and you know what you’re getting, but what you’re getting is a nice wholesome story about children messing about in boats, or learning ballet or whatever, and they’ll have minor triumphs and minor disasters and everything will work out fine in the end. It’s cheering, especially after reading Chekhov yesterday. I’m so glad I’m not Russian.
Still, anything that’ll get me closer to a library ticket, so I just smiled. If only he ’d send the form back, I could get one this weekend. I shouldn’t call him “he” that way. But it’s difficult to know what to call him. What do you call your father when you’ve only just met him? “Dad” would be ridiculous. But though it’s his name, it feels a bit odd to call him Daniel.
F RIDAY 12 TH O CTOBER 1979
The letter from my father came first post, with ten pounds (!) and the form, signed. He says the money is to buy books, but I’m also going to buy some buns.
I had a talk with Sharon about Jewish food. She says it’s what God told them to eat, or not to eat, and it’s special but it wouldn’t harm anyone else. She says the trays she gets are nice. She gets lots of roast beef and fish, and it’s well cooked but always cold, because it can’t even be heated up with our food. She says the bread she gets is lovely, but always slightly stale because it comes all the way from Manchester. It seems like being Jewish is a lot of trouble, and I’d hate not being able to spend money on Saturdays, especially when it’s the only time we’re allowed out. But it might be worth it.
It was hard to get her to talk about it. She’s been teased about it a lot, and also she uses it as a kind of thing for other people to be afraid of, so she quite sensibly doesn’t want people to know too much. I had to tell her about my father’s Jewish father. She says that doesn’t make me Jewish at all, you can’t be part Jewish, and you get it through your mother. She says if I wanted to be Jewish, I’d have to convert.
I remember when a missionary came to Church and told us about converting the heathen. He said some of them pretended to convert for the free food, and then changed back to their old heathen gods as soon as there was some crisis. He called them “rice Christians.” I suppose I could be a rice Jew.
On the other hand, Grampar would have an absolute fit if he found out. My mother would be sure to tell him in the hope of making him have another stroke.
S ATURDAY 13 TH O CTOBER 1979
The weather has changed completely in the last week. Last Saturday was mild and sunny, autumn looking reluctantly back over its shoulder towards summer. Today it was wet and blustery, autumn barrelling forward impatiently into winter. The ground was slippery with dead leaves. Oswestry looked even less appealing than ever. Now Gill has pointed it out to me, I noticed the girls on the bus passing around a forbidden lipstick and giggling. They remind me of Susan in The Last Battle . I went off into a daydream about meeting C. S. Lewis, though I know he’s dead. Much too embarrassing to recount.
I went to the library, armed with my letter and my signed form, and was greeted by a friendly cheerful female librarian who I’m sure would have let me join without them. She hardly looked at them. I now have a little nested set of eight cards which will let me take out eight books at any time—or in fact, on any Saturday morning I can get into town before noon. Also, she told me that if I need anything they don’t have, interlibrary loans are free to people under sixteen. So I could order whatever I wanted to read and they’d get it for me. I only have to know author and title. So I started with all the Mary Renault books listed in The Charioteer that I’ve never heard of. I’m going to make a list of books listed in the front of other books and take it in next week. She said they can get anything published in Britain, ever, it doesn’t matter about out of print. She said they’d send me
Still, anything that’ll get me closer to a library ticket, so I just smiled. If only he ’d send the form back, I could get one this weekend. I shouldn’t call him “he” that way. But it’s difficult to know what to call him. What do you call your father when you’ve only just met him? “Dad” would be ridiculous. But though it’s his name, it feels a bit odd to call him Daniel.
F RIDAY 12 TH O CTOBER 1979
The letter from my father came first post, with ten pounds (!) and the form, signed. He says the money is to buy books, but I’m also going to buy some buns.
I had a talk with Sharon about Jewish food. She says it’s what God told them to eat, or not to eat, and it’s special but it wouldn’t harm anyone else. She says the trays she gets are nice. She gets lots of roast beef and fish, and it’s well cooked but always cold, because it can’t even be heated up with our food. She says the bread she gets is lovely, but always slightly stale because it comes all the way from Manchester. It seems like being Jewish is a lot of trouble, and I’d hate not being able to spend money on Saturdays, especially when it’s the only time we’re allowed out. But it might be worth it.
It was hard to get her to talk about it. She’s been teased about it a lot, and also she uses it as a kind of thing for other people to be afraid of, so she quite sensibly doesn’t want people to know too much. I had to tell her about my father’s Jewish father. She says that doesn’t make me Jewish at all, you can’t be part Jewish, and you get it through your mother. She says if I wanted to be Jewish, I’d have to convert.
I remember when a missionary came to Church and told us about converting the heathen. He said some of them pretended to convert for the free food, and then changed back to their old heathen gods as soon as there was some crisis. He called them “rice Christians.” I suppose I could be a rice Jew.
On the other hand, Grampar would have an absolute fit if he found out. My mother would be sure to tell him in the hope of making him have another stroke.
S ATURDAY 13 TH O CTOBER 1979
The weather has changed completely in the last week. Last Saturday was mild and sunny, autumn looking reluctantly back over its shoulder towards summer. Today it was wet and blustery, autumn barrelling forward impatiently into winter. The ground was slippery with dead leaves. Oswestry looked even less appealing than ever. Now Gill has pointed it out to me, I noticed the girls on the bus passing around a forbidden lipstick and giggling. They remind me of Susan in The Last Battle . I went off into a daydream about meeting C. S. Lewis, though I know he’s dead. Much too embarrassing to recount.
I went to the library, armed with my letter and my signed form, and was greeted by a friendly cheerful female librarian who I’m sure would have let me join without them. She hardly looked at them. I now have a little nested set of eight cards which will let me take out eight books at any time—or in fact, on any Saturday morning I can get into town before noon. Also, she told me that if I need anything they don’t have, interlibrary loans are free to people under sixteen. So I could order whatever I wanted to read and they’d get it for me. I only have to know author and title. So I started with all the Mary Renault books listed in The Charioteer that I’ve never heard of. I’m going to make a list of books listed in the front of other books and take it in next week. She said they can get anything published in Britain, ever, it doesn’t matter about out of print. She said they’d send me
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