The Turner Contemporary, Margate, Kent

The idea of a new modern art gallery in an east coast less-than-fashionable British seaside town was viewed with caution, disbelief, suspicion, if not considered by many as a downright waste of time. Would anyone go there? Could it bring people into the town in the winter season? Would it be appreciated by those who live out in the sticks?


Well, one hopes that these doubts have been dispelled: the building and facilities have been completed in the best possible taste. I like the clean lines of the structure and the mass of it is in scale with its surroundings. The inspiration, it seems to me, was to be that of the bulk of an ocean liner and it certainly sits comfortably in its landscape: the outline is simple and pleasing and does not jar with either the Georgian buildings on the esplanade nor the coastline.

The expectations of those who had the vision have surely been vindicated. Residents should have pride in a forward looking and classy development and well as having a cultural icon at its centre.


I admit that I went to see the building: it was the structure and its setting that drew me to visit. I also admit that I did not expect much of the exhibition, Nothing in the World But Youth. But I did the exhibition and youth in general a disservice. I was reminded of the creativity of those teenage years: we so often see the ability to take risks and the need for experimentation as negative aspects of youth. They can sometimes be but they were, and are, more often the years that shape tastes in fashion and music and teach the value of friendship or spirituality.

As ever, some youths are rebellious whilst others are saddled with responsibilities in advance of their years. Many are overcome by fears others by fantasy; some agonize over their bodies and sex, others celebrate it. Whilst some youths are bent on destruction others are idealistic and embrace our ecology, feeling passionate about sustainability.

All of these aspects of youth were demonstrated in the exhibition and what struck me most is that none of this is new. Photographs of gangs of street youths in the 1950's looked surprisingly familiar; similarly, sadly, girls gave birth to illegitimate babies. Conformity in the uniform of the gang or the need to be different and make a statement were no different than they were when adolescents were first called teenagers in the 1940's. In between the works of young people were dotted paintings and drawings by such well-known artists as Peter Blake, Daivd Hockney, Andy Warhol and even Turner himself: nothing could illustrate the point better.

Some visitors found several of the images disturbing but I prefer to think of them as challenging. What is the point of an exhibition that is merely window dressing; we all love to see something pretty, to appreciate a beautiful image or a sublime sculpture. But surely we need to question, just as we did as teenagers, and seeing the world through the eyes of a youth can remind us all that we too were once both fearful and brave, experimental and yet desperate to be one of the gang. And in showing the complexities and contradictions of youth I think the exhibition, Nothing in the World but Youth, succeeds.

Lucy

PS The café is excellent – better than those in most London Art galleries – so treat yourself to brunch or a delicious Catalan fish soup for lunch. If the soul is a little less than uplifted I often find good food helps!

Testament of Friendship by Vera Brittain

Winifred Holtby was not a well-known figure until a couple of years ago when her novel, South Riding, was televised. This catapulted her into the Austen/Bronte romantic novel stratosphere although of course she was a very different figure writing at a very different time.

I first came across Holtby when reading Vera Brittain's autobiography, Testament of Youth. This book covered the heartrending period of the First World War and highlighted the appalling loss of life. Most particularly it chronicled the loss that Brittain personally suffered – her brother, fiancé and their close friends – and gave a very personal account of the contribution made by women during the war.

This was the war that was to lead eventually to the emancipation of women, not only by their gaining enfranchisement but also respect for the role they played and could play outside the home. Brittain and Holtby met at Oxford just after the war: both extraordinarily bright young women who had a mutual interest and ambition to write.



Testament of Friendship is Brittain's homage to Holtby, who tragically died of Bright's Disease at the age of 34. Both women had a strong ethos of public service, a desire to further women's equality and to work towards peace. Both not only dedicated their lives to writing about the peace movement but also their time to supporting and furthering its causes.

The book tells us as much about Brittain, the author, as it does about Holtby, the subject. Both women were committed, industrious and passionate but where Brittain comes across as intense and serious, Holtby appears inspired and larger than life.

Young Holtby is portrayed very much as the Principal Boy of pantomime. Brittain was devastated by the death of her brother, Edward, her closest and almost only childhood companion. She was desperate for someone to admire and to take his place and Holtby seems to have willingly stepped into this role.



