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| My own reminder of Fred Robinson |
The most important thing for me, whether reading or writing a book, is a good story. I have read a couple of Pulitzer Prise winning novels which were beautifully, beautifully written but so boring I struggled to finished them. On the other hand I have read a cracking good story ruined by really bad writing. As I have staggered my way through reams of telling not showing, the most basic skill of story writing, overuse of adverbs - my weakness, or limited vocabulary and abundance of commas, I wonder which editor has allowed this novel through their editorial process. I can think of several well-known, best-selling authors who have a good yarn to tell but whose writing lacks even the basics of good creative writing.
My mother read voraciously and read to me all the time which created in me a love of stories. This started young, very young as I was weaned on Beatrix Potter, Orlando the marmalade cat and Madeleine. I devoured Enid Blyton, surely the worst possible example of what I have been complaining about and onwards and upwards to Jennings and all the other favourite novels of 1950’s Britain.
When in my 40’s, I started my Primary teacher-training programme, one of the first lecturers in Literacy implored us to read to our class at least once a day, every day, no matter how old the children. I was always happy to oblige. I can remember with pleasure the children hanging on every word of an exciting story and I was delighted when an ex pupil of mine, now into his 20’s, told me how much he enjoyed one of the books I had read to the class.
However one of my favourite storytellers was my Uncle Fred. He wasn’t an actual relative of mine at all, but on at least two occasions I found myself in the car on holiday with 4 adults. This was the penalty of being the youngest in the family. My brother and sister were off enjoying the delights of Crusader camps and my parents were on holiday with their good friends. I was the plus one.
The four adults liked to take what seemed to me to be long car rides around the Welsh or maybe Scottish scenery and I was sandwiched in the back, bored. Uncle Fred stepped in to stop my whining by telling me long, convoluted, impromptu stories. Apparently I sat there rapt saying, ‘And then …’ in order to keep the story flowing. Whenever Uncle Fred stopped to draw breath I would be ready with, ‘And then …’. I have no recollection now of any of the stories but I do remember the storyteller.
The final twist of this story is that one day I was tired, grumpy and we were meant to be walking up some mountain or other and I just cried and complained. Apparently I was given an orange to eat which was unusual as oranges are messy affairs to consume when out and about. Your hands become sticky and smelly, but it did the trick. Food always did the trick for me. Restored, we all then walked wherever it was that the adults were planning to go. However I now have a permanent memento of that day and of all the times that Uncle Fred entertained me in the car.
Fred Robinson was a gifted children’s comic strip artist for various well-known children’s comics both before and after the War, and I have two pictures from him that are great heirlooms. One is of a little girl running up a path holding an orange. The other was given to me on my 21st birthday praising the virtues of women taken from Proverbs 31. Unfortunately I can no longer find this masterpiece.
For me, my picture is a lasting reminder of the power of storytelling. Look carefully at the picture and along the bottom you can just about read Fred Robinson Private Storyteller.
Uncle Fred’s obituary can be read here – if you are interested. https://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/obituary-fred-robinson-2316178.html
