My darling Number One Child is a marvellous creature. She is a good egg, really, and works hard at school, trying her best at most things. (Except P.E.)
She was a slow starter. The kid didn’t really read until she was about 6, and even then, it was sketchy.
Knowing the joy (and solace) I have gained through reading over the years, I have tried to introduce her to texts that she might find equally inspirational. The way I felt when I happened upon Adrian Mole’s diary for the first time was something akin to utopia, and when I picked up Jilly Copper’s legendary Riders in the long, post G.C.S.E. summer of 1993 and delved therein, doors were opened up in my mind that I could never have dreamed of entering before.
I am not one of those really avid readers: I don’t manage a book a week, or have an account at Waterstones. My taste in books is not particularly definable, or even something I could actually describe. One minute, I am poring over Jane Goodall’s adventures by the Gombe Stream, and the next, I have nicked my ten year-old’s copy of Blitzed – a Year Six recommended read.
So, I was unsure what, if anything, I could thrust upon my teenager, in the hope it might ignite those story sparks in her head – those synapses that make you want to read and read and read forever, whilst at the same time, dreading the pages running out.
In time, Number One found her reading vibe on her own really – she loves Holly Bourne’s Young Adult stuff, and has built up her own little library of similar works in her bedroom (that she still can’t sleep in as we continue to dwell in The Shed!). But I have been trying, for a couple of years now, to foist The Twilight Saga upon her, with little success.
I was in my thirties when I first became aware of Stephenie Meyer’s fabulous vampire/human love story and all of its cool-yet-geeky undertones. I bought myself a copy of the first novel (having happened upon the film by accident and been totally seduced). I devoured the book, and then read it again, savouring every page and escaping to Forks every night while my babies slept. I loved it.
I was not really part of the right demographic, but I didn’t care. I could still relate to Bella, and enjoyed visiting her world – which may have been fraught with potentially deadly boyfriends, grudge-bearing nomadic bloodsuckers and mahoosive wolves, but there wasn’t a dirty nappy in sight. Nor a toddler group. Nor a school run.
But recently, and I mean, very recently, my ploy to get Number One into Twilight has succeeded. And, I fear, backfired.
I found my well-thumbed copies of the books in The Funny Little Bungalow after an Easter sort out. There they all were, nestled dustily together in a Tesco tray, their action temporaily halted by the lack of a reader. Number One Child read the prologue- queried it, as it is not chronological, but I urged her to push on. All will become clear, I promised her. And then, as I suspected, she was hooked.
Day and night she read, only stopping every now and then to ask me a question – or the meaning of a word (reading is so good for the vocabulary!). And before long, she was done! Onto New Moon! Only to discover that New Moon was the one book in the series that I did not own, and had borrowed… it was missing! The grief I got!
In the mean time, and whilst Amazon took a while to oblige, I dug out my illustrated Guide to Twilight, several movie companions and the first DVD. They kept her happy for a bit.
Within a few weeks, Number One child had read the whole entire series. She now knows each of the characters, including the really obscure ones. She spends hours drawing the Cullens, and tells Boy Seymour all about the etiquette concerning undead vegetarianism. She nicks my phone at every opportunity to listen to the sound track (yes – I confess, I downloaded it during my own Twilight era) and she insists on asking me all about the Science behind each and every vampire’s special gift, and if Edward’s mind-reading, say, would work on animals… It’s annoying.
I have no leg to stand on. I, even in my thirties, and without the excuse of adolescence to blame, found myself drawn into Twilight. Addicted to another world, accessible only via reading. I have been like it with many stories – millions of others have read the books I’ve enjoyed, but when it’s just you and those pages, that story kind of belongs to you.
So when I find my darling fourteen year-old watching the films incessantly, dreaming, no doubt, of her own vampire/wolf love triangle, and hankering after the rest of the partially-existent novel from Edwards’ perspective, Midnight Sun, I cannot complain. She really is very like me, and annoying though it may be, it’s also quite sweet.
On Saturday, I saw her eyeing up my equally well-thumbed copy of Riders that I am currently revisiting. She poked her head inside and I panicked. I might be willing to let her have Edward and Jacob – after all, my interest in them might be unseemly. But as for Rupert Campbell-Black? She can’t have him. As yet, in my house at least, RCB belongs to me.
Luckily, for whatever reason, (maybe just out of loyalty to her vampires) she popped it back down on the table and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was at least sixteen before I read Jilly’s fabulous raunchy romps. Plenty young enough, I’d say.
So, whilst the saga of our worktops goes from crazy to ridiculous, and the “Living In The Shed” lark carries on, there is at least some good news: Number One’s not about to steal Rupert, and above all, she’s reading!
All is well.
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