1931

Police at the Funeral by Margery Allingham #ABookADayInMay No.7

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Today was a lovely sunny day, and I spent quite a lot of it sat in the garden reading Margery Allingham’s 1931 detective novel Police at the Funeral. Something I discovered in previous book-a-day challenges is that reading a murder mystery in a day is really fun and rewarding – because you don’t have to wait very long to discover whodunnit.

Police at the Funeral is a curious title for a novel that doesn’t include any funerals, though it does have more than one death. At the outset, though, series detective Albert Campion is prevailed upon to look for a friend’s fiancée’s missing uncle. Campion thinks the thing is likely to be a case of someone getting het up over nothing, but when he meets the fiancée, Joyce, he recognises that she is not given to hysteria. Her uncle is missing, and it rather looks like he could be dead.

We soon get to know about her family. While she is looked on kindly by most of the relatives she has grown up with, the same cannot be said between the rest of them. Her great-aunt rules a household with a rod of iron, despising and pitying her various adult offspring who still live with her, and still feud and squabble as though they were in the nursery. Great-Aunt Caroline thinks ill of the modern era and the household still behaves as though Queen Victoria is on the throne. It’s a very Ivy Compton-Burnett set up, though of course the style of the novel isn’t remotely like one she’d have written.

“There they are, a family forty years out of date, all vigorous energetic people by temperament, all, save for the old lady, without their fair share of brain, and herded together in that mausoleum of a house, tyrannised over by one of the most astounding personalities I’ve ever encountered. […] There’s no vent to the suppressed hatreds, petty jealousies, desires and impulses of any living soul under that roof. The old lady holds the purse strings and is the first and final court of appeal. Not one of her dependants can get away without having to face starvation, since not one of them is remotely qualified to earn a sixpence.”

Before long – and not remotely to the reader’s surprise – it turns out that the uncle is dead. His body is found in the river – hands and feet having been tied together, with a shotgun wound through the head. Nobody truly mourns him, since none of the family likes or respects each other, but they still want the truth to come out.

But… this death is quickly followed by another. (Unlike the blurb to my edition, I shan’t spoil more than that!)

Albert Campion is a fun detective. I’ve read a couple of other books in which he appears – I have to admit the schtick of him looking vacantly stupid is a bit unnecessary, and I’ve not read the books where he is apparently most openly a parody of Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey, but once you get those things out the way, there’s a lot to like. He has a funny way with words, and a rather sweetly teasing relationship with the inspector on the case – Inspector Stanislaus Oates, whose son is Campion’s godson. His actual detection is all rather hurried at the end, but that’s fine.

And it’s a very satisfying solution, with enough clues along the way that we don’t feel cheated. I loved the set up with the horrendous family, and Great-Aunt Caroline is just the right amount of terrifying and formidable for the reader to actually quite admire her dominance. Joyce is a very likeable character to have along the way too, and both insider and outsider to the family, so we don’t feel too buried with a group of appalling adult-children. I don’t remember finding Allingham’s writing so enjoyably funny and dramatic before, so this was a goody.

I think this is my favourite of the Allinghams I’ve read – which is your favourite Allingham?

Friends and Relations by Elizabeth Bowen (Novella a Day in May #24)

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I was inspired by the latest Backlisted episode to pick up a Bowen – specifically the one they covered, Death of the Heart, but it turns out that I don’t own it – so I substituted a novella of 151 pages, Friends and Relations (1931). It’s not one I see people talk about all that much, but I thought it on par with her others – the usual hallmarks of exceptionally beautiful and perceptive writing, and a plot that is never quite obvious.

The story opens at the wedding of Laurel Studdart and James Tilney. It is a very proper, slightly passionless affair. I loved this exchange, showing Bowen’s talent for dialogue that does a lot more than is evident on the surface.

‘You might hold your lilies,’ said Mrs Studdart, who had discovered the sheaf on a hall table specially cleared for the top-hats.

‘Oh, Mother, I can’t; they’re heavy.’

‘But don’t you think it would be nice, Edward, if she were to hold her lilies?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Edward. ‘Do people generally?’

‘They’d be such a strain on one arm all the time. You see I can’t change them; I must keep my right arm for shaking hands.’

‘And shake hands lightly,’ said Mrs Studdart, ‘don’t grip.’

‘Did I look …?’

‘Lovely, lovely,’ said Mrs Studdart. She was looking round distractedly for a vase and soon found one, a kind of Italian urn in which she arranged the lilies beside the bride.

