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Stories for Winter: new British Library Women Writers collection!

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A quick post to say there is a new collection of stories out from the British Library Women Writers series, and it’s perfect for Secret Santa, stockings, or any festive gift: Stories for Winter and Nights by the Fire.

A lot of people enjoyed the Christmas collection last year – I think this is even better. The standard is really high, with well-known authors like Katherine Mansfield, Shirley Jackson, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Elizabeth Taylor, and Angela Carter represented – along with new discoveries.

Not many of the stories were suggested by me, so I can’t take credit for what a good selection it is. But it means I can unabashedly advocate that you buy this and enjoy a night by the fire with it!

A whole bunch of audiobooks I’ve listened to recently

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As per, I’ve been listening to an awful lot of audiobooks recently – some very good, some enjoyable trash, some in between. Here’s a quick overview of some of them (…minus the trash, which nobody needs to know more about):

The First Stone (1995) by Helen Garner
After loving This House of Grief, I downloaded an earlier non-fiction by Garner – a response to two college students going to the police after being allegedly groped by the college dean. Garner poses some interesting questions about gradations of assault, and writes excellently as ever, but it is very galling to read a book by a noted feminist where Garner seems nonplussed about why a woman would complain about being groped. She recognises it’s annoying – but not in the same league as rape, and that her generation always just put up with it. I suppose it’s a good sign that, 30 years since this was published, things have moved on sufficiently that no feminist would wonder-out-loud why a woman doesn’t just cope with being assaulted.

Toxic (2023) by Sarah Ditum
Great segue into this excellent collection of essays about what Ditum calls ‘the upskirt decade’ – the 2000s, where the paparazzi were even worse than normal, and famous young women were treated as sexual consumption for everyone. There are chapters on Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Janet Jackson, Kim Kardashian and more. Sometimes the links she tries to make with contemporary political issues are a bit flimsy, but in general it’s an exceptionally good look at a recent period where media ethics (and common consensus) were so misogynistic. The afterword, sadly, shows how misogyny has largely just found a new guise…

Ride the Pink Horse (1946) by Dorothy B. Hughes
People adore Hughes’s The Expendable Man, but now – having read that and Ride the Pink Horse – I think her brand of hard-boiled Americana isn’t quite for me. In this novel, Sailor comes to town during fiesta trying to exhort money from a man whose wife he was ordered to kill. Along the way, he gets to know various desperate locals. It reminded me of a less miserable Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock – but I still didn’t find much momentum beyond the atmosphere.

You Are Not Alone (2023) by Cariad Lloyd
I love Cariad Lloyd’s podcast Griefcast, interviewing people (usually comedians) about the people they love who’ve died, and how they cope with the grief. This book is closely related – drawing on Lloyd’s grief about her father dying from cancer when she was a teenager. Unsurprisingly, she writes excellently and wisely about grief, and I think this book would be helpful to a griever – perhaps particularly someone who doesn’t know why they haven’t ‘got over it’. Audiobook includes snippets from a fair few podcast episodes.

What’s That Lady Doing? (2023) by Lou Sanders
Lou Sanders is one of those comedians who makes every single sentence funny, and I really enjoyed her memoir. She clearly went through quite a lot as a teenager, and tells stories that balance humour and pathos. I’d have liked even more about her career, but perhaps there is a second book coming.

Broken Horses (2021) by Brandi Carlile
Brandi Carlile is a singer I deeply love, and her audiobook was a real journey. She doesn’t always come across as the easiest person to know, but she’s certainly transparent. The way she delves into songwriting is fascinating and the audiobook includes new versions of many songs at the end of chapters – a perfect reason to choose the audiobook.

Tales from the Café (2017) by Toshikazu Kawaguchi
I’d heard a lot about this book about a café where you can be transported back in time. What I didn’t realise until I was quite a long way through this audiobook was that (a) it’s an episodic selection of four separate stories, and (b) this is a sequel, not the original. Oops! I enjoyed it, though there is so much world-building and so many rules that the actual emotional moments get a bit lost.

Middle England (2018) by Jonathan Coe
Read for my book club – I really enjoyed my first Coe, often called his Brexit novel (though Brexit takes a long time to appear). There is a broad cast of characters doing ordinary and not-so-ordinary things – ranging from the amusing (an arrogant author on a cruise) to the moving (a man losing his faculties doesn’t understand where his factory workplace has gone). I found a woman dealing with accusations of workplace bigotry particularly interesting and even-handed, and at its best I was really engaged. But it’s also (oops again) the third of a trilogy, and I haven’t read the others – so some of the characters meant very little to me, as they get bit parts that seem to rely on previous time spent with them. Coe is also not subtle in his anti-Brexit stance. (I share his political views, but would like a novelist to be a bit less polemical.)

