Dragonwriter (7 page)

So I say that Anne McCaffrey saved my life.

It's a debt I can't pay back. But it is a debt I will pay forward.

Thank you, Anne. I love you, I miss you. I'll hoist a jar in your honor tonight. (And a couple of glasses of water too.)

DAVID GERROLD is the Hugo and Nebula Award-winning author of
The Martian Child.
His other books include
When HARLIE Was One, The Man Who Folded Himself, Jumping Off the Planet,
and the War Against the Chtorr series. He also wrote that episode of that TV series and a bunch of other stuff.

I
t's the twinkling eyes and the hint of a devilish grin that let you know that there's a lot more to Bob Neilson than one might first guess. He loves a good argument as much as the next Irishman, will drink whenever there's something in front of him, and, like far too many of us, was once a smoker.

He's immensely practical but still willing to take a dare—which is exactly what he did many years ago when his wife, Stacey, suggested they should open a bead store. They did, and Yellow Brick Road is still thriving nearly three decades later.

In many respects, Bob is my mirror image—if I'd be born in Ireland instead of merely a late arrival. He loves science fiction, has been active in fandom, and was one of the founders of
Albedo One,
an award-winning science fiction magazine.

He was best man at my wedding, just as his wife was matron of honor at my sister's wedding.

I asked Bob to write for this tribute because he knew Anne McCaffrey both as a fan and as an Irishman, a rare combination. Of course, if I haven't made it clear already, Bob is a rare man!

IN 1972 MY
future wife, Stacey, entered Newpark Comprehensive School in South County Dublin where she met, and became friends with, Todd “McCaffrey” Johnson. Thus began a thirty-nine-year friendship that happily involved Anne McCaffrey and my family and me. Like everyone who knew Annie even slightly, Stacey's memories mostly revolve around the strength of character, friendliness, and generosity of a woman who had an immense impact on everyone she met.

The McCaffrey house, no matter which of the four over their years in Ireland, was always a safe haven, and Annie was always more than willing to take on the many waifs and strays—both animal and human—that found their way to her doorstep. Although Stacey couldn't be considered a stray, she found herself hanging out at Todd's house, where Annie provided endless coffee and toast for hungry teenagers. At the time, finances were tight in the McCaffrey household, but the hospitality was a tap that was never turned off.

There was a peculiar soundtrack to life in the McCaffrey household back then, as Stacey remembers it—the clatter of typewriter keys. She recollects one day when an excited Annie took delivery of a new typewriter—an IBM Selectric, the famous “golfball” model. Annie was always capable of taking enjoyment out of the simplest of things.

In 1981, I gate-crashed Stacey's twenty-first birthday party. Todd wasn't in Ireland at the time—he was in Germany serving with the US army—but it wasn't long until I was invited down to Dragonhold to meet her good friend Todd, who was back on leave. As a science fiction fan, I knew who Todd's mother (the Hugo and Nebula award-winning author) was and consequently was a little awed at visiting her house. The person I met was not Anne McCaffrey, famous writer, but Todd's mum, who offered coffee and other refreshments and turned a blind eye while we smoked grass, played endless games of yahtzee or liar's dice, and laughed like drains.

Over the following years, I spent quite a lot of time at the two Dragonholds. I still clearly remember driving along the hedge-lined lane to the first one; that was house number three—the first outside the immediate Dublin suburbs, the first one she owned, and, I guess, her definitive commitment to Ireland. Naturally I was filled with trepidation at the possibility of meeting a “world-famous author.” The house itself was a medium-sized bungalow, nothing special (if the context could be ignored), though it had stables out in the back. Now that was impressive—ordinary people simply didn't have stables behind the house. But then, while Annie may have been many things, ordinary was never one of them.

I soon became familiar with the family and the huge cast of characters that orbited clan McCaffrey, and I sometimes wonder if there is a single one of us that is without a personal story of Annie's generosity. I don't think I can recall ever hearing a single mention of that generosity from Annie's lips, always just a remark in passing from a third party, and always told as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Medical bills or simply living expenses covered for friends and even relatives of friends, people she hadn't even met in some cases. But it was never just money; it was the care and consideration for the comfort and happiness of others that made the real difference.