It is as an Adonis that Winifred Holtby is portrayed in Testament of Friendship. She is tall, attractive, confident, kind and clever and - if we are to believe Brittain - there is nothing she cannot do. Nothing except get the man she loves to propose to her. Brittain's style is probably too florid for our taste today, and one wonders if her superlatives regarding Holtby are an attempt to assuage any guilt she may have felt because she often ignored the seriousness of Holtby's illness.

There is no doubt that Holtby packed a lifetime of achievements into a very short span of years and it is fascinating to read of the famous historical figures she met and the places she visited. There is one major flaw to this book, however, and that is its length. Too long by half, it can bore and bog the reader down. This is a shame because there are few books that give us such a picture of life at that time.

Nevertheless, I think the book worth reading (for the second time as I first read it about 15 years ago) if for nothing else but as a sequel to the women's movement: a snapshot of life for the educated middle class woman of the 1920's and 1930's. These inter-war years - after WW1 and before the role of women would change yet again with the advent of WW2 - deserve a closer look and Testament of Friendship goes some way to plug this gap.

Lucy

Rudyard Kipling 1865 – 1936

Who hasn't read Rudyard Kipling? Many of us did as a child, some as an adult, but even those who have never read Kipling will probably have heard of him and his stories. The few who have not may be unaware that some phrases used by us all are actually those coined by Kipling ("You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din").

Visiting Bateman's last week-end - Kipling's house in Sussex now owned by the National Trust – we were delighted to be treated to a lecture of his life and work given by one of his knowledgeable fans. Even knowing a fair bit about the life of an author – or any historical figure – it always delights me to learn little known facts only the expert has wind of.



Knowing the desolate childhood Kipling had I am still surprised that he appears to have grown into a fairly balanced adult: the fact that he was also a spectacularly successful author and self-made man by the age of 25 is positively amazing. Read his short stories, his histories and poetry and marvel at the breadth of this man's ability and talent.

So much a part of popular culture was Kipling's work that even today bits keep cropping up all over the place. Take the story, .007, for instance. Can some expert tell me, is this where Fleming picked James Bond's code name from? And perhaps, could it be, this little tale written in 1908 was the inspiration for the Thomas the Tank Engine stories too?

When researching my novel, A Little Blue Jacket, set in South Africa, I inevitably came across Kipling as he was a great supporter of the Boer War, a friend of Cecil Rhodes and champion of Jamieson, Rhodes' nemesis. Many years previously I had been given Kipling's Barrack Room Ballads (thought it odd at the time but weird how things come to pass), mainly dramatic monologues written in the London vernacular, the third series of which dealt with the Boer War.


It is the verses of these series that many remember and repeat with affection (If, A Father's Advice to his Son or Mandalay perhaps) and it is the simplicity and general appeal of them that has to some extent caused many to view Kipling's work as 'popular' dum-de-dum poetry. But, in other poetry of his one cannot help but admire the more sophisticated and understated touches not obvious in the ballads.

I think his poem My Boy Jack illustrates just how he can get an emotion over without sentimentality or heavy handedness. Kipling's son, John, was killed in the First World War (even the rich and famous have tragedy in their lives: his beloved daughter – for whom he wrote The Jungle Book - also died prematurely aged six) and this poem is about his loss. Search it out and I defy you – knowing the facts – not to be moved to tears.

Whether interested in the exotic setting of India, the fate of the simple soldier or life of the jungle, there is a Kipling story out there for you. Search it out, read it and understand why so many of the best English authors – including Americans - think Rudyard Kipling was the greatest storyteller of all time.

Lucy

The Birth of Venus by Sarah Dunnant

A mysterious and arresting start, an historical and action packed narrative and an enjoyable read. There we are. That's it in a nutshell. A novel dripping with historical details with a bit of sex thrown in. But the sign of an ex-thriller writer is there right from the start.

Preparing the corpse of an elderly nun for burial, two sisters find she has not only a stinking mass of rotting intestines strapped to her and not the tumor they supposed, but also an erotic snake tattoo around her torso!

As it is almost impossible to guess how this could possibly come about the reader simply has to read on. Transported to Florence in 1492, we meet the fourteen year old heroine, Allessandra. Dunant has done her research and describes the setting in the most colourful way. We see the beauty of Florence, we smell it, touch it, sense it and eventually are shocked by the historical turn of events.