Cobalt Blue by Sachin Kundalkar

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I wanted to write about Cobalt Blue by Sachin Kundalkar (translated by Jerry Pinto) before the end of Novellas in November – hosted by Rebecca and Cathy. It’s only as I sit down to review it that I discover my edition is 228 pages, and thus rather over the suggested novella page limit – but it has big margins and a massive font, and I did some quick sums that suggest it’s under 50,000 words. So… maybe I can count it? I can easily see Cobalt Blue being printed as a 150pp book in a more usual font size.

Enough justification – let’s chat about Cobalt Blue (2006). I came across it because I watched the 2022 film – directed by the multi-talented author. Curiously, the film was in Hindi but the book was written in Marathi. I love watching Indian cinema, and really appreciated Cobalt Blue, which is shot beautifully and sensuously, with a gentle, philosophical feel to it. I was interested to see how the book would compare.

The gist of the plot is that the Joshi family rent out one of their buildings to a mysterious visitor. He is friendly, artistic, ready to be welcomed – and calmly secretive about every detail of his past. I think I’m right in saying that we don’t even learn his name. But we do learn early on that both the son and daughter of the house fall in love with him.

The first half of the book is from the perspective of the son, Tanay – addressed to ‘you’, the visitor.. He’s in his early 20s, and his sexuality seems to be both unspoken and unquestioned. He is not tormented by it, but nor is he open with his parents – instead, it seems like he has entered into an almost dreamlike romance with the anonymous paying guest. Though we know from the opening line that the guest leaves Tanay, Kundalkar still suffuses this half of the novella with a feeling of fairy tale. It is not the reflections of someone embittered. It’s a reverie on a lost relationship. Tanay has a beautiful innocence, observing the world around him and himself with a curiosity that feels poetic, if a little detached.

It’s recently come to my attention that when I’m listening to someone, I cock my head. On the phone I hold the receiver between my head and my shoulder as Anuja does, playing a rhythm on the table in front of me. When I watch a film, I run my fist over my face, as Shrikrishna used to. When I shave, I bring my face close to the mirror, as Baba does. When the milk boils over, I walk to the gas range calmly, turn it off and wipe the counter down, without a word— as Aai does.

How did I acquire those habits? Perhaps that’s what happens during the forging of a relationship: if nothing else, you adopt some of the other person’s habits. It makes you feel those small adaptations, those adoptions, make him one of you.

Have you picked up some habits from me? Do you draw circles with a finger on your thali when you’ve finished eating? Do you, every once in a while, squeeze shaving cream on to your toothbrush? Do you sleep with a knee drawn up to you, the bedclothes kicked away? Do you fold the newspaper neatly and put it where you found it, when you’re done?

Yesterday, when a cobalt blue smudge of the wall ended up on my hand, I wiped it on my trousers without thinking.

Anuja, his sister, is less passive and less contented. In the second half of the novella, we see things from her side – how she and the guest leave the home together. This is scandalous in her society, of course, and is the act of someone determined and reckless. She writes in the first person, and the guest feels more like a catalyst than an end point. Kundalkar’s writing is still lovely, but if the first half is a dream then the second half is more firmly wedded to reality.

Throughout it all, we only get hazy impressions of the guest. He reveals things in the family, but keeps himself hard to pin down. There is no big reveal where we learn his motivations – why he romanced both siblings, or which one he might prefer. Cobalt Blue isn’t about him: it’s about innocence and experience, family and loyalty, hope and the reverse.

Having seen the film first, I did have it in mind – and the film is much more linear, perhaps unsurprisingly. The novella is more abstract and jumps around a lot. I really enjoyed the experience of reading it – and I’ll give the final word to the very able translator, Jerry Pinto, who writes a short afterword:

As readers we expect narratives to fall into seemly timelines. But neither Tanay nor Anuja respect the sequential. Smitten, broken, rebuilt, they tell their stories as memories spill over, as thoughts surface. They move from the present to the past and back to the present without so much as an asterisk to help you adjust. Tanay says things again and again, as if he wants to reassure himself, as if repetition will fix what has happened in his memory. Once you get used to this, you realise that this is how we grieve, how we remember, in the present tense and in the past, all at once, because the imagined future must now be abandoned.

The books I got for my birthday

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It was a couple of weeks ago, but I thought I’d share the books I got for my birthday – some from my wishlist, and others surprises. I might be missing some, but these are the ones in a pile… (not pictured: a great recipe book from some colleagues, following recipes through time)

Consolations of the Forest by Sylvain Tesson
From my friend Clare – this was on my wishlist, though I don’t remember why I added it. It’s non-fiction about Tesson spending six months alone in Siberia. I have a feeling I googled ‘books like…’ – but what could it have been like? May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude, perhaps? I suspect it’s not especially Sartonesque, but it does look great.

Death and Mary Dazill by Mary Fitt
Another from Clare, and I probably put this on my wishlist from the title alone. This 1941 novella looks like it’s a murder mystery of sorts, with various other ingredients that make it exactly my cup of tea.

