Heroes Between the Covers

Growing up, I didn’t really believe in heroes.

Yes, I watched superheroes on television. There was Batman & Robin, essentially a rich man throwing money at a problem while wearing a tight outfit and a cloak. There were Spider Man, Superman, and, rather wonderfully, Supergran.

Of them all, Supergran seemed the most plausible. She was approachable. Dependable. The sort of superhero who might foil an international criminal conspiracy and still remember to put the kettle on. But she wasn’t my hero. None of them were. I didn’t have posters on my bedroom wall or immerse myself in their mythology. I watched the programmes, read the occasional comic and moved on.

My heroes were usually found between the covers of a book.

I devoured Enid Blyton, The Famous Five, the Adventure series and all those stories in which plucky children armed with intelligence, ginger beer and an apparently unlimited supply of holidays defeated thoroughly unpleasant adults.

Blyton herself, of course, turned out not to be especially heroic. I didn’t know that at the time. What she did possess was an extraordinary ability to speak directly to children and stir up something resembling gumption. She taught me to observe what was happening, to listen to conversations and to understand that some people talk a great deal while saying very little, whereas others say very little and somehow mean everything.

It is a pity she wasn’t quite as accomplished at motherhood. But we’ll close that chapter there.

Another literary hero was Mary Wesley, although I only read her novels after meeting her. I encountered her a handful of times, and later discovered that reading her books was rather like being in a room with her again. That made them more intimate, more vivid and infinitely more delicious.

Mary has long since died, but I can still pick up one of her books and there she is, talking to me through the page. Writers have a habit of pulling off that particular piece of magic. No cape required.

“Books are your friends,” a librarian told me when I was young. He worked at Dulwich Library and was kind, theatrical and splendid at choosing stories he knew I would enjoy. He was a ‘confirmed bachelor’, as people used to say, with a warmth and flamboyance that made every visit feel like an occasion.

He did not survive the 1980s. Like so many men of his generation, he disappeared far too soon. But the memory of him survives with me. I still remember his kindness, the books he placed into my hands and the worlds he quietly opened for me. He may never have known it, but he helped create a lifelong reader.

The library stood at the end of our road. Once I had passed my mother’s official road safety examination, a test conducted with the rigour of a driving licence and considerably more anxiety, I was allowed to visit alone. At seven, I felt magnificently grown up.

I went at least once a week, sometimes twice, and returned with armfuls of books. I devoured stories and invented adventures of my own, cheerfully mixing The Famous Five, Emil and the Detectives and assorted bands of heroic children into one enormous imaginary universe. Copyright law had yet to trouble me.

One of the children’s authors I read later became my lover.

That sentence deserves a moment.

I met him at a writers’ group when I was in my late teens. He used a shortened version of his name, so I didn’t realise at first that he was that author. Every fortnight, he would read pages from his latest manuscript. It took six months for the penny to drop and another year before our small romance began.

He saw something in me. He coached my writing, helped shape my style and introduced me to an editor who accepted my manuscript. The publishing deal eventually collapsed, as publishing deals have a theatrical tendency to do, but the romance lasted from summer into winter.

Then university and life began pulling me elsewhere. We never really broke up. We simply faded. Later, he died.

Perhaps he was my hero. But can a lover ever truly be one? Or is that where infatuation begins, before familiarity wanders in, puts its feet on the furniture and asks what’s for dinner?

My roll call of heroic authors must also include Jilly Cooper, whom I deeply regret never meeting. I devoured the Rutshire novels and even auditioned for a role in one of the television adaptations. That particular production failed to capture the books’ fizz, but the more recent version of Rivals understands their spirit perfectly.

Cooper’s world is populated by delicious characters doing spectacularly silly things. Nobody can nip out for a loaf of bread without accidentally having an extramarital affair, acquiring a racehorse or launching a corporate takeover.

Her novels opened a door onto a wealthy set untroubled by dreary day jobs or the gas bill. These people exist chiefly to entertain themselves, and us. In interviews, Jilly always appeared to be someone who had lived enthusiastically, spoken plainly and enjoyed the whole glorious muddle.

Then there was Jackie Collins, yes, sister of Dynasty star Joan. Her novels occupied similarly glamorous territory, although hers was glossier, soapier and served with extra shoulder pads. They remain delectable.

Jackie described herself as an observer. Through Joan, she gained access to a world of fame, wealth and beautiful people behaving appallingly, and she watched, listened and took notes. What admirable dedication to one’s craft.

She was also the ultimate champion of her own books. Even near the end of her life, gravely ill with cancer, she appeared looking and acting healthy and with her usual spark on British television talking about her novels, her characters and her stories. She seemed determined to live through every last moment, and through the worlds she had created.

At a garden party recently, by which I mean we sat outdoors, consumed our combined body weight in cheese and made determined inroads into our friends’ wine supply, we discussed my fascination with Mary Wesley, Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins.

My husband summed it up perfectly. I admire people who have lived a life.

People who have reinvented themselves, overcome disasters or simply flitted magnificently from one existence to another. People who have moved among characters so vivid that they remain with you for years.

I think he’s right.

I, too, have lived many lives. Not in the spooky, New Age, reincarnation sense. I don’t believe I was Cleopatra or a minor courtier at Versailles. But I have trodden a fair number of paths.

I’ve had several careers and several adventures, some nearly as good as the Famous Five’s, although generally with less ginger beer and worse transport. I’ve had lovers from different walks of life, appeared on television and in films, and written for newspapers and magazines.

I have opinions. Some are valid. Others have been plucked from the air and dressed convincingly for dinner.

I doubt I shall ever be anybody’s hero. But I like to think I’ll be remembered. Perhaps not for generations, but for a moment. I may remain at the edge of someone’s mind, lurking in a dusty corner until a story, a place or a phrase brings me briefly back into the light.

I’m happy with that.

No cloak. No superpower.

Just a life lived.

Who were you heroes? Literary or otherwise.

Share

Leave a comment