‘You’re at Ferndean, Miss Next,’ replied Mary soothingly, ‘one of Mr Rochester’s other properties. You will be weak; I’ll bring some broth.’
I grabbed her arm.
‘And Mr Rochester?’
She paused and smiled at me, patted my hand and said she would fetch the broth.
The Eyre Affair, Jasper Fforde
Those first days after New Year, as Epiphany approaches, have an air of strangeness about them. The world still glitters with tinsel and decorations, department stores still push their leftover stock – all around us, life hasn’t quite returned to normal. And yet, after the last slice of Christmas cake has been eaten, puzzles have been broken down and put back in their boxes, and the inevitability of returning to work lies around the corner, we are thrust into the cold reality of January. This side of Christmas, winter is cold and bleak.
Back home in my own kitchen, after a week or so in someone else’s, I crave warmth and comfort, but not the rich luxury of Christmas. And so, in an attempt to stave off an unwelcome winter cold, I make broth. I know its magic is mostly a placebo, but if it helps Little Women’s Beth (though not, obviously, in the long-run), or Sense and Sensibility’s Marianne, I like to believe that it can also help me. When Thursday Next, the Swindon-based literary detective in Jasper Fforde’s The Eyre Affair, is injured during her travels into the pages of Jane Eyre in order to rescue Jane from an evil mastermind – I know, stay with me here – she is fed broth to recover. It’s exactly what I’d hope for if I, too, found myself in the pages of a Victorian novel.
And so, as January begins again, I reshelve my favourite Christmas stories, and revisit Jane Eyre and the grouchy Mr Rochester – both in the original, and in Jasper Fforde’s love letter to it. Their world is bleak and grey, the food is unappetizing, and any sense of hope comes in small doses – but it is still there. Whether you love winter or spend it longing for spring, it’s worth remembering that the daffodils are just around the corner.