Jenny was born to Dorothy and Ernest Michael on 13 November 1931, in Southampton, where she lived with her parents until she was around 8 years old.  When the second world war began Jenny was evacuated to her grandparent’s house, in Weston-super-Mare.  After she moved there her father, sadly, died of a heart attack.


From Weston Jenny and her mother moved to Exeter.  Upon her father’s death her mother had received a condolence letter from Jenny’s headmistress who described Jenny as ‘very promising’.  In the letter she said she hoped Jenny would win a scholarship; and that’s Jenny did. To the prestigious Maynard’s school in Exeter, which is still/the leading independent school for girls in the South West. Her, wartime school days were eventful. Jenny used to recount stories of nights spent in air-raid shelters and how the bombing perpetually changed the city.


Despite suffering a bereavement at an early age and the disruption of being educated during the war, Jenny did well in her highers on to pass her Oxbridge entrance exam. Just as she was about to go off to Oxford Jenny developed pneumonia.  She had to postpone her education for a year but after the delay she went and studied Botany and Zoology. 


It was whilst she was studying at Oxford that she met Richard Cracknell. Richard’s family also lived in Exeter. During their early courtship, whilst both visiting their families, they decided to undertake a long walk from Exeter to Teignmouth. But Jenny did not own the correct footwear for such an endeavour. After the event she wrote ‘Borrowed Boots’, which has since been published.  Here it is:-




‘But these are the only shoes I have,’ I said. Shoes were important.Five years after the war ended, everything I possessed was important: one dress, one coat, one two-piece suit, one pair of slacks cut down from my aunt’s Land Army dungarees, some stockings, and a pair of tidy shoes.
Richard and I had come down from our respective colleges to our Exeter homes for the Easter vacation. We were at his parents’ house, planning our first major expedition -- our first whole day together. We were going to walk over the ridge of the Haldon Hills and down to the coast at Teignmouth, staying off roads where we could. But I had no boots, only these thin-soled shoes.
‘Hang on a moment, what size are you?’ asked his father, and disappeared. He came back with his army boots from the war before last. He was a smallish man, and they were my size.
He put them down in front of me. I looked at them, set side by side on the pastel carpet. Gleaming with ancient spit and polish, they had bent into comfortable shapes and then become gnarled leather sculptures after years in a cupboard. They had about them an air of containment, of secrets – much like their owner. It seemed as though they were still imbued with molecules of the Somme. After a moment I ventured to slide my feet into their dark mouths. If I wore thick socks, they would do.
We met next day with our knapsacks and thermoses, crossed the Exe valley and started to climb. It was a fine April day, /full of windy light. There had been rain overnight, which gave everything a washed brightness. Trees were hazy with fresh green, and primroses studded the high hedges. We walked deep-sunk lanes past cob-walled farms shouldered in among trees. Red Devons lowed as they were chivvied from a yard: ‘Come up Beauty, Daisy, Cherry’. At every farm, battered silvery churns stood by the gate.
Our path cut across meadows of wet glossy grass /and buttercups, which bucked in the wind. It ran along margins of barley fields where new pale green bayonets stabbed up through dull crimson earth. We tore our way past last year’s wiry brambles, and climbed high stiles, where I made sure to jump into his arms.
Near the top we looked back at Exeter. The pale cathedral stood out above the bombed city, which from a distance appeared undamaged. On the summit we celebrated with sandwiches and Camp coffee. Through the trees we looked south to the sea, a distant glimmer of hammered tin.
On the long tramp down, I was more and more comfortable in the boots, but Richard had begun to limp. We rested and talked to a farmer, who led a young horse. The horse danced uneasily beside him, its ears mobile with anxiety. The hedges around us were newlylaid, saplings /half severed and woven into horizontal wickerwork along the banks.
Late in the afternoon we arrived in Teignmouth, tired but triumphant, and in Richard’s case, lame. Joggling together on the back seat of the bus home, we measured our walk on the map: seventeen miles.
I looked down at the boots, which had gradually warmed and softened to clasp the ankles of a green girl. They had been washed by rainy grass and bombarded with soft yellow explosions of buttercup pollen. They had withstood barbed-wire brambles and their soles now carried a sticky cake of Devon soil, the colour of blood.
We arrived back aching, warm and happy, and stood on the carpet in our stockinged feet, grinning. My future father-in-law looked up from his evening paper.
‘Well,’ he said to his son, ‘can she walk?’






