘unspoiled’, good word, hints at organic, the environment) …

… Wherein, in turn, is located our town, Alnwick, lovely old market town, complete with magnificent medieval Castle (you’ve seen it a million times in films, Elizabeth, Harry Potter, etc), with its new big-time garden (roses, tree house, etc) – all this followed by a pause to let all those goodies sink in …

… Wherein, in turn, is located a seriously big (indeed, for a town this size, 7000 pop, maybe even the biggest in the world) Victorian railway station (at ‘railway’, pause again, the very word replete with friendly associations, think, whatever your listener’s age, Thomas the Tank) …

… Wherein, in turn, this bookshop, our bookshop, also seriously big, 10,000 sq ft big, a bookshop described (whoa!) in the New Statesman as ‘the British Library of secondhand bookshops’ and in The Telegraph as ‘magical’ …

… Then I sum it up fast, rap-style – a castle, a garden, a railway station, a bookshop - and then (hit this hard) all this located just five miles (only five miles!) from the London-Edinburgh Express stop at Alnmouth, Alnmouth being this exquisite little coastal village not even ten minutes away from the bookshop, I mean, what’s ten minutes! (Follow this with a double pause to allow ‘easy accessibility’ to sink in, followed by Are you still with meω)

If Yes, I carry on to …

2) The unique venue …

Our speakers, I tell them, use the old Station Waiting Room, seats fifty, such a nice old room, that room - high ceiling, wide-planked floor, the original banquette seating around the perimeter. And, in cold weather, there’s this lovely blazing open fire in front of which the speakers stand to give their talks all looking, I can only tell you, so very picturesque. (Some even survive.)

These two together, the locale and the venue, usually get me somewhere, a toehold! Which I badly need as this brings me to that dreaded if unavoidable moment when I must tell them what piteous honorarium (fancy word for money - good, ehω) we can give them.

“Would you mind repeating thatω”

So embarrassing. I look up and they are already out the door.

Until Stuart (a hero) figured out a way to make the offer look better.

Howω

Double it, he said, but if, and only if, they spend it in the shop.

Doesn’t sound like much, does itω I mean, how much can double piteous beω

And yet, more often than you can possibly imagine, their eyes, which only moments before were slits, suddenly become plates: “Yes, Please!”

No, I don’t understand it either. I can only guess it has to do with some inner vision involving themselves and all these books, miles of them, there for them to cherry-pick and (as they see it) for free .

I base this on what I’ve observed when they are actually let loose in the shop with their chit, they go crazy. You’d think they’d never been in a bookshop before. You see them dashing about all over the place in their sandals and trainers, down here, over there, their reading glasses balanced precariously on top of their head, or on the tip of their nose, or hanging down like wire monkey from one ear. But always, always, wherever they are, clutching their bounty close to them, their faces all shiny, Christmas. (Touching, really.)

So far, so good.

But now to the final step and, for me, the most important one of them all: that chance at last to attain my own goal, the Queen’s Perk - the one that would turn any speaker, even famous, from cardboard cut-out to flesh-and-blood reality. Readyω

I ask the speaker to dinner.

For those of you who don’t live in England, this question may sound simple enough (“Can you come to dinnerω”) but here in England it causes instant hyper-ventilation: one is being asked to dinner at the house of a stranger.

One’s face turns white.

This dinner, I explain to him or her as quickly as possible to allay the shock, comes after the talk. And, yes, it is in our house. But you are not to worry. Our house is the old stationmasters’ house just over there (you can see its chimneys from the shop’s front door, seeω), no need even to drive, we simply dash over after the talk – will you comeω And, no, we can’t promise a gourmet meal, but we can promise a truly decent wine - will you comeω You and just a small handful of other guests, all vetted (swear!), will you comeω

And, of course, the speakers almost have to say Yes, don’t theyω

And the moment they do, that’s it, my chance.

Which I take in the following way:

While our dinners are on a rather less grand scale than the Queen’s (just for starters, we don’t even have anything so posh as a dining room; we all eat in the kitchen), they nonetheless seem to work out.

They start off after the talk is over, to tell the truth everyone relieved (look, those talks, a bit nerve-racking, will anybody comeω) but only after the audience has had a chance to talk with the speaker first, as well as, please God, to buy their book.

All of which gives me, in turn, a chance to race over to the house and go into action (throw an angry pusscat upstairs, the spuds in the oven, those old dead flowers out). This, until the speaker plus guests plus Stuart finally show up at the door where I meet them, Miss Efficiency (too bad about this large band-aid across my nose). The candles are lit, the wine uncorked, the speaker toasted (small round of applause), the jazz in the background turned low and then lower still as people’s voices take over the space, the men’s jackets come off one-by-one (twelve people packed in together like sardines in a kitchen with an AGA going full blast, you can imagine) and the evening starts to roll.

And, all right, sometimes the talks don’t work, or the suppers either for whatever reason, you can never tell. (Though I can tell you it doesn’t help when you drop the main course on the floor.)

On the other hand, sometimes, they do work, even well. (Am I allowed to say thatω) And as for me, I will have siezed this chance, you bet, to put the speaker next to me, talk a bit, catch that glimpse or try to, of the 'real' person.

Anyway, however it goes and even just to the degree that I’ve been able to do it, it’s been more than a perk; it’s been a life-line. It has allowed me to meet so many people I would never otherwise have had the chance to meet. And, yes, all right, there have been a few yahoos. I bet even the Queen has met a few yahoos! (I bet some people have even thought I was the yahoo, the sods!) But I’ve loved it. Still do. Learned a bit, too.

If you’re interested, I’m including here an alphabetical list of my speakers so far. And because this post is already way long enough, I wlll be putting that same list of speakers, together with what they do and a bit about that glimpse, in my Links on this blog. I mean, for all I know, you might like a glimpse at one or two of the speakers yourself. They range from artists and writers to engineers and astronomers to academics and gardeners.

Some you will have heard of. Most you won’t. Just know that the best and the worst speakers have come from both groups. (Just how true that would be is one of the things I’ve learned.)

In any event, it is in this devious way that I have achieved my own version of that perk which I have most envied the Queen. And if you say that to compare my poor man’s version to the Queen’s is patently ludicrous (and you’d be right), nonetheless, I can only hope that Her Majesty’s, exalted as it is, has brought her as much pleasure as mine has to me.

Speakers at Barter Books since 2001

David Aaronovitch, Lindsay Allason-Jones, David Almond, Carole Angier, Dr Malcolm Aylett, Dr Keith Armstrong, Corelli Barnett, Stan Beckensall, Sir Alan Beith, Carol Clewlow, Hugh Cunningham, Theodore Dalrymple, Marjorie Deakin, Philip Deakin, Thomas Deans, Alistair Elliot, James Fleming, George Gill, Tony Harrison, Peter Harvey, Barry Hirst, Dr Wendy Hitchmough, David Hutchings, Richard Ingrams, John Johnson, Julian Johnston, Peter Jones, Miles Kington, Lucinda Lambton (with John Jolliffe, and Hugh Cantlie), Frank Lawley, Dr Richard Lomas, Grace McCombie, Val McDermid, Claire Macdonald, Dr Ian Maitland Hume, Nicolas Mann, John Millard, Judith Miller, Mr Charles Moore, Jane Owen, Jeremy Paterson, Harry Pearson, Kristian Pedersen, Katrina Porteous, Matt Ridley, David Ross, Anthony Sargent, Anne Stevenson, Rachel Terry, Trevor Thorne, Joanna Trollope, Bill Varley, Sir Arnold Wolfendale

Keep Calm and Carry On

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 13:38:42 +0000

The original poster on
display at Barter Books

If you haven’t seen this WWII poster by now, the one with the hot red background and the words ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ beneath the crown of King George the VIth - honestly (and I say this with no disrespect), where have you beenω

As of today's date, we, alone, have sold more than 40,000 since the year 2001 when we first began to sell facsimile copies of our poster - the only known original still in good condition outside those unearthed only recently from the vaults of the Imperial War Museum in London. And eight years on, we can’t even begin to guess at how many more thousands have been sold by our copyists. Or those who have copied the copies of the copyists, if you follow me.

