Looking through family photographs from the 1960s, I feel little connection to the small Debi who peers back at me. If she could speak now, I'm sure she'd feel an equal distance from the future version of herself who somehow managed to turn her childhood bliss into a daytime job.
I truly cannot remember a time when I wasn't making books. I lived with my parents in the flatlands of Lanarkshire and my earliest memories were of a mostly solitary childhood. There was radio, but no television. There were adults, but no children. I suspect the nearest nursery school was miles away and as my parents didn't drive, this wasn't an option. We eventually moved to Glasgow so I could attend an all-girl's convent school. At four and a half.
My mum had already taught me to read long before. My dad was an art teacher and, thanks to him, I still have my earliest attempts at picturebooks. He would make little bound sketchbooks for me from scrap paper and card. There was one in particular from a holiday abroad when I drew what was in front of me and wove it into a story about the mysterious fara palas. I now realise this was in fact a story about a fairy palace, in which four-year-old me accompanied my mum (Fara Qen) into the very non-child-centric spaces of a 'Coktail Bar'. Complete with carefully drawn upside-down bottles of spirits and a bartender.
Looking at this drawing, it's as if I was a tiny spy, sending S.O.S. messages into the future, that could only be read when that version of me was no longer around. The drawings gave no inkling of my future career in the arts, or for that matter, MI5. But I do feel a great solidarity with the small child doggedly attempting to record her surroundings, armed with her pencil and paper.
I remember the journey to the 'Coktail Bar'. A bus from Barcelona to a cheap hotel in the hills, trying (and failing) to not be sick as the bus lurched round corners. Many, many corners. I remember my first sight of the dazzling sea. Best of all, I remember the fizzy water with the funny taste (aqua minerale) when we finally arrived.
I don't recall the flight there or home, save for the ghastly discovery of why there was a paper bag in the pocket of the seat in front. I also remember my mum smuggling a very fancy ring she'd bought through Customs on our way home. Coached to back up her assertion that she'd had the ring for – oh, this old thing? Had it for years, haven't I, Deborah?– I was as relieved as my International Smuggling Mum of Mystery when she spotted an old friend now manning the ‘nothing to declare’ lane. Clearly, the Faras were on our side! Let's hope they always remain thus. As my new book Come What May makes its way into the world, a little Fara assistance would be very welcome.
