BloomsburyGroup

Mrs Ames by E.F. Benson

StuckinaBook All , , , , 3 Comments

Mrs Ames (1912) by E.F. Benson has been on my shelves since 2010 – indeed, it is the final book from the two batches of Bloomsbury Group reprints that I had to read. These reprints are renowned round these parts for including Miss Hargreaves (and me quoted on the back!) and they were the best thing to happen in publishing for ages. But I guess they didn’t sell as well as had been hoped, so we only got two batches and ten books in total. All of ’em wonderful!

And I’m happy to add Mrs Ames to that number now. I’ve read quite a few Benson novels including, of course, the Mapp and Lucia series, and the setting will come as no surprise to those who like him. Yep, it’s upper-middle-class people squabbling in a small community. Doubtless said community (Riseborough) has various people who aren’t upper crust, but we don’t care about them. We care about Mrs Ames and Mrs Evans, and (to a lesser extent) their male relatives. And we are introduced to the community through Mr and Mrs Altham, who are keen gossips, though they wouldn’t use the word. I did enjoy that this married couple seem to delight equally in observing and talking about their neighbours – even if they have to cover it with a veneer of pretending they discover things by accident.

Mrs Ames is the accepted leader of the village. She sets the trends for the community, whether that be her outfits, her dinner parties, or her printed menu cards (little do the others know that she found them ready printed, and has been ordering food to match). She has an earnest son at Oxford who is keen to tell everyone that he’s an atheist, and a husband who is ten years her junior. The husband and the son have something in common – they’re both attracted to Mrs Evans. She is a recent addition to the village, with a charming husband and a willingness to accept the flirtations of others. She is also casually angling to be top dog of Riseborough… can Mrs Ames defend her position and her marriage?

Benson is in usual witty form as he documents the rivalries in the village, and we spend much of the novel not taking these would-be adulterers particularly seriously. Or, rather, there are other things that are more important – like new age treatments, how to one-up each other at dinner, and which Shakespearean character they can appropriately dress as for a costume ball. Here’s a fun bit on Mrs Ames addressing her advancing years:

Mrs Ames might or might not have been run down when she left Riseborough the following week, but nothing can be more certain than that she was considerably braced up seven days. The delicious freshness of winds off the North Sea, tempering the heat of brilliant summer suns, may have had something to do with it, and she certainly had more colour in her face than was usual with her, which was the legitimate effect of the felicitous weather. There was more colour in her hair also, and though that, no doubt, was a perfectly legitimate effect too, being produced by purely natural means, as the label on the bottle stated, the sun and wind were not accountable for this embellishment.

In early-to-mid Benson, he often throws in the serious among the trivial. Rather late in the day, the novel becomes (albeit briefly) about women’s suffrage, and there are sections of impassioned writing about women’s rights that are entirely straight-faced. (And, of course, there is no reason why they shouldn’t be – but it’s tonally a bit jarring.) He also aims for some emotional heights that he hasn’t quite earned, given the enjoyable triviality of the rest of the novel. I always think Benson found his firmest ground when he stopped trying to have emotionally climactic moments. Mrs Ames and Mrs Evans are good rivals, but they are only a foretaste of what he would achieve with Mapp and Lucia.

I have yet to read a Benson that was a dud, nor one that was a particular outlier in terms of the society, style, and content. Mrs Ames is every bit as enjoyable as the bulk of the others and, if it isn’t quite Benson at his absolute peak, it’s very good. Vale, Bloomsbury Group reprints!

 

Mrs. Harris Goes To Paris – Paul Gallico

StuckinaBook All , , , 26 Comments

The Bloomsbury Group set of reprints remains, I believe, the best selection of reprints out there.  It doesn’t have the range of Penguin or OUP Classics; it doesn’t have quite the unifying ethos of Persephone or Virago, but there simply are no duds in their number.  Miss Hargreaves is obviously their finest publication, in my eyes, but as I work my way through the few I haven’t read, I continue to marvel at the treats they’ve brought back to a new audience.

For some reason, Mrs. Harris has been sitting on my shelf for two years without me getting around to reading her.  I even had a copy of Flowers For Mrs. Harris (the original UK title of Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris [1958]) before the Bloomsbury Group existed, but hadn’t read that either.  How could I have waited for so long?  Mrs. Harris is a joy, and her little novel is bliss.

