Girl With Dove: A Life Built By Books

‘A little bit more than that dear, a little more … you’re always a bit more than you think you are.’

Maze weighed eight stone five, she told me. Eight of the boulders at the bottom of the garden, eight of those rocks that fall down the hill like Jack and Jill in the stories she read to us; eight of those pebbles I picked up from the beach and put on top of my book to keep it flat. At eight stone my grandmother was both heavy and light. One day, she might just roll away.

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When are grandmothers born? Nobody knows that either. What year was Miss Marple born? Before or after Queen Victoria? Sometime after Queen Victoria was dead, I think, perhaps before the king of England abdicated. ‘Abdicated’ means he left the throne; got up and walked off and left that shiny polished throne right behind him.

‘Flounced out,’ Maisie said. ‘He flounced right out to that beaming woman with her handbag.’

The king of England flounced right out of his throne room. He ab-di-ca-ted. The king got his sums wrong on the abacus. He pulled too many red balls over when he was counting. Or he began a different sum and no one could make sense of it: not all the kings and queens of England added up together, and one white king with one red wife meant that the one in the middle, in between, wasn’t a queen. She wasn’t even a lady. Her name begins with W and it sounds like a man’s name.

‘What was he thinking, rushing off to that woman with her big red lipstick and smile … that woman with her pointy elbows? She has too much powder on her face! It isn’t decent! Too much powder and not enough sense! Powder should stay on babies’ bottoms!’

Maze spoke as though she had been there, in the crowds outside Buckingham Palace, standing at the front. Sometime in 1936 Edna May was pushing her way through thick arms and legs, she was pressing her small blue beret to her head. Maze was waving her flag and looking hard for a glimpse of that bad lady with the bright red lipstick and the big white forehead.

‘She looked like the moon,’ my grandmother said. ‘The moon wearing a large smile.’

‘Always put on your best smile,’ Mum said. ‘You never know who might be looking. Now wipe off that silly grin and go and wash your hands.’

History is remembered by a series of smiles.

3

The Village (#ulink_21701074-067b-59d1-9fa2-3f33f488a507)

She lives in a village, the kind of village where nothing ever happens, exactly like a stagnant pond.

(Sleeping Murder)

In the Miss Marple stories everything begins and ends in the village. Whatever happens in the village, Miss Marple knows about it. People tell her things, often without their knowing. Somehow she’s always there, just when someone’s spilling the beans. Usually she’s sitting in the corner somewhere, like my grandmother with her coffee in the morning, enjoyinga nice bit of peace and quiet. Now shoo!

Most of the time St Mary Mead is lovely and quiet. Every day is like being on holiday. There are no chores, at least not for Miss Marple. In St Mary Mead, Miss Marple wakes up to breakfast served by a girl called Mavis or Edna or Mary, which by the way is my middle name; she walks to the village shop with a wicker basket; she stops at the greengrocer’s, the baker’s, the butcher’s; then she has tea at the Copper Kettle.

This is the kind of life I dreamed of; and when I closed my eyes and dreamed this is where I would be: in St Mary Mead at the Copper Kettle, having tea and cake in the corner.

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Villages are full of secrets. If I want to know something, Greta will tell me what is going on. Greta is the vicar’s wife. She loves secrets; but above all, Greta likes to gossip.

When women gossip they usually sit in circles. Gossiping is going round and round in circles until you come back to the same thing. Usually that’s someone’s husband or wife, but sometimes it’s the maid. Gossiping women are witches making spells from other people’s names, women making spells and sipping their tea. Now that I think of it, ‘Greta’ sounds just like a witch, a good witch.

Greta asks Miss Marple to tea because she hopes she can make her spill the beans. Then something might actually happen in St Mary Mead. But Greta doesn’t realise how much Miss Marple already knows, how much she can tell about Greta just by looking.

Greta Clementine was the sort of girl who relished a piece of scandal. Miss Marple took a quick glance around the room. There was Miss Wetherby jabbering away, talking loudly about the rise in prices at Dentons.

‘Two shillings for a jar of marmalade. That isn’t right, Rosemary, surely? Disgraceful. Simply disgraceful. I think we should all boycott the place.’

Miss Marple looked back at Greta’s flushed face. She’s married someone far too old for her, and now she’s stuck inside this village with nothing to do except listen to idle gossip.

Miss Marple looks carefully at Greta. The poor man couldn’t help himself. She’s a very pretty little thing, very lively, dresses nicely, nice figure. Still, it was rather selfish of him, because she’ll get bored. She’s terribly bored already. Look at her fidgeting away. Poor thing, she won’t get much from us that isn’t commonplace. And she won’t get it from her sweet vicar. He’s only interested in learning his psalms!

