Book No 6 (2017) : Fingers in the Sparkle Jar

I’m sorry, I haven’t got change of a ladybird” has to be one of the most intriguing openings to a book I’ve ever come across (and remember I’m a du Maurier fan, for whom ‘last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again‘ is the ultimate in classic first lines).

From that initial sentence, Chris Packham’s autobiography goes in only one direction, and that is upwards. It soars like his kestrel, demonstrating a complete mastery of vocabulary and description, permeated with discernible tension.

Packham’s unrelenting recall of events moves from early childhood when he tries to barter a beetle for an ice-cream, through school where he excels at art but skives a lot in favour of exploring and to escape the classroom bullies, to his identification with the rage of The Clash at 18. The author’s attention to detail is awe-inspiring, conjuring up breathtaking images of animals, insects, birds, weather, water.  But this is not a romanticised retrospective: there is dog shit, and fags, and girls “who hung around outside Chelsea Girl on Saturday afternoon smoking and squealing at the men in lumberjack jackets with furry collars.”  and then there is “the thrush’s silver-throated voice fell like pocketfuls of marbles down a church staircase.” And this eloquence from someone who was always anxious, barely spoke and was tormented at school for being weird.

Mr Packham intrigues me; his clearly encyclopaedic knowledge of wildlife and obvious enthusiasm for his subject, contrast with his slightly ‘buttoned up’ manner and awkwardness, unusual in such a seasoned presenter. It all makes a lot more sense now I’ve read ‘Fingers in the Sparkle Jar‘, as interspersed with the wildlife explorations and discoveries, are some very raw accounts of counselling sessions which he undertook in 2003. As a result of the therapy, Chris was found to have Asperger Syndrome, a form of autism. It explains a lot about his obsessions, collections, difficulty fitting in and forming relationships.

Apparently Chris Packham is not keen on his own work, and wasn’t sure whether this book was good enough for publication. Thank heavens for his mentor, whose resounding endorsement of the draft was “you must publish it.” How right she was.

Book No 24 (2015) : Shoes for Anthony

anthonyEmma Kennedy is an attractive blonde, born in Corby and educated at St Edmund Hall, Oxford. As far as I can tell, she has never been an eleven year-old boy. Which makes her first fiction novel for adults quite an achievement; Anthony’s schoolboy perspective is insightful, sensitive and amusing.

In WW2 Wales, Anthony’s Mam has more to worry about and pay for than shoes for her youngest child. With her pitworker husband and two sons, as well as daughter Bethan, plus Anthony and herself, there are a lot of mouths to feed on wartime rations. So Ant has to make do with hand-me-down wellies which make him smell like a ‘mouldy log.’ But Anthony doesn’t mind too much, although he does hoard a picture of his dream brogues. Times are tough but Ant has his mates, a group of lads from the village with whom he spends time scrapping, hanging out in the den, climbing, exploring and getting into boy scrapes. But everything changes the day that a German plane crashes into the mountain overlooking Treherbert. Its occupants are all dead when the villagers arrive. But they soon discover there was a survivor.

I wasn’t sure quite what to expect from the book as the only other thing I have read of Kennedy’s is the hilarious ‘The Tent, The Bucket and Me.’ ‘Shoes for Anthony‘ is quite different. The author herself describes it as a thriller, but that is not immediately apparent from the relatively slow start. However, the pace gradually picks up until one minute I was laughing and the next crying. This was a genuinely moving read, beautifully recounted and with a very special human touch. I thoroughly recommend it.

Even if your usual style is more Givenchy than galoshes, you are guaranteed to be captivated by Anthony and his wartime community.