The Bloater by Rosemary Tonks
From my friend Malie, and no mystery why this is on my wishlist – the Backlisted crew and their enthusiasm for it made it a must.

The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman
As one of the few readers who hasn’t read this, I’m glad my friend Mel got me a copy.

The Forward Book of Poetry 2024
Mel is rightfully sceptical of me reading the books that people buy me, so thought (wisely) that a collection of poetry might get to the top of my tbr more easily. I’m not very familiar with poetry from any era, but it’ll be fun to read some new verse and see what’s going on in contemporary poetry.

The Collected Works of Jo Ann Beard
Colin got me this, from my wishlist – someone wrote something glowing on a blog or social media, and I’m sorry that I can’t remember who. I thought Beard was an essayist, but maybe she’s an essayist and a short story writer and something in between? Col admitted to knowing nothing at all about her, but I will soon…

Reach For The Stars by Michael Cragg
From my parents: I’ve started this one and I was SO excited about getting it. I don’t expect all that many blog readers to get giddy about a book subtitled ‘1996-2006: Fame Fallout and Pop’s Final Party’ but this is very much my jam. I always complain about music being considered in decades, because my musical taste was formed from the mid-90s to the mid-00s. This book couldn’t fit me more perfectly.

Twinkind by William Viney
And finally, one from my friend Lorna – which would have been on my wishlist if I’d known it existed. Subtitled ‘the singular significance of twins’, it’s a beautifully designed book with essays and pictures looking through the cultural and historical notability of twins. Made for me!

What a lovely selection – any you’ve read?

Vera by Elizabeth von Arnim

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Vera

For years I’d heard three things about Vera (1921) – that it was Elizabeth von Arnim’s darkest novel, that it was autobiographical, and that it was possibly the inspiration for Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. For some reason that made me think that it might be a bit of an outlier in von Arnim’s output – but Vera is very clearly from the same pen of Father, The Caravaners and many of von Arnim’s other novels that feature a terrible man to a greater or lesser extent.

As it opens, Lucy is mourning her father. Or, rather, she is feeling numb in the first shock of his death – it has only been three hours. She cannot quite believe that it has happened, or imagine a world without him. Lucy has cared for him for years – not just this final illness, but a lifetime of delicacy. ‘She had had no thought since she grew up for anybody but her father. There was no room for any other thought, so completely did he fill her heart.’ We never truly get to know her father objectively – only through the deeply affectionate memories of his devoted daughter. And she is barely grown up herself, just a few years into adulthood.

It is in the midst of this grief that she meets Everard Wemyss. He, too, is in mourning – officially, at least. His wife has recently fallen to her death from their home, The Willows – and she, like du Maurier’s Rebecca, gives her name to the title. She has only been dead a fortnight.

Lucy sees someone who can be a companion in grief. Perhaps they can support each other as they face life without somebody they held so dear? But it quickly becomes clear that Everard has something else in mind. He has fallen for naïve, gentle Lucy and is determined to make her his wife. Lucy receives a charm offensive – he is lovable, loving, entirely confident that it is not too soon after Vera’s death – quashing her doubts on the subject. Von Arnim is very clever in the way she presents Everard. We get enough hints of his character to see that Lucy should probably run a thousand miles away – but also enough of his ability to charm that we can understand how Lucy, rocked by her loss, assents to his proposal of marriage.

It irked him that their engagement — Lucy demurred at first to the word engagement, but Wemyss, holding her tight in his arms, said he would very much like to know, then, by what word she would describe her position at that moment – it irked him that it had to be a secret. He wanted instantly to shout out to the whole world his glory and his pride. But this under the tragic circumstances of their mourning was even to Wemyss clearly impossible. Generally he brushed aside the word impossible if it tried to come between him and the smallest of his wishes, but that inquest was still too vividly in his mind, and the faces of his so-called friends. What the faces of his so-called friends would look like if he, before Vera had been dead a fortnight, should approach them with the news of his engagement even Wemyss, a person not greatly imaginative, could picture.

Everard gets his way – we are learning that he will always get his way – and they are not only engaged but married at incredible haste. This does take most of the first half of the novel, but it covers a very short time – and as soon as the marriage is complete, the veil starts to be lifted from Lucy’s eyes. Here they are, on honeymoon:

Marriage, Lucy found, was different from what she had supposed; Everard was different; everything was different. For one thing she was always sleepy. For another she was never alone. She hadn’t realised how completely she would never be alone, or, if alone, not sure for one minute to the other of going on being alone. Always in her life there had been intervals during which she recuperated in solitude from any strain; now there were none. Always there had been places she could go to and rest in quietly, safe from interruption; now there were none. 