Now, then, if you’re like me, you’re automatically doing your sums. Let’s see … 40,000 times whatever price seems right to you for a poster, say, £10, maybe more, (some people even sell these super upmarket versions, screen prints, etc, for nigh on three figures, can you believeω) And then you come up with this gigantic figure, Wow, you must be rich!

Don’t I wish.

We sell ours for as low a price as possible considering the overheads (currently £3-60, plus postage & packing) and still make a bit. And ‘a bit’ is enough. (Besides, says my husband, keeping our price that low annoys the hell out of the copyists.) Not that I wouldn’t like more money, I mean, Christian Louboutin, here I come! But, then, what’s the point in my going for five inch heels when I’d just totter over in them and dieω

Still, even as is, the poster has been a super little earner, that it’s been.

Better still, thanks to Stuart’s finding it, we like to think we’ve restored something of value to the national archive, as it were - something somehow quintessentially British that would otherwise have remained unappreciated or even, eventually, lost altogether.

As rare as the poster obviously is, you might well ask how did Stuart find itω

The story is this: he was sorting through the usual boxes of books bought at auction, boxes which you very often get along with whatever it was you bid for whether you want them or not. And at the bottom of this one box, otherwise filled with pretty useless old cloth books from the ‘40s, was this sheet of heavy paper folded in half, then folded again. And when Stuart opened it out, there it was, this poster.

Which he then brought to me, “What do you thinkω”

Easy. "That gets framed.”

And that was before we knew its history, even though the crown of King George the VIth, together with the message, instantly suggested wartime.

Look, at a certain level, it doesn’t take genius to recognize something special. Decent cooks take one bite, stop, put down their fork, look heavenward, downgrade their chewing rate almost to zero, and start analyzing. Music lovers go for instant replay. Poetry lovers feel this little chill going up their spine. And when that something special has about it for whatever reason universal appeal, it sells itself.

What Stuart and I didn’t know was the extent to which our poster would seem to have just that: universal appeal. No idea that within ten years it would be written about in both regional and national newspapers and magazines. And certainly not, as seems increasingly likely, that it would stand a fair chance of becoming as iconic an image as the famous Kitchener poster of WWI, the one with the moustachioed English officer pointing his finger straight towards the viewer, ‘Your country needs YOU”.

Indeed, the Keep Calm poster may even have an advantage over the Kitchener: the message of the Kitchener poster is clearly all about wartime, whereas the message of Keep Calm, in spite of its own wartime origins, is dateless and universally applicable.

Anyway, we did frame it and then put it up in one of the prime spots in the bookshop, by the till.

Then, thanks to the web, we found out its history - one which we would later include with all our Keep Calm sales.

If you’re interested, here is a very brief résumé of that history:

‘On the eve of WWII, the British government produced a series of posters whose intent was to convey a reassuring message from the King to his people. ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ was one of three posters in a particular series and though millions of copies were printed of all three, ‘Keep Calm’ never went public. The reason for this is that it was meant for distribution only in the event of actual German occupation which, mercifully, never happened. After the end of the war, some few Keep Calm posters escaped being shredded. As far as we know, only seven remain in good condition: six in storage until recently in the Imperial War Museum, and the seventh, in Barter Books.’

Its later history - that is, what happened to it after we put it up on our bookshop wall - is this:

Over the next few months, it was striking how many customers asked about it. As they passed by it, we’d see them nudging each other and pointing to it.

Some even asked if they could buy it.

Many asked if we had copies for sale.

Stuart and Sarah (one of our staff members) thought that was a great idea.

I didn’t. I was too busy being Mrs Miniver (I’m like that). No, I said, making money off a time that was so terrible for so many (sound of bombers in the background) wasn’t on, it was still too soon (a mere sixty years), the time wasn’t yet, We’ll Meet Again on the White Cliffs of Dover.

So Stuart did a test run without my knowing it. He had some copies of the poster printed and sold them while I was away. (Yes, sneaky.) Then, when I came back, he showed me the actual sales figures, whereupon (how to put itω) the sound of the bombers somehow receded, Roll Out the Barrel.

In time, we began to see more and more of the copies showing up in various places around and about – an old country pub in Eglingham, a chic florist shop in Gosforth, a cricket pavilion in Bamburgh - yea, even in the very dining room, would you believe, of the most venerable Grande Dame in this whole huge county, my eyes like two plates.

And so the sales went, nothing earthshaking, slow but steady. We even had orders from various stockists, among them (we were, are, terribly proud of this) the V&A - the great Victoria & Albert Museum, perhaps the greatest museum in the world for art and design.

And then one December day in 2005, I opened the glossy magazine section of The Guardian (a top UK newspaper) to see a page devoted to the writer’s ‘Five Favourite Things’. And what was one of Susie Steiner's five favourite things, and in full colour no lessω Our poster.

After which the deluge.

Since that time, we’ve had orders from both Houses of Parliament, Kensington Palace, umpteen hospitals, schools at all levels, doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs. Fashion designers have used it as part of a fashion backdrop. Someone else will soon be using it as a cover for a book. I could go on.

We kept thinking the good times were going to stop any day, the market satiated. But even when sales did go down (and they did), someone else would mention it in yet another article and sales would go up again. And then fall again. And then, like any decent yo-yo, go back up. Indeed, only two weeks ago, there was Stuart on regional TV holding up the poster and looking hugely happy (the sales figures, I guess, it's sure not my cooking), with the background of our Tennyson Installation clearly visible in the background, really, a super picture. Anyway, this yo-yo pattern, we’ve now got (more or less) used to it.

What else we’ve got used to: the copyists. At first, they would order them from us, copy our poster and start selling it themselves. (This is perfectly legal, by the way; it is long out of copyright.) Some of the copyists would credit us. Some, probably most, didn’t. Some would become our stockists and leave our website where we would eventually put it on the bottom right corner - a genuine first-generation copy!

One copyist tried to sue us for selling the poster that he, himself, had ordered from us, then copied. We thought this was highly original. It seems he wanted to establish a trademark, so his lawyer sent us a threatening letter. At which point our lawyer wrote him back, in effect, to bugger off. (He did.)

By now, the poster has been copied and recopied so many times that even the most ethical probably wouldn’t know who to credit. Not to worry. But let me take this opportunity to thank all those who did, all the more because they didn’t have to.

This is not to mention the sale of all the related products that have become, themselves, a mini industry. Even we (greed, dear boy, greed) have fallen prey. First, it was the mug, then the postcards, then the tea-towels, then the t-shirts, the mouse mat, and now, the newest addition (and we have sworn to each other the last) an apron - let others do as they may. And they do. Which means that in addition to all the foregoing, you can now get from other suppliers Keep Calm tote bags, hoodies, even rugs. So that we can only wonder what someone will come up with next. (Might I suggest a bedspreadω You know, a bit droll. Maybe that someone could be youω Now, there’s a tip! FREE!)

