Lesson 5: A book is the best way to a good night's sleep
My father's bedtime stories usually had two parts. He would sit on the side of my bed and pluck an obscure thought from his head. He would do this effortlessly, as though he were pulling a book from the shelf at a library and turning to a random page with an equally random fact.
“Did you know…” he would begin, before informing me of an unknown family detail.
On one occasion he started as follows:
“Did you know that we are actually French?” He told me this one evening as I lay in bed preparing for his bedtime story.
“French?” I said, my six-year-old brain beginning to turn.
“French,” he replied again. He looked serious.
“But how come I can’t speak any French then?” I said to him.
“Well you can’t speak any Double Dutch either,” he replied, “but there you are.”
I remember giggling.
“We all came here from someplace else, and we came from France. The Littlewoods were connected to the Jacobites. Your Great-Grandfather was called Charles Louis.” He stopped to allow me to think about it all a bit more. I didn’t have any questions. It was interesting that I could be French. It was not something I had considered before, but this was always the way with my father. He gave me something to consider.
With the stated fact out of the way, he would begin our journey into some incredible story. He never read to me. Instead, he reached into his imagination and took me on a journey. Usually, it revolved around some heroic woodland creatures that lived in the hills behind our house. They would go on fantastic adventures. Sometimes I was woven into the stories. Sometimes I was not. Sometimes we ended up in countries far, far away. The animals could always talk. They were brave. On his words, we sailed far away from the bedroom, which was wonderful because, in fact, I was terrified of the bedroom.
I have lived in the same house since the age of four, but in the 1930s, it was a big and dark place. It was silent outside at night. The paintwork was dark, the house was creaky, and at night we relied upon a gaslight in the middle of each room that was lit with long tapers. It was a strange feeling when we eventually got electricity towards the end of the 1930s because before then, a house at night was shadowy, flickery, and cold.
The best kind of bedtime of all was when my father would tell me a story until sleep came and got me while he was still telling it. I’d miss the ending, but then I was spared the shadows drifting off to the sound of his soothing voice. Perfect. Sometimes though, I was still awake when he left.
“I’m frightened, Jean,” I would say to the imaginary friend in my head, shortly after he had exited the room.
“Don’t be afraid,” Jean would reply.
She had her own special voice.
“I can tell you a story too,” she would say. She’d begin. Her stories were never quite as good as my father’s.
I would look at the long candle that sat in a small saucer of water by the side of my bed. It sat in the saucer to stop it from causing a fire if it burned too low. I would watch the dancing light, mesmerized, but hated the flickering shadows that it cast upon the opposite walls. It made monsters and dragons that I was convinced would get me if the light went out completely. How could such a tiny candle make such enormous creatures?
“Don’t go out,” I’d whisper to the candle, loving it and hating it all simultaneously. I would push my head under the covers and try to stay there until I became too hot or fell asleep.
This continued for a year or two until something new happened. I learned to read. At school, I found reading came to me quite quickly. Soon I was just as happy reading Rupert the Bear as exploring a Greek Fairy Tale or a poem. Better still, I was able to bring the books home. As soon as my father finished his story and left, I would pull out the book and head off on my travels once more, all by candlelight. The shadows no longer concerned me. I would read and read until my eyelids became heavy with words. In the morning, the open book would be right beside me, or in a fallen heap on the floor.
Reading has always relaxed me in this way and brought me joy throughout my life. Now in my nineties, my eyesight has started to fade, and so audiobooks have become my great friend. They still bring me great peace. I know the following to be true. A book before bed is the very best way to a relaxing night’s sleep.
Lesson 6: FHB “Family Holds Back” Friday, March 24th