A tale of two Grandmas

My two grandmothers were poles apart. My Mum's mother was a true grandma - grey hair in a bun, an ample bosom, fierce love and harsh criticism in equal measure. She served custard from a bowl and sliced parchment-thin bread and butter (tip: butter the loaf before cutting the slice). We spent half our school summer holidays at New Milton Grandma's, where we had beaches and the New Forest for our entertainment. 

My Dad's mother, in contrast, was not a grandma. Despite the best efforts of my sister and me, she remained resolutely Simona; never did we receive a letter, birthday or Christmas card from London Grandma, always from Simona. She was as different from New Milton Grandma as you could get. Simona was never demonstrative with her love, even though I'm sure it was as strong. Unlike the summers spent with New Milton Grandma, my childhood memories of Simona were of occasional Sunday lunchtime visits from her and Noel (London Grandad). Dad would have bought a bottle of Perry (Simona didn't drink wine), gin and Dubonnet or Whisky Macs were served before dinner, and Mum would be slightly on edge. We might be given 50p or a bag of crisps before they left, but rarely a hug. 

But despite this – or possibly because of this –  Simona was a fascination to me. She had been an actress; at about 4 years old I decided I too would be an actress. She worked as a tour guide; after a visit with her coach and its microphone I took it on myself to guide the family around any stately home, castle or cathedral we visited. And she was an author. I think this is her one occupation that I have retained a secret desire to replicate, but the killer idea for my fortune-making novel has always eluded me. 

Simona and her side of the family were hugely interesting to me - alliterative couples Ginny and Ginga (both pronounced with a hard-G), and Phil and Ferdie, links to aristocracy, the cad Compton Pakenham, life in Dieppe, friendships with famous composers and artists and connections with notorious murders! How had such an interesting family ended up as our very ordinary (lovely, but ordinary) family of civil servants? 

I’m not sure I ever properly knew Simona, despite being 40 when she died aged 94. And I'm ashamed that I've never read any of her published books in their entirety. So I've decided 2016 is the year. But where to start? It seems natural to read her memoir Pigtails and Pernod first, as that would help me understand my family history better. But what about her book about Cheltenham, the town in which I was born and grew up? That might be a natural starting point.

In the end I’ve decided to read the books chronologically so I can see her style develop over her writing career, so it is to Ralph Vaughan Williams that I turn first. This book was rejected by one publisher as falling between the two stools of professional criticism and amateur enthusiasm – but I think that combination will be perfect for introducing me not only to her writing but to the works of Vaughan Williams, only a few of which I currently know.   So, now 2016 is here, it’s time to start reading...