What lurks beneath?

John McGowan

Are nice neighbourhoods all they seem?

As those who check in regularly with this blog know we do occasionally manage a bit of culture (films and books), when it’s related to psychology and mental health. It’s a great pleasure therefore, not only be able to talk about a new novel that goes into both areas, but to interview the author.

Beth Miller is a novelist who used to be a psychologist (she's got a doctorate that doesn't make it to her book covers). Her most recent novel The Good Neighbour is part domestic drama, part psychological thriller, part exploration of some scary places in the human psyche. It starts in a nice street, in a nice town (Hove, actually), with nice neighbours. We initially see this through the eyes of Minette, a rather bored stay-at-home mum, who makes friends with Cath: older, feistier and coping incredibly with her son Davey’s illness. Under Cath’s spirited influence Minette also becomes a different sort of friendly with the hunky fellow down the road.

In praise of Alfie

John McGowan

Rock solid childhood friends
Photo: Jordy Theiller

The Big Alfie and Annie Rose Storybook ambushed me the other day. It was sitting in the window of a charity shop while I was on my way somewhere. Sentimentality can get you when you’re least expecting it, especially where the children’s author Shirley Hughes is concerned. One minute you’re thinking about what you need from the chemist, and the next about how long it was since you’ve read to your kids, and why the little pests have to grow up so quickly. But they’re off to chat to their mates online and don’t care that you are left clasping a book with a hopeful expression. It helps – a bit – to know that you’re far from the first to go down this road. Literature and modern culture abound with examples. From Peter Pan to Toy Story, it’s clear that leaving behind childish things can be painful; sometimes for the one growing up, but more often for those around them. Is it possible to watch Jessie the cowgirl being thrown out by her owner, without reaching for the tissues?

A recent exhibition of Shirley Hughes’ art suggests that she is predominantly viewed as an illustrator. She has twice won the prestigious Greenaway Medal for illustration and, a few years ago, was asked by Sarah Brown to design the Downing Street Christmas card. I’m not sure that her artwork, beautiful  though it is, completely accounts for my little crisis en route to the chemist, though. Perhaps a more plausible reason is that, while Hughes’ images are memorable, it’s as a writer that she stays with me; as someone who supremely conjures up a world of childhood joys, fears and transitions.