Jenny and Richard married. He was a scientist who loved the outdoors. The couple sailed on the Norfolk Broads, climbed in the Lake District and took trips on his motorbike. 


In 1956 their first daughter Helen was born; she was followed later the next year by Mark. Richard’s work as a chemist with Shell took the family to Holland. It was there in, 1959, that Linda was born. Tragically Richard became ill and was diagnosed with cancer. The family returned to England. In 1961 Richard died, leaving Jenny alone with 3 small children to bring up.


Jenny decided she needed to be near to supportive friends, so they moved to Camberley. As a mum she was lively and practical. One of Helen’s school friends said she loved visiting their house because it was ‘so interesting and bohemian’. Jenny could put up a shelf, was a good dressmaker and tailor and with her keen scientific mind she could also dissect a frog to educate her children!


Jenny was plucky. In 1967 she took the children to Wales and accidently climbed Snowdon, in the snow, with all three children! She hadn’t planned to take them all the way to summit and back but each time she attempted to turn around Mark started to cry, so they carried on until they reached the top. She had thought they would go back down on the train, but her plan was scuppered by the weather; it was too snowy for the train to run, so they all had to trudge down!


It seemed that Jenny knew how to make the most of life. Fen, a neighbour and friend from the early 60’s recalls seeing Jenny cartwheeling across the garden and remembers her as being ‘the sexiest lady I ever met, long hair, big smile, soft inclination’. 


In 1968 Jenny married Hugh Scanlan, an old friend of Richard’s, who was godfather to Linda.  Their family home was busy with six children coming and going between school and their other home. 


As a keen botanist Jenny enjoyed tending their large garden in Camberley which supplied the family with an abundance of fresh vegetables. The children were always outside, if the weather was good. 


Academic, practical and creative Jenny painted with oils and did some botanical illustrations.  Hugh was supportive and encouraged her to paint. Jenny was generous with her work and a number of her friends have commented how much they treasure the paintings which she gifted to them. 


Jenny could be quite the party girl.  She would save up her family allowance and splurge it on a party.  There was particular party when the children noticed some freshly squeezed orange juice, quite a treat in those days, and it had not been finished off.  They got up the following morning and helped themselves to it, what they hadn’t realised was, there was a good deal of vodka in that orange juice!


Hugh’s passion was aviation. On numerous occasion he encouraged Jenny to take the controls and fly a light aircraft and they took a splendid trip travelling throughout the USA meeting other aviators. There were also many family holidays in West Cornwall. The couple formed such an attachment to the place that when Hugh retired, in around 1989, they made the move to West Penwith.  The perfect place for an artist! Hugh would be off flying, from Lands End airport, whilst Jenny would write or paint. The Cornish climate also meant she was able to grow exotic plants. With her botanical knowledge her plants flourished. She became friendly with the head gardener at Morrab Gardens and supplied them when her plants as they out grew her garden. 


In 1993 Hugh died leaving Jenny a widow again. Jenny filled her life with her varied interest and hobbies.  


Her passion for literature and books led her to volunteer at Morrab Library in Penzance.  She was dedicated to the library, where she served as honorary librarian for many years. Fellow committee member Nick Round commented on her wisdom, serenity and unfailing politeness. 


In 2004 four members of Morrab Library discovered a ledger detailing Penzance Ladies Book Club.  The original book club was established in 1770 and existed until 1912.  Together with Jenni Pozzi, Jenny decided to revive the book club. In March 2004 Penzance Ladies Book Club was reborn and continues. It is no ordinary book club. Its terms of reference states ‘No man shall be admitted’.   Members have to be invited to join. Not only do the members read/ but they also write.   Jenny would regularly write a piece appropriate to the topic of the month and read it at the meeting.  


The group has had to adapt throughout the Coronavirus pandemic and currently meets remotely.  Although Jenny did not subscribe to the on-line world, she maintained her membership of Penzance Ladies Book Club, up until the end, by reading what was specified and sending comment to be read out on her behalf at their virtual meetings.


There is so much more that could be said about this accomplished lady who led such an interesting life. She has been described as modest. Perhaps she would not know the depth of love and respect she inspired in others.  Treasure that love and respect.