The kindness of Beryl

A personal appreciation from a much younger friend.

At a Christmas party in north London some years ago I found myself on a sofa alongside Tom Robinson and Beryl Bainbridge, and in the middle of a long and, for their part, knowledgeable, discussion about the relative merits of Coronation Street and EastEnders. That the songwriter and former gay rights activist should have found himself tackled on this subject by Beryl was not a surprise. She was such a keen follower of soaps that if ever she missed an episode, she would call her friend and fellow-novelist, Bernice Rubens, at her home in Belsize Park, up the hill from Beryl's Camden house, to catch up -- and vice versa. I haven't seen any mention of this particular enthusiasm of hers in the notices since Beryl's death last Friday, however, and although the tributes have been generous -- AN Wilson wrote an especially perceptive piece in the Observer on Sunday -- I wonder how much of the life of this most treasured of novelists will appear in the recollections, or how fully the picture of her character will be painted.

The rackety side will be there, naturally; and this was not without truth. I can vividly remember the Whitbread Prize dinner in 1997 where Beryl, who had won the Novel category, was in contention for the overall prize. From the moment the waiters attempted to fill our glasses, strict instructions were issued: wine would do fine for me and for her publisher, Robin Baird-Smith. But for Beryl, her daughter JoJo and the former "Fat Lady" Jennifer Patterson, large whiskies would be required, and at regular intervals throughout the evening. It was, as one of us later observed, perhaps just as well that Beryl did not end up taking the evening's laurels, as her speech might have been recorded in the annals of exuberance, or quite possibly incomprehension, rather than in those of great oratory.

On other occasions, this appetite for good company, drink and nicotine manifested itself in many a long and joyous evening. At the party for her next novel, Master Georgie, I told Beryl how much I'd liked it. "How many times have you read it?" she asked. "Once," I replied, thinking I'd done rather well in actually managing to finish a book before going to its launch (and, since it was Beryl, I had made a special effort). "You have to read it at least twice to understand it," she told me, although not harshly. The gathering at Hatchard's, Piccadilly, moved on to a pub round the corner, and several hours later a diminished group of us carried on at the home of one of her children in Kentish Town. I have a vague memory of dancing to "The Return of the Space Cowboy" by Jamiroquai at about 3am, but when I left, the party and Beryl, were still going strong.

To that aspect of Beryl, many can testify. And it is for others, more qualified than I, to appraise, and doubtless praise, her writing and analyse her influences. I would like to add something about her extraordinary personal consideration, one instance of which I will never forget. In 1996 her novel about the Titanic, Every Man for Himself, came out to such acclaim that it marked a renaissance in her already glittering career. Shortly before, a mutual friend, the journalist Robert Tewdwr Moss had been murdered in the Little Venice flat I had previously lived in, too. Robert was beloved of Beryl -- she had a framed photo of him in her house -- and was like an older brother to me. As I walked up the cramped, steep stairs of 2 Brydges Place, the club where Beryl's new novel was being celebrated, a stream of literary luminaries waited in line to greet the author. Among the likes of, as I remember it, Antony Beevor and Antonia Fraser, I felt deeply insignificant. But as soon as she saw me, Beryl rushed over and took me aside. "You poor boy," she said, giving me a big hug, "are you all right?" Other grandees of the book world were ignored as she took the time (quite a lot of time), on the evening of her greatest triumph, to talk to a 24-year-old who was of practically no consequence at all in the world of journalism, let alone the realm of letters. It was an act of such kindness I still find myself moved whenever I remember it.

But it was typical of Beryl. Nearly a decade later, I had a weekly interview slot at a newspaper and was under pressure to find subjects famous enough for the section editor's satisfaction. So I rang Beryl. Now most novelists are only willing to be interviewed when they have a new book to publicise, and Beryl was very much between novels at the time. There was really nothing in it for her at all, and she'd also have to put up with a photographer asking her to pose all over her house for 40 minutes. "Well, Sholto," she said, "since we're friends..."

I would have been enormously proud to have called Beryl my friend (although I was immensely fond of her, the presumption implied meant I always hesitated to describe myself as such). I'm still more honoured that she should have chosen to use that word for me. If the coverage of her life carries the respect owed to a very considerable novelist, and the warmth due to a woman who long ago became a "national treasure", it is no less than she deserves -- and those of us lucky enough to have experienced the kindness of Beryl know that behind the puckish, Bohemian exterior that made her so loved, there was also a great heart.


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Sholto Byrnes is a Contributing Editor to the New Statesman
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It’s been 25 years since the Super Nintendo and Sega Mega Drive were released – what’s changed?

Gaming may be a lonelier pusuit now, but there have been positive changes you can console yourselves with too.

