Ruth Henderson has moved back in with her parents – something she swore
she would never do, especially not at the age of thirty-three. But in
the face of the mountain of debt left by her late-partner and the fact
that her teenage daughter, Maggie, is expressing her grief through acts
of delinquency, there was really only one option. Returning to a house
Ruth swore never to set foot in again is bad enough. Add to this an
estranged father, whirlwind mother, and David – the boy next door who
broke her heart – and it is little wonder Ruth can barely make it out of
bed. But then, reunited with her old friend Lois, Ruth is persuaded to
go along to a monthly girls’ night. Here she meets a bunch of incredible
women and for the first time since leaving home at eighteen, Ruth
begins to make some genuine friends. She also has her first ever date –
with the charming Dr Carl Barker. However, after a disastrous dinner,
and a fraught Maggie still struggling with her father’s death, Ruth
promises her daughter she won’t go out with any other men. A promise she
quickly regrets when David, the boy next door, asks her to dance…
As part of the official 'I Hope You Dance' blog tour I asked Beth to touch upon the inspiration behind the Mother-Daughter relationship in her novel.
“The mum's not me.” My mum told me, after reading I Hope You Dance for the first time. A
valid comment, given that the story is set in my home town, on a street
uncannily similar to the one my mother still lives on, and it contains some
themes our family knows all too well.
No, Harriet is not my mum. But perhaps the reason Harriet is
such a rampant baker, is because for me, baking and cooking are so wrapped up
in what a mother is. When I picture my mum when I was growing up, it is mostly
in the kitchen. And I'm quite sure that in years to come my own children will
say the same thing about me.
Mum didn't spend actually spend that much time in the
kitchen. She worked as a teacher. She loved walking, gardening and reading (she
still does). But it was in the kitchen that I felt most like her daughter.
There, in my little apron, often standing on a kitchen chair
to reach the worktop, she taught me how to bake, and cook. She passed down the
cake recipe from her own mother, so that, like her, I have it memorised. Showed
me how to adjust the flavour by adding cocoa, or coffee, coconut or lemon
juice, so that by the time I reached secondary school I could make a whole
range of different cakes without a recipe. We cut out scones, brushing with
milk to turn them golden. Rubbed flour and butter into crumble, rolled out
pastry. Weighed, dusted, stirred, chopped, tasted.
I listened, and learned, and made countless mistakes and a
whole lot of mess, but it felt as though in those times together, she handed
down the wisdom from generations of women. This seemed important. An essential
ingredient in our family recipe.
After leaving home, I initially baked much less. As a
student, I did save a fortune by cooking huge batches of horribly dry Cornish
pasties that kept me going for days (partly because I could only swallow a few
mouthfuls at a time). But the autumn after I graduated, when unexpectedly
pregnant, I felt too sick and tired to manage anything much more than a packet
of noodles.
At twenty-one, I felt clueless about how to be an adult, let
alone a mother, but I knew that whatever type of mum I turned out to be, I
would teach my child how to produce the kind of food that comforts and
nurtures, that cheers our souls. That essence of home, carrying the smells that
linger in our memories. I would pass on
love with every lick of the bowl, like my mother did to me. My child and I
would share the joy of creating something wonderful and heart-warming together.
The secrets to rosy cheeks and bright eyes.
I imagined long, lazy Mediterranean style lunches,
Christmases baking gingerbread cookies, coming home from the park to toast
crumpets in autumn, or churn home-made ice-cream in July…
The truth, initially, was far from the soft-touch montage I
dreamt of. The reality of working long days to pay off student loans then
picking up my daughter and taking the bus home from nursery. The hour long walk
to the supermarket with a baby in the dark. I cried on her first birthday when,
too busy working to bake, I`d had to buy a cheap factory sponge cake. As if she
even knew, let alone cared.
But we got there. And for many years I taught my daughter
the wisdom of my mother's kitchen. By secondary school, she too could whip up a
cake without a recipe – although she prefers brownies. When she's not feeling
great, I hear her chopping in the kitchen, making soup. And she now teaches her
little cousins, helping them balance on a kitchen chair while they stir the
batter, letting them know when they can lick the bowl.
I have made mistakes as a mother, often muddled through
without a clue as to whether I'm doing the right thing. But in this, my one,
small ambition when I started the adventure of parenthood, I am triumphant. And
I hope that as my daughter soon moves out into the world, to her own kitchen, that
when she thinks of home, she will picture the hours we spent, shoulder to
shoulder, as I passed down the gift from the generations of women before me. In
every recipe, that essential ingredient: her mother's love.
About the author:
After studying Biochemistry at university, Beth initially worked in cancer research, and then spent ten years teaching antenatal classes, before giving it up to follow her dream of becoming a writer. She is a passionate communicator, regularly featuring on BBC Radio Nottingham, and is part of the national leadership team of the women`s network Free Range Chicks, which gives her ample opportunity to organise events that include two of her favourite things – food and dancing. She lives in Nottinghamshire (where she grew up) with her husband and three children. She blogs on her website at www.bethmoran.org
You can catch up with the rest of the blog tour here:
I Hope You Dance is available to buy now from Amazon online and Lion Hudson.
You can read my review here.
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