I got to know Helen Dunmore's writing thanks to my mum. For that reason alone, her name was instantly special. My mum loves reading, I always trust her taste in books. I remember her recommending Zennor in Darkness to a friend when I was a teenager. Yet for some reason I only started reading Helen's books when I was in my twenties, when I had moved to Bristol. One Christmas I gave my mum two books of her poetry, and I was reminded: this was a writer I should really read. I went to the library, the big central library, and took out Burning Bright. And realised that the city she described was my new home, the arty cinema in her novel my new local hangout. But more importantly I felt I had made a discovery: a writer who wrote with wisdom and wit, a cool elegance and a human warmth. Who was not afraid to confront the darkness, nor afraid to embrace the light. I carried on reading.
The story could have stopped there with one happy reader. Then a few years ago I signed up to a French class, and in the first lesson was surprised to see a familiar face. It was the writer from my bookshelves. I was, I'll admit, starstruck. Over the next few years, it was a privilege and a pleasure to share a horror of the subjunctive (perhaps I'm projecting my horror on to Helen) and a delight in the French novels we read each term. I took a year off my lessons last September, and was shocked when I learned she had terminal cancer. I wrote to Helen, and her reply was so kind and generous. I get the impression that was how she was with everyone. She was a brilliant and thoughtful writer and poet and a wonderful human being, someone who I have found inspiring in every way. All of these small musings are simply an inadequate way of saying how sad I am that she has died, to say thank you for the words. My thoughts are with her family and friends. Helen's last book, Birdcage Walk, was also set in Bristol. I can't wait to read it.
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