Any regretsω

Yes.

The first is that for all our research, we have never been able to find out the name of the graphic artist who designed the poster. In my mind's eye, I see him (and I think very probably, back then, it was a 'he'), labouring away, paid tuppence, probably getting to and from work on his bike (remember: this was '30s England) or else, if he lived in London, on the tube that would, itself, become soon enough a bomb shelter. Well, whoever it was, we'd so much like to know his name and give due credit.

The second is another name we'll never know: the name of the person who owned our poster. Or how, as the poster was never distributed, he or she came by it. Or what made him or her decide to keep it, fold it, put it carefully away in the bottom of a box of books destined for the attic and then, sixty years later, for Stuart to find.

But both regrets pale beside what I love.

What I love, right along with everyone else, is how that poster, itself, would be, against all odds, a survivor of the war. How that little crown represents, still, a dignity that we seem to have lost, have weω How its message – so simple, so clean, so without spin – has turned out to have meaning not just for a single people in time of trouble but for all of us wherever we live, whatever our troubles.

The Inauguration of Barack Obama

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 15:23:49 +0000

Along with what appeared to be the rest of the known world, Stuart and I spent January 20th thinking about, waiting for, watching and listening to, listening to and cheering for, then cheering again for and saying Good Night to, Good Night and God bless to, Barack Obama.

I kept trying to think how often I had actually witnessed in real time, if only on tv, a major historical event in America of this importance.

What I didn’t let myself count: assassinations (eg, Kennedy) or catastrophes (eg, 9/11).

This was because January 20^th was about feeling good about America and being American all over again and for all kinds of reasons, some even new. (Bet you think by 'new', I mean race - well, don’t youω Well, you're wrong. I just mean that, too.)

Anyway, I could think of only one other such historic event and that one, forty years ago: the moon landing. “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind” Neil Armstrong had said. (Oh, all right, so he forgot to put in the word 'a' in front of 'man', we know what he meant!). And we all felt, not just Americans, that what he said was true – a clear case of man’s reach exceeding his grasp. Until he did it.

And now, with the inauguration of Barack Obama, another clear case of a man’s reach exceeding what was, by all normal expectations, his grasp. Until he did it.

Anyway, here is what has stayed with me about January 20^th, old news as it is by now, five whole days. Wonder how it would tally with what has stayed with youω

… Frustration that I had to miss out on so much, the BBC doing the best they could with TV coverage - only two hours of the inauguration ceremony, that's all, no more than that except for the 5 o’clock, then the 10 o’clock, news. So that I missed the parade, missed the walkabout, missed the Inaugural balls, I could have wept. Barack dancing with Michelle, to die for! (Couldn’t I have seen more on SKYω Probably, if we had SKY. Don’t. Stuart hates Murdoch.)

… Missing other Americans to share it with. (Telephone calls and emails helped, but it wasn’t the same.)

… Relief the moment I turned on the television that the weather in Washington, though freezing, seemed clear - the brilliant white of the Capitol building backed by this blue blue sky, picture-perfect America. (What none of us wanted, please God, not today: rain, sleet, snow.)

… Awe at the sight of all those vast numbers of people filling the mall (rhymes with ‘pal’ not ‘fall’ in BBC speak, think I should tell themω) with half of me wanting to be there with everybody else, while the other half was looking at them turning blue with the cold and thinking maybe it was OK to be here inside insteadω

… Seeing the parade of past presidents and their wives … George Bush the Elder having a hard time walking (hard to watch him trying, too - old age is hard) …Jimmy Carter, that trier … the Clintons, so clever, so slick … and then George Bush the Younger with Laura Bush (no, not stylish, but I think she looked lovely, is lovely; I can’t imagine what she’s been through, either, with her husband pilloried on a daily basis however merited, how would you have handled itω)

… Then those captivating little girls, Malia and Sasha - suddenly the most famous two sisters on the planet and I bet brilliant role-models-to-be for America’s children.

… Aretha Franklin singing ‘My Country Tis of Thee’ with Obama listening, eyes closed, head back, soooo cool. (Loved the hat, too, Aretha, and don’t let anybody tell you different – it was right up there with some of the best of the Windsors.)

… the lovely little outdoor concert, John Williams’ ‘Air and Simple Gifts’. (If only I could have stopped worrying about how cold the musicians’ fingers must have been, poor Yo-Yo, poor Itzhak, poor Anthony. At least Gabriela Montero had on gloves, albeit fingerless.)

… The swearing in, using the Lincoln Bible (brilliant idea - as close to a sacred object as we’ve got in America). I strained to see it better. Couldn’t. But one thing I could see: it wasn’t showy. (No surprise there.) Then Obama, left hand on the Bible, right hand raised … stumbling! (Whatω Obama stumblingω) With Michelle Obama looking on, just stifling a laugh. And, with that, the sudden appeal of Obama as someone human Just Like the Rest of Us. (Or sort of.)

… Obama’s address (I must concentrate here, get this right): intelligent summing up of who we are (mixed race, mixed religions, nonbelievers, too); where we are (hard times) not made easier by past mistakes (worse times), where we want to go (better times). And what we have to do (take personal responsibility) and the rest of the world has to do (hold out hands, forget clenched fists) to get there.

But, no, the speech was not inspiring. We didn't go silent at times, forgetting even ourselves, in the way people do when they hear something beautiful. We didn't come away quoting a single line. But does it matterω It does not. What Obama did, does, is talk to us as equals. As if he's not gunning already for our vote in the next election. Brilliant.

… Elizabeth Alexander’s poem, on the other hand, oh dear, I'm afraid that didn’t work at all for me.( “Clunky”, said Stuart.) Another missed opportunity and by a super poet for what we all did want, admit it!, that memorable line to hang on to forever, c'mon! Still, a treat to have this new tradition (is that a contradiction in termsω) - a poem for the occasion - restored.

… The seeing-off of George and Laura Bush into this great green helicopter, with the Obamas and the Bidens waving Goodbye to them for all the world as if they were two children going off to summer camp.

… Michelle Obama’s yellow dress, no, sorry, I'm afraid that didn’t work for me either. All the more as she has such style, I wanted it to be a wow. But, ah, Michelle, I who like Barack Obama all the better for liking you, that fairy-tale-for-grown-ups white dress at the Inaugural Ball (thank you, YouTube): perfect.

What a day.

It has been a long wait for a President that so many of us could feel excited about and at so many levels. (Just for starters, as someone wrote about the election, the miracle isn’t just that Americans voted for a black man but that they also voted for an unapologetic intellectual). But a great leader - even just the potential, if not the realization - doesn’t come often. Ask almost any country you can think of – ask Italy, ask India, ask England.

And don't listen when they tell you not to get your hopes up too high.

The Emotive Power of Children's Books

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 15:35:08 +0000

Of all the illuminated glass cases which line our main hall (we started off with three; now we have forty; tomorrow, the moon), the most popular is, unsurprisingly, the cases having to do with local history - books about Northumberland, shipping on the Tyne, walking in the Cheviots, notable families, mines, sheep dogs, castles.

But the three cases with the most emotive power – and by far - are the Children’s Books.

