It's Just a Stage

Mum leaves in a few days’ time. So,  I joined the Bournemouth library (beautiful! huge! self check out!) and am now discovering just what high jinks women can get up to, when left alone for an extensive period.

Visitors welcome, at any point. Meat cleavers not yet purchased.

Byron's Boudoir

The literary run continues.

Byron’s Newstead Abbey was next on the list. I’d already been to his anticlimactic gravesite at St Mary Magdalegne’s in Hucknall (they don’t let you into the crypt anymore, so you’ve just got the blocked up stairwell to gaze at). Newstead Abbey, though, was pretty cool. It’s this 12th Century monastery-cum-stately home, where he held his infamously orgiastic parties – drinking out of a human skull and so forth. Despite giving my best ‘come hither’ look in his plush, green bedroom, the only thing that hit on me was an attentive peacock.

Byron wasn’t terribly precious about the history of the place – he turned the great dining hall into a pistol practise room and, particularly memorably, converted the family chapel into a den for his pet bear (late night BBC advertisers take note). Though not much of a fan of Childe Harold et al, I rather like the cut of Georgie’s jib.

Knock, knock, knockin' on D.H's Door

Now, Eastwood is about 8 miles from Plesley – the village where my great-grandfather lived, back in Lawrence’s day. My great-grandfather – William Parkin – was a pretty interesting man – he tried his hand at a couple of jobs, including being a gamekeeper on the estate of a family called Norwood. This is where things get interesting. See, no-one’s been able to figure out why Lawrence re-wrote Lady Chatterley’s Lover three times. The changes were so minor, they didn’t seem to warrant the big fuss. In fact, the biggest change in the second re-issue lay in the alteration of the fabled gamekeeper’s name. In the second edition, he’s called Mellors. And in the first, deliberately altered edition…Parkin.

The Desk!

The house’s cupboards are full of scripts! Books, BBC series, adaptations. Everything handwritten as she set it down, which, astoundingly, is pretty much as it was published – no crossings out, no re-ordering. It’s ridiculous talent. 
 
I suppose, actually, Helen was one of the reasons I grew to love books. Every time we’d visit, she’d feed me cream buns and take me into her study, pick out a new book off her magic, never-ending shelves and sign it for me. I’d have read it by the next evening. I was pretty scared of her – she said what she thought and never suffered fools – but it made me want to impress her all the more. (harder still for my poor mother – Helen was her English teacher at school!)
 
Given all of this, it was pretty hilarious, reading through her publisher’s letters. Who else talks to the top publishing brass like this?!:
 
 
Dear Emily
 
Herewith my responses to your notes on BB – I hope everything is clear.
 
I can’t help feeling that we’re talking different languages when it comes to the ‘target audience’ for the series, and that you are still aiming too low. It doesn’t matter how you tweak the vocabulary to try to remove reference to wombs or pregnancy, the style of the books is well beyond what New Labour would call the ‘bog standard.’ This is a readership I have never had any ambition to reach and feel no affinity for.
 
Kind regards,
Helen Cresswell
 

 
Editor: (Pg 79) Here Mrs F’s story gets a little long winded – could you condense?
 Response: It’s funny set piece  – and there is such a thing as skipping. 
  
Editor: (Pg 132) “It was altogether too martial” – a little obscure for our readership perhaps?
Response: Martial means ‘pertaining to war’ and is a word readers should know. If they don’t, they should look it up. 
 
Editor: (Pg 113) Given our readership, could we replace ‘prolapsed womb’ with another serious condition of the area – appendicitis perhaps?
Response: Honestly, Emily, I conclude from this that you’re losing it. 
  
Editor: (Pg 105) Reference to the translated Bottom perhaps a little over the heads of our reader – can you substitute something else?
Response: No.
 

Eish, I’m here.

Stressful times lie ahead come Monday but, for now, I am indulging in mature cheddar/pickle roadside sandwiches and Mars Bars, as I follow The Great Midlands Literary Trek (Austen’s house, Byron’s mansion, Lawrence’s grave). As soon as my laptop’s hooked up to the net, I’ll post pictures. So far, I’ve only made it to Jane Austen’s cottage in Chawton yesterday. It was surprisingly warm, so I took full advantage of an observation lapse while they were filming some promo video to sneak a quick clothing change in Ouma Jane’s bedroom. I didn’t think she’d mind.

I went for an early morning trail run in a Hampshire Forest today, but found myself lost at 7am in rather a damp patch of ferns. Fortunately, I came across a dog walker who put me right, but not before I stumbled upon an abandoned army tank in the middle of a field (no doubt from some poor, similarly lost sod who’s still trying to find his way out the woods).

Frankly, I take this experience as a sign that Mars Bars should prevail.