I don’t remember how old I was when I read Harriet the Spy. It’s an unusual read. In a children’s book, a female character gets to be a spy for a change. She is spiky, not always likeable – and she notes down everything in her notebook.
I’m sure there are various lessons in Harriet the Spy – possibly, being careful where to keep your notebooks is one. Is it an early written acceptance of a certain level of obsessive behaviour? Is it an encouragement to find the small details of life interesting?
I suspect it is all these and more. I do remember picking up on the fact that Harriet is rather a loner. I also remember the outcome – though I won’t give it away here.
But the main thing I remember is that Harriet ate the same sandwiches for lunch, day after day. (Obviously not exactly the same reconstituting sandwich, but you get the picture.) Tomato, as I recall.
I don’t know quite why this stood out for me – except perhaps that I had a favourite sandwich that I liked to have, day after day. (Cheese and cucumber, if you really want to know.)
Harriet didn’t want anything different. Neither did I – although I did eat it if it appeared in my packed lunch box.
Now I am on the other side of things, I don’t know quite how my mother felt about making the same lunch for me, day after day. But there again, I know that her grandfather latterly ate the same thing for lunch every day, so maybe she was used to it. (Lots of Stilton, and a pint of custard, in his case. Not quite sure what that was doing to his insides.)
Books give us permission in lots of different ways. Often, what we look for is permission to be bold: to be daring, to be brave. There are so many books out there about being heroic, one way or another, and they can help us, particularly when we are young and there is a lot to be brave about.
But there is also a place for other sorts of permission. Permission to be grumpy. Permission to be cross, and have tantrums, as Max does in Where the Wild Things Are. As well the promise of reconciliation and forgiveness: that when we come back after our tantrum, we find our dinner (still hot) has been kept for us, despite our behaviour.
So I think there is a place for permitting preferences, strong likes, things that may make us stand out – but still, things that also comfort us, and (importantly) that bring pleasure time after time.
I have moved on from cheese and cucumber sandwiches. I allow for more variety now. But should I feel the need to have a small unswerving devotion to them again, I will look to Harriet’s example, and know that it’s OK.