About Emma Fischel

As the middle of five, I was under the radar, and happy there. Benign neglect meant a childhood full of freedom – in a rambling old house, with soaring green views. Views of woods, and hills, and the village. A chocolate-box village, with a hump-backed bridge, a river made for paddling, and a sweetshop. Shelves groaning with glass jars, raided every Saturday morning, 9am prompt.

 

Besides sister 2, there were other pets. Dogs and cats, hamsters and mice, stick insects and silkworms. I had a favourite cat, Kitty (the name – blame the brothers). Kitty never let me down. I told her all my secrets, and she kept them. At bedtime she cosied herself in among my nest of soft toys. I squeezed myself into what little space was left – always, ALWAYS with a book to read. Because bedtime was reading time. Book after book after book, read huddled under the covers. 

 

Is THIS the moment I reveal all the books I wrote as child? Books stapled together, scrawled writing on narrow-lined paper? Books with interesting titles and fabulous plotlines? Sadly, there ARE none. I was outdoorsy – too busy climbing trees and splashing through puddles to write books. But, while not a writer, I was an inventor…

 

I was an inventor of SHOPS – a natural shopkeeper. I ran a delicatessen, selling the finest mud pies in the county, pies of many shapes and sizes, all priced up and named. I ran a conker shop. At the back, a complex machine, made from bits of hosepipes, old drainpipes, and boxes, all propped up on sticks. Conkers were rolled through, to be sorted by size – small, medium and large – then packed up in egg boxes, ready for sale in the shop front. My mother and sister 1 were MOST reliable customers. And my brothers? Less so…

 

I was an inventor of EXPEDITIONS – to space, to deserts, to jungles. And to the North Pole, on the hottest day of summer, sister 2 my faithful companion. Both dragging an old wooden sledge across the garden. Sweltering in Arctic explorer kit, backpacks so heavy with provisions each step was a struggle. Then, tucked away in the trees – building a snow shelter. Blankets, more blankets; boxes, more boxes.

And there, sweltering more, I did write… Our final diary entry from the Arctic, a tragic farewell to our loved ones back home.

Home… A house full of things Scandinavian, the presence of my Norwegian grandmother everywhere. In plates and cups decorated Scandinavian-style, in small wooden ornaments and twinkling glass stars that hung off the Christmas tree. And in the BOOKS. Scandinavian tales – of mysterious waterfalls, of mountains thick with snow, of tiny forest children sheltering from rain beneath toadstools. And of trolls, lurking under bridges, and in deep dark caves. Books I poured over again and again. With illustrations I could stare at for hours. Books so full of magic I could almost reach out and TOUCH it…

But what of the DRESS, I hear you say? Your first true love?

Ah, yes… It arrived, a gift from a Norwegian relative, in a brown-paper package. Inside – the Dress, a pale blue check. It was instant TRUE LOVE, and a shock. I had never much cared for dresses. My mother said I should keep it for best – but I begged, I pleaded. We hardly ever wore BEST, I said. We were not BEST sort of children. If I waited for BEST to wear it, I might grow too tall. My mother, in the end, agreed. So all summer long I ran shops, climbed trees, and went on expeditions in the Dress. And that day – the day of the Dress, that my mother said I should keep for best – I learnt something. About the twin powers of persistence, and of persuasive argument. Which, in the end, is what writing is ALL ABOUT.

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