Everard thinks only of his own happiness, and at the moment his happiness revolves around being with his lovely young wife. We don’t see much behind the bedroom door, as it were – being 1921, this is unlikely to be a big topic – but he monopolises her throughout every waking hour. Perhaps this is something that honeymooning couples would usually be very pleased about. But Lucy has previously seen Everard in courtship mode, and that was forceful but charming. Married Everard is forceful without the charm.

Von Arnim is very good at infantilising her ogres. From what I’d heard about Vera, I’d imagined that the husband would be brutal, perhaps violent. But he is like many of her terrible man: monstrously selfish. So many of her male figures are like toddlers, but toddlers with the power to live out their self-centredness, sulkiness, demand for attention. Everard is particularly childlike in his determination that his birthday be a hallowed day. He cannot believe that anybody would cross him or refuse him anything on his birthday, even if some of the ‘refused’ things are things he hasn’t mentioned.

And they go back to The Willows. Lucy doesn’t want to live there. If she has to live there, she doesn’t want Vera’s old sitting room. If she has to have Vera’s old sitting room, she wants it redecorated. None of these things happen. Everard dismisses all her concerns and anxieties. He twists them to be antagonistic to him. Her wishes and feelings clearly mean nothing to him – and von Arnim is brilliant (as ever) at the man who sounds logical even while he is being appalling. Like Father in Father, Otto in The Caravaners, Jocelyn in Introduction to Sally and probably others I’ve forgotten, Everard manipulates what other people say – retaining his cold sense of being hard done by, pouncing on any weakness so that he can seem calmly affronted. He does it with Lucy; he does it with the servants (who have long learned to put up with it, because he is in London most of the week); he does it with Lucy’s aunt Miss Entwhistle who is clear-eyed about what a disastrous marriage this is.

Oh, Everard is brilliantly infuriating to read! And Lucy has gone into the lion’s den without any defences. She is intimidated by the lingering presence of Vera in her possessions and her portrait – but the reader quickly realises that Vera is a fellow-victim of this monster. It’s an interesting choice for von Arnim to make Vera the title. I’m not quite sure she earns it. The reader feels sympathy for Vera from the outset, so despite Lucy’s fear around her, she doesn’t have the sort of narrative presence or power that du Maurier’s Rebecca does. If she did steal that idea, she does it better.

I was surprised by what a short time period it covers, particularly the time at The Willows – which is only a week, most of which Everard isn’t there. We only see Everard and Lucy at home together for a couple of days, which means von Arnim has to escalate the horror of marriage to him quite quickly. His brattiness, his selfishness, his cruelty – he locks Lucy out in the rain for petty reasons, then gets angry with her for being wet. I think it is meant to be all the more horrifying as a snapshot of what Lucy will have to endure for much longer, but I do wonder if it is sped up a little too much. This sort of horror might have worked even better as a gradual dawning.

But this is a quibble for a very good book. If someone came to this after only having read the charm of The Enchanted April, it must feel like a huge gearshift. But if you’ve read more widely in von Arnim’s oeuvre, this is very much in her wheelhouse. It’s bleak, though with trademark ironically funny moments and the amusingly detached narrator. Above all, it’s a brilliant character study.

Unnecessary Rankings! R.C. Sherriff

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It was my birthday yesterday and I’ll my bookish gifts at some point (it will surprise nobody to know I got a few), but for today let’s do some more Unnecessary Ranking! This time I’ve picked R.C. Sherriff – famous initially for Journey’s End (which I haven’t read or seen) but brought back more broadly by reprints from Persephone Books. He isn’t the most prolific writer, and I haven’t read all of his novels, so it’s not the longest list.

As ever, I’d love to know your own rankings…

6. Chedworth (1944)

The only book of his that I wouldn’t consider a success. Wing Commander Derek Chedworth marries a vaudeville dancer and she comes to live at his ancestral home – a promising premise that never really comes off. Sherriff is usually so brilliant at character, setting, and pace – so I don’t know why Chedworth fell flat.

5. The Hopkin’s Manuscript (1939)

All his other books (that I’ve read) are brilliant, so don’t read this low ranking as a negative. It’s a very domestic spin on an apocalypse, and the only reason I prefer other Sherriff novels is that this has a science fiction starting point that isn’t necessarily my most-loved genre.

4. The Fortnight in September (1931)

When I first read this, I wouldn’t have believed there’d be three Sherriff books I’d like even more – because it is sheer perfection, on its own terms. A family plan for, and then take, their annual holiday to the seaside. The family are growing up, and their usual lodgings are growing old. An astonishingly good book about nothing and everything.

