George : A Magpie Memoir

Contents Cover Title Page Dedication A Note on the Text Prologue 1. May 2. June 3. July 4. August 5. September 6. October 7. November 8. December 9. January 10. February 11. April 12. May 13. June 14. July 15. September 16. October 17. November Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright Guide Cover Start of Content Title Page Dedication Prologue Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright III IV V VI 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 
 
 George
 A Magpie Memoir
 Frieda Hughes
 
 
 
 
 
 To George and his children.
 
 
 A Note on the Text
 This book is based on diary entries made between May 2007 and January 2009, which I returned to when I decided I wanted to write about my life with George. It seemed to me that the diary entries best captured the speed and manner of George’s sometimes dramatic daily development—and so I have kept them in place, but have added useful information that I only came across later on, where it felt appropriate.
 
 
 
 
 
 Prologue
 Imagine wanting something since you were old enough to be conscious of wanting it. Imagine a longing for something; a place, a state of being, or a situation, that worked away inside your head all those early years, directing you consciously or unconsciously towards achieving that place, or way of being, or situation that you longed for, because, as my late father always said, if you truly want something you should visualise it and make a space for it in your life.
 He also added that we should be very careful what we wish for, because sometimes when we get it, it’s not quite what we imagined. If, for instance, you wished for a cash injection of a substantial amount, and you wished with all your heart for this lucky windfall, and then someone you loved dearly died and you inherited a sizeable amount of money in their will, that would be a tragic way to achieve the realisation of your longing. Or if you wished for some time off work and then found yourself afflicted with Covid, monkeypox or a broken leg, that would be counterproductive, as you would be too ill to enjoy your time off. Even as a child, these thoughts occurred to me; I’d read too many myths and fairy stories not to have absorbed the life lessons around which they were based.
 No, the things I wanted had to be achieved without causing pain to others, or to myself—except, perhaps, from exhaustion: my own happy exhaustion as a result of my sincere mental and physical efforts.
 The things I longed for, other than health, happiness and wealth, probably in that order, were plants, pets, and a home of my own that I would never have to move from. The plants and pets were the embellishment and confirmation of the permanent home and, therefore, the sense of stability and belonging that I craved.
 
 Plants were a direct connection to nature; oh, to have somewhere to grow and propagate them, to smell their earthy roots as I repotted them or planted them out, to possess flowerbeds and herbaceous borders where I could arrange them by colour and leaf-shape, interspersing perennials with evergreens and so never having nothing in the soil when winter came. I didn’t understand how anyone could live with bare flowerbeds through the seasons of rain and snow.
 I can still remember how exciting I found the smell of lily corms in my late teens and early twenties, fecund and engaging in their sawdust when they came out of their plastic bags from beneath the big, brightly coloured lightweight cardboard squares of label, photograph and description. The anticipation of their future growth and flowering would dig into my chest like a happy mole. Succulents too, with their fluid-filling and prehistoric appearances… and delphiniums and foxgloves, pieris and mahonia, campanulas looking as if they were leaking on to the ground like purple-blue milk as their blooms spread, and nasturtiums in orange, pouring over walls and the edges of windowsills. Cherry blossom, lilac and magnolia…
 In my mind I had images of flowerbeds and combinations of blooms, and I wanted to sculpt gardens out of plants and grow trees tall, so I could clear-stem them to support blowsy crimson or purple clematis. I longed to arch leylandii into interesting shapes and prune everything, that could be