The narrative is in the first person so it is through Allessandra's eyes that we understand the restrictions – not allowed to leave her house un-chaperoned, to be alone with a man, to be employed in anything other than household skills – that were current in the merchant and upper classes at the time and that she felt so keenly. Her passion was to paint and that was definitely not a suitable occupation for a girl.

Historical knowledge of the banking dynasty of the Medici family is well known. We are aware of the beautiful architectural structures they built, the wonderful paintings and art they commissioned and we are aware in a cardboard, factual way of the political machinations of the time. But what Dunant does is to bring it and the other Florence alive too, the one that is peopled by the lower echelons, one in which by the side of beauty and knowledge is pestilence and the fear of persecution. Where rabbles jostle to hear the mad monk, Savonarolla, preach Christian restraint and similarly jostle to witness torture and death and the original bonfire of the vanities.

This novel has been published for some years now and many readers will have read it or read the reviews so I won't repeat the plot. Because, for me, it is the sense of place that Dunant conjures up that is the most impressive feature of the novel. Read it if you intend to travel to Florence and, when you stand in front of a piece of stunning architecture or a beautiful painting, conjure up Dunant's description of the city at that time and be even more amazed.

I mention the mystery in the opening scene and Dunant continues to feed us clues throughout the story: "He will give you the freedom you desire"; "For Tomaso a silver belt rather handsome I thought". But, eventually, it is as if the author having thought of a great opening chapter, and having taken us back to the start of it all, cannot then quite complete the circle convincingly: the dead nun cannot be elderly, the tattoo has no authenticity, the method of faking the disease is improbable, her female life companion could not possibly have travelled to find those she sought.

Those are my only criticisms, and it sounds churlish to mention them when there is so much that is excellent about this novel. Dunant has very successfully changed her genre to historical novelist – she writes well, fluidly and colourfully – so the quality of the ending of The Birth of Venus is a mystery.

Lucy

Birds of a Feather

It is always a lovely surprise to look out of the window, often soon after dawn, and see some unusual visitor on the bird table. Greenfinches are one of them, as are the other finches: chaffinches and goldfinch. Their beaks are a little too wide for the wire on the nutfeeder but once they have cracked it (terrible pun) they make short work of the contents.




Our regulars, however, as if aware of the competition, have managed to come up with a pleasant new angle: their chicks. Obviously to date we have only watched the parent birds having a feeding frenzy in order to satisfy their hungry brood. But now the chicks are nearly reared they accompany their parents to learn table etiquette. Basically this is: give way to anyone bigger and more threatening than yourself. As one of our largest visitors - with a very big beak to make the point - is the woodpecker. When the chick first appeared I could not believe it was one. Nearly as big as its parent, only the fluffly feathers gave it away.

At first it hung on the nutfeeder with mum or dad by its side: a bit for me a bit for you. But by day two the exhausted parent absented itself and Woody soon managed to feed himself. Not as nervous as his parent - he still has to learn to be wary - he
managed to cling on and finish off most of the feeder.




Our second best nut eater is probably the nuthatch owing to its long narrow very effective beak. And today, with a thrill, I noticed that it was a nuthatch chick that was feeding. Again, only the last few remaining fluffy baby feathers give it away and, again, it was not nearly as nervous as its parents would be as it allowed me to creep right up to the window before it flew away.




But perhaps the most exciting birds to visit the table again have been a pair of long tailed tits. I have yet to see their offspring, but to know that they have survived the winter is a very cheering and wonderful sight. Their bodies are so very small that one wonders just how they did manage to stay warm thrugh our below freezing temperatures this year.




Lucy

Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro

"I really love Ishiguro's books", several of the groupies opined when Never Let Me Go was chosen as out book group novel. I had only tried to read one of his before - not successfully – I had obviously not tried hard enough.

So it was with a positive and determined attitude that I tackled it. He's a good writer. No doubt about it. The novel is set in the closed world of a school, one in which little of the outside world ever impinges. It is the story of three childhood friends (Kathy, Ruth and Tommy) who have a destiny – slowly this unfolds – that they will have no choice but fulfil.