Mrs. Harris is a London char, whose job is to clean other people’s houses.  She takes a deep pride in her work, is very good at it, and can pick and choose her clients.  She, and her good friend Vi, are much in demand, and when she decides that she has had enough of a client, she simply drops her key through their letterbox, and moves on.  Mrs. Harris is the dictionary definition of indomitable.  Nothing phases her, and she is an eternal optimist.  She also speaks somewhat like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins, par example:

“Ow Lor’.”  The exclamation was torn from Mrs. Harris as
she was suddenly riven by a new thought.  “Ow Lor’,” she repeated, “if
I’m to ‘ave me photograph tyken, I’ll ‘ave to ‘ave a new ‘at.”
Now, although she is a wonderful character, it would be a lie to say that she has many layers of complexity and an inner introspection dying to emerge.  Gallico’s novel is simple and sweet, and he doesn’t overburden himself with psychological strife etc.  There is one central motivation of the novel, and that is Mrs. Harris’s desire for a Christian Dior dress…

It had all begun that day several years back when during the course of her duties at Lady Dant’s house, Mrs. Harris had opened a wardrobe to tidy it and had come upon the two dresses hanging there.  One was a bit of heaven in cream, ivory, lace, and chiffon, the other an explosion in crimson satin and taffeta, adorned with great red bows and a huge red flower.  She stood there as though struck dumb, for never in all her life had she seen anything quite as thrilling and beautiful.

Drab and colourless as her existence would seem to have been, Mrs. Harris had always felt a craving for beauty and colour which up to this moment had manifested itself in a love for flowers.
Yet now, flowers have been replaced by this longing for a dress that costs £450 – and in 1958, of course, that was an astronomical sum.  Coincidence, luck, and much determination (for Mrs. Harris is pretty much built out of determination) and three years later she is on her way to Paris…

It’s such a fun story.  Scarcely a jot of it is realistic – Mrs. Harris’s good humour and spirited nature act much in the manner of fairy dust, transforming all those she meets – but the novel is so enjoyable and light-hearted (albeit with occasional kicks) that the reader allows him/herself to be whisked along for the ride.  The contrast between shabby London char and elegant Parisian fashionista is, naturally, wonderful – and Gallico makes full use of the potential comedy in the situation.

Oh, it’s lovely!  It certainly isn’t very deep, even with an attempt for A Moral at the end, in the way that American sitcoms like to conclude events – but writing something sprightly and enjoyable is probably rather more difficult than writing something introspective and traumatic, and is certainly rarer.  Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris is great fun, very short, and is a perfect way to spend a summer afternoon.

Bloomsbury Reader

StuckinaBook All 9 Comments

I briefly mentioned Bloomsbury’s latest project the other day – Bloomsbury Reader – and now I’ll hand over to their press release to tell you a bit more, before recommending the titles which have Stuck-in-a-Book approval…

Actually, I’ll save time.  Here is their Press Release.  To summarise: it’s a good idea.

And it’s all very exciting for those of you who have e-readers.  I’ll be cheering from the sidelines.  And now for my subjective bit… amongst their many upcoming titles are many I know nothing about, but also some books I think are brilliant, but which haven’t previously been the easiest to track down.  Here is my brief selection from Bloomsbury Reader…

Faster! Faster! by E.M. Delafield
One of my favourite of EMD’s non-Provincial Lady books, this novel tells of career-woman Claudia and her mid-life crisis.  Some sad scenes, some of EMD’s irrepressible humour, and a title taken from Through the Looking-Glass to boot.  If you buy one Bloomsbury Reader title, make it this one.  (They’re also doing Women Are Like That and No One Now Will Know, but I’ve not read those yet…)

Told By An Idiot by Rose Macaulay
Ok, being totally honest I haven’t actually read this, but I’ve read enough of RM’s other novels to know that she’s all-round great.  Very dry, very witty, and generally needs more attention from the blogging world and the reading world at large.

any of the titles by Ivy Compton-Burnett
It’s no secret that I adore Dame Ivy and, to be honest, her books are all so similar that it doesn’t really matter which you read.  They are mostly in dialogue, and are constantly surprising and unusual and deadpan-hilarious.  People will debate the proper use of a verb for pages, and then drop into conversation that someone is dead.  You’ll either love Ivy or hate her – most seem to hate her, but if you love her then you’ll really love her.

Ok, that’s quite a brief glimpse at what they’ve got going on, but click here to read the whole list, and let me know what you’ve got your eye on.

Just Kidding

StuckinaBook All , , 8 Comments

It’s no secret that I love the Bloomsbury Group reprints – many of which are crowded eagerly on my tbrvvs (to be read very, very soon) shelf – but today I’m going to talk about the only one I hadn’t previously read from the first batch of six. All my reviews of Bloomsbury Group reprints can be read here, and the latest to add to the fold is Wolf Mankowitz’s A Kid For Two Farthings. (Fact fans: Mankowitz was born on the same day I was, albeit sixty-one years earlier.)