In the three glass cases devoted to rare children’s books, we’ve had, at one time or another, most of the great ones, sometimes even first editions - Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island, Peter Rabbit, Kim, The Wind in the Willows, Huckleberry Finn, Swallows and Amazons, Where the Wild Things Are – books we all know and feel very partisan about. (There are those who can’t abide Pooh but love Ratty and Badger and Toad and Mole. Those who can’t do Captain Hook but thrill to Long John Silver.)

And then there are some children’s books that simply don’t transcend nationalities. And how well I know. When we first opened, a small blonde moppet tugged at my sleeve, “Please”, she asked, “do you have any Enid Blytonω” To which I replied, “Whoω”. I shall never forget the look she gave me. (Note to my fellow Yanks: Enid Blyton, as I have since found out, is merely one of the most famous children’s writers in all of Britain.)

Of course, the real trouble with children’s books from a bookseller’s viewpoint is that children won’t leave them alone. Which means that that Beatrix Potter 1^st edition which could have made our fortune won’t – half of page 7 is torn out, three illustrations have been artificially improved with glo-paint, and one of the edges, chewed off.

Of all the children’s books currently in our glass case, my two favourites, as it happens, are politically terribly incorrect. Or were. (Although I think times may be changing.. We may have grown out of the strict need to observe pc anymore in favour of the truth, I don’t know.)

Anyway, the first of my current two favourites was published in 1905, was illustrated by Cecil Aldin, and is called A Gay Dog. (C’mon, you have to laugh!) Here’s a photo:

The second one is part of what I think is one of the most charming series ever. It’s the Golliwog series written and illustrated by Florence K Upton around the turn of the last century. And before you start throwing large virtual tomatoes at me for even typing the word ‘golliwog’, try to hold off at least until you’ve read this bit about Upton taken from one of the best little ‘zines in Britain (take a look at their website), the Book Collectors’ Magazine:

“In the name of political correctness, Upton’s wonderful golliwog – heroic, gentle, gallant and resourceful – has been lumped together with stereotypes and condemned out of hand. In fact, when picture books were filled with images of white-skinned, golden-haired, blue-eyed children, Upton was the first to use an Afro-Caribbean character as the main protagonist.’ (Wikipedia adds that Upton financed an ambulance christened ‘Golliwog’, which went to France during WWI and served on the front.)

Here’s a photo of one of the series.

But the emotive power of children’s books goes a lot deeper than this, what’s pc and what isn’t. It seems to draw its power from wherever it is we all hide what we cherish most.

Oddly enough, the great favouite is rarely one of the major classics. It’s almost always a children’s book that, all right, had some particular merit, a lesser work by some favourite author or illustrator, for example, with at least a reasonable readership, enough to get it into the glass case. Worthy, I’m saying. “Casper, the Friendly Ghost”, comes to mind, or Little Lulu or Raggedy Ann and Andy, ever heard of themω

But whatever it is, so deep is the love of a favourite children’s book that I have seen grown men weep at the sight.

That old man down there, for example, burly, coming towards us, totally uninterested in children’s books (his wife does the grandchildren), he’s headed towards cricket or fishing or something. On his way he’ll pass by the children’s cases. Where he will suddenly catch sight of something out of the corner of his eye, stop, wheel around. Then look around, see if anyone is watching, go over to the case, press his nose against the glass, he can't believe it. There it lay buried for all those years, triggered as fast as Proust’s madeleine or Citizen Kane’s Rosebud..

Treasure Island, you’d suggest. Or maybe Kim.

Not at all. Here it is. Ant & Bee. The book that reduced a grown man to tears.

Do you believe thisω This big burly man, Ant and Bee.

Still, it happened to me. And just as fast.

Walking past the glass case one day, I casually looked in. Then stopped short.

An old beloved friend.

I took it out carefully of the case (it was so fragile!), held it to me. Even though the author is famous (Frances Hodgson Burnett), you never ever see this book. Even bookdealers look blank when you mention the name. You see Little Lord Fauntleroy. Above all you see The Secret Garden. But Racketty-Packetty Houseω never. (Nevermind it charming illustrator, Harrison Cady, whatever happened to himω)

I opened the book.

In seconds I was transported back within my mother’s arms as she read me the story that she, herself, had loved as a child. The story of a once proud doll house fallen on hard times with its little wooden inhabitants, Meg and Peg and Kilmanskeg and Gustibus and Peter Piper and Ridiklis all ending up in rags – and worse. (Poor little Ridiklis; she had lost one of her legs to a puppy.) And then all of them were pushed up into the attic to be forgotten in favour of a grand new doll house and grand new dolls and always in eminent danger of being rediscovered and sent out to be burned up. (Don’t worry; it would all end happily, with a little princess discovering Racketty-Packetty House and falling in love with it and restoring it and its inhabitants to perfection, with Peter Piper actually marrying Lady Patsy and Ridiklis made into a beauty once again and all of them fitted out with new clothes and, oh, it was just all too wonderful!)

Here is the cover of that book.

And now I’ve got it back, don't think I'll ever let go of it again.

Christmas at Barter Books

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 15:56:40 +0000

You go along thinking some places on this earth were just made for Christmas and others weren’t.

Australia, for example, wasn’t. (We were there once during the holidays and can only say that having to listen to Frosty the Snowman in broiling hot weather just didn’t do it for me.)

England, on the other hand, was.

Just a few miles from us, for example, is Alnwick Moor. On one side of the moor is a deep valley. Down in the valley you can just see what’s left of a castle, a little Anglo-Saxon church, a viaduct, a tiny village, farmhouses scattered about, and sheep safely grazing. Now, imagine all this surrounded by hills and covered in snow. Honestly, all it lacks is a sleigh circling overhead led by eight tiny reindeer.

By this yardstick, I think it's fair to say that our bookshop, too, was made for Christmas. It’s located in an old Victorian railway station which was sited on a bit of high ground just outside the town centre.

To get to it, you walk through a high wrought-iron arch and then on up this curly path which is bordered by tall trees. Then once you pass under the exterior lacy canopy, the first thing you see when you walk into the bookshop is an open fireplace with dogs (and people) usually sitting around. (Here's a photograph and, all right, I'm not much of a photographer, I never know which button to press, it's a minefield):

Anyway, we have not let the side down. Today is December 9th and the shop has been well and truly decorated at last. (I hold off letting Christmas decorations go up until December 1st . Putting them up before then feels like cheating.)

But for now it's all green swags with red ribbons, mantelpieces covered in holly and ivy, a big wreath over the old Waiting Room fireplace, and two, yes two, Christmas trees. Not to mention that come the 24th, we'll be handing out to one and all little thumbles of hot mulled wine and bite-sized mince pies. (Too bad I don’t like mince pies). And I look at it and think, you’d have to be a real Scrooge not to like this, poor old Australia.

Mind you, that tree in the children's room - I don't know about it. It's 7’ tall. It looks real but it isn't. What else it isn't is straight up. It's been turned upside down, less Dickens you might say than Narnia. Customer - and staff - opinion has been divided. The opinion that hasn't been divided is the children's. They look at it and giggle, then lie under it looking up and up, at just what who knows, but whatever it is, they start in giggling all the more.

