Memory Bank

Reading Time

I’m pulling this memory out the depths of myself. I’ve no idea if it’s real recollection of a specific moment or a patchwork thing, sewn together out of the rags and tatters of many different days.

I say that because this is a memory of my mum reading to me. Hard to pin down because it was such a huge part of our routine. My mum, despite working a minimum 50-hour week even in those early days, always made as much of an effort as possible to read to me.

We would sit up on her big bed together, and wrap ourselves up in the covers, and she would read picture book after picture book to me, one after the other. As a tiny, fascinated boy, I would watch with gigantic eyes as she turned the pages — never hurrying or showing any signs of boredom or lack of enthusiasm. I’m sure a lot of adults would have grown deeply bored by my picture books, each page containing a mere sentence each, which recounted the adventures of talking dogs or little lost bunny rabbits.

But my mum never did. She read like she was auditioning for Jackanory — savouring each word and building anticipation for the twists and turns of even the most rudimentary narratives. When there was a scary moment her voice would drop low and her speech slow to a crawl as she dragged out the tension. If there was a nasty character or an injustice in the tale, judgement or sarcasm would seep into her tone. And when the book ended, as they always did, happily ever after, her voice, attitude, even posture would soften, and I would share as if by telepathy her heartfelt relief. She’d even chuckle with me over the funny bits, though I know now she must have learned them by heart.

No, really. I’m not exaggerating. If you ask my mother to recite the entirety of ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt,’ (“We’re going to catch a big one!”) or ‘Green Eggs and Ham’ (“I do not like them, Sam I Am,”) right now, 30 years later, then she’ll rattle them off without skipping a beat. This is the woman who can give you ‘Tam ‘O’ Shanter’, forward and backward, at a moment’s notice, after all.

These are some of the books my mum and I shared together. You’ll probably recognise some of them, although I still think of these as mine:

• Guess How Much I Love You
• Meg and Mog
• The Mr Men (all of them, apart from Mr Tickle, who rightfully should be YewTree’d by now)
• Each Peach Pear Plum
• The Megamogs (An underrated gem about a gang of feline building contractors)
• Peepo!
• Ten-In-The-Bed (not, in case you were wondering, a book about polygamy)
• Funnybones
• Mr Magnolia
• Hairy McLairy From Donaldson’s Dairy
• Calvin and Hobbes (collected newspaper strips weren’t common, but C+H was such a work of obvious perfection that it was read to me anyway.

When I think about these reading sessions, they seem to have lasted all day — stretching on for hour after blissful hour. In my mind’s eye, bright spring sunshine sun is always streaming through the big tripartite windows. It is always about 1 ‘o’ clock in the afternoon, and just time for another bite of buttered toast. In my memory my mother has all the time in the world for me, and I, thankfully, have nowhere else to be.

When I think about this time, the memory is so good and pure it’s painful. I feel guilty to have been blessed with such safe and happy early experiences — lucky to be able to point to a clear origin story for my love of stories themselves.

But I also feel a little sad. Because thinking of these carefree times reminds me of how strong that maternal bond was. I really do think my mum and me almost were psychic at this exact point in time. I didn’t just share her thoughts and feelings — they were mine, absolutely and completely. We could have chatted for hours without ever opening our mouths. This was when were were closest, almost one person melded together, in the quiet times where she read and I watched and listened and clung to her.

…

Of course, all this will inevitably be spoiled by me being a little shit just a few hours later. So, don’t think that it was always happy families back then. I would have been deep in the terrible years of preschool psychopathy. Maybe ten minutes later I threw a hissy fit because I didn’t want to eat the yoghurt mum had just opened for me.

But never mind that just now. At this particular moment, I’m behaving myself. I’m a golden, smiling angel. Because mummy is reading to me and I love her to bits and all is right with the world.