It’s been a busy few days. On Tuesday we held the memorial dinner for my mum, a London affair for her London life, Susan Walker, architect and school governor. My brother hosted, the room was nicely filled, I knew a few people but not all, many of her students turned up, those who’d come to her practice as part of the study for theirs. My brother spoke, her practice colleague gave a speech and the former head of Marlboro School described how much my mum had meant to her. It’s funny hearing of these other versions of her, the love and high regard, the softness she showed to some. Her steel was apparent everywhere but the care was less familiar. We had dinner after, just family. I was glad to be sober.
Wednesday dawned with my usual butterflies, a Substack Live and with none other than the great (there’s no other word for her, she really is great) Kit de Waal. Here’s the recording:
There was much that amazed me, not least the incredible bon chance of talking to an author immediately on the heels of reading their work - what a gift - and much I learnt about her; her immense respect for the craft, that she’s a plotter, that she doesn’t let it out the gate until she’s confident it’s perfect. Reading her novels, the mastery of technique and how clearly she’s studied this, is obvious. It’s how she makes it look so simple and why the reading experience is so without effort. She’s done all the work so that we don’t have to. This is regard for readers in action, a quality I’ve been thinking about and seeking to hold in mind for the next book I write, and it was pure delight to hear her say it plainly, and emphasise it’s importance. Watch and learn, Eleanor I thought to myself as I listened. Watch and learn. You can subscribe to Kit’s Substack here:
Fast on the heels of sending out the recording, I was up and out of my sister in law’s office and on my way to the launch of Broken Horses, the new novel by Kate Beales that tells the story of Georgie Carruthers who crosses the ocean from England to Puerta Natalas to forget broken love and start a new life as a governess. Set in the aftermath of the Great War, it ranges across the wilds of Chile and brought back memories of riding there two years ago.
This is how to throw a party - food, drink, music and all in the heat of the old horse hospital in Bloomsbury; cobbled floors and high ceilings, books and gossip, the love for Kate and this brilliant book were palpable. Also, my just left home children met me there, glorious and fledgling, we hung out, remembered our adventures in Patagonia, and then they disappeared into the night while I stayed on to chew the fat until the lights were switched on and we were ushered out.
And yes, Blake’s expression is hilarious.
Late home, a veggie burger eaten hurriedly at last orders in a dive in south ken, I slept and woke early to catch the Eurostar to Paris. Drinking coffee in the terminal, a street girl joined me at the wobbly table. Few teeth, with those remaining, brown and jagged, she was young, and thin and when she held out her hand to shake mine it was blackened with grime. She introduced herself, sat down, apologised for the state of her palms and fingers. Can I have money for a hostel? Of course. She stuffed a waffle in her mouth. Can you make it £20? Yes. If you give me £30 I can get food. Okay. £40 and… Now you’re pushing it, I replied and she smiled and we settled. She drank her coffee hurriedly. A ragged man greeted her as he walked past. She looked at my bags. Why have you got so much luggage? I told her I was going away for a month to write. She shrugged, came round the table for a hug, and we parted. I think she was an angel. The kind that avenges and sees.
I wrote notes on my phone as I joined in the long queue through security, passports, while waiting in the terminal, sliding up to platform and onto the train. Here they are:
A couple bent at the same angle cannoned into one another, she went crashing to the floor in blue anorak.
A small woman, black hair in a bowl cut fighting with a suitcase whose wheels didn’t work. The son took over and walked backwards.
Matching luggage, hard baby blue, antlers logo, incredibly unhappy, both of them. Thin and taut and mouths downturned. Side by side not talking. Used to the impasse. I wonder what happened to their love. She wears a wedding ring & engagement ring. He doesn’t. She has a thousand mile stare.
And my favourite moment:
Hunched in felt and soft furnishings, wheelchair, aged, a captive of her daughter whose laugh was a like a beating - the son in law asked her the wrong question, pursued the wrong line when she said, “My father used to go to Paris on his own. He used to go a lot. On his own.” And the son in law said, “Did you ever go to Paris?” Infuriating. I almost turned around, interjected, asked her the question she was hoping for: “Why? Why did he go alone?”
This is enough for now. I’ll write about Paris tomorrow.
Eleanor