The second tree, however, now that's real, all right - a 14’ fir tree in the very middle of the huge Main Hall. This one is the stunner - hundreds of tiny white lights glancing off hundreds more silver and gold baubles hanging down from the branches. (I'd show you a photo of this, too, but can't, too big for my camera). And, yes, don't worry - it's right-side-up.
Anyway, the local Hospice asked if they could have a little service by that tree, one in memory of friends and relations who had not made it to this Christmas.

Of course they could. The Hospice deserves all the support it can get.

Still, I'll be honest, I was a bit concerned - wondered if the inevitable sadness of the service would be contagious during this determinedly cheerful season. Nevermind, the organizer said the whole service shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes or so, what's twenty minutesω

Anyway, the day of the service I decided I’d better go to it myself. As most people would no doubt be going to the bigger candlelight services elsewhere, the least I could do would be to help make up the numbers.

By the start of the service, there were about thirty of us there, mostly older people. They were of an age when losing people (a husband, a sister, an old friend) was becoming all too familiar. Not that there weren’t younger people there, too – there were. These were the ones who had lost, say, a father, a mother. And a few of them, in turn, were holding the hands of someone still younger, even much younger - children whose necks kept swivelling around still half looking for Granda or Gran, where were theyω

Most of the people were standing in the comparatively large space around the temporarily darkened tree, while the rest of us found room in the nearby aisles.

I took my place just off the central aisle leading up to the tree. Then I had a quick look at my watch. It was 4pm now, it would be all over by 4.20, or so I hoped. I had a lot to do.

On a prearranged cue, the Christmas music filling the shop (Diana Ross and the Supremes singing Joy to the World; it's the Yank in me) was turned off.

We were then joined by a tall thin man with dark hair, a nice, clean-shaven face, wearing a dark suit, dark tie – clearly the vicar who would be taking the service.

He nodded to everyone, thanked everyone for coming, and introduced himself. He was The Reverend David Archer, minister of the local Baptist Church. He explained that Katy Drummond at the Hospice had asked him if he could come along and say a few words, and he was glad to do just that.

He then asked us to join him in a short prayer, one of the psalms.

We bowed our heads.

And then, when he finished, he asked if someone could please turn on the lights of the treeω

A pause. A longer pause. (If I had not prayed as seriously as i night have done before, I did so now, Lights, puh-leez come on.)

Then there it was - the tree suddenly turning tree of lights, lights which, altogether, lit up the faces - sad faces, drained - of those standing around it, the exception being the children's faces, their faces as shiny bright as the ornaments on the tree, their eyes all wide.

A woman dabbed at her eyes.

We would sing four carols in all, Mr Archer said, and in between each carol he would say a few words.

And so we did sing, tentatively at first, a little group of people overwhelmed by the very space of that huge Main Hall - a Hall that was for almost a century the old Platform 1. (It has seen so much over the years, that Hall - the arrival of Queen Victoria, Tommies leaving for WWI, city children brought to be housed with families during WWII, and then, in 1968, the last train to depart after the Beeching cuts, old newspaper photographs showing the locomotive front decorated in flowers. And now, now a small group of people singing where the old well had been.)

Still our voices did grow at least a little stronger with each succeeding verse, helped by (I stopped momentarily just to listen) someone’s lovely soprano beginning to thread its way through the spaces between the notes that the rest of us were doing our best with. (I looked around to find the owner of that voice; couldn't.)

But here was the surprising thing: Mr Archer. Can I just say how good he wasω I found myself listening to him intently. It wasn't so much what he said (though that, too) but how he said it. No pear-shaped vowels softened by the odd sherry informed that voice, no theatre.

We had all known grief, he said, we had all experienced it in different ways, coped with it in different ways, had done and were doing the very best we could. We mustn’t be too hard on ourselves; they would not want that. They had loved us, just as we loved them. Hold on to that love and to our faith in life everlasting.

Listening to Mr Archer, I found myself taking comfort from his words, why was thatω I was not there to be comforted.

Old griefs, it seems, are closer to the surface that we suppose.

We sang the last carol, O Come All Ye Faithful.

I found it difficult to sing.

Then Mr Archer ended the service by telling everyone that, if they wanted to, they could take one of the silver ornaments from the bowl that was being passed around and add it to the tree in memory of.

A fair few did.

I did.

I who had just come to help make up the numbers.

Has Anybody Seen Fizzy?

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 15:06:56 +0000

In a nation of animal lovers, it can hardly be surprising that one of the bookshop’s most popular features is that we allow dogs - the only stipulation being that their owners must be attached to them by a leash.

Not only do we allow dogs but, from the day we first opened, we have actively encouraged their custom - this by putting a cute dog photograph on our front door (terriers, sheep dogs, Yorkies, mostly – the rottweiller didn’t work) with a little tag underneath ‘Dogs Welcome’. If we could only figure out how to turn them into paying customers, we’d really be going places. So far, however, they can’t seem to get past the fire which they curl up in front of and go to sleep. (Not unlike a fair few of their owners, I might add.)

In view of all this, you’re probably thinking I must be a dog lover. And you’d be right. (If I thought you had an hour to spare, I’d tell you about the little fox terrier I grew up with, AC. He was the best!)

But the truth is, thanks to my becoming the stepmother of two cats upon our marriage, I have slowly turned into so ardent a cat lover that I now consider their deep acquaintance one of the best gifts Stuart ever gave me. This is something that other cat lovers will immediately understand without further explanation, just as dog lovers won’t, and we won’t even mention bird lovers, what can I sayω

But what both dog and cat-lovers will understand is how much both mean to us, these children who never grow up. Don’t judge us. Don’t care what we look like or how old we are. Just treat them decently, take them (dogs) for a walk by the sea or, even better, to the bookshop (well, I would say this, wouldn’t Iω) or let them (cats) roam about at will under the moon and the stars and then come home at dawn to a cosy nest and they’re with you through thick and thin.

In short, in their way, they love us, and we, in ours, them.

One of the cats we have loved best was Fizzy.

Here is a photograph of Fizzy taken just last June, when she was about two months old.

We agreed to take her (love at first sight actually) as a furry friend for our marmalade cat, Custard. Who hated her. (Just for starters, she had no respect. She would jump on him when he was asleep, stuff like that.)

In typical proud-mother fashion (brace yourself), I think Fizzy was beautiful. She was a tortoise-shell cat, her top fur a gorgeous spectrum of colours ranging from black to brown to gold to yellow, while underneath she was white as snow. In my imagination, I could just see her in some Disney film sporting silver loop earrings and pink lipstick and knocking all the boys’ socks off.

In temperament she was (I have to say it) quite feisty. If you were holding her (as I often did, irresistible) and she wanted down, she wanted down now, this second, (I still have a faint patchwork of tiny scars on my forearms to prove that two seconds was too long.) On the other hand, she would sit with you and purr for hours, come up to you, rub your nose with hers. She did that with me when I was reading. Or with Stuart when he was watching football. I could go on about all her myriad cute tricks, but I’ll spare you. I’ll just say that Fizzy was an endearing little companion.

Which is exactly what both Stuart and I thought she was doing last October, October 18th to be exact. Stuart thought she was upstairs curled up by me, reading, and I thought she was downstairs curled up by him, watching football. So that it was a surprise to me when Stuart came up, took one look at our bed, and asked: “Isn’t Fizzy with youω”

On the face of it, such a small no-count question, “Isn’t Fizzy with youω” But instead of floating out the window, weightless, it hung in the air and grew big until it filled the room.

