Much as I have always loved
writing, reading never played a big part in my childhood. In the 1950/60’s our
time was spent outdoors in all weathers. Our home was not a place of comfort,
we ate and slept there. Three sisters in a three-quarter sized bed, it was
neither warm, light, or spacious enough to read in bed.
Aged five, I did not find
reading difficult and spelling has always come easy to me. Janet and John books
at school was where my reading started. Each pupil was required to read a paragraph
or two out loud, and that was that until the next English lesson.
Listening to stories was always
magical in Infant school. Each afternoon ended with the class sitting cross
legged on the classroom floor. Summer was extra special when we sat on the grass
under the willow tree. Miss Christian read to us for 30 minutes and everyone
was totally immersed in the tales. This before TV, and was all the more
enjoyed. Bedtime stories were non-existent in our house or amongst most of our
friends. Radio for children was very limited and I only remember the Ovaltinies
on a Sunday evening.
Aged around ten years, I joined
the local library. ‘Milly, Molly, Mandy’ and ‘The Secret Seven’ were
favourites. This was my first experience of being totally consumed in a book. I
heard no-one speak to me and went into a world that should have been visited more
often.
Our council home contained only
two books for most of my life. My sisters fared a little better when my father
failed to out-talk a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman. He complained
continually about his moment of weakness and the weekly instalments. I
was already working by that time, my school life terminating at the age of
fifteen years and two months.
The only paperback in the house
was ‘The Diary of Ann Frank.’ I remember regularly picking it up and reading
it. However, when I later saw the theatre production, I was shocked that Ann
died, so I guess I never reached the end.
The other was a medical book.
This was mum’s diversion from embarrassing questions. At the pre-pubescent age
of 10, I was given the book to read. The relevant ‘menstruation’ chapters were
marked by the page corners turned over.
When I ventured into
book-reading, I only liked true life – nonfiction. Science Fiction,
Fantasy and Romance are non-starters for me, and my favourites would be based
around Crime and Forensics. The Paul Brittan books were set around the Towers
Hospital where I ended my career and so were particularly interesting.
Holidays abroad in my 30’s
heightened my love of a good book. Two weeks laying on a sunbed provided the
perfect leisure time to read. I would take six or so books with me and often
ended up seeking more reading in the library of discarded books at the hotel.
The night before we left a
friend gave me the fiction story, ‘Lovely Bones.’ It was a small book and I
tucked it into my hand-luggage. On the four-hour flight to Fuerteventura, I
started to read it.
Several caffeinated coffees
were consumed during the long day of travel. At home our drinks are
decaffeinated, and at bedtime, I was wide awake. Not a wink of sleep was had
that night and by breakfast, the book was finished.
My mother-in-law was an avid
reader until dementia robbed her of the pleasure. After her death, and with her
two daughters living away, the house clearance fell to myself and my husband. Deep in a drawer, I found a journal. The
hand-written notes were fascinating. She had recorded every book she had read.
Alongside the title and author was a résumé of her thoughts and evaluations -
“Nice short chapters, repetitive terms or words, foul language”.
These evaluations were wonderful
to read and prompted me to do the same. Her record of the month and year
enabled the start of her dementia to be identified. She would write that she
had read half a book before querying whether she had read it before. Tracing
back through her notes confirmed that she was reading the same few books.
The appetite for reading a good
story provides mixed feelings. The utter drive to turn the pages as quickly as
possible, combined with a dread of reaching the end. The fear being that no
other book can ever match this one.
My most recent read was ‘The
Radium Girls’, written by Kate Moore. My granddaughter lent me this book. It
follows the death sentence on pretty young girls employed to paint the hands of
luminous dial and watch hands. The paint contained radium that was portrayed to
them as harmless. To form a point on the
fine paintbrushes, they were trained to shape it with their mouth and lips.
They were told that radium would make them healthy, and they believed it. They
glowed as they walked home in the dark.
Some years later, the girls
were dying prematurely. Their teeth rotted and extraction found non-healing
gums, jaw bones disintegrated along with their joints. When one body was
exhumed for evidence, the corpse was still glowing several years later.
Claims for compensation towards
medical bills were dismissed, liability denied. Evidence from medical
examinations was hidden, the girls denied access. Meanwhile new young girls
were still being employed. The fight by the girls for justice was long and
hard. The actions of the company are abhorrent. Perhaps we should not joke
about “Elf and Safety”.
My nursing career has entailed
much reading and writing. Journal articles, Standards, Guidelines, Reports all
entail detailed, concise, clinical information.
How nice it is, in retirement,
to read books for sheer pleasure with no referencing.
Carolyn Wheatley
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