It’s the shortest one so far, I think, coming in at 128pp. of fairly big type, and it’s not set in the 1930s domestic world which perhaps defines the series in my mind. Instead, this is 1950s and the East End of London. We see this world through the eyes of Joe, age six. Rather than Lady B., china tea cups, and bring-and-buy sales, we see a boxer desperate to afford an engagement ring for his girl; a poor mother longing to join her husband in Africa; and this sort of scene, picked more or less at random to give a glimpse of Joe’s surroundings:
Near Alf’s stall there was a jellied-eel stand with a big enamel bowl of grey jellied eels, small bowls for portions, a large pile of lumps of bread, and three bottles of vinegar. There was also orange-and-black winkles in little tubs, and large pink whelks. People stood around shaking vinegar on to their eels and scooping them up with bread. A ltitle thin man in a white muffler served them and sometimes dropped a large piece of eel on the ground. Behind the stand a very fat man with a striped apron and an Anthony Eden hat waved a ladle in his hand and shouted, “Best eels, fresh jellied; buy ’em and try ’em.” Over the stand a red, white and blue banner flapped. “The Eel King,” it said. The King himself never served.
What is so wonderful about the setting Mankowitz creates is that it doesn’t fall into one of two familiar traps. It’s not salt-of-the-earth, honest-‘umble-poor (thank you Mr. Dickens and Mrs. Gaskell) nor is it aiming to shock with its gritty realism and the gratuitously unpleasant (thank you Irving Welsh et al). I have never lived in the East End of London in the 1950s, but Mankowitz has – and was born in Spitalfields in 1924. (Incidentally, for a great and incredibly varied blog on Spitalfields, see Spitalfields Life). As such, his portrait in A Kid For Two Farthings is certainly fond, but not saccharine.

And ‘saccharine’ might be a word on the tip of your tongue when you read the first sentence: ‘It was thanks to Mr. Kandinsky that Joe knew a unicorn when he saw one.’ For Joe spots one at the market, and persuades Mr. Kandinsky to help him buy it. What nobody tells Joe, of course, is that his unicorn is simply a slightly deformed kid (i.e. young goat). He’s a six year old, and they don’t disillusion him – which makes him all the more certain that the unicorn’s horn will magically grant his wishes, and those of the people around him. His wishes – naturally – tie in with the everyday romantic troubles, professional anxieties, and recreational competitions that his mother and his neighbours undergo. Gradually everything falls into place…

So there are definitely fairy-tale elements to A Kid For Two Farthings, but it is Mankowitz’s observational humour – always kind, mind, never mocking – and his refusal to deny his characters their flaws, that stop the novella being too sweet. The lives of the characters are too ordinary and empathetic for that. Instead, it is affectionate and affecting – something of a treasure, and one to re-read. It may not have the instant appeal that Joyce Dennys’ Henrietta books had for me, but I can still recognise a gem that I am delighted Bloomsbury chose to reprint.

Books to get Stuck into:

The Harp in the South – Ruth Park : my favourite Australian novel, and one I read before the days of blogging, we’re in 1948 and in a slum on the other side of the world, but again amongst a flawed, realistic, and affecting family and their neighbours. Sometimes humourous, sometimes sad, always captivating.

I’ve got an idea…

StuckinaBook All , , 13 Comments

…but, thankfully for three men called Mike, Steve, and Dan, it is not the same idea as the title of Rohan O’Grady’s novel republished in the latest batch from the unutterably wonderful Bloomsbury Group. I can’t believe how little I’ve been heralding the return of this series, and I promise to Do Better. First stop, Let’s Kill Uncle.

On the face of it, this is an unusual choice for inclusion. The rest of the books have been in the first half of the twentieth century, more or less, and funny in an insouciant and harmless way. Let’s Kill Uncle was published in 1963, and is rather more sinister than anything else Bloomsbury have published in this series. There are large dollops of humour too, but you’re unlikely to find the following sentence in Miss Hargreaves or Henrietta’s War: “Maudie and I never had a family,” said Uncle sadly, “although we wanted one. So you see, Barnaby is doubly precious to me. I adore children.”

He did indeed. Several little girls to whom he had taken a fancy had vanished into thin air.But I’m getting ahead of myself. O’Grady’s novel is about an orphan called Barnaby Gaunt (wouldn’t Dickens be proud of that name?) who is sent for a holiday to a beautiful Canadian island. He’s renowned as a bit of a trouble-maker, and the gentle couple who take him in don’t quite know how to respond. They lost their son in the war, and Barnaby is a supposed substitute – but doesn’t live up to this image. He is disobedient and mischievous, although not a mean-spirited child… there are reasons for his behaviour, which will become apparent.