She was only five months old. Who knows how restless a cat she might have grown into, but while she had proudly learned how to manuever the cat flap (a big incentive was going after poor Custard), she had always stayed very close to home. Not only that, she had never stayed out long - ten minutes, tops.

We considered this stay-at-home nature particularly fortunate, as our house is next to a very busy road.

For two weeks we looked for her. That first night, we each took flashlights, we would go in different directions. But which oneω With the house as the central hub, she could have gone in any one of a hundred, a thousand, possible directions, including up (roofs, trees).

There was nothing for it but to just strike out - Stuart going off in one direction, and I in another, hit or miss.

Looking back, I keep thinking what must we have looked like, both of us, two spectral forms stumbling around late at night peering down alley ways and over stone walls, training pale beams of light wherever we thought Fizzy might be, calling out her name, then stopping, listening, the loudest sound of all that night being the silence broken only by our own voices.

Nevermind, we said to ourselves, it’s early days. Maybe she’s already come home, is right now at home eating Custard’s food, wondering where we are, that would be a laugh! Or perhaps that very night, we’d hear her come back in (the cat flap makes an almighty noise in the middle of the night!). Or perhaps the next morning, there she’d be, where you beenω

But that didn’t happen.

Over the next few days, we became pray to the usual fears of everyone who has ever had a pet go missing, We could bear the fact that she might be dead. What was harder was that she might be trapped. Injured. Stolen. Worse, taken. (And what kind of person would do thatω I tried hard not to go there.)

And, yes, we put up posters. We called the RSPCA. We put an ad in the local paper. We called the local authorities (don’t deal with cats, sorry, only dogs). We even asked the local radio station to make an appeal. (Yes, I’m afraid we went that far, goes to show.)

And everywhere we went, people were so kind, really. They would all tell us how they had had a cat go missing, for a whole week, a month, a year, and then one day, Smudge or Felix or Tarmac had just suddenly shown up, the little bugger!

We had two responses. One, a phone call from the local post office who said a customer had seen our poster and reported that they had actually seen a tortoiseshell cat running around at the north end of our road, the only thing was, it had on a green collar, did Fizzy have on a green collarω (No, Fizzy didn’t have on a collar at all; by some horrible fluke, I had taken her collar off the day she went missing, something about it was making her claw at it so badly it was shredding. Better get her another one, I thought, tomorrow. Because, of course, there would be a tomorrow.) Still, I made a dash up the road. You never know. Maybe somebody thought Fizzy was just a stray, was as beguiled with her as we were, took her in, got her a green collar. (I found that cat, green collar, and just where I was told she’d be, at the North end of the road; it wasn’t Fizzy.)

The second response was from someone at a warehouse. A stray tortoiseshell cat had come in on one of the trucks, had obviously got locked in somehow. This time, Stuart went up, didn’t wait a minute either to go. (OK, Englishmen, stiff upper lips and all that. But I can only say that Stuart was at that warehouse practically before the caller had even put the phone down.) But that cat wasn’t Fizzy, either.

The hardest thing, of course, was the not knowing what had happened to her. What I pinned my hopes on, was that someone would find Fizzy, dead or alive, and take her to someone else (a vet, the RSPCA) who would scan her, find her identification chip, call us.

This didn’t happen.

Still, unlike many pet owners in our situation, we actually found out what happened to Fizzy. This, through a neighbour who had seen our poster two weeks after we put it up, had put two and two together and came over to tell us.

All the time we had been looking for Fizzy that very same night she had first gone missing, she had been lying almost within sight of our house. We had missed her because she was lying in the dark behind a neighbour's bin. She had been hit by a car on the road, and she had gone there to die. Our neighbour had seen her when he went off to work. He reckoned she probably had belonged to the woman of the house, he didn't know. She was later discovered and put into the bin. Where she would have been taken off and dumped, along with the rest of the rubbish, in the town tip.

Why am I telling you all thisω

Not to place any blame, not at all. (Ask yourself: what would you do with a dead animal without a collarω Would you have thought it might be chippedω Picked it upω Taken it to a vetω Whatω)

So, back to why am I telling you all thisω

First, because if you're an animal lover, something like this may have happened to you, and misery loves company, that's why.

Second, because try as I might, I don't see any realistic way forward to change this classic scenario, local authorities taking responsibility to handle dead animals, cats as well as dogs, collect them, have them scanned. (As it happens, there is a movement by an MP to have just such a bill passed making local authorities responsible, but nobody believes it will pass, not enough time, money to implement it.) For dogs maybe (the Dog Warden) but not for cats (ever heard of a Cat Wardenω)

Third, because maybe you know an answer, something plausible. Maybe you'll be the one to set it in motion. (One answer I just can't do, be warned! Not let cats out at all, keep them indoors. Some people even have them declawed, why notω Well, Stuart and I, we can't do either, just can't. Better not to have any more cats at all.)

Still, let me put it into perspective: the whole time something like this happens, you wonder, if the loss of a pet hurts this much how infinitely worse it must be - unbearable is the word that comes to mind - when it involves not a cat or a dog but someone's childω

But, look, before I turn to jelly, can I just tell you there is at least one creature in this otherwise sad little story who is thrilled to bits by it all: Custard. He doesn't have a clue what happened to his late tormentor. But judging from the sound of his snoring, he's not all that bothered.

The American Election

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 15:55:05 +0000

It was thrilling, the American election.

Stuart and I stayed up all night watching the BBC news waiting for the outcome, with me (me, an American) catching myself throughout thinking I want to be home, which was kind of funny, because there I was, already home.

Thrilling to see all those enormous long lines of people snaking around whole city blocks, young and old, black and white, patiently waiting for hours to cast their votes. (I’ve never seen lines like that before, not anywhere, and certainly not here in Britain or in the United States.)

Thrilling to hear how many of those people, young and old, black and white, said that their real vote wasn’t about race but about country, their country.

Thrilling to sit up watching the election results come in, sit there fist in mouth until Obama achieved the magic number of votes, at which point we (me, my husband, our cat) sprung up and cheered. (That's also when I spilled my third cup of coffee all over the place, coffee I had been drinking out of my specially-chosen sacred mug, see below.)

Thrilling to watch Obama and his family, followed by their supporting cast, Joe Biden and his family, come out on the stage to the roar of a crowd which one could be forgiven for thinking must have been heard around the world. (In fact, given the news coverage the next day - all these exultant scenes in Paris, Berlin, Delhi, Manila - it was.)

Thrilling to think that at that moment an old sad chapter in American history might have finally have been effectively closed, that with any luck generations to come would take racial equality as much for granted as women now take the right to vote.

Thrilling to hear a speech of such eloquence and power from a politician who isn't afraid to talk up, not down. (Listen to this, if you haven't already heard it enough: “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our Founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.”)

Thrilling.

Thrilling, too, for this expat not to have to skulk around England any more apologizing for Bush, for Iraq, for Guantanamo Bay, for living - “I’m sorry”, “I’m sorry”. “I’m sorry”.

Thrilling to get all the exultant emails, texts, phone calls from friends everywhere, the UK, the USA, "Give me 5!" (As strong as the need to connect is in bad times - 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, Lockerbie – it’s even stronger in the best of them. Just take a look at all those people squeezed in together shoulder-to-shoulder in Grant Park - all of them cheering, singing, laughing, crying - would they have been anywhere else in the worldω)

Thrilling the number of customers in the bookshop (many of them I didn't even know) who came up to me, “Congratulations!”