3. The Wells of St. Mary’s (1962)

If The Hopkins Manuscript isn’t my favourite genre, then The Wells of St. Mary’s is – the domestic novel that incorporates the fantastic. Or does it? When some abandoned wells start curing people’s illnesses, it becomes a huge tourist attractions. The reader is left trying to work out how much is magical…

2. No Leading Lady (1968)

R.C. Sherriff’s autobiography is that rare example of an author really telling you about their craft, in delightful detail. Half the book is about the genesis, writing, production, success, and aftermath of his break-out play Journey’s End. He glosses over his private life, and even some of his work, but I’ve read very few autobiographies that I enjoyed anywhere near as much.

1. Greengates (1936)

The most similar to The Fortnight in September, in terms of being a narrow lens on a very domestic set up. When Mr Baldwin retires, he and his wife decide to move to a new housing estate – and this gentle novel is simply about that process. In almost any author’s hands it would be nothing – in Sherriff’s, it is a masterpiece.

I’d love to hear your Sherriff rankings, or which of his books you’d like to try next!

Nocturne by Helen Humphreys

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Nocturne: on The Life And Death Of My Brother : Humphreys, Helen: Amazon.co.uk: Books

One of the authors I’d been advised to look out for in Canada was Helen Humphreys. I did find a few of her novels, but they were almost all set in England, and I’d much rather read a Canadian writer writing about Canada. So I decided to buy some of her non-fiction instead – Nocturne (2013) from ABC Book Store in Toronto, which looked a little unpromising from the outside but had an amazing stock inside. The book itself is beautiful – a lovely covered, and deckled edges. It is just under 200 pages, and something rather special.

The subtitle tells you what the book is going to be about – ‘on the life and death of my brother’. I’m not going to write a very long review, but I do want to communicated what a wonderfully written book Nocturne is – both as a tribute to a brother and best friend, and as an examination of love and loss that perfectly combines the poetic and the grounded.

Fairly late in the book, Humphreys shares the short obituary she wrote for her brother, Martin – saying she never chose words more carefully. And it is evident from the writing in Nocturne that choosing words carefully is at the core of her being. I’m quoting the obituary first because it really tells you who Martin was, and what happened to him:

Brilliant, talented, passionate and compassionate, kind, handsome, disciplined, elusive, and stubborn, Martin loved music, art, new places and experiences, his friends, the West Coast, connecting with life in all its forms, having a beer, and watching the Maple Leafs (even this season). He hated cruelty, intolerance, stupidity, and Toronto winters.

He died too soon, from pancreatic cancer, and is deeply missed by his parents, Frances and Anthony; his sisters, Helen and Cathy; his many friends in Vancouver, Toronto, England, and Paris. We are lost without his beautiful spirit.

Through Nocturne, Humphreys moves between present and various pasts. She tells us about Martin’s life and his illness – the talent he had for music from an early age, and his triumphs and limits as a composer. His friendships, and his movements around the world, and his flawed relationships. And then his diagnosis and the cruelties of cancer. And, winding through it all, the grief and shock of losing your brother and closest ally. I think what I found most moving in Nocturne is the portrait of how you can know someone deeply and still not know everything about them. How you can live in different parts of the world and be deeply close, and be in the same room and not know how to communicate. But what comes across most is the great depths of love Humphreys has for her brother. Not enough fiction and non-fiction talks about this bond between siblings, and Humphreys honours it so beautifully.

And, my goodness, this woman can write. I’m keener than ever to read her fiction, particularly the one or two that are set in Canada. I noted this down on p.8, but there are so many examples of the same exceptional, reflective writing:

I come to the cemetery in a kind of ad hoc fashion. Sometimes I pick up a coffee and drink it out there, standing with my back to your gravestone. I like how the sun warms the stone and how the stone keeps the heat a little way into the evening, keeps it longer than the air. It’s strange, but when you died and the heat started leaking from your body, it left you at exactly the pace that a stone cools after being in the sun all day. It makes me think that we are made of the natural world after all, attached to it more securely than I had realized.

I am often drawn to books about grief – perhaps because they are the purest way of describing love. Nocturne is up there among the best I’ve read.

The Jasmine Farm by Elizabeth von Arnim

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The Jasmine Farm (1934) isn’t one of Elizabeth von Arnim’s novels that I see discussed very often. It was her penultimate novel, and I will say at the outset that it is far from her best – but even in the worst von Arnims there is a lot to love, isn’t there?

The novel opens with a dinner party in which there are enormous number of characters. I had to start making notes in the front of the book, trying to work out how everyone related. It doesn’t help that she often gives us a stray surname or first name, then later tells us how they relate to other people there. It’s almost wilfully confusing, and quite a lot of them never appear again – but we quickly learn that the most significant character is Lady Daisy Midhurst.

Lady Midhurst is that classic von Arnim creation – a combination of the forceful and the absent. She has been a widow for a long time and her marriage doesn’t appear to have been at all enjoyable. Widowhood suits her much more, despite the opinions of some of the male characters, whom von Arnim spears:

Mr Torrens was certain that only by Midhurst had the poor dear woman ever been kissed, and seeing that fifteen solid years had passed since his death, and that of the eleven years of his marriage ten and three quarters were spent by him in steady unfaithfulness, he considered such a state of things a pity.

