Margaret Forster and Marjory

Oriel Malet met the novelist and biographer Margaret Forster when the latter was writing her biography of Daphne du Maurier, one of Oriel's closest friends.

Margaret Forster, who was writing her new book Good Wives, read Marjory Fleming (Persephone Book No. 17) and wrote to Oriel Malet:

'What an extraordinary story, & how brilliantly you tell it ­ I found it enthralling & touching & quite creepily accurate about the feelings of such a child as Marjory. You say somewhere that all children like her go through this kind of emotional battle with their sense of self (well, you don't say it in those words, I took this meaning from what you do say) & of course I identified with it because I was certainly like Marjory at that age, to the horror of my family. Page 109 pretty well describes how I remember feeling, & so I had no problem at all empathising with her. I think the restraint you show, in the language you use, & the control in the style are/were remarkable for someone of twenty ­ no hint of the over-writing so much more common in Those of Tender Years.

'And naturally I laughed quite a lot at the poems and especially the entries in the journal. My favourite was 'At perth poor James the first did die/That wasn't a joy and luxery'; but all of them put William McGonagall to shame. I'm sure everything you've imagined about Marjory is true, but it's the bits known to be true, like those poems/letter/journals that surprise. I know it was common, but fancy allowing oneself to be parted from a child for three years ­ incredible, whatever the child was like & whatever the reasons. But I must say that tho' I found Marjory totally convincing, I found it hard to believe in Isa/bella. She's just too good, too patient, too pious and worthy. Nancy was much more believable, & all the boys were ­ loved the teasing of Willie by Nancy especially.

'Anyway, Oriel, such a pleasure to read. Were you pleased with Persephone's production? I think it looks so elegant, so how a book should look, quiet & serene, with no brash shrieking cover, the print clear, the paper smooth, the endpapers charming ­ as an artefact, never mind the content, it is perfect . . .'

And in July a contributor to the Catholic Herald wrote: 'My favourite Scottish poet is not Robert Burns but Marjory Fleming. . . Like a Jane Austen heroine she cherished romantic notions about admirers ("In my travels I met with a handsome lad named Charles Balfour Esq. & from him I got ofers of marage. . .") If Marjory had been spared to us, I think she might have grown up to be a novelist of comparable stature ­ or, at least, the author of a book like Daisy Ashford's The Young Visiters.'