Torquemada – dedicatee of ‘Wolves’
In a previous post, Wolves…the beginning I described the nearly ten year gap between the happy day, on her birthday in 1953 when Joan Aiken started writing the book that was to become her best known work, and some say masterpiece, The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, and its final publication.
Those ten years were a period of great sadness and change, but they ended, as in her book with a return home, and the restoration of a family; the dedication the book bears – ‘To John, Elizabeth and Torquemada’ is a tribute to that family, and will always bring back memories for me, as the last person left in this story.
For the fiftieth anniversary edition of the book in America I wrote an introduction, telling some of the story as it had begun in 1953:
As my mother—recently established with a home, a husband, and two small children—was chopping wood for the fireplace and remembering all the pleasure she had gained from reading during her own childhood, she had a wonderful idea. Home-schooled until the age of twelve in the isolated village where she grew up, she had spent most of her days with friends drawn from the worlds of the great dramatic storytellers of the nineteenth century. Now, she decided, she could write a book herself, with the most delightful ingredients (and some of the scariest!) from all the classic stories of Dickens and Charlotte Bronte, or from an even earlier age – Carlo Collodi’s original and terrifying Pinocchio which she read at the age of two, or Charles Reade’s lurid tale of The Cloister and The Hearth which her mother had read aloud to her, along with all the many others she had enjoyed by herself, and whose characters became her imaginary friends; she wrote so that she could share this tremendous pleasure with the next generation.
But as so often happened in the stories my mother read, disaster struck—and the first few chapters of the book she had so eagerly started writing had to be put aside. My father fell ill and lost his job, and so my parents were obliged to sell our home. Less than two years later, my father died. This was not the moment to delve into a world of make-believe misfortunes—for now my mother had to surmount a series of very real obstacles and take care of herself and two young children until she could find a new home (and of course a cat, of whom more later!) Her troubles and responsibilities during these years deepened her writing immeasurably, taking it beyond the mere tongue-in-cheek parody she had first imagined. She had certainly revelled in the melodramas she had read as a child, but now that she had experienced tragedy and poverty herself, she could write about them with real authority.
The Wolves of Willoughby Chase was the story my mother started and had to put aside when my brother and I—aged five and three, and still stricken by the death of our father—were sent away to school while she found work to support us – an episode echoed in the story of Bonnie and Sylvia, but not quite as desperate as theirs! Her book remained an inspiration in the back of her mind until nearly ten years after she had first written those opening chapters, after years of working on story magazines and scraping together a tiny deposit for a wreck of an old pub in Sussex called White Hart House, and where we were at last under our own roof once again. While my brother and I were happily running around banging nails into the walls so we could hang up our clothes, she was finally able to get out that old writing book. As if no time had passed, she sat down to finish her story. And as she entertained us with the adventures of Bonnie and Sylvia and Simon, she must have felt a good deal of relief knowing that she could also bring them through their troubles to a happy ending.
And do you remember about the cat? You may have seen that this book is dedicated to John and Elizabeth—my brother and me—and Torquemada. The last member of our company, Torquemada was a large, gentle black and white cat who lived on a friend’s houseboat, minding his own business and fishing for his dinner, until two ferocious Abyssinians moved into his territory and drove him into hiding. Terrified, hungry, and miserable, he crouched in a ship’s funnel until my mother offered to rescue him and brought him to live with us. She gave him his marvellous name to restore his courage, and he sat in the open window of the kitchen by her typewriter, guarding the house from strangers while she worked. She was a gifted artist, and left this lovely portrait of him too. As she read the three of us each newly typed chapter, and the story neared its end, I remember how I especially loved the orphans’ gentle healing journey through the green hills and valleys of England. We were like those orphans of the storm, and she had brought us safely home.
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‘Wolves’ was to be the first of twelve Wolves Chronicles set in Joan Aiken’s own invented world, where the good Stuart Kings still reigned, and where she could travel to her heart’s content in the company of the heroes and villains of all the books she had ever loved, imagined, and kept company with as a child.
For a couple of weeks in August this year you can join in a readalong of ‘Wolves’ on Twitter at the hashtag #WilloughbyReads and add your own inspiration!
This picture of Joan Aiken at home comes from a film made about her and the writing of the first few of the ‘Wolves’ books which were published by Puffin Books.