She has social cache and money, and is very fond of her daughter (bizarrely called Terence, or Terry) and seemingly satisfied with where she has now ended up. Some people are envious are her, and she seems divinely unaware of it. Certainly she isn’t desperate for a man, as so many single women are in novels of the period, and could perhaps have survived into her dotage without anything upsetting happening.

But… Terry has other plans. We learn fairly early in the novel that she has been having an adulterous affair with a Mr Andrew Leigh, who seems rather too dull to have inspired one woman to want to be with him, let alone two. But such things are – and Mrs Andrew Leigh, Rosie, discovers the fact. Rosie has married ‘above her’, and sees this as an opportunity to unsettle the dignified, unkind, subtly sneering world into which marriage has brought her. (One brilliant moment describing her antagonism to Terry is: ‘she would have told her, too, if she hadn’t been so high and mighty, with her nails like reproaches and her clothes so many sermons’.)

Lady Midhurst is disbelieving – until she quizzes Terry, who is unrepentant. Terry is a flighty ‘free love’ sort of woman, seemingly conjured from the worst anxieties of late-Victorian male columnists. She doesn’t really see the problem, and it’s hard to know exactly what the reader is meant to make of her. Is she meant to be refreshingly amoral? If so, she comes across instead as extremely selfish and rather stupid. I don’t think she’s the most successful character in The Jasmine Farm.

But Lady Midhurst is a triumphantly drawn figure – and meets her match in the novel’s other brilliant creation. Enter: Mumsie. Mumsie, or Mrs de Lacy, is Rosie’s mother – and the background of which she is slightly ashamed. Mumsie speaks her mind with admirable candour and occasional incomprehension. The two, when they meet, are perfect foils for one another. Mumsie is affectionate and impulsive to Lady Midhurst’s reserve. I loved every scene of them together.

And she was reaching out to the bowl when her hand was intercepted, and grasped firmly in a warm grip.

At once her divided attention was startled into an extreme concentration. She turned and looked at her visitor with the rebuke of surprise. At no time did Daisy like being touched, and to be touched by strangers, other than in the formality of arrival or departure, had not yet come within her experience. Fortunately the hand grasping hers was gloved. She didn’t like skins.

“We must be friends, Lady Midhurst,” Mumsie said, holding on hard. “Real, true friends.”

“It is exceedingly kind of you,” said Daisy, slightly raising her eyebrows. They wouldn’t rise much, because of technical difficulties; but, as far as they would go, they went.

But what, you will be asking, about the jasmine farm of the title?

Well, that’s where we go in the second half of the novel.

In the hills that ripple between Grasse and Draguignan, hills only a few miles away from the animations of the Riviera, but as dead quiet and unvisited as if the few miles were hundreds, is a little Provencal house, pale-faced and pale-shuttered among pale olive trees, with one immense cypress slashing the sky apart at the top of its steps.

This house Midhurst, on his honeymoon, had bought Daisy, simply because she admired it, and he was in love. As easily as if it had been a trinket out of a shop window the rich young man bought it for her, and almost with as little personal exertion. All he had to do, and did, was to mention it to their hotel proprietor in Cannes, and for what seemed to him a small sum, and to the owner and go-betweens a big one, the tiny farm because Daisy’s.

Yes, we have disappeared to an idyll in a European country – a theme that von Arnim returns to surprisingly often. While Lady Midhurst hasn’t thought about the jasmine farm for a long time, it is still hers and one lucky Frenchman has been tending to it through all the years of her marriage and widowhood. He harvests and sells the jasmine, and he keeps the house safe and tidy, and his is paid and nothing else is needed from him.

Until… Lady Midhurst escapes the confusion and scandal of her daughter’s affair, and turns to this place where she was, briefly, happy. For while widowhood has been contented, and her marriage bearable, this was the only place where she truly knew joy.

And I knew joy in the second half of The Jasmine Farm! If the first half was a little over-stuffed and over-complicated, with any number of extraneous characters, the second half is a delight. Because yes, of course, Mumsie follows Lady M to this farm. And I shan’t spoil the other people who turn up, but there is a lightness and openness to the second half of the novel that gives it space to breathe. It means Elizabeth von Arnim can use her customary witty sentences, and the brilliant way that she can give characters depth even while everything is frothy.

I try not to give away too many spoilers, which means I haven’t said much about the jasmine farm section of The Jasmine Farm, but is what saved the novel for me. I wish she’d managed to set the entire book there. But we got there eventually, and it reminded me what a marvel von Arnim was.

A while ago, I ranked all of the von Arnim novels I’d read. I’d probably slot this one in about 10th or 11th on the list. But is it worth reading? It’s Elizabeth von Arnim: of course it’s worth reading.

