A bittersweet day
Certain dates have always held major significance for me. It's as
though all sorts of events get caught up by them - like a piece of
celestial fly paper. And one of those dates is 28 April. It's the
birthday of a couple of people I've worked with over the years and
who've had a big impact on me. And when he was alive, it was the
birthday of a very special member of my husband's family.
Back in February, I decided that 28 April was a fitting birthday for the main male character (who's a publisher) of my current novel. I like assigning birthdays to my characters - it helps me to get a good sense of them. And 28 April seemed to suit this particular character perfectly. A couple of days after choosing that date, I was sent a big envelope which contained an invitation to the sort of party I would normally only dream of attending. Each year, Hatchards bookshop in London hosts a party for the authors whose books have sold particularly well for them during the past year. Sales of my latest book, Red Sky at Night, had made me one of their authors of the year. My agent was almost speechless with excitement when I told her. And the date of the party? What else but 28 April.
My work has been going really well recently. On a personal level, it's been very sad watching my mother-in-law's health deteriorate dramatically. She was diagnosed with inoperable cancer last October and the doctors gave her between two weeks and two months. She was still with us at Christmas, pulling crackers despite being so weak that she nearly fell out of bed in the process. She was still here in January, to celebrate two family birthdays. She was still here in February, when I told her about the Hatchards party. She was so excited that she questioned me closely. What was I going to wear? How would I get there? Was my husband invited as well? (No.) She referred to it several more times. A month ago, by which time her voice was barely above a whisper and she didn't have the strength to lift a cup of tea without assistance, she rang me to ask if I'd like to borrow her best Bruno Magli shoes for the big night. Unfortunately, I couldn't take her up on her kind offer as she's a size 3 and I'm a size 7. It was a brief call and I knew it had exhausted her. Apparently she'd wanted to ring me at 6 that morning, as soon as she woke up, but she'd been persuaded to wait until a more civilized time.
When I got back from the Festival of Writing at York, she could barely talk any more but she squeezed my hand when I told her how much I'd enjoyed myself. When we were alone, I told her that I'd let her know how the Hatchards party went, wherever she was when it happened. We'd already discussed her imminent arrival in heaven.
We saw her on Sunday. She looked terrible and I felt that her essential self was no longer present. We got a call on Monday night to say she might not last the night. But she did. We visited her on Tuesday afternoon. She looked like a worn out shell that someone had discarded, but she was still alive. Yesterday morning was 28 April. And yesterday morning we got a call to say that she'd died.
Although we'd been expecting it - and, in some ways, hoping for it because she was suffering so much and wasn't going to improve - it was still a shock. But I knew I had to go to the Hatchards party. I knew she'd be furious with me if I didn't. In a way, I was going for her.
When I got there last night, I was terribly nervous. I gave myself a pep talk and walked through the doors. Someone walked in with me, and I turned to see who it was. She looked so familiar that I said 'Oh, hallo!' She looked a bit startled but said hallo back. And then I realized that I didn't know her. Not in person. I recognized her face because I'd seen her in a documentary last year and had used her as a starting point for one of the central characters in my novel. Arriving with her reassured me that the evening would go well. And it did.
There were an awful lot of famous faces there. PD James. Clive James. Michael Frayn and Claire Tomalin. AN Wilson. Beryl Bainbridge. Helen Mirren. Penny Vincenzi. William Boyd. Antonia Fraser. John Simpson. Nicky Haslam. Wherever I turned, I saw someone I recognized. I didn't dare approach any of them because they were all chatting furiously to one another. But I also saw Alan Whicker, sitting on a chair. I've always loved his documentaries so I decided I'd tell him so. He got to his feet, shook my hand and was utterly charming. He asked me my name, and when I told him he nodded and said 'Oh yes', as though it meant something to him. I knew it didn't but I was captivated by his immense charm and courtesy.
I shall enjoy telling my mother-in-law all about it when I feel she's ready to hear it. And I must make sure I remember to tell her about Alan Whicker. I know it will make her laugh.
Back in February, I decided that 28 April was a fitting birthday for the main male character (who's a publisher) of my current novel. I like assigning birthdays to my characters - it helps me to get a good sense of them. And 28 April seemed to suit this particular character perfectly. A couple of days after choosing that date, I was sent a big envelope which contained an invitation to the sort of party I would normally only dream of attending. Each year, Hatchards bookshop in London hosts a party for the authors whose books have sold particularly well for them during the past year. Sales of my latest book, Red Sky at Night, had made me one of their authors of the year. My agent was almost speechless with excitement when I told her. And the date of the party? What else but 28 April.