And there is Christie. She is the only other child on the island, and equally wild in spirits, though rather more inclined to obedience in front of adults. Their escapades together could have been the stuff of Enid Blyton (with perhaps a little edge) – except the fable-esque anxieties about smugglers become a much more real, and thus more chilling, threat from a murderous uncle. For Barnaby is due to inherit ten million dollars, and Uncle doesn’t want that happen. Uncle is a seriously twisted character – very psychologically manipulative (he beats Barnaby for being good, for instance, or tells him he may go to bed, but continually calls him back with idle comments) and with a history of many murders – but the exterior of a placid, harmless man. So, when Uncle turns up on the island, Barnaby and Christie resolve to take the only logical path: kill Uncle first.

The plan goes into action – whether they succeed or not I won’t tell you, but suffice to say there are all manner of adventures along the way. This is such a difficult novel to categorise. It’s not really like the other Bloomsbury Group novels I’ve read – it’s not cosy, it’s not really a novel to be loved and cherished; it’s too chilling for that. Uncle is simply too evil. But neither is it a ‘scary book’ – there are flashes of humour (‘The children loved the little church; it was such a pleasant, peaceful spot in which to plan a murder’) and a light-heartedness to the children’s activities which was at odds with their murderous plans. When I read in the blurb that Donna Tartt had called Let’s Kill Uncle a ‘dark, whimsical, startling book’, I was a little confused. Surely those words clash a bit when placed together? And I’m still not sure that there is much whimsy in the novel, unless you describe any scene without blood as whimsical – but it’s certainly the lightest dark book I’ve ever read. Or possibly the darkest light book.

So, there you go! Perhaps not what I expected from the Bloomsbury Group series, but certainly a good read – both dark and light, a strange and clever mixture. And not a little unnerving…

I haven’t seen the 1966 film, but found the trailer on YouTube – it seems to be quite a loose adaptation. For those who share my fear of s***ers, don’t watch the last ten seconds of the clip:

Books to get Stuck into:

The Vet’s Daughter by Barbara Comyns – I chose this one because it’s got another depiction of an evil parent-figure. Alice’s dad is like Uncle, in that they are all the more chilling for not being exaggerated. The portrait in The Vet’s Daughter is far more unsettling and brilliantly drawn, but the similarities are there…

Miss Ranskill Comes Home by Barbara Euphan Todd – not really much of a link, but I struggling to find similar books – the link here is an island!!

Hurrah for Mrs. Tim!

StuckinaBook All , , 17 Comments

You know how it is – you start a book in October, and… you finish it in January. I don’t quite know how that happened, but there it is, Mrs. Tim of the Regiment by DE Stevenson has been on my bedside table for at least three months, dipped in and out of, and yesterday evening I read the last page. It certainly wasn’t because I didn’t enjoy it, but perhaps because I wanted something light, enjoyable, and reliable on the bedside table. All the books I’ve read in the Bloomsbury Group series have been gems, and this was no different.

The first thing to say, which Elaine and others have noted in their reviews, is that Mrs. Tim of the Regiment is very much a book of two halves. Though not signposted, this novel is actually Mrs. Tim of the Regiment and Golden Days put together, but they have been that way since 1940 odd – it wasn’t Bloomsbury’s decision. The two books are very different in style – both are about Hester Christie (aka Mrs. Tim) an army wife, looking after her husband and two children, and being witty and self-effacing and coping with everything that’s thrown her way. But, though it all takes diary format, only the first half really feels like a diary – the second half is far more narrative driven.

And the second thing to say is – how very like the Provincial Lady this is! Well, the first half especially. Sometimes I had to remind myself that I wasn’t reading an unknown fifth PL book. Take, for instance, this sizeable quotation:

Suddenly the spell is broken, the door of our compartment is pushed ajar, and through the aperture appears the fat white face of Mrs. McTurk. Of all the people in the world Mrs. McTurk is, perhaps, the one I least want to see. I can’t help wondering what she is doing in the train, and how she found me. She must be – I suppose – one of those peculiar people who walk about in trains. Why couldn’t she have remained peacefully where she was put by the porter amidst her own belongings in (I have no doubt) a comfortable first-class compartment?

“Is this really you?” she says

I reply that it is. The woman has the knack of saying things which invite a fatuous answer.

“Well I never!” she says.

I fix a false smile upon my countenance, whereupon she insinuates her cumbrous body through the door, and sits down beside Betty.

“So you are going north for a holiday,” she says.

Betty bounces up and down on the seat. “Do you know Mummie?” she cries excitedly. “Fancy you knowing Mummie! I thought Mummie didn’t know anybody in Kiltwinkle. Of course I knew lots of children at school, but it was awfully dull for Mummy. Mrs. Watt said there would be lots of parties, and Mummie bought a new dress, and then nobody asked her.”

