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| It's all there! |
An article
in the current New Statesman on reading to children both caught my eye and triggered memories. Not that I had any such parental memories from childhood; I never
experienced it nor did any of my friends, I think, though mature consideration
tells me that indeed I did receive the pleasure of an adult reading aloud to me [and other children]. My parents certainly didn’t read to me and my
sisters during our childhood, though I, as the eldest, often read to the other
two, an activity which I greatly enjoyed. To be fair, I didn't know of any parents among my friends, who did read to their kids. But I still do remember Miss Betts; she was the fearsome form teacher of the
primary [St Edwards] Top Class and taught us all the subjects, in the manner then, of
primary teaching. We pupils were all careful in our behaviour with Miss Betts, that is to say, we tiptoed along the continuum from being nervous, to terrified, of Miss Betts whose appearance might have been unconsciously calculated to intimidate! She dressed, chiefly in black, in long concealing clothes which reached to her ankles. Her hair was disciplined into a tight grey 'bun' at the back of her head and I only seem to recall her frowns not her smiles. In other words, to us, Miss Betts' appearance [and indeed, her personality] suggested that of a sniper, resting watchfully!
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This image captures the experience for the audience though not the visual image of the majestic Miss Betts. |
In every Friday afternoon of my last year at Primary School, the
last longed-for lesson of the week involved the teacher reading aloud the current
book to us. HOW I loved it these sessions and waited for Friday afternoons to
come round eagerly, whatever the book. One Friday, I had had to go home at lunchtime to see to my mother who was seriously ill in bed with pleurisy. 'Going home' meant quite a long walk at each end of the journey and I had done the first part of food to Mum but still have strong memories of the dash to catch the bus to get back to afternoon school. I was on tenterhooks with anxiety that I might get back and miss The Reading by Miss Betts.
My memories are strongest of Miss B.
reading The Cloister and The Hearth by Charles Reade, an historical
novel published in 1861. I have absolutely no recollection of the text, but I
discover now that it is set in 15th century Europe and follows
Gerard Eliassoen, a young scribe, as his journey takes him far away from his
beloved Margaret. When false news of her death reaches him, Gerard’s path leads
him towards the Church, setting up a profound conflict between earthly love and
religious duty. The book explores the collision between family devotion and
clerical obligation across a vividly rendered mediaeval landscape. My love of this book, because of Miss Betts' dramatic readings, caused my ever helpful mother to buy me a copy for my Christmas stocking and I have it still! It remains chiefly incomprehensible but I was thrilled to receive it at the time.
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Engrossed!
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Frankly, this does not sound
like a book for a ten-year-old, but I was bewitched by it and especially by
Miss Betts’ reading of it. In retrospect, I think it was Miss Betts’ reading
aloud more than the actual narrative, which captivated me. And now I recall
that there were around 50 ten-year-olds in that class, all listening, spell-bound, to
the story. Much later, when I taught secondary school English Language and Literature,
I too read the class current novel to fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds and
again, the magic of a story of being read aloud to the group always had a
similar, almost magical, effect. Reluctant readers and skillful readers alike,
among the pupils, were always, SO eager to have the story read aloud. AND a
similar effect was always produced with my own young children when I read from
their books of choice before bedtime every evening.
Frankly, on a daily basis, reading to my kids seemed a bit of a chore when preparing the evening meal for my
husband and me loomed large! AND yet, I really enjoyed doing it each time. The quiet
cadences caught and enchanted them as they quietened and listened and shuffled
closer together, eyes fixed on me with minds on the narrative. I doubt that
now, half a century later, that they can even recall those ‘close together’
times while listening to stories read aloud, forging instinctive memories and sensations of family
closeness and magical stories. I did try several times, to persuade my husband
to take my place but he always demurred. I think the idea of reading aloud to his children made
him somehow uncomfortable, and he did not appreciate the value of doing so, to
his relationship with them. A key disincentive for him, which I didn't consider at the time, was the mere fact that he didn't himself enjoy reading. He could do it but didn't choose to do it, for pleasure, for himself.
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| Rural reading outdoors, together, enhances the story. |
To him, it was a Mum chore; to me it was a
wasted bonding opportunity for him. The NielsenIQ survey found that 40% of parents thought reading to their children was fun while 35% of parents said they didn't enjoy reading at all and never did it for pleasure.If parents find reading to their children is fun, then there is an increased chance of the children also loving it or finding it fun. Looking down from my present elderly heights, I can see that some work may be waiting to be done by parents!
I discover that there are
interesting supportive statistics to be had! A 2025 survey by the book data company,
NielsenQ and publisher, HarperCollins, found that just 41% of children aged 0-4
are frequently read to. This is a sad statistic for it suggests that around 60% do not have the real bonding pleasure of being read to by an adult. Interestingly, a similar exercise in 2012 recorded 64%. Today, it must be increasingly difficult to entice children away from tablets,
computers and phones to the apparently less dynamic, less seductive book. And
yet …. And yet ….. While alternative temptations are legion, caring adults must keep reading to any available children!.
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Dolly Parton at 80, a few months before her death. She created the Imagination Library |
I do like the sound of the
Imagination Library started by Dolly Parton in 1995 in memory of her father who
could neither read nor write. The programme sends a free book each month to every
child who signs up, until their fifth birthday.
It has delivered over 300 million books worldwide and on September 22nd of this year, [a month after Dolly Parton’s death] it was announced that the
scheme would be expanding in the UK, widening access to books to 157,000 more children. This is unbelievably brilliant both in
concept and deed, especially so coming from such lowly beginnings. A fine and imaginative use of fame and an impressive testament to Parton's life journey.
Post Script
When I was a young teacher, school, even classroom, libraries were rare and so I started a class library for my form, donating my own books and occasionally buying one or two when I could afford to. I noticed that one particular book was loved by one boy and so, one day, I told him that it was my own book and he was welcome to have it for himself. I remember still how shocked I was by his answer.
"I'd love it Miss, but no thanks. I daren't take it home 'cos my Dad burns books."
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