Look, whatever happens (and we all know the problems are enormous), it is thrilling in the here and now just to feel hopeful.

Thrilling to have an Obama to root for.

Thrilling to feel so proud of America, and of being American, again.

A Pencil and a Piece of String

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 13:31:44 +0000

The American election, need I tell you, is almost here, two more weeks and that’s it. I’m glad and not glad all at once. As a Yank, I’ve been so hooked on the whole campaign that I’m used to my daily fix. And not just me but, judging by our customers, so are the British.

But what is currently terrifying me is not so much that my candidate won't win but that neither candidate will win legitimately. Specifically, that there will be a reprise of the Great Hanging Chad episode. And it appears there’s a risk of just that.

Say it isn't so. Believe me, that chad episode was rough on us ex-pats - I mean, the jokes! Can only say that the Europeans had a great time, can you blame themω Including the vicar of St Chad’s church (yes, there actually was a St Chad, v The Venerable Bede) whose website suddenly rocketed from three hits a month to three thousand.

Anyway, in an effort to forestall another such disaster, British friends have asked me to please tell my fellow Americans what the voting procedure is like over here. (They know it's useless; they know they Americans will just laugh and go on about how "quaint" it is. But, hey!, there’s one thing the British system does that ours doesn’t: it works.)

Readyω

1) First, of course, you must be a registered voter. And registration is the responsibility of the local council who must write to every address to find out who, at that address, is eligible to vote. (The council is also responsible for keeping the list up-to-date.)

2) When there is an election coming up, you are then sent a postcard that states the date of the election and the location of your polling station.

3) You then go to the polling station on the day and ‘check in’ at the desk. They will have a list with all the authorized names in that particular district and will duly check your name off.

4) They will then give you a coded ballot (note: a hard copy), one not tied to an address. This is so that no-one can find out how you voted.

5) You then go off to the polling booth and draw this little curtain around you. Inside the polling booth you will find a pencil tied to a string (yes, a pencil tied to a string). You will then use that pencil to mark your ballot with Xs.

6) You will then fold the ballot, go back to the desk, and put it into the slot of a locked metal box.

7) At the end of the day, the workers at that desk are responsible for getting that box to the counting station, and God help them if they don’t do it.

8) Should there be any unexplained discrepancy, then or later, either party can ask for a recount. Which almost never happens because there are enough tallies, checks, and counterchecks, to ensure it all happens.

There, how easy is thatω And how failsafe, too. (Please, write your Congressman - a pencil will do.)

N.B. When you exit the polling station, there are sometimes journalists around asking how you voted. Americans generally tell them. The Brits generally don't. In fact, and without apology, they'll even lie. (They don't think it's anyone's business. Be warned.)

Anyway, my vote is already in. Has been for weeks (sent back my absentee ballot by return mail, just to be safe).

As for who did I vote forω Obama, that’s who. Such potential! And what a thrill to actually be excited about a candidate for a change; I didn’t know it was possible. (Barack! Don’t let me down!)

As for John McCain, Stuart always thought that whoever won this election, McCain or Obama, it was, after these past eight years, a win-win situation for America, both men with such strengths. Still, in the past few months, something has happened to John McCain - he seems to have lost more than the election; he seems to have lost himself.

In any event, whatever happens, speed November 4^th! And a new era.

Catering 4 U

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 10:46:01 +0000

What qualifications did Stuart and I have for entering into the catering businessω

None.

We don't even like to cook. (Look, we can cook enough to keep us alive, always convenient. Also, Stuart can open a bottle of champagne without making it pop.)

Did that stop usω

No.

Should it haveω

Possibly. All right, probably. We don’t know yet. Our little Station Buffet only opened just under two months ago. The jury is still out.

The evidence so farω

So far so good. Bearing in mind we have done no advertising at all (we’re basically hopeless at it) other than put up two sandwich boards - one outside by the front door and the other one way down the Main Hall beside the entrance to the Buffet. For all that, Stuart reckons we are at least on track.

Which means whatω

It means that we may be doing well enough in our High Season (basically, Easter to Michaelmas¹ to balance out the losses we’ll inevitably have in our much longer Low Season (Michaelmas to Easter). If so, that would mean that the Buffet would be a goer; we could cover the additional overheads (two short-order cooks, not just one, plus occasional staff help) and still write in the black side of the ledger, which is all (or almost all) we ask in this world. It also means that we have learned quite a bit, fast.

Like whatω

That if we thought we didn’t know anything about the catering business when we began, we were right.

For example, we didn’t even think about having our basic supplies delivered to us; we were getting them ourselves until somebody asked us what on earth we were doing going to Cash n’ Carry all the time.

For example, we had no idea you had to have, by law, umpteen sinks in a kitchen, including one to wash your hands in after you’ve used that other one just in case that other one had am escapee germ in it.

What else we’ve learned: that if we don’t know anything about the catering business, we’re not too proud to ask people who do. Which doesn’t mean we always listen. Like, to that man, seriously rich, someone whose own catering business was a mere hobby, etc, who had a look at our Buffet before it opened, shook his head, Too small, he said, should be in the big front room. And he was probably right, too. But did we listenω No. We liked it way back there in the back, this little cubby hole, tucked away. (OK, we’re mavericks. Move over McCain-Palin.)

That we were right – well, we think we were right - to keep the menu as simple as possible, you can have this, this, this or that, not whole pages' worth. But what we have good, seriously good - soup, hot and cold sandwiches, best ingredients, fresh bread – and with everything, as much as possible, home-made.

That it’s no good trying to second-guess what everyone else would like on the menu, go for what you’d like. Which works perfectly because, hello, you’re everyone else.

Not that we don’t keep revising the menu all the time. Because what else we’ve learned is that some things we thought would sell, haven’t. And some things we thought wouldn’t, have.

For example, however popular all the lattes and the cappuccinos, the americanos and the macchiatos (whatever, quite, they are), the British, as a whole, want tea. WE WANT TEA WE WANT TEA WE WANT TEA. And by tea they don’t really mean a cuppa² either. They want a cup and saucer (forget a mug). They want the pot. And then another pot, this one with nothing in it but hot water so they can have a second cup of tea that isn’t too strong. And a little jug of milk. Plus a little bowl of sugar. In short, while what Americans mean by a cup of tea is just that, a cup of tea, what the British mean by a cup of tea is a whole shooting match. With the ideal accompaniment to all this being scones³.(To give you some idea how much they, tea and scones, go together in the British mind, think coffee and donuts and you’re there.)

What elseω that bacon butties⁴ are more popular than sausage sarnies⁵ but that you forget the humble cheese toastie⁶ at your peril.

That in High Season we need a lot of staff for a little Buffet, at least two full-time cooks and one person seconded from the staff to handle the drinks and the till. All of which means raised overheads we hadn’t counted on. (Will we be able to handle thatω We don’t know yet. Stuart says basically depends on how well the Low Season goes, if the takings for the year as a whole balance out.)

That we’ve possibly got a lot of adjusting to do in terms of opening hours. Which have so far been all over the place. What we can’t do is keep the Buffet open too late, as the Buffet staff are responsible for keeping the Buffet clean. Which means we’ve got to close it by 4pm to give the staff a chance to do the cleaning and leave before overtime kicks in. So, for now, this minute, the Buffet sign reads: ‘Open 10-4 (hot food 10 – 3)’.