It’s not long before Laurel’s sister Janet gets married – though this is rather more of a surprise to the family, as Janet was not expected to do anything so fortunate and conventional. What’s a little less conventional is that she is marrying the nephew of the man who had an adulterous affair with Edward’s mother. If that sentence is a little confusing, fear not, it’s clear in the book – essentially the dark horses in the family tree of both sisters’ new husbands are tangled together.

I found Laurel and Janet both rather unknowable. I’d be hard pressed to describe their personalities, and perhaps that reflects the rather controlled conversations they have with each other – appropriately sisterly to appearances, but without giving too much away.

On the other hand there is Theodora, easily my favourite character in Friends and Relations, and the most vivid. We see her first as a 15 year old at the wedding, pressing ice creams on unwilling guests and believing herself to be doing a great kindness, loudly berating her parents for huddling together, and evading speaking to the bride by walking outside and round the building to get to the food. She dominates her parents, finding them deeply embarrassing and forever correcting things that only a child would notice. It is a pitch perfect portrait, and funny too.

We move forward ten years into the past – both marriages have children, Theodora is still around, and the dark horses of the past are still having their effect on the future. There is a turning point in this section, but also the sense that the past lingers long over future generations.

I found I didn’t always know exactly what was going on, partly because Bowen’s writing is too complex to rush-read in a novella-a-day challenge, and partly because everybody prevaricates. The dialogue is never there for exposition; it is more realistic, and gives a rich sense of the relationships between people, rather than the details of the plot. I had to go back and re-read bits to try and piece things together. But it didn’t stop me enjoying Bowen’s striking writing. So many lovely sentences – I noted down one about a cat, of course: “The Siamese, reappearing like a malign sun over the cushions, looked at his mistress with penetration, without sympathy.”

Ultimately, I might land more on admiring Bowen than loving her – but there is so much to admire that that is no weak praise.

British Library Women Writers 12: Which Way? by Theodora Benson

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Two new British Library Women Writers titles have just been published, and I’m quite behind with keeping up to date with my posts about the previous ones. The new ones will turn up here before too long but, before that, let’s talk about the others!

Which Way? by Theodora Benson is the first book in the series where I didn’t have a copy previously. I read it many years ago in the Bodleian, and re-read it as a photocopy that the kind people at the British Library arranged, but it was impossible to get hold of otherwise. Which makes it feel all the more exciting to have rescued it.

I think I first read it after seeing a publisher’s advert – the premise intrigued me. I still think it’s a brilliant idea. Fans of the film Sliding Doors will recognise the idea – what if a small moment had been different? Something seemingly inconsequential could make a huge change in the way a life pans out.

For Claudia Heseltine in Which Way?, it’s choosing which invitation to accept. We get to know Claudia in the opening section of the novel, and it ends with her walking into a room with two letters and a phone call about to be answered. It’s a scene that is repeated a few times in the book – and each time she accepts a different invitation for the weekend.

There was a fire in the room, very comforting and gay. It threw a lovely sheet of orange on the big armchairs on each side of it….An antique clock marked time in a hushed monotone. Only the fire was alive, consuming its life – for what? Then the door opened and as Claudia came with hurried steps into the fire’s glow, two open letters in her hand, the telephone began ringing. She shut the door and turned up the lights.

What I particularly liked about Which Way? is that, though initially set up as a choice between three men, the different outcomes aren’t really about them. Yes, different paths lead Claudia to marriage or relationships or singleness, but what they really draw out of her are different ways to be a woman in the 1930s. Facets of her personality, occupations (domestic or otherwise), friendship groups, even taste in popular culture – all of these are influenced by the metaphorical door she chooses.

The main reason I wanted Which Way? to be part of the series is the innovation. There is nothing strictly fantastic here – Claudia doesn’t jump between timelines; she isn’t aware of the multiverse she inhabits – but it’s such a clever way to look at how circumstances can bring out latent aspects of a person.

Others who got Stuck into this Book:

“I read this book around two weeks ago, and it’s still hovering heavily in my thoughts. I highly, highly recommend it to anyone interested in women’s fiction or social history.” – Asha, A Cat, A Book, A Cup of Tea

“An excellent plot idea, then, and carried out impressively. But there’s more to enjoy here. It’s hard not to feel a sort of fascinated horror at the complete emptiness of Claudia’s life, or lives.” – Harriet, Shiny New Books

Father Malachy’s Miracle by Bruce Marshall – #NovNov Day 19

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What a delightful novel. I bought Father Malachy’s Miracle (1931) early last year because the premise sounded so interesting, and because I had previously read Marshall’s novel High Brows as part of my DPhil research. And the book was really fun, as well as funny, and has made me keen to seek out more of Marshall’s work.

