Reading Copy Book Blog

I’ve been away on an extended holiday in the United Kingdom for the last few weeks and I can safely say that I haven’t thought about much about books, with one exception. We stayed at my mother’s house and in the spare room I found one of my favourite childhood books – the Sam Pig Storybook by Alison Uttley.

My mother read that book to me. I loved it. I was given that particular copy in 1972 when I was four years old by one set of grandparents. That copy, a 1971 paperback, was very beaten up (by me). The cover was almost completely ripped off and I had doodled on lots of the illustrations. I felt rather shamed when I looked at the damage I had caused as a stupid little boy.

However, that didn’t stop me reading the book to my children during the holiday. If you don’t know Sam Pig, then you should get to know him. These stories are from a different age when farmers got around in a horse and cart and haymaking was done by hand.

Sam lives in a house with his brothers, Bill and Tom, and his sister, Ann Pig and Brock the Badger is their wise and careful (and slightly magical) guardian. Ann mends things and Bill and Tom do the cooking and gardening. Sam Pig can talk but not all humans can understand him. Farmer Greensleeves, the village policeman, the Irish cook in the ‘Big House, and the plumber are all encountered on his gentle adventures.

Sam, who mostly messes about and plays his fiddle, gets on well with Sally the Mare and also the scarecrow, who in one story goes off on holiday to Blackpool when Sam takes his place in the field. My favourite story is Sam Pig Visits the Big House. The Big House is not a prison but the place where the wealthy folks live. Sam is nosy and watches the cook making a Christmas pudding, he falls into the bowl and ends up being chased down the road by the cook and the maids who think the pudding has developed magical qualities.

The stories are charming and my children loved them too. And yet Uttley was, apparently, a bit of an old battleaxe. She hated her ‘rival’ Enid Blyton and was considered to be a ‘controlling’ woman. This Guardian article has more about this author’s dark background.

A few weeks ago, my eight-year-old came home from her elementary school with a book from the school library. It was The Chronicles of Robin Hood by Rosemary Sutcliff.

I did not know that Sutcliff, famous for writing the wonderful adventure story, The Eagle of the Ninth, had ever written about Robin Hood.

My daughter asked me if the book was valuable. I instantly said no because it was so beaten up. When I looked more closely I saw it was the 1950 edition illustrated by C Walter Hodges and published by Oxford University Press.

This book was 61 years old and still going strong – making school kids happy week after week. There are only a handful of 1950 copies on AbeBooks – perhaps someone will republish it.

We thoroughly enjoyed the book, reading it at bedtime over several weeks. My daughter’s only exposure to the legend was the Disney animated movie where Robin is a fox and Prince John is a lion played (brilliantly) by Peter Ustinov.

Sutcliff’s version of the events in the forests of Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire is a boy’s own adventure full of battles, bravery and chivalry. Little John, Will Scarlett and all the merry men are there along with the villains – Sir Roger of Doncaster, two sheriffs of Nottingham and Guy of Gisbourne.

My daughter had no idea of how Robin ended his days. There are various versions of his death and Sutcliff opts for the outlaw being being slowly bled to death by his evil cousin in a nunnery. Of course, my daughter had no idea that ‘bleeding’ was a type of medical treatment in pre-medieval England and this had to be explained along with how handy leeches were in those days.

As I read the final chapter, my daughter became distraught as it became obvious that the cousin had sold Robin down the river in exchange for a pair of gold candlesticks and 30 acres of land.

She climbed into bed and hid her face under the covers. I could hear her sobbing and found it quite hard to carry on reading. I’m sure my voice was starting to crack.

Her mother, full of menacing looks, poked her head around the door and asked what the heck I was doing by getting our daughter so upset just before bedtime. I ploughed on and described Robin’s burial and completed the final few pages. At the end, I just had to stand up and walk out the bedroom – there was no way I was going to console her.

The Chronicles of Robin Hood is a beautiful book. We always paused at each of Hodges’ lovely illustrations so we could look at each scene and discuss what was happening.

One day soon, we’ll have to read a King Arthur book (mainly because I want to) and then there’ll be some more tears, and I can foresee difficulties arising in how I explain adultery once Lancelot decides that Mrs Arthur is his for the taking.