Shirley Hughes

I didn’t want to let World Book Day go past without paying tribute to the astonishingly brilliant Shirley Hughes who died last week at the age of 94.

It is to my regret that I never met Shirley. I did glimpse her once across the room of a publishing function but I was too starstruck and shy to say hello. If I had, I’d have blushed and gushed horribly, and told her that she was an absolute hero of mine and that I loved her - so it’s probably best that it never happened.

But it's no exaggeration to say that her work has been a constant companion in my life and forms part of my identity, I think. I remember very clearly adoring the Lucy and Tom books as a child - identifying with their quiet, domestic storylines and poring over her carefully observed illustrations, which somehow managed to be exquisitely drafted, but vigorous and smudgy at the same time. I loved them because they reflected and celebrated my world of messy terraced houses, with their orange squash and digestive biscuits, start-rite shoes and armbands, and family life - they were incredibly beautiful, but unapologetically ordinary.

Her illustrations had the extraordinary ability of being able to accompany any story or text, from picture books, to non-fiction, to longer-form fiction, and appeal to any age of child reader, so they travelled with me as I grew. I’m guessing that this is because her work was always rooted in observational drawing and so always rang true.

It was second nature for me to return to Shirley’s books when I became a mum myself. I discovered the Alfie books and of course Dogger, which had come too late for me as a child, and we also bought a big (signed – the joy!) anthology of her work. There I found that as well as stories, she had written rather good poems, a wordless graphic story and longer stories too - always accompanied by those wonderful images. She was, truly, multi-talented.

She must have been both extraordinarily driven, and fast, as well as accomplished. I fear that the reason there are so many great male children’s author–illustrators (Blake, Suess, Scarry, Sendak) is that the women who might have sat and observed and written about their children, were probably too busy looking after them to do so. Shirley clearly lived the life she was drawing, and still found time to record it. I will always be grateful to her for that.