I was reminded of Rosemary Sutcliff

yesterday - in a comment on this blog. The comment brought back a powerful reminder of reading "The Shield Ring". It was a book included in a parcel from the Children's Country Lending Service.  I remember reading it sitting on the branch in the big gum tree which was near what was grandly called the "lunch shed" in the school yard. The branch was only a few feet from the ground and there was room for me and my brother. When everyone else was gone it was our safe place for reading. The school lunch shed was not safe. We found a deadly snake in there one day. The Senior Cat had to kill it.

But Rosemary Sutcliff's books were another world entirely. I was suddenly caught up in Roman Britain. It was a revelation. My carefully written note to the librarians in the city asked if there were any more like that - and there were. They also sent some of Geoffrey Trease's novels and then Cynthia Harnett's "The Woolpack". Oh! 

I fell in love with historical novels. They seemed a safe place to me. Those things couldn't possibly happen now. They seemed so exotic and so uncomfortable at times. I remember the frustration of not being able to discuss them with anyone. My brother, two years younger, was reading his way through Biggles and Ivan Southall's "Simon Black" books. I swapped them with the son of the local manager of the small bank branch but, while he read and enjoyed them, he wasn't interested in talking about them. 

I remember the Senior Cat trying to read a chapter of the Woolpack to everyone in school one Friday afternoon. The others were restive. They might come from farms with sheep but they could not relate to Nicholas. History, however hard the Senior Cat tried, did not appeal to those down to earth but rather slow children who mostly came from intermarried families.

We went to visit "our librarians" at the Country Lending Service when we next went back to the city. I enthused again about the books they had sent. Yes, there were more. Yes, they would let me read them. They would find me others too. While our parents were dealing with whatever adults needed to deal with in the city my brother and I spent all the time we could in the children's area. 

Looking back I realise my parents used it as a child minding service. I don't remember other children being there as long as we were. Some children came and went. We stayed all morning or all afternoon. We read. We never thought of putting a foot out of line. It was probably no hardship to the librarians. We didn't want to leave!

Years later I wrote to Rosemary Sutcliff. I am hoping that, in the big clean out, I might find the letter she sent me in return. My letter to her was one of many I sent asking people to contact their UN representatives in support of the idea of what became International Literacy Year. I didn't expect answers. I said that in my letters. Some people did respond. Rosemary Sutcliff did respond. What is more the letter was handwritten by her and it must have taken a great effort because she had such severe arthritis she could barely hold a pen. That letter confirmed what I think I had always known. The librarian who chose that book for me to read gave me something very special indeed.