Taking Issue with George

Sometimes a writer can let you down and I’ve never seen George Eliot the same way since I was given a present of some letter-cards (no complaints about that, I’m still old-fashioned enough to like nice stationery!) with one of those meaningful pictures that could be either sunrise or sunset but doesn’t overdo it, and the quote, purporting to come from her, that “it is never too late to be what you might have been”. 

     A couple of points: I might as well be honest, I by no means like everything she wrote and can’t help thinking that life is too short to read Middlemarch (this isn’t the only work that applies to, and I swear some authors always have been paid by weight, Their books, not their own) . But I do love The Mill on the Floss and Silas Marner. And then she goes and spoils things by apparently being the author of one of those quotes that sound so inspirational and uplifting and consoling and are, of course, unmitigated bunkum. Because sometimes it IS too late to be what you might have been and better accept it and not try to kid yourself. 

     It’s not even as if I’m in an especially low mood at the moment, or perhaps I wouldn’t be, if I could get that silly quote out of my mind.

     I might have been the manager of a book shop or I might have been a university professor. I had the means.  I had the chances. I was not without the talent. But I threw away my opportunities on both counts, and many more. And it’s no good sitting down (or pacing the room) and asking God or fate or a time machine to open up those doors again just because George Eliot says you can. 

     And I’m not unhappy. True, I’m an under-achiever, but that’s something I share with millions of folk and perhaps being a high-achiever is over-rated anyway. I’ve never been wild about responsibility. I don’t handle it well. It suits me nicel to be a middle-aged junior assistant in the type of dress shop that probably only exists in towns like this. It’s not even as if I’m that interested in clothes. Oh, I have my favourite colours (usually the between-ones, the greenish-blue, the reddish-brown) and I like calf-length skirts and Fair Isle sweaters but that’s as far as it goes. When I first went to work at Maude’s Modes though there wasn’t much difference in our ages, I was a bit in awe of Maude Adams. She struck me as the kind of boss who had the heart of gold that took some discovering and who didn’t intend letting the standards set by her grandmother, also called Maude, slip. She had reluctantly moved with the times. Maude’s Modes now sells jeans (usually with elasticated waists) and has even sold onesies, though usually only round Christmas time, but it is a case of so far and no further. But gradually we became friends, and though I don’t doubt that she’d lay the law down if she saw fit, she’s not bossy or over-demanding. Our friendship isn’t over-demanding either. We sometimes go for a coffee together, or to an exhibition, but I still have the impression that we’re colleagues who are on very friendly terms rather than friends who happen to be colleagues. 

     Intermittently I get the pep-talk about doing something else with my life and being too young to spend my working life in a time-capsule like Maude’s Modes. But we both know that this is just a ritual that is gone through intermittently. I’m getting past the stage when I’m too young for things, even if there’s still a long way to go before I’m entitled to free bus journeys. And though I don’t delude myself that I’m irreplaceable, we’re used to each other and she could do worse, and we both know it. So far as I can recall she’s never used the expression but it’s quite easy to imagine her speaking of having “trained me up” as Miss Marple might about a housemaid. 

     She also has a disconcerting way of picking up “vibes” and being uncomfortably accurate. “You look as if something’s troubling you, Michelle,” she said at a quiet period (come to think of it that’s the norm!). 

     “Well, I suppose it is,” I admitted, dunking my custard cream in my coffee. Biscuits with a cream filling just don’t dunk very well, but I keep living in hope. “But it sounds stupid. Blame George Eliot!” And I told her about the present ( meaning the gift and not the here and now!) and how I DID appreciate it but it got on my nerves, or at any rate the quote did. “And I know I’m over-reacting,” I admitted.

     She looked thoughtful as she dunked (and she has mastered the art of dunking practically everything! I swear I once saw her dunk an ice cream wafer successfully!). “No, I don’t think you are, necessarily.” I could have wished she hadn’t added that necessarily, but she’s the kind of person who does and it doesn’t signify. Well, not necessarily! “I – think perhaps it hit a raw nerve,” Yes, she can be too perceptive for her own good. Or more accurately for mine! “But excuse me, that’s sticking my nose in when it’s not wanted. But I do know what you mean, Michelle. I fancy that the quote may have been taken out of context, but things like that can still be ruddy irritating!”

     I was discovering that a combination of custard dream and coffee, even if somewhat messy, can help put a perspective on things, and said, “I AM over-reacting, Maude. Necessarily or otherwise. But look at me! I can’t even dunk a biscuit without having a crisis. That’s what I should call my autobiography – The Woman Who Couldn’t Dunk a Biscuit!”

     Maude, rather to my surprised, almost (though not quite) forgot to be ladylike and almost (but not quite) set custard cream crumbs and coffee all over the place as she stifled a chuckle and then, her biscuit sent where it should be and reasonably politely, un-stifled it. “Oh, I like that one, Michelle,” she said. “I can’t imagine George Eliot would have thought of it!”

     “Neither can I, but not in a good way,” I said.

     “Oh, come on, Michelle, don’t always do yourself down. You can be really funny you know – often I find myself thinking about something you’ve said, just come out with without thinking about it, and I have a fit of the giggles.” It could have gone either way. I could have gone into a huff and thought that even Maude doesn’t take me seriously. But for once in my life I didn’t blow it, and recognised and accepted a compliment graciously meant. “You have a great way with words,” she went on, “I wish I did They’re looking for someone new to do the weekly Slice of Life on the Parish Magazine, you know since Betty moved away. We said that she could carry on doing it online, but she was quite firm about it and said that to write in the Parish Magazine you ought to live in the Parish. Why don’t you make enquiries about it?”