Father Malachy is a monk who is visiting a Catholic church in Glasgow, there to instruct the priests on chanting liturgy. Father Malachy reminded me of Trollope’s Septimus Harding – in that he is simple, kind, faith-filled, and a little shocked and saddened by the wantonness of the world.

In conversation with a local priest of a different denomination, the topic of miracles comes up. Father Malachy believes that God is still capable of doing miracles, and will still perform them if there is good reason. The Protestant minister doesn’t believe this (incidentally, this is not a universally held Protestant viewpoint, by any means. I suppose I am Protestant, inasmuch as I am not Catholic, and I certainly believe God still performs miracles). And so Father Malachy asks God to work a miracle, to bring faith back to an increasingly faithless Scotland.

And which miracle? Well, in the spirit of moving mountains into the sea, Father Malachy asks for the Garden of Eden to be moved to a Scottish island. What is the Garden of Eden? In this instance, it is a dance hall that is near the Catholic church, and believed by some of the priests there to be a hotbed of sin – though Father Malachy himself is rather more charitable towards them. Anyway, the Protestant minister is incredulous:

”Do you honestly mean to stand there and tell me that, in this twentieth century and in this metropolis of learning, God could perform the miracle of transporting this home of light and healthy amusement through the ether? Mr dear Father, please reflect upon what you are saying.”

This is exactly what he means. The day and time is set. And… the dance hall lifts up into the air, and lands on the distant island.

One of the things I loved about Father Malachy’s Miracle is that Marshall restrains himself from putting all the drama into this miraculous event. We don’t see anything from the perspective of the people being supernaturally transitioned. We don’t even visit the Garden of Eden after it has landed. Rather, the novel is about Father Malachy – about the drama he has unleashed and its consequences; about his reflections on the wisdom of the act, and reactions from other priests, journalists, laymen, and a canny film producer. Throughout, Marshall never sneers at faith. I only found out afterwards that he was Catholic himself, but it makes sense. So few novelists write well about faith, and Marshall is among them.

Which is not to say the novel is po-faced. Oh gosh, far from it. His tone reminded me of Compton Mackenzie when he’s being witty, or even E.F. Benson. I enjoy that he can take religious faith seriously while still indulging in a slightly bitchy tone. On the second page, he describes a woman ‘whose hat was one of those amorphous black affairs which would have been, at any moment, out of fashion in any country’ – and I knew I was sold. Actually, the page before that I had already noted how much I enjoyed this eyebrow-raised scene setting:

Outside, on the grey ribbon of platform which ran dismally along the side of the train, newsboys were pushing on wheels pyramids of the contemporary literature, gay magazines within whose covers female novelists split their infinitives and modern deans argued as to whether twin beds in matrimony were of the esse or merely of the bene esse of the sacrament. Outside, boys were selling sticky sweets and cigarettes, and porters were pushing luggage, and flabby, colourless people were jostling one another with impatience as though their departure for Falkirk or Edinburgh were important and as though the dreadful immorality of their souls shone out, for all to see, through the pigginess of their earthly faces. Outside, Queen Street Station, Glasgow, looked just as depressing as the Gare du Nord, Paris, and suggested, just as adequately, milk-cans, lavatories and eternal damnation.

It’s such a ’30s novel, which is certainly a good thing in my book. I loved the characters, the story, and the way that Marshall handled everything. The only thing I didn’t like was the blurb on the edition I read – which gives away so much plot that it includes something that happens on p189 of 191 pages. Tut tut!

Father Malachy’s Miracle is so up my street that I wonder if anybody else would enjoy it as much as I did. It might be hard to find out, as copies online do look a bit scarce and expensive. But if you speak German then you might have better luck tracking down Das Wunder des Malachias – or even watching the award-winning film from the 50s. If this review has sparked your interest, I’d recommend tracking the novel down one way or another.

Buttercups and Daisies by Compton Mackenzie

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OK, that’s it. I’m going to have to start buying all the Compton Mackenzie novels I see, aren’t I? I read Buttercups and Daisies (1931) before my 25 Books challenge started, but didn’t manage to write about it – and I bought it in Hay on Wye recently. I always like to start one of the books I buy on holiday, and the intriguing opening pages of this one made it my nomination.

Here are the opening paragraphs – which, accompanied by an illustration of Mr W, were what made me both buy the book and start it immediately:

“This,” Mr. Waterall announced, on a fine Saturday morning in late September, as he gazed over the top of his paper at his wife, “this is what I have been looking for for years.”