Greta lifted the big brown teapot and turned to Miss Marple eagerly.

‘Do you think it’s ready, Miss Marple?’

‘Oh, I should think so, dear.’

What a sweet old lady, Greta thought. She looks as though she knows everything but she just won’t say. Oh, why won’t she say? Why won’t someone tell me something interesting about someone at last?

Greta picks up her teacup and sighs. She catches Miss Marple looking at her and smiles.

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Let me tell you something about Mummy, because I’d like to spill the beans.

Mummy grew up in a village called Sompting. Sompting is a place in Sussex next to Lancing and Lancing is near Worthing and Worthing is a town by the sea.

Mummy went to school in Worthing. She walked to school with her sister Di. Mummy and Di walked to school holding hands.

Mummy and Di spent all their time together. Their favourite thing to do was to draw maps. They walked around Sompting village and made a map of all the places they knew. They put a cross where the church with the tower was, and an oblong for the school, and a square for the village shop. Mummy said she learned to draw maps from reading the Milly-Molly-Mandy books. They have those in the library. I’ve read all of them now. The librarian says she can’t get me any more because the person who wrote the books has run out of ideas. Or perhaps she’s having a baby. Or perhaps she’s found a better way to spend her time, gardening. In any case, there aren’t any more Milly-Molly-Mandy books so I will have to find something else to read.

Every Milly-Molly-Mandy book begins with a map. If you follow the map you can pretend you are walking around Milly-Molly-Mandy’s village. I follow the names of the roads with my finger until I get to the Nice White Cottage with the Thatched Roof where Milly-Molly-Mandy lives; then I go next door to Billy Blunt’s house and ask him to come and play.

Billy Blunt lives with Mr Blunt and Mr Blunt owns a shop in the village. Billy gives me sweets from his dad’s shop, but I think sometimes he steals them when his dad isn’t looking. Billy Blunt’s pockets are always stuffed with sweets.

I read the Milly-Molly-Mandy books before I read Agatha Christie. Those were my very first books, after Peter and Jane, which we had to read at school, so slowly I nearly died. There are no murders in Peter and Jane and there are no murders in Milly-Molly-Mandy’s village, but there are lots of cottages with roses round the door. There’s Mr Blunt’s sweet shop which Mummy says reminds her of the sweet shop in the village where she grew up.

In Milly-Molly-Mandy’s village there is a girl called Sue; everyone calls her Sweet Sue. Sweet Sue is Milly-Molly-Mandy’s best friend from school. Sweet Sue and Milly-Molly-Mandy spend a lot of time together. They put buttercups under their chins to see which of them likes butter best. ‘A little bit of butter and a slice of white bread,’ they sing.

Milly-Molly-Mandy and Sweet Sue make daisy chains; they put them on top of their heads and then they twirl around and around. ‘Now you are the May Queen,’ says Sue to Milly-Molly-Mandy. ‘We shall go dancing upon the green. Put your plimsolls on Milly-Molly-Mandy, you don’t want to ruin your nice new white socks.’

Sue and Milly-Molly-Mandy are very happy together. Sue is now Milly-Molly-Mandy’s best friend.

Sweet Sue and Milly-Molly-Mandy are always seen around the village together. Mrs Mount at the greengrocer’s says they are inseparable. Every day Milly-Molly-Mandy and Sweet Sue walk to school holding hands. Mr Blunt watches them through the sweet-shop window. He knows they will pass every weekday morning at half past eight and that either Sue or Milly-Molly-Mandy will stop and pull up one of their socks just outside his gate. Then he will see a flash of pale rose skin beneath a white cotton hem.

At a quarter past eight every morning, Mr Blunt is ready at the window; he’s waiting for the sweet girl with dark brown plaits and her fair-haired friend. Mr Blunt knows too that every afternoon at four o’clock they will come back past his shop. They will step inside and buy either a quarter ounce of sherbet bonbons or a quarter of licorice allsorts. The fair-haired girl prefers the sherbet and the dark-haired likes licorice. He always adds an extra one or two because he wants them to come back.

Mr Blunt closes the shop at six o’clock. He pulls down the strip blinds and looks out across the green. He sees Milly-Molly-Mandy and Sue playing with a hoop and ball. He watches and he watches. Beads of sweat begin to form across his brow. The corners of his mouth twist into a smile.

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People say nothing ever happens in villages. But that isn’t true. A lot goes on. Miss Marple knows this. Peculiar things happen in English villages all the time. You only need think of Poor Sue Blunt.

One day over tea at the Copper Kettle Miss Marple tells Greta, the vicar’s wife, the story of Poor Sue. Greta tries to remember it so she can tell it to someone else.

‘As a child, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But she grew up into an odd woman … Poor Sue.’

Miss Marple paused and looked out the window.