Let's not act as if neither of us knows anything about gaming, regardless of how old we are. Surely you'll remember the Super Nintendo console (SNES) and Sega's Mega Drive (or Genesis, if you're an American)? Well, it's now been 25 years since they were released. OK, fine, it's been 25 years since the SNES' debut in Japan, whereas the Mega Drive was released 25 years ago only in Europe, having arrived in Asia and North America a bit earlier, but you get the idea.

Sonic the Hedgehog by Sega

It's amazing to think a quarter of a century has passed since these digital delights were unveiled for purchase, and both corporate heavyweights were ready for battle. Sega jumped into the new era by bundling Sonic, their prized blue mascot and Nintendo retaliated by including a Mario title with their console.

Today's equivalent console battle involves (primarily) Sony and Microsoft, trying to entice customers with similar titles and features unique to either the PlayStation 4 (PS4) or Xbox One. However, Nintendo was trying to focus on younger gamers, or rather family-friendly audiences (and still does) thanks to the endless worlds provided by Super Mario World, while Sega marketed its device to older audiences with popular action titles such as Shinobi and Altered Beast.

Donkey Kong Country by Rare

But there was one thing the Mega Drive had going for it that made it my favourite console ever: speed. The original Sonic the Hedgehog was blazingly fast compared to anything I had ever seen before, and the sunny background music helped calm any nerves and the urge to speed through the game without care. The alternative offered by the SNES included better visuals. Just look at the 3D characters and scenery in Donkey Kong Country. No wonder it ended up becoming the second best-selling game for the console.

Street Fighter II by Capcom

The contest between Sega and Nintendo was rough, but Nintendo ultimately came out ahead thanks to significant titles released later, demonstrated no better than Capcom's classic fighting game Street Fighter II. Here was a game flooding arcade floors across the world, allowing friends to play together against each other.

The frantic sights and sounds of the 16-bit era of gaming completely changed many people's lives, including my own, and the industry as a whole. My siblings and I still fondly remember our parents buying different consoles (thankfully we were saved from owning a Dreamcast or Saturn). Whether it was the built-in version of Sonic on the Master System or the pain-in-the-ass difficult Black Belt, My Hero or Asterix titles, our eyes were glued to the screen more than the way Live & Kicking was able to manage every Saturday morning.

The Sims 4 by Maxis

Today's console games are hyper-realistic, either in serious ways such as the over-the-top fatalities in modern Mortal Kombat games or through comedy in having to monitor character urine levels in The Sims 4. This forgotten generation of 90s gaming provided enough visual cues to help players comprehend what was happening to allow a new world to be created in our minds, like a good graphic novel.

I'm not at all saying gaming has become better or worse, but it is different. While advantages have been gained over the years, such as the time I was asked if I was gay by a child during a Halo 3 battle online, there are very few chances to bond with someone over what's glaring from the same TV screen other than during "Netflix and chill".

Wipeout Pure by Sony

This is where the classics of previous eras win for emotional value over today's blockbuster games. Working with my brother to complete Streets of Rage, Two Crude Dudes or even the first Halo was a draining, adventurous journey, with all the ups and downs of a Hollywood epic. I was just as enthralled watching him navigate away from the baddies, pushing Mario to higher and higher platforms in Super Mario Land on the SNES just before breaking the fast.

It's no surprise YouTube's Let's Play culture is so popular. Solo experiences such as Ico and Wipeout Pure can be mind-bending journeys too, into environments that films could not even remotely compete with.

But here’s the thing: it was a big social occasion playing with friends in the same room. Now, even the latest Halo game assumes you no longer want physical contact with your chums, restricting you to playing the game with them without being in their company.

Halo: Combat Evolved by Bungie

This is odd, given I only ever played the original title, like many other, as part of an effective duo. Somehow these sorts of games have become simultaneously lonely and social. Unless one of you decides to carry out the logistical nightmare of hooking up a second TV and console next to the one already in your living room.

This is why handhelds such as the Gameboy and PSP were so popular, forcing you to move your backside to strengthen your friendship. That was the whole point of the end-of-year "games days" in primary school, after all.

Mario Kart 8 by Nintendo

The industry can learn one or two things by seeing what made certain titles successful. It's why the Wii U – despite its poor sales performance compared with the PS4 – is an excellent party console, allowing you to blame a friend for your pitfalls in the latest Donkey Kong game. Or you can taunt them no end in Mario Kart 8, the console's best-selling game, which is ironic given its crucial local multiplayer feature, making you suspect there would be fewer physical copies in the wild.

In the same way social media makes it seem like you have loads of friends until you try to recall the last time you saw them, gaming has undergone tremendous change through the advent of the internet. But the best games are always the ones you remember playing with someone by your side.