Beryl Bainbridge, 1934-2010

The acclaimed British novelist has died aged 75.

The novelist Beryl Bainbridge has died, aged 75. Born in Liverpool, she published her first novel, A Weekend with Claude, in 1967. During her career she was nominated for the Booker Prize five times and won the Whitbread Novel Award twice. The biographer Michael Holroyd paid tribute to her in the Guardian this morning:

Beryl had an absolutely original voice: she was a serious comedian, all of whose novels ended tragically . . . She presented herself sometimes as a clown, an entertainer, but behind that mask was a committed novelist. She was unique.

Bainbridge also had a long-standing association with the New Statesman, and contributed to our pages many times over the years. Here's an excerpt from a Diary column written in 2004:

For those over 50, the past is often more exciting than the present, in that it can rear up like a frightened horse and cause one's memory to bolt.

It happened to me a fortnight ago when I received a letter from a previously unknown member of my husband's family. Her dad, elder brother to my ex-husband, was dead, and she wanted to know about his brothers and sisters, and indeed, her grandparents, Nora and Harold.

There exists a famous photograph of the last named, entitled Afternoon in Avignon, in a museum in Liverpool, a city in which Harold was a notable architect. Harold fell off a mountain - he was facing bankruptcy - and Nora, then aged 70, after coming round and attempting to shoot me, threw herself under a train.

I didn't press charges because in between the gun and the railway line she knitted her grandson a woolly vest striped blue and green.

You can read more of Bainbridge's writing for the NS here.

Daniel Trilling is the Editor of New Humanist magazine. He was formerly an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Listening to recordings from the Antarctic, I felt I could hear the earth groan

The Science Hour on the BBC World Service.

A weekend of listening to the radio news ­revealed nothing but sounds of the sucker-punched going through their pockets in a panic and repeating, “I thought you had the keys.” So, never was talk of “a perfectly flat area of just whiteness” more alluring. The oldest Antarctic ice yet recorded was recently found. “For millions of years,” the presenter Roland Pease assured listeners  (25 June, 9am), “snow has been falling, snow on snow, all the while trapping bubbles of air and other chemical traces of climate . . . insights into the ice ages and warm periods of the past.” How was this ice located? “The finding part is pretty easy – you just go there and start shovelling, and ice comes up,” the lead geologist, Jaakko Putkonen, said.

There it was, buried under a layer of dirt “in barren wastelands” high in the middle of Antarctica. An “incredibly mountainous and remote and . . . quite hideous region, really”, Pease said, though it was sounding pretty good to me. The world dissolved into a single, depthless tone. Then Pease mentioned the surprising fizzing of this ancient ice – trapped air bubbles whooshing as they melt. Which is perhaps the thing you least expect about ice regions and ice caps and glaciers: the cacophony. Thuds and moans. Air that folds and refolds like the waving of gigantic flags. Iced water sleeping-dragonishly slurping and turning.

On Friday Greenpeace posted a video of the pianist Ludovico Einaudi giving a haunting performance on a floating platform to mark an imminent meeting of the OSPAR Commission, as it decided on a proposal to safeguard 10 per cent of the Arctic Ocean. Einaudi looked occasionally stunned by the groaning around him. A passing glacier popped and boomed like the armies of Mordor, ice calving from its side, causing mini-tsunamis. When last year I spent some time at the remote Eqi Glacier in Greenland, close to the ice cap, local people certainly spoke of the ice as if it were living: “It’s quiet today,” delivered as though gazing at the fractious contents of a Moses basket.

“This huge cake of ice, basically flat”, Putkonen said, perhaps longing for a moment of deep-space silence, for peaceful detachment. He wasn’t the only one being forced to reappraise a landscape very differently.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 30 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit lies