I plunge wildly into the conversation, wishing, not for the first time, that Betty were shy with strangers.
I suspect the Provincial Lady’s Vicky and Mrs. Tim’s Betty never met – but what good friends they would have been, had they done so. I also suspect that DE Stevenson had read the Provincial Lady books (the first of which was published just a couple of years before she started her Mrs. Tim books) and I don’t blame her at all for wanting to emulate them.

Mrs. Tim, especially these early sections, is deliciously moreish. Not a great deal happens, not in the way of linear plot – the attempts to find a house were hilarious, looking round increasingly unsuitable properties – this is mostly the quotidian, finding humour and pathos in the everyday. As the second half of the book arrives, Mrs. Tim heads up to Scotland sans husband, and becomes embroiled in the confusing love lives of various young folk. She even becomes an unwitting object of attraction herself (Stevenson rather cleverly using the diary format to show Hester’s oblivious innocence even while letting the reader know what is going on.) But, of course, Hester has eyes only for her husband.

Mr. Tim himself is rather more likable than his Provincial Lady counterpart – you feel that the Christie marriage has more laughs in it than the PL’s. At the same time, he is as bad as Robert when it comes to recognising quotations from Jane Austen…

Like all the rest of the Bloomsbury Group series, Mrs. Tim of the Regiment is a delight to read, and I wholeheartedly recommend it. Being honest, it doesn’t maintain the high level throughout – I much preferred the first half to the second, as has probably become clear – but it’s just the sort of book you’ll want to read once you’ve exhausted EM Delafield’s superlative Provincial Lady series. And if, somehow, you’ve not read the PL books yet – hie thee to a library!

Apparently there’s a whole series of Mrs. Tim books – and I’m told they’re also more narrative-driven. Though I don’t think I’ll be using up my Project 24 allowance on them, they’re certainly going into my Amazon Marketplace Basket to be pondered over for 2011… (edit: no they won’t! I’ve just seen the prices!)

Oh – and if you’ve got this far, do pop in tomorrow for a giveaway of… a mystery title! All will be revealed tomorrow….

“I abominate fuss…” Miss Hargreaves and Me

StuckinaBook All , , , 74 Comments

I’ve already written about Miss Hargreaves before on Stuck-in-a-Book, but I felt that a new edition warranted a new review. I’ve just finished reading the novel for the fifth time since 2003… and I love it all over again.

Just to say at the beginning – this review doubles as a prize draw. I have two copies of Miss Hargreaves to give away, and a set of Bloomsbury bookmarks for a runner up. Of course, if you already have a copy of Miss H and would prefer the bookmarks, just say that in the comments.

I usually try to put a positive spin on the books I read, so there is a real danger that I’m going to go wildly overboard with superlatives on Miss H, because – along with Diary of a Provincial Lady and Pride and Prejudice – it is the novel I could happily read over and over again, starting as soon as I’d finished.

Norman Huntley and his friend Henry are on holiday in Ireland, when they wander into a hideous church, led by a sexton with a squint.

I turned to the chancel, hoping to find something – however slight – that I could praise. But it was worse up there. Seaweed green altar frontal; dead flowers; lichenous-looking brass candlesticks; pitch-pine organ with a pyramid of dumb pipes soaring over a candle-greased console; ‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,’ splashed in chrome Gothic lettering over the choir walls; mural cherubim reminding you of cotton-wool chicks from Easter eggs; very stained glass; tattered hymn books, tattered hassocks – it was a horrible church. But there were, mercifully, two redeeming features; those were the dust sheets spread over lectern and pulpit. Somehow you felt a little safer with those dust sheets.
Meanwhile, Squint was rhapsodizing.
“I beg you to observe the beautiful lettering and decoration on the chancel wall. ‘I saw the Lord sitting upon a Throne.’ You like it?”

He had a habit of hissing like a goose, particularly when he was eager about something.

“Very pretty indeed,” I said.
“Original,” said Henry.
“Unusual, in a sense.”
“Full of feeling.”
“Filthy,” I said.

The awkwardness of the subsequent conversation forces Norman, on the Spur of the Moment, to make up a mutual acquaintance with a previous clergyman – that acquaintance is Miss Hargreaves.

‘And this lady, this Miss Hargreaves, she is still alive?’

‘Ten minutes old, precisely,’ said Henry.

I trod on his toe brutally.

‘The soul of youth,’ I said. ‘She is a poet,’ I added dreamily.

‘She would be an old lady,’ said Squint. ‘Over eighty.’

‘Nearer ninety,’ said Henry.

‘A touch of rheumatoid arthritis,’ I said, ‘but no more than a touch.’

Having left the church, Norman and Henry continue to embellish Miss Hargreaves’ character. A keen musician, she is the niece of the Duke of Grovesnor, has a cockatoo called Dr. Pepusch and a dog called Sarah. Perhaps most wonderful of all, she travels with her own hip bath. Proud of their creation, they continue the joke by sending her a letter, inviting her to visit Cornford…

… and she does.