What elseω That all these bacon sandwiches are going to kill me if I don’t quit eating them myself. And don’t even mention those chocolate cupcakes, killers. (Pace Withnail⁷ we warn people on the blackboard: ‘the finest chocolate cupcakes known to humanity’; they are, too.)

That book people, by and large, are nice. Well, we’ve always known that. They are nice, there’s just something about them. Still, there are always the exceptions (that baby throwing around orange juice, if only I could have thrown it right straight back) and we had visions of the sort of mess those exceptions would make. Meaning more staff time to clean up. But, so far at least, that hasn’t happened. Without even any signs asking people to bus their food, lots of them actually do that. See the need, help out.

That It must be terrifying going into the catering business where the catering bit stands alone, no bookshop to help out.

That even with all the encouraging signs, Felix, for one, remains worried. He’s been through all this already with his own café, now history. He says it doesn’t matter how well we do, we’ll never make anything given the awful margins in the restaurant business and the fact that it’s looking like we’ll need three staff, forget it, he says, close it down, now, yesterday.

But, true to form, we’re not listening. Anyway, not yet. As we see it, we don’t have to make anything, not really. What we do have to do is just break even, that’s all. Because if the odd extra person hangs around long enough to buy the odd extra book, great!

What else Felix doesn’t understand is that from the time we opened the shop, my own driving force (beyond the tiny desire to avoid bankruptcy) has been to create what I, myself, want.

And I’d want a little café.

“One decaff skinny latte, please, and the best chocolate cupcake known to humanity.”

And then take them and my book off to a corner, sit there among other people, in little groups or alone, but everyone together and not together all at once.

Bliss.

1. Michaelmas: St Michael’s Feast Day, September 29th. Also the name of the first term in the academic year in ancient universities in the UK and Ireland. (Warning: the use of this term will earn you a few points but at the expense of even more blank stares.) So why don’t I just say ‘September 29th’ and be done with itω Because I like that little connection with the Middle Ages, that’s why. It’s what comes from growing up in a small farming town near the Mississippi, you think that kind of connection is amazing.

2. A cuppa =s a cup of. (You hear ‘cuppa’ constantly.)

3. Scones. The Brits love them. The generally come in three varieties: plain, fruit (ie, with raisins added to the dough), or cheese. They are essential ingredients in a ‘full-English tea’ when they come with incredibly thick cream that you layer on the scone with a knife, along with strawberry or raspberry jam. But more usually, the scone (plain or fruit) comes just with butter and jam. Personally, I’m not a fan. Maybe if they come hot straight out of the oven but name me any bread that isn’t wonderful when it’s hot and comes straight out of the oven. Otherwise, to me, they’re too big, too heavy, cowpats.

4. Butties: northern slang for ‘sandwich’ named after the Earl of.

5. Sarnies: southern slang for ‘sandwich’, also named after the above Earl. (And who exactly was the Earl of Sandwichω Allow me to quote Wikipedia on the name 'sandwich': ‘It was named after John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich, an 18th-century English aristocrat, although he was neither the inventor nor sustainer of the food. It is said that Lord Sandwich was fond of this form of food because it allowed him to continue playing cards, particularly cribbage, while eating without getting his cards greasy from eating meat with his bare hands.’

6. Cheese toastie (UK) =s grilled cheese sandwich (USA)

7. Withnail: quote comes from wonderful cult movie, Withnail & I, in which the Withnail character (Richard E Grant) calls for ‘the finest wine known to humanity’.

A Pot of Tea

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 14:34:59 +0000

As a world-class worrier, I have to say that our just-opened Buffet has already proved an invaluable source of new things to worry about.

For example: I was worried that no-one would come. Ruin was ahead. I felt sorry for Phil who had worked so hard to make it happen, tirelessly chasing after the architect, the joiner, the mason, the plumber, the electrician, me. Phil didn’t deserve ruin.

(Advance forward: this worry proved to be a nonstarter. Look, this is our High Season, Buffet or no Buffet. Plus, it’s been a rainy Summer so people aren't going as much to the coast, gardens, hills. They want to be inside somewhere, somewhere cozy. Like, say, a bookshop. In short, prime conditions for us. So that if people didn’t come now, they never would. But they are.)

Then I started worrying that too many people might come.

And why on earth would I worry about thatω

Partly it was to fill the void left when I no longer had to worry that no-one would come.

And partly it was because I began thinking that if too many people came, there wouldn’t be enough seating in the Buffet (the Buffet is only small) and those disgruntled customers who couldn’t get a seat might go away and never come back. And, just for good measure (a nice refinement, this), warn their friends.

(Advance forward again: this worry proved to be a nonstarter, too, as there was a simple solution: if there weren’t enough seats in the Buffet, there were more in our Old Waiting Room. Simple as that.)

But mostly I worried because I suddenly saw this spillover crowd (in my mind's eye, hordes) as a potential threat to one of my favourite features in the shop.

Follow me: if there were all these people, and if they did take their trays down to our Old Waiting Room, they would then sit there clanking their dishes and shouting and generally creating mayhem. Which would mean, in turn, that that room would lose the very quality not just I but not a few of our customers love best: its calm.

From the first, the room was designed to be the sort of place you could escape to. (Picture the original hand-made Victorian tiles, the high ceiling, the cast-iron mantelpiece,) No mobiles, no music, no pressure – stay all day if you like, read the newspaper, read a book (or write one), we don't care. All this heated in the Winter by the open fireplace, just the smell (coal) and the sound (the crackle) somehow reassuring. (When we restored that room, some people thought we were crazy not to use the space to make money. Particularly, I guess, when we didn't have any. )

Happily, that worry has proved as gossamer as (most of) the others, for even given the occasional actual test of a large spillover crowd (and I've been there among them), the quiet of the Waiting Room has held..

Not possible, you'd think, not with all those people - grannies, children, teen-agers, young couples and old ones. They come in carrying their trays - a pot of tea, a bacon sandwich, a cheese toastie, a scone, a cupcake - and, yes, with all the inevitable clanking that involves, the knives, forks, spoons, all of it. (It’s going on right now as I write, me sitting there, adding the odd clank myself.)

Still, the people (even their children) keep their voices low. They respect the No Mobile sign. Their dogs lie at their feet, seem happy. Even that clanking has a kind of friendly ring to it. And it all somehow melds together in a way that makes the room seem (will you believe meω Or will you think it hypeω) enhanced.

Whyω

I don’t know. I can’t see this happening in America. In America, the room would have been filled with noise – cheerful, I have to say, a nice buzz (in its own way, I miss that sound a lot, everyone going full steam) – but in no way peaceful.

Still, sitting in there this summer, I do have a theory. Bear with me. (Just remember: I’m a Yank.)

I think it is somewhere connected with that pot of tea. A proper pot, note – China, with a graceful curving spout.

And not just the pot either but also all its time-honoured companions, all huddling near their old friend - the little jug of milk, the sugar sticks, the cup and saucer (forget a mug), the spoon.

Well, I think you put a British person together with that pot of tea and whether they will or no, on the spot, whoever they are and wherever they come from, the tea pot reminds them just who they are, England expects. And they do.

My Old Waiting Room, against all fears, is purring. And so am I.

Still, don’t think my worries are over. The summer figures seem all right, at least so far. But we have the Winter ahead. And I bet nobody will come.

Anyone for a cuppaω