My work has been going really well recently. On a personal level, it's been very sad watching my mother-in-law's health deteriorate dramatically. She was diagnosed with inoperable cancer last October and the doctors gave her between two weeks and two months. She was still with us at Christmas, pulling crackers despite being so weak that she nearly fell out of bed in the process. She was still here in January, to celebrate two family birthdays. She was still here in February, when I told her about the Hatchards party. She was so excited that she questioned me closely. What was I going to wear? How would I get there? Was my husband invited as well? (No.) She referred to it several more times. A month ago, by which time her voice was barely above a whisper and she didn't have the strength to lift a cup of tea without assistance, she rang me to ask if I'd like to borrow her best Bruno Magli shoes for the big night. Unfortunately, I couldn't take her up on her kind offer as she's a size 3 and I'm a size 7. It was a brief call and I knew it had exhausted her. Apparently she'd wanted to ring me at 6 that morning, as soon as she woke up, but she'd been persuaded to wait until a more civilized time.
When I got back from the Festival of Writing at York, she could barely talk any more but she squeezed my hand when I told her how much I'd enjoyed myself. When we were alone, I told her that I'd let her know how the Hatchards party went, wherever she was when it happened. We'd already discussed her imminent arrival in heaven.
We saw her on Sunday. She looked terrible and I felt that her essential self was no longer present. We got a call on Monday night to say she might not last the night. But she did. We visited her on Tuesday afternoon. She looked like a worn out shell that someone had discarded, but she was still alive. Yesterday morning was 28 April. And yesterday morning we got a call to say that she'd died.
Although we'd been expecting it - and, in some ways, hoping for it because she was suffering so much and wasn't going to improve - it was still a shock. But I knew I had to go to the Hatchards party. I knew she'd be furious with me if I didn't. In a way, I was going for her.
When I got there last night, I was terribly nervous. I gave myself a pep talk and walked through the doors. Someone walked in with me, and I turned to see who it was. She looked so familiar that I said 'Oh, hallo!' She looked a bit startled but said hallo back. And then I realized that I didn't know her. Not in person. I recognized her face because I'd seen her in a documentary last year and had used her as a starting point for one of the central characters in my novel. Arriving with her reassured me that the evening would go well. And it did.
There were an awful lot of famous faces there. PD James. Clive James. Michael Frayn and Claire Tomalin. AN Wilson. Beryl Bainbridge. Helen Mirren. Penny Vincenzi. William Boyd. Antonia Fraser. John Simpson. Nicky Haslam. Wherever I turned, I saw someone I recognized. I didn't dare approach any of them because they were all chatting furiously to one another. But I also saw Alan Whicker, sitting on a chair. I've always loved his documentaries so I decided I'd tell him so. He got to his feet, shook my hand and was utterly charming. He asked me my name, and when I told him he nodded and said 'Oh yes', as though it meant something to him. I knew it didn't but I was captivated by his immense charm and courtesy.
I shall enjoy telling my mother-in-law all about it when I feel she's ready to hear it. And I must make sure I remember to tell her about Alan Whicker. I know it will make her laugh.
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23 Comments
I also like "I shall enjoy telling my mother-in-law all about it when I feel she's ready to hear it." I sometimes feel sorry for our ancestors and our general unwillingness to talk to them. It's great that you feel able to do so and "make her laugh."
Well done on your achievement. You would have been letting her down if you didn't go. I think you should definitely sit down one eve and tell your mother in law about meeting AW! I bet he is a bit of a smoothy, and the experience will make her laugh :]
minxie
But dates and synchronicity - yes. 28th April is special for me too, because in 2004 that's when my father died. Getting published at last has been bitter-sweet because it's what he always wanted for me and I've wanted so much to tell him - but yesterday I read Harry's blog about my success and did just that.
The positive things never seem to die - love, and pride in your loved one's achievements. I've felt surrounded by it since last night and hope so very much that you have too.
I expect old Whickers, when you introduced yourself, was remembering his youth and those little 'tubes' of square fruitdrops. Ah, yes.
I can understand you feeling so nervous going into the party, even though you had earned the right.
Lots of love from both of us.
xx
Yes, I will tell my mother-in-law all about it, and about the other things that happen to me. Some years ago, I agreed with one of my aunts that whichever of us died first would try to make contact with the other one to let them know that all was well. By the time she died, my aunt was very deaf and couldn't use the phone for that reason - something she hated as she loved chatting. A few weeks later I had an incredibly vivid dream in which I was in a client's office when the phone rang. I picked it up. It was my aunt, bubbling over with joy and excitement: 'Jane, it's marvellous here! It's absolutely marvellous!' I told that story to my mother-in-law a few weeks ago. She looked very pleased, and also reassured.
Much love to you all
xxx
I am glad that you continued with your own life during the sadness and I am sure it was of great benefit to all concerned - including your mother-in-law.
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