A telegram arrives, telling them to expect her. Disbelievingly, they wait at the train station:

Limping slowly along the platform and chatting amiably to the porter, came – well, Miss Hargreaves. Quite obviously it couldn’t be anyone else.

‘At Oakham station,’ we heard her saying, ‘we have exquisitely pretty flowers. The station-master is quite an expert horticulturist. Oh, yes, indeed!’

‘Shall I have all your luggage put on a taxi, Mum?’

‘Just wait! Kindly stay! A moment. Accept this shilling, I beg of you. I am a trifle short-sighted, porter – oh, did I give you a halfpenny? Here you are, then. Can you see a young gentleman anywhere about? If so, no doubt but it would be my friend Mr. Norman Huntley.’

I flopped weakly on to a chair.

‘Can’t see no one, Mum,’ I could hear the porter saying.

‘Then let us wait! Do not go. What a handsome train – what a most handsome train! I wrote a sonnet to a railway train once. In my lighter moments, porter; in my more exuberant moments. My Uncle Grovesnor was good enough to say it recalled Wordsworth to him. Do you read at all, porter? Tell me. Tell me frankly.’

Isn’t she simply wonderful? Frank Baker has given her a voice so unmistakably hers, she is a unique creation and every word she says is a pleasure to read. To have seen Margaret Rutherford play her on stage and screen! I have hopes of the 1960 film turning up one day. Or Maggie Smith to play her now – she would be perfect. And, oh, Miss Hargreaves’ poetry! It is as strange and unique as she is, yet has undeniable panache.

Oh why must I go with my green tender grace
To lay all my eggs in one basket?
If I were a mayor I could carry a mace;
My card and address in a casket.

[…]

All this goeth on and my mind is a blank,
A capriciously prodigal hostage.
What care I when comforters tell me the Bank
Will pay death-duties, homage and postage?

But Miss Hargreaves is not all frothy excitement and delight – she “abominates fuss”, wants things to be just-so, and is unlikely to let decorum of convention prevent her from carrying out her good intentions. ‘She had the gift of being able to do unconventional things in the most casual manner, never losing her dignity thereby.’ As the novel progresses, while she may retain her dignity, Miss H manages to cause all sorts of trouble for Norman, with his family, his girlfriend, and his colleagues and acquaintances at the Cathedral where he plays the organ. (Music is a hugely important element of the novel – anybody who loves the organ, harp, or violin will find plenty to enjoy here.) She becomes something of a Frankenstein’s monster – as Norman’s mother says, ‘I think one would get quite fond of her, and yet never want to set eyes on her again.’

Miss Hargreaves may be the most extraordinary inhabitant of Cornford, but the others are by no means normal. Frank Baker is not satisfied with the creation of one exceptional character – he has made another, in the form of Norman’s father. Constantly talking at cross-purposes to everyone around him, and utterly absent-minded, he throws the most deliciously irrelevant things into conversation: ‘”Parrots are intelligent birds,” said father. “Knew one once that could recite a Shakespeare sonnet. All except for the last line.”‘ He gets irrationally worked-up about a new teapot, uses Browning as firewood in the bookshop he erratically runs, but is also the only person in Cornford who really believe Norman’s tales, and, in his own bizarre way, comforts him. ‘”Get it off your chest, boy. I may not listen, but I shall gather the trend of it.”‘

I have probably written far too much, and quoted at length, but I just love this novel so, so much. My quotation on the back of the Bloomsbury edition says ‘Witty, joyful, and moving but above all an extraordinary work of the imagination’ – and indeed it is. Endlessly surprising and captivating, Baker keeps the novel pacy all the way through. The idea could have grown stale, but there are enough twists and turns to keep you hooked. Sometimes sinister, sometimes sad, sometimes hilariously funny – Miss Hargreaves covers more or less all the bases, always written in the sort of delicious writing which is hardly found anymore. Miss H is one of the best characters of the twentieth century, in my opinion, and I really cannot encourage you enough to find this extraordinary book.

Don’t forget, for a copy of this wonderful novel – pop your name in the comments. Two winners will be announced later in the week, and a runner-up will get the bookmarks. If you’d prefer the bookmarks to the novel, just say.

Links to other reviews of Miss Hargreaves:
Cornflower
Random Jottings (warning: a lovely review, but gives away quite a lot)
Oxford Reader
Harriet Devine
Fancy Day

Love’s Shadow – Ada Leverson

StuckinaBook All , , 4 Comments

Well, Bloomsbury have done it again. I’m starting to sound increasingly like a self-appointed marketing director (and I do feel a little responsible for Miss Hargreaves, which I’ll be writing about later in the week) but I can’t help it when the titles they’re reprinting are just so darn good. Today I’m talking about Love’s Shadow by Ada Leverson, first published in 1908.