This House of Grief by Helen Garner

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This House of Grief: The Story of a Murder Trial: Amazon.co.uk: Garner, Helen, Weinman, Sarah: 9780553387438: Books

I hadn’t heard of Robert Farquharson or Cindy Gambino, or their children Jai, Tyler, and Bailey, before I started Helen Garner’s This House of Grief (2014). I suspect the same wouldn’t be true of most Australians. They were at the centre of a tragedy that led to a trial, and a retrial, for murder. This much was clear from the outset: Robert Farquharson drove his three young children into a farm dam and all three drowned. He managed to get out of the car. But was it murder or was it a tragic accident, caused by Farquharson blacking out during a coughing fit?

The initial trial took place in 2007, and Garner was there throughout as a journalist – as she was at the second trial, in 2010. I listened to the audiobook, after hearing Garner’s non-fiction praised repeatedly on the Chat 10 Looks 3 podcast – I’d previously read her novel The Spare Room but hadn’t tried any of the non-fiction. And it is absolutely masterful.

This is the sort of case that would make a compelling newspaper article, or perhaps a podcast episode or hour-long documentary. In Garner’s hands, it becomes something much more granular. Since she is able to devote so much space to the trial, it feels like we are in the courtroom with her. The initial trial took seven weeks, so of course it isn’t in real time, but it sometimes feels that way. Periods of questioning are detailed so thoroughly – say, for instance, the doctor who is brought in to answer questions about whether or not Farquharson could black out from a coughing fit in something called ‘cough syncope’. We go back and forth, back and forth – an aggressive cross-examination, the attempts to discredit his medical credentials, the reactions from the jury. The actual evidence the doctor relates is a small part of Garner’s presentation of the scene. Her eyes are everywhere.

Garner notices things other people wouldn’t – and probably wouldn’t mention, if they did. How often a witness bites their lip, or the look on the face of a juror, or even how bored some people seem during the more technical sections of evidence – ‘the air in the court became a jelly of confusion and boredom’:

The judge took off his spectacles and violently rubbed his eyes. Journalists sucked lollies to stay awake. Jurors’ mouths went square with the effort to control their gaping yawns.

This certainly isn’t an objective book. One of many ways in which Garner’s writing reminds me of Janet Malcolm’s is that the writer is fully present in the reading experience. Garner relates how she takes the trial home with her, how she desperately wants to believe that Farquharson is innocent but is very unsure, and the mental exhaustion of going back and forth. She writes about camardarie (and the reverse) with other journalists, including being berated by some for her supposed light-heartedness.

Her detailed observation does slip into needless cruelty at times. I was startled by one moment – she bumps into a lawyer she used to know, and he says one line. In that time, she manages to say he is looking bad for his age, has lines on his face, is wearing an ill-fitting suit and hasn’t polished his shoes. It’s all so unnecessarily unkind. Like Janet Malcolm, she doesn’t have any sense of what is kind or unkind to say. She is merciless in the way she presents any of the people she sees. Even the grieving mother is described as having put on too much weight. She censors none of her thoughts.

That’s not to say she always highlights negative things. They are just more shocking, in a context where we might expect a certain generosity of empathy. She applauds a female witness whenever she outwits the unpleasant machismo of the cross-examiner, or describes ‘that little buzz of glamour peculiar to the Australian tradie’ when Cindy Gambino’s new husband takes to the stand. Indeed, he sparks one of the asides which make Garner herself such a dominant figure in the reporting:

But, having recently watched a bunch of blokes pour a concrete slab in my own backyard, I was equipped to imagine the effect of this sight on a young woman in Cindy Farquharson’s stifling situation. A concrete pour is a dramatic process. It demands skill, speed, strength, and the confident handling of machinery; and it is so intensely, symbolically masculine that every woman and boy in the vicinity is drawn to it in excited respect.

Somehow, the tragic deaths of the three boys do not get lost in the maelstrom and minutaie of the court proceedings. Garner manages to keep the emotion of their deaths central, without being maudlin, even while we are preoccupied with the minute-by-minute trial. And it is that clash of the absurdities – and some mundanities – of the legal system with the searing emotional pain of a grieving mother that makes this book so extraordinary. To the everyman, it feels ridiculous that this tragic event can become, for instance, hours and hours of analysing photographs of wheel marks, and disputing over whether or not the police officer’s yellow lines next to them are accurate. Garner is too subtle a writer to spell out this disparity. But it is key to what makes her analytical eye work so well.

And her writing can be beautiful, without being self-conscious. Sentences like this tread the tightrope of poeticism and journalism so well: “Judges are men who in the cool of the evening undo work that better men do in the heat of the day.” ([sic] to ‘men’, please!)