     This is one of those situations where you struggle to work out how to react. I genuinely didn’t want to be rude – it wasn’t one of those I don’t want to be rude BUT …… situations. “You know I’m not much of a churchgoer, Maude,” I pointed out. Well, that was the understatement of the year. I generally tended to turn up at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, or for someone else’s happy or sad family occasion. 

     “You don’t have to be,” Maude said, “Quite frankly, if I wasn’t in the choir – and that gives me a chance to do something I enjoy! – I don’t know if I would be. Betty herself never has been. Chloe – that’s the vicar –“ (even I knew that but I didn’t interrupt!) “always says that she loves seeing new faces in church, but folk will come when they’re ready and there’s a warm welcome when they do. There’s more than one way of serving the Lord – and I have to admit that’s the kind of phrase that makes me uneasy, but somehow it’s okay when Betty says it.”

     Of course the other reason was that though I’m not going to claim my tastes in literature are always high-falluting (Harlequin Romances are one of my guilty pleasures!) I tended – and I’m not proud of this – to wrinkle up my nose at the thought of the Parish Magazine. As a means of conveying information and getting help where and when it’s needed – fine. “Look, Michelle, nobody’s trying to make you do something you don’t want, especially not me, but if any time you did feel like sending in a piece, well, it could do no harm!” And then she turned her attention to the fact that we were getting low on controlwear (for the benefit of anyone lucky enough not to need it or self-confident enough to do without, that’s what used to be called girdles or even, at one point, corsets, and that celebrities proving how honest and unaffected they are are wont to refer to as gripper knickers). 

     Well, it wouldn’t go away. And as Maude said, it could do no harm. I decided she had more or less given me the title – or as I was already calling it – the by-line. I just changed the tense and lighted on The Woman Who Can’t Dunk a Biscuit making it plain that person was me. I emailed the little piece to Reverend Chloe, and she PHONED me back saying that she had loved it and she’d thought she was the only one, and would I be happy to take over the column? I was surprised at just how quickly I said “Yes”. I duly submitted pieces with subtitles such as, If You Can’t Make it with a Kettle and a Fork it Doesn’t Count as Instant and Why Do You Need Scissors to get into Scissors? and Think Twice Before Buying Anything Called a Kit. 

     And I began to get feedback! Folk told me that my column always raised a smile and that it was good to realise they weren’t the only ones and that they looked forward to reading it every week. I was, I’ll admit, a bit apprehensive when I realised I had an email from Betty. So far, the magazine wasn’t online, but she was still sent a copy of it to keep up on her old friends and where she used to live. At Chloe’s suggestion I had set up a special email for Tidings as the magazine was called.

To: Dunkermichelle@tidings.co.uk

From: Bettybaker@ruralroots.co.uk

Subject: Vast Improvement

Hello there, Michelle,

I’m so sorry we never got to meet and hope we will one day. I just had to tell you that I absolutely love The Woman Who Can’t Dunk a Biscuit and I’m very happy to tell you entirely truthfully that it’s a massive improvement on my column. People were kind but I know myself it had got stodgy and they were just being polite, and perhaps it’s as well I moved house to save there being awkward conversations.

     You genuinely are funny, it’s not laboured or what Nat (my grandson) calls just being silly with that kind of withering look that only small boys can master. But I know what he means. I read something in a national magazine the other week about someone (without any kind of disability issue) who reckoned she couldn’t ever manage to peg clothes on her washing line without there being a disaster and thought that’s just being silly. 

     Anyway, do keep on writing and I look forward to keeping on reading!

     Best wishes, Betty.

Well, leaving aside the fact that I sometimes DO have issues with pegging clothes on the line (in my defence generally only when it’s windy!) that would have cheered me up if I’d needed cheering up, and even though I didn’t need it, it still gave me a decidedly warm feeling.

     Betty and I stayed in touch, and even though we still hadn’t met, it rapidly turned into a genuine friendship. I thought she was too hard on herself – I’d read some of her columns, and though she took a different slant from me, I’ve read plenty worse, and her emails were certainly entertaining. Usually, like most folk’s, mine included, her subject headings were brief and informative and (like me) she sometimes missed them out altogether.

     But this time, there was the intriguing subject heading “Fame and Fortune Await”! I double-checked to make absolutely sure it was Betty and not Spam with risky links before I opened it. “We have a new resident in the village, Michelle,” she wrote. “Though actually she lived here when she was a child. Anyway, she’s called Patricia Hammond and she’s in publishing. I had my copy of Tidings on the coffee table and she originally just glanced through it to be polite, I think, or because like me she can never resist reading matter! But then I realised she must have come onto your column because she was chuckling. “Oh that’s so good,” she said. Well, it goes without saying that I agreed with her, and I hope you won’t mind that I told her the whole story of how you took over the column from me.”

     She went on to say that Patricia’s company had only been founded fairly recently, but was doing well, probably because it had found a niche in the market: “Some folk call it chick lit for old biddies,” Patricia told her, “But I reckon it would find quite a few young biddies who are just as interested!”

     Anyway, Patricia thought that there was definitely a book in there, and it would definitely sell.

     I’ve signed the contract today, and Patricia says that they’ll probably want the Further Adventures of the Woman Who Can’t Dunk a Biscuit or whatever we decided to call it. I’m not going to come over all blasé and false modest. I’m well chuffed about this though I don’t intend giving up the day job. 

     It seems like the height of arrogance and presumption for the author of The Woman Who Can’t Dunk a Biscuit to question George Eliot’s way of putting things.

     But I wonder if what she really should have said was not that it wasn’t too late to be what you might have been, but that it’s never too late to be what you were meant to be!