Lynne Reid Banks: ‘She didn’t just write stories, they were real to her’

Gillon Stephenson pays tribute to his late mother, the celebrated author Lynne Reid Banks, on what would have been her 95th birthday

“Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” Mum loved that quote, among a million others. She’d recite poems, showtunes, and passages from Shakespeare anywhere, anytime. But despite my best efforts to deny it, the bell finally tolled for her. When it came, I felt like Canute waving his staff madly at an indifferent ocean.

If Mum had left us at two years earlier, at 92, she’d have gone out with a faded scar from a late-in-life knee replacement, a fit-bit on her wrist, and vague memories of a mini-stroke. Instead, she departed in pain, with a breast wound, losing her ability to speak and swallow. I kept telling her I loved her – over and over; we all did – but she could no longer say it back. About three months before the end, she was sitting weakly on the sofa after a nurse visit and said, naively, “I don’t understand. Does – does that mean they can’t do anything else?” Yes, Mum. That’s exactly it.

There’s something about looking after your Mum – bearing witness to her decline, slowly, slowly, nibbling away at the memories of this strong, brave, beautiful woman. It’s awful – and beautiful – and inspiring and ultimately gratifying. I discovered my Mum again over the last years – I found out who she was again, what she was made of; we became best friends. I loved her confidence, it was marvellous, the hallmark, I think, of real artistry: at the heart of it is an unbreakable confidence in their creativity. And Mum had it in spades – she didn’t just write stories, they were real to her.

When she suffered the gradual loss of her eyesight through macular degeneration it was worse than the loss of hearing. She wasn’t able to read anymore – like taking the hands off a pianist. I was called in more and more to check the muddling words on her computer screen – and you know, slowly, slowly, we began to properly work together. And the most amazing thing? It worked. Her last effort – our last effort – was The Red Red Dragon. “Another story about dragons,” I offered, unhelpfully, when she first told me, but that’s not what it is – not even a bit.

It’s a special, standout addition to the genre – with the Reid-Banks stamp; Reviews have praised it as “timely and timeless, engaging, occasionally amusing, and ultimately very moving.” Another highlighted the “linguistic invention that delights by simplicity and cleverness”. Her very dear friend, Sir Michael Morpurgo, said, “Lynne Reid Banks has always been an original. Here is a tale of dragons and uprights that is as inventive and ingenious and imaginative as we would expect from her. A remarkable and endearing morality tale from one of our greatest writers for children, and for grown-ups.”

There are hints in the story of her past, of her own experiences, fears, and regrets – undertones of a spiralling Middle-Eastern conflict that first troubled and later agonized her. There’s also a desperate plea for the world – for all of its untrammelled natural beauty – a cry against Man’s greed and short-sightedness. My wife and I spent countless nights with Mum watching her own dear hero, Sir David Attenborough, roaming the earth, revealing its majesty, and trying to preserve it. The Red Red Dragon will, I believe, help preserve the worlds she created – on paper.

What’s that sound… My God… It’s that damn bell again. And that’s another thing about being an orphan: next time the bell tolls – it tolls for me.

For more information, see the article in BookBrunch here