Elaine at Random Jottings has been an online-friend for over five years, and I read her blog everyday – as she has said in one of her latest posts, we have the same opinions of almost every book, especially when it comes to the first half of the 20th century. And when I discovered that she’d recommended Love’s Shadow to Bloomsbury for their Bloomsbury Group reprint series, I knew I was in for a treat.

The novel is the first in a trilogy called The Little Ottleys (perhaps more will be forthcoming from Bloomsbury?) and the Ottleys in question are Edith and Bruce, married for a few years. Elaine, in her recent review, charmingly and accurately, describes Bruce as Mr. Pooter without the charm – I think his character can be summed up by this:

‘He often wrote letters beginning “Sir, I feel it my duty,” to people on subjects that were no earthly concern of his.’

Edith is obviously fond of him, and parries his ridiculous jibes and moans with a light-hearted wit which is both very amusing to read and an act of supernatural tolerance. Bruce really is the most ghastly imaginable husband, obsessed with being granted his due ‘reverence’ – from his son, his parents, his wife, and more or less everyone else. And like most preposterous characters, he is exceedingly vain. A fabulously witty chapter (Chapter 27, fact fans) chronicles his report of a first foray into amateur dramatics. In later chapters he devotes most of his time and energy to the two lines he has been given, but Chp.27 is so cleverly structured, a vignette of his vanity, self-delusion, and inability to tell a story, that I wish I could reproduce it in full.

This marriage lends the trilogy its name, but Love’s Shadow follows a flock of others, in an amusingly complex array of romantic entanglements, unrequited attachments, and refused proposals. (To set the tone, the union of Lady and Charles Cannon is explained peripherally thus: ‘Having become engaged to her through a slight misunderstanding in a country house, Sir Charles had not had the courage to explain away the mistake.’) Hyacinth Verney is the centre of romantic mishaps, the sort of character who can say, with equanimity; ‘I quite agree with you that it would be rather horrid to know exactly how electricity works’. Perhaps because she is attractive in the way that women seemed to be in 1908 – when introduced to a Mrs. Raymond, the latter ‘looked at her with such impulsive admiration that she dropped a piece of cake.’

How to describe the web? Hyacinth loves impulsive Cecil who loves the impressive Mrs. Raymond who falls for Cecil’s uncle. Sir Charles is Hyacinth’s ward, but also quite smitten by her – as is, we suspect through the disapproval, Bruce. And then there’s Hyacinth’s female companion Anne… Love’s Shadow is flung in so many directions that it’s more or less pitch black – except of course Love’s Shadow isn’t. You can tell that Ms. Leverson was a friend of Oscar Wilde – she is consistently witty, though without his love of epigrams, and the novel sparkles with good-humoured teasing, joie de vivre, and clever plotting. On the back of this edition, alongside Elaine’s recommendation, Barry Humphries perspicaciously compares Ada Leverson to Jane Austen and Saki.

Another Bloomsbury Group reprint, another must-read. If you’ve been holding out, just give in and buy the lot – it’s a library of witty, wise, brilliant books which will stand the test of time, because they already have stood the test of time. And once more, kudos to Penelope Beech and her cover illustrations – both cover and Ex Libris page include silhouette illustrations of representative scenes from the novel, and add to the charm of this exceptional series. Thank you Elaine, thank you Bloomsbury.

Henrietta’s War

StuckinaBook All , , 7 Comments

I’m sure it won’t have escaped your notice how excited I am about The Bloomsbury Group – not Virginia et al, but the reprints being published by Bloomsbury this year. Amongst them is my favourite novel, Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker – but they are coming out in instalments, and the first two are The Brontes Went To Woolworths by Rachel Ferguson, and Henrietta’s War by Joyce Dennys. I believe the latter was suggested by Karen at Cornflower (see the links on the left; she now has a book blog and a separate domestic blog) and is the first one I’ve read. Not published until 7th July, I believe, but available for pre-order in quite a few places. (I also wrote about The Brontes Went To Woolworths a while ago, a book I now have in three different editions, though looking back at that review it’s pretty vague and woolly, sorry.)

It’s just as well that I’m using stock pictures, rather than taking a photograph of my copy of Henrietta’s War, as it’s pretty battered. I took it up to London, and carried it around all day, loth to be apart from it. (And what a beautiful book it is too, I love the designs of this series, so well done Sarah Morris for your design, and Penelope Beech for your illustrations – delightful.) Quite simply, Henrietta’s War is wonderful, and I never wanted it to stop.