Mrs. Waterall’s impulse was to suppose that her husband was enjoying one of those little triumphs to which he was periodically addicted. He had a habit of putting articles away in safe places, forgetting the place immediately afterwards, and accusing every member of his family, from his wife to the boy who came in to do the knives, of having interfered with his arrangements for security. Mrs. Waterall could not be blamed for assuming that. This was one of the mislaid treasures.

“For years!” Mr. Waterall portentously repeated. “Have the goodness to listen, my dear.”

Mrs. Waterall, realising that her husband wanted to read something from the Daily Telegraph, jumped to the conclusion that he had discovered another cure for baldness. She hoped it would not be as complicated a cure as the last one he had tried, when he had sat for two hours in the bathroom every Sunday morning, wearing upon his head a hemisphere of indiarubber which has kept firm by the vacuum and was connected by a long tube to an electrical apparatus emitting fizzes and blue sparks.

But what he has actually found, in fact, is a cottage in Hampshire for sale. I say cottage – it is a ‘two-roomed bungalow’, but Mr Waterall has bold ideas about what he can turn it into. He doesn’t intend to move his wife, daughter, and two sons there permanently – but he certainly intends for it to be their country house. Off he goes, to meet the man selling it. For some reason, I can never get enough of house hunting scenes in novels, particularly if they’re amusing ones, and Mackenzie’s is a corker. It becomes more and more apparent that the man selling the bungalow is a charlatan, who lies and evades questions and flatters Mr Waterall’s ego until he has agreed to take it. All he needs to do is add a few more rooms, buy some trees, and he’ll be good to go.

The novel shows how his long-suffering wife, adventurous boys, and simpering girl (simpering mostly because she knows how best to placate him for her own advantage, to the ire of her brothers) are carted out to the middle of nowhere. All does not go well. The buttercups and daisies of the title are certainly ironic. Little Phyllis falls down a well. A cow wanders in, because they don’t have a back door to the kitchen. The neighbours range from amiably mad to obstreperous.

And I loved reading all of it.

The other Mackenzie novel I’ve read, Poor Relations, was also very funny – with a put-upon protagonist whose success comes with the price of having all manner of relatives expect to live off him. In Buttercups and Daisies, we exchange an empathetic lead for one who is a well-meaning tyrant. His absolute certainty of his own rightness, and the fact that he blights lives around him without being remotely malicious, puts him in the fine tradition of characters like Mr Pooter. Mackenzie is a very amusing writer, with an excellent use of the narrative voice that undermines the character – and it’s all extremely funny.

As the novel goes on, we get more from the brothers’ perspectives, which I found a trifle less enjoyable – perhaps because it feels like we’re supposed to be on their side as they plot pranks, trespass etc., and they didn’t seem particularly likeable to me. And the tide of the novel gets taken up with whether or not the community should be called Oaktown or Oak, which does work as a conceit, but comes a bit late in the day to be the main thrust of the novel.

So, it’s not perfect – but, particularly in the first half, it’s rather wonderful. And the second half is also fab, even if I wish Mackenzie hadn’t broadened his focus so much. But one element that doesn’t falter is the ego and bravado of Mr Waterall. How I wish there were a sequel, so I could find out more about him!

There isn’t a sequel, but there are an awful lot of other Mackenzie novels out there. It seems a shame that he is basically synonymous with Whisky Galore and nothing else, when he clearly was far from a one-trick pony. Any recommendations from anyone?

Night Flight by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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night-flightDid you know that the author of The Little Prince wrote about dangerous flights in South America? Well – now you do! My review of Night Flight by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is over at Shiny New Books, and the beginning of it is here:

If the name Antoine de Saint-Exupéry means anything to you, it probably only means one thing: The Little Prince. It was this contrast between legacy and his 1931 novel Night Flight that intrigued me to pick up a copy when Alma Classics printed it with a new translation by David Carter – and what an intriguing little book it is.

The Private Papers of a Bankrupt Bookseller

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Private PapersHidden away, high on a shelf, in a secondhand bookshop in Bath, was a plain green volume. I can spot a 1930s hardback at a hundred metres, and thought it was worth pulling it down, to see what it was… well, truth be told, when I saw the title The Private Papers of a Bankrupt Bookseller (1931), I was hardly likely to leave it where I found it.

It claims to be anonymous, but is actually by William Darling – as somebody has inscribed in the front of my copy. I thought perhaps it was signed by the author, but the pencil note underneath (‘let’s hope I don’t have to write one!’) makes me think that perhaps the Bath bookshop owner put it in there himself.