I didn’t think I’d find a non-fiction writer as curiously brilliant as Janet Malcolm – but I think Helen Garner is in the same league. If you’re looking for reportage or dry facts or even a kind, considerate piece about a tragedy – this isn’t the place for you. But if you’re looking for something sharp, odd, poetic and haunting – This House of Grief is a masterpiece.

William’s Wife by Gertrude Trevelyan

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William's Wife by Gertrude Trevelyan

I’m delighted that Recovered Books is making G.E. Trevelyan’s novels available again, because they have been so very difficult to get hold of. The next (after they published Two Thousand Million Man-Power) is William’s Wife (1938), a novel that is perhaps less ambitious, but I think even more successful.

As the novel opens, Jane has just married William Chirp. We don’t see any of their courtship or really get to understand what ended up with these two fairly unsuited people coming together in marriage. But perhaps we can guess – William is a widower who runs a grocer’s in the town and probably wants somebody at home to make his life comfortable again. Jane is a lady’s maid who is moving up in the world by marrying a man who owns a business and a home. No matter that they have little in common and even less to talk about.

Quickly, Jane learns the dominant characteristic of William: miserliness. He might call it prudence, or living within his means. But he begrudges every penny spent. And he is willing to live in almost any condition, so long as he avoids expenditure. The hints of this come steadily, though at first it’s minor matters about the home (I am borrowing some of the same quotes that Brad included in his review – Brad being the mastermind behind the Recovered Books series.)

“How about that window cord,” she said in a low, Sunday voice, straight forward into her collar. “Did you tell someone about it?”

“Cord? Eh?” He shut the gate behind them and they went on around the drive, still talking in low voices in case one of the neighbours should hear, or someone in the road.

“Yes,” she said. “What I told you. It’s gone in the lower sash.”

“Don’t want to open the lower sash.” He fitted his key in the door. “That don’t matter.”

William is not a violent person by any means, but he has a certainty and a determination that Jane seems unequal to combat. Nor does she try especially hard – any attempts to get money from him, beyond the meagre housekeeping allowance, are met with his rigid logic or by references to the angelic, unquestioning nature of his first wife. Jane, meanwhile, is ashamed of her wearing-out clothes or what people from the town would think if they knew how poorly they lived.

And he wasn’t even looking round. Pointing with his pipe. “Waste not, want not.”

“I know, William, but it’s the best part of two years and….”

“Save something for a rainy day.”

He drew at his pipe for some minutes, then he looked round at her. “My poor wife….” He cleared his throat. “My first wife didn’t go spending on new gowns, not once in ten, no, fifteen years.” He put the pipe in his mouth and turned back to the fire.

Eventually, the worm turns. Jane begins to find ways to save a little money herself. She buys slightly cheaper products and keeps the difference. She drops less in the church collection than William gives her, and keeps the change. Slowly but surely she amasses enough to buy a new dress – relying on his masculine ignorance of women’s clothing to pass it off as a mere adjustment to her previous dress. And then saving begins again. She moves her stash every day, fearful that it be unearthed and her whole scheme tumble to the ground. The reader doesn’t think that William would be violent or throw her out or anything – but somehow Trevelyan builds up the tension so that we are equally afraid of its discovery.

Skip this paragraph if you don’t want to know something that happens midway through the novel – but I think it’s important to an understanding of the novel to mention it (and it’s on the back of the book, so I don’t feel too bad about mentioning it). Eventually William dies. Jane, you would think, is free from his oppression. And yet… somehow she has become too mired in his worldview. The second half of the novel is even more powerful than the first. Her miserliness gets worse and worse – her cutting corners and making savings leaves in a terrible, haunting way to her losing everything that gives her status and dignity. She has truly, in every sense, become ‘William’s wife’. It is horrifying but ineluctable, and masterfully done by Trevelyan.

What makes William’s Wife such a success is Trevelyan’s ingenious pacing. The reader isn’t spared anything. Day by day, month by month, we follow Jane’s decline. There is little that is dramatic or surprising – instead, she sets up her premise and follows it steadily to its natural climax. The blurb calls it ‘the most normal horror story ever written’, and while blurbs that call their book the ‘most’ anything are to be distrusted, it’s not an inaccurate description. It isn’t scary, in the usual sense of scary. But it is haunting. It is a horror story in the sense that it is horribly believable – perhaps the sort of miserable world behind any number of closed doors. Interestingly, it really reminded me of an ostensibly very different Recovered Books novel – Gentleman Overboard by Herbert Clyde Lewis. Both take an awful situation and play it out slowly, painstakingly to its end.

It’s not the most fun book to read, but there is an awful lot to admire here. Trevelyan chooses different canvases and subjects for the three novels of hers I’ve read so far – this one has the narrowest subject in mind, and perhaps that is why it is the most successful novel. It does what she sets out to do with terrible brilliance. It certainly deserves its republication, and I recommend getting a copy – when you can stomach the experience. (Incidentally, at the time of writing it is on sale from the publisher.)