Also through Todd, in the early '80s Annie met a young fantasy author from Lisburn in Northern Ireland, Peter Smyth (who writes as Peter Morwood). Peter and his then-girlfriend visited Dragonhold, and Annie took a liking to Peter and kept a motherly eye on him. When he broke up with that girlfriend, Annie turned her hand to matchmaking—an ancient Irish tradition. We even have a matchmaking festival in Lisdoonvarna each year.

It happened that a science fiction writer of her acquaintance, one Diane Duane, had also been through a breakup, and Annie figured they would be a perfect match. And how right she was. Love blossomed at about the speed of light—maybe a little below it if you really want to be pedantic—and they were married within a year. More than twenty years later, they still seem like a pretty good match.

For all of the '80s and half of the '90s, I was something of a corporate suit, so occasionally Annie would call on me for an opinion on a business matter. Now I have to admit that if Annie had a sixth sense, it was no business sense. As a writer, it could be said, she didn't need business sense. But because she was a successful writer, there were always “opportunities” cropping up. Often, they were simply a means for her to help friends and family. One such venture was the Irish Farriery Centre. You see, Annie had a friend . . . which in McCaffrey-speak is how “once upon a time” stories usually begin. And because of this friend, Annie had acquired some property. And on that property stood a (semiderelict) building. And Annie had another friend who was a farrier. And that friend had an idea for a center in Ireland to teach farriery—a badly needed facility and close to Annie's heart through her love of horses. And the building on the property could be turned into a school for farriers. Not that there was anything school- or farriery-like about it. But Annie wanted it to be right and was prepared to get people to make it so.

A very Annie scenario that unfortunately found a very Irish ending. Who would ever have guessed that farriers had internal politics? Despite Annie's best intentions and efforts, Irish farriers to this day still have to “cross the water” to England to study and qualify.

Annie would also occasionally call on me as a writer—even though I was merely a wannabe who ran a small SF magazine. Yet again, it was related to her generosity—Annie simply could never say no to requests from friends or acquaintances. And successful writers make lots of acquaintances in the business. So Annie got regular requests from authors or their agents or publishers to give their latest novel a blurb—who wouldn't want Anne McCaffrey saying something nice about them on the back of their book?

The first time it happened, she asked me to read a book that she frankly “didn't get.” Most authors would have refused to blurb it or damned it with faint praise. But Annie was sure no one would ask her to blurb a bad book, and she really wanted to say something nice. And it was an award winner. I read it and “got it” and told her how much I liked it, and she took me at my word and was relieved to be able to say those nice things.

The time that really sticks in my mind involved a galley proof of a fantasy novel from an American publisher. She said nothing, simply asked me to read the first fifty-or-so pages as she had a particular question to ask. Thank goodness she only needed me to read fifty pages. Shortly before this I had seen the film
Roxanne,
starring Steve Martin, and knew that Annie had enjoyed it. So in reverence to the scene where Steve lambastes a guy in a bar for wasting the opportunity to make fun of his nose by displaying a complete lack of wit, I honored the movie with my own version featuring twenty different ways of saying how bad a book could be—there were singing elves marching through the forest for fuck's sake, and the lyrics of their songs were lovingly rendered in italic script. Annie countered with a page on which she had found, counted, and underlined more than sixty adjectives and adverbs.

Annie's problem was not that she could not tell a bad book, but that she was looking to see if there was anything of worth in there whatsoever so that she could write the blurb. In the end, I could only persuade her to politely decline the request, which she did with some reluctance.

Nothing was too much trouble for Annie, and at times when you would expect her to be focused on herself and her own needs, she always had time for others. I was reminded of this in conversation with (English SF writer) John Meaney shortly after Annie passed away. He mentioned to me how she had befriended and inspired him and how she had attempted to help his career by seating him beside Diana Tyler, her agent, at Todd's wedding as she felt it would be a good opportunity for him to hook a top-of-the-line agent. At the same wedding I was afforded the opportunity, through the good graces of the family, to interview one of the guests, Lois McMaster Bujold, for my magazine—not usually considered to be part of the best man's duties, but I didn't lose the ring or embarrass Todd in my speech, so I guess they were happy enough to give me that latitude.

At Gigi's wedding, Stacey was matron of honor, so I was alone at a distant table. But as I was a wannabe writer, guess where they seated me? Poor Diana Tyler must have thought it was a bad case of déjà vu as we discussed my novel at length. Annie and Todd (the apple didn't fall far from the tree) had been busy again ensuring that nobody missed out.