In a nutshell there is a sinister aspect and definite exploitation in this story. It raises ethical questions about medical science – trying not to give the story away here - and how far a society will go in order to benefit from it.


Ishiguro always writes in the first person and so the reader does not get much description. There is – he planned it this way – no colour and no sense of the outside world in the story. The setting feels like the 1950's – right from the start it felt like I was reading the Midwich Cuckoos for the first time. Used as we readers are to appreciating rounded description the lack of it lends a very sci-fi clarity – some may say bleakness – to it.

It is all about the here and now of experience, about emotion and about people and the setting is filtered out. Ishiguro would argue that by filtering out the setting he is allowing his readers to get to know the characters. However, the only character any of us felt any empathy for was Tommy. Possibly because he was not like an automaton – he did have feelings.

The characters often fail to act and Ishiguro uses pathos to good effect. His structure and slow revelation is masterful and his craftsmanship – that almost sounds like a criticism but far from it – to slowly let the reader in on the sinister secret is impressive.

All of us appreciated that it was well written – clever in fact - but many of us found much of it repetitive and the detail mundane. In a nutshell, we liked the way Ishiguro writes but did not necessarily like the story.

For my part I would not have chosen the book if it had not been a book group choice and I would never have read it all if we had not been going to discuss it (it did, however, give rise to much interesting and informative discussion). I appreciated the author's undoubted talent – to a great extent it is always a pleasure to read a well written novel – but I guess it is just not my sort of book!

Lucy

Dreamy Garden Borders in April

When March turns to April I know the time has come when I can procrastinate no longer: my herbaceous borders need me. The seed heads and sheltering dead foliage have done their bit for the wildlife over winter.

Now is the time to get out there, chop it all down, dig out the odd weed and mulch like crazy. Leave it another week or two and the weeds will have taken hold and the plants grown too large for much to get in there.

But as I clip and snip, gather and discard the border looks more bare with every action. Where are all those perennial goodies? Have they died? Been eaten? There is still the odd clipped evergreen certainly, the occasional rose bush. And the lime trees to pleach on the nearby path.


These thoughts fester as the clearing goes on and the mulching with compost is done bit by bit. But by the time I'm finished the odd inch of rain and even odder days of sunshine have worked their magic. Suddenly the phlox and tradescantia, the aqualegia and bistort have burgeoned.

Geranium phaem and Bleeding heart is flowering prettily; Heuchera and Alchemilla mollis seem to have doubled in size overnight. What was I worried about. I had forgotten that every year – cradling some purchase bought in a weak willed moment at a plant stall – I walk around the garden searching for a spot in which to squeeze it in.


By now the purple beech tree has been through its wondrous leaf opening cabaret. First small leaf buds tentatively open, salmon pink, soft and ethereal. After a day or so of sun they stretch out their leaves and with more confidence start to turn that glorious shade of copper. Another few days of good weather and, overnight, every branch is covered in the richest of copper leaves.

In fact a few days of absolutely glorious weather has fast forwarded spring to such an extent that plants and flowers normally performing in May are out now. And blossom that usually lasts a week or two is over in a couple of days. The lilac is in flower but the blossom of the weeping pear has already faded.


If I work like crazy from now until June getting all the worst weeds out, then it should set me up for the summer. In the wall border the plants grow until they are cheek by jowl. The idea is that they will choke out the weeds and I won't have to do anything for the rest of the summer. But that remains a theory for now.

There is one border so overgrown with ground elder that we have had to take all the soil out, burn it, and start again. Cow parsley self seeded to such an extent under the beech and Judas tree last year that its going to take days to dig it out. And the nettles! How come they have colonized every corner? Another digging job, I'm afraid.

I am happy for pockets of nettles – similarly buttercups – to grow in the wild garden, I'm trying to do my bit for conservation by encouraging habitats. Why else was I down on my hands and knees trying to balance rotting logs into a tidy pile like nature never intended? But nettles, buttercups and dandelions in my herbaceous borders are a step too far.

So I better keep at it. There's a long way to go. But it's hot. Too hot to garden. I better sit down – it's tiring this gardening – have a rest in the dappled shade of the beech tree and dream of manicured lawns, meticulous flower beds and..........