Henrietta’s War was originally a series of articles in Sketch magazine during the Second World War. In the 1980s (the year I was born, actually) Joyce Dennys was doing her Spring Cleaning and came across the articles – and they were published in two collections. Henrietta’s War and Henrietta Sees It Through. They take the form of letters from Henrietta to Robert, a childhood friend away at war.

It is very Provincial Lady-esque, which can only be a good thing. In the first few pages we had a Robert, a Lady B. and even advice concerning the planting of bulbs, which happens on page one of The Provincial Lady (EM Delafield, but I’m sure you knew that). They’re even both set in Devon. It took me a while to cope with a Lady B. we were supposed to like, unlike Delafield’s condescending Lady B. – but, of course, this hindered me little. The humour is very similar – self-deprecating, and appreciative of the ridiculous even while she is proud of England’s bravery. The letters are also accompanied by Dennys’ own delightful sketches – have a look at Elaine’s review of Henrietta’s War over at Random Jottings to see some examples (one of which I have stolen) as well as reading Elaine’s wonderful thoughts, of course.

Henrietta represents the middle-class women in England, plucky and determined to carry on as normally as possible. They garden and chat and squabble – resisting the overly-zealous scrap metal collectors, and slowing down the knitting bee so as not to finish too soon, can be slotted into their daily lives. ‘There’s not much glamour on the home home-front. Ours not the saucy peaked cap of our untrammelled sisters [in the ATS]. Ours rather to see that the curtains are properly drawn, and do our little bit of digging in the garden. Ours to brave the Sewing Party and painstakingly make a many-tailed bandage, and ours to fetch the groceries home in a big basket.’ In the background are Henrietta’s husband, Dr. Charles; friends and occasional enemies Faith, Mrs. Simpkins and Mrs. Savernack; Henrietta’s children Linnet and Bill.

I think this quotation demonstrates the mixture of pluckiness and ability to laugh at oneself, which characterise both Henrietta’s War and so much writing of the period:

‘I was thinking to-day,’ said Lady B dreamily, ‘that if all we useless old women lined up on the beach, each of us with a large stone in her hand, we might do a lot of damage.’
‘The only time I saw you try to throw a stone, Julia, it went over your shoulder behind you,’ said Mrs. Savernack.
‘Then I would have to stand with my back towards the Germans,’ said Lady B comfortably.

Henrietta’s War is quite simply a wonderful, witty, charming, and occasionally very moving book. It deserves to be in the company of Diary of a Provincial Lady and Mrs. Miniver as great chroniclers of the home-front – and I can only hope that Bloomsbury will reprint Henrietta Sees It Through at some point in the future.

Brontes and Woolies

StuckinaBook All , , 7 Comments

I’ve been meaning to write a post about The Brontes Went To Woolworths by Rachel Ferguson for quite a long time, and somehow it never quite happened – perhaps it’s the prospect of having to write ‘Brontes’ so often, without the necessary accents. I know *how* to find them, but to do it everytime… it’s probably best just to pretend they don’t exist.

Anyway, it’s now been so long since I read the novel that I can’t remember all that much about it. What’s more, most of the blogosphere appear to have been read it this year – Danielle’s review; Lady Bug’s Books’; Cornflower’s; dovegreyreader’s. Sorry if I’ve missed some people out, and I’m sure I have, but those are the ones I could lay my hands on – in the unlikely event that anyone hasn’t heard about this book, I advise clicking on one those links for a proper summary of the book! Mine will be brief…

“How I loathe that kind of novel which is about a lot of sisters”, is how this novel about sisters begins. They’re all rather mad, and I can’t remember any of their names, but their important characteristic is that they create fantasy personalities, which cluster around them. Not their own personalities, nor other fantasy people – but rather they choose people (sometimes a doll, sometimes – centrally – a judge they’ve encountered only in the newspaper) and have conversations about and with these people. Which all becomes rather complicated when the judge in question becomes an acquaintance, and has to learn how to act the part he has already been given.

And it’s all rather dizzying. But in a quite brilliant way. As reviews of Edward Carey’s Alva & Irva recently, and Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead by Barbara Comyns a while ago (see the 50 Books…) demonstrate, I’m rather a fan of the quirky and surreal, and Rachel Ferguson dishes this up with abandon. So I can only add further endorsement to the recommendations others have already given – The Brontes Went To Woolworths is charming and zany and I can remember the feeling of reading it, even if all the other details escape me.

The other thing I can bring to the party is a different picture, since my copy is an old hardback. What an odd cover. More intriguing, Rachel Ferguson (known to many of us as author of Persephone Books title Alas, Poor Lady) is also ‘”Rachel” of Punch’ – hmm, wonder what she wrote there… might have to get a copy up in the Bodleian and have an investigation…