The book is a collection of very short essays and observations, often no more than a couple of pages long, and give the life of a bookseller. It’s not easy to see how much of it is fiction (it’s certainly not the non-fiction account the narrator asserts), but I’m going to assume that Darling had at least some familiarity with running a bookshop. Sometimes it is about the customers who come in. Sometimes about ordering stock. Often he is diverted into talking about books in general, whether madness in books, books with pictures, blue books, etc. Here, as an example, is part of an enjoyable explanation about the life cycle of unfashionable books:

The first stage is when it arrives – after much of Sunday Times and Observer heralding. It is almost hot from the printers and, if it is a great success, I may sell my three or maybe six. I am encouraged. I believe the book is going to be the big book of the year. I buy another six, and the comes the frost. I am left with them. Strenuously practising salesmanship, I sell – on credit – one – maybe two – more, but the four remain. What can I do with them?

Their jackets – they have always wonderful jackets – coats of many colours – get rubbed and torn and they languish. They become tired and weary. I lose taste of them. I ignore them.

Some Monday I put them into the window. I expatiate to any who will listen on their claims to attention. They are worth buying, if only as representing a phase, I plead. It avails nothing.

I take them out of the window. I try a little longer with them on the counters and then – they are in the old shelves at the back shop incurably, definitely bad stock.

And so it goes on! The narrator/author/character is a genial man, though he has a few stern words to say about the draper working next door, and the draper’s customers. This (inevitably fictitious) draper is also the writer of the preface. This lends some amusement to a volume that remains amusing, even when we learn at the outset that the supposed bookseller has died, penniless, before his papers were discovered.

Alongside the lighthearted tone, the author has created an entertaining and likeable character. Is he the mouthpiece for the authors opinions? One has to assume so, when he recommends books (and this is one of the chief joys of the collection – the number of recommendations from a 1930s perspective, though perhaps not always entirely up my street) though perhaps not at other times.

I love what an unexpected find this was, and how unusual. Who would publish this sort of book today? Those of us who love the 1930s are always after different perspectives on it, and something like this very clearly ticks all sorts of boxes for me and my tastes.

So why hasn’t it escalated into my all-time favourites? Hard to say. Perhaps I would have preferred it to be clearly fictional, or to be actually non-fictional. Maybe the joke wasn’t carried quite far enough, or the mix of satire and sincerity didn’t quite work perfectly. But, if not an all-time favourite, it’s definitely on the second or third tier – extremely enjoyable to read, and a gem for my ever-growing books-about-books shelf.

Father by Elizabeth von Arnim

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Eliz von A

As I mentioned recently, I spent last weekend in Cambridge at a conference about Elizabeth von Arnim. It was really enjoyable; the people there were divided between those who knew everything about E von A and those (like me) who really like her, but haven’t read them all (I’ve only read about eight). The panel I spoke on had three people (including the chair) who’d published books about von Arnim… and me. But they made me feel very welcome, and I spoke about one of her lesser-known novels, Father (1931).

Rather than replicate my paper, I’ll do something more akin to my usual book reviews – though stealing some of the same research! Father is a novel that reminded me an awful lot of Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner. In both, an unmarried woman is desperate for her independence, and not to be subservient in her relative’s home. For Laura Willowes, it’s her brother’s home; in Father it’s – you guessed it! – the father’s. Jennifer is 31 and a slave to her widowed father, a writer; she laments ‘the years shut up in the back diningroom at a typewriter, with no hope that anything would ever be different’. Only things are different. Father is getting married again, to Netta, who is younger than Jennifer. She sees her opportunity for escape: she can move to the countryside.

Through and beyond father she saw doors flying open, walls falling flat, and herself running unhindered down the steps, along Gower Street, away through London, across suburbs, out, out into great sun-lit spaces where the wind, fresh and scented, rushed to meet her […] Jen, her wide-open eyes shining with the reflection of what she saw through and beyond father. She could feel the wind – she could feel it, the scented fresh wind, blowing up her hair as she ran and ran…

And, like Laura Willowes, she does move to the countryside. Only things aren’t quite as uncomplicated as she’d hoped. Waiting for her, in that village, are James and Alice – the vicar and his tyrannical sister – who make an interesting parallel to Jennifer and her father. Alice is also a spinster, but holds all the power in her brother’s house – and is keen to dissuade any possible sisters-in-law who might oust her from the vicarage.

Among Elizabeth von Arnim fans, I don’t think Father is particularly well-regarded, but I thought it was excellent. Most of her novels seem to concern marriage, whether happy or unhappy, so to see her tackle the much-discussed issue of ‘surplus women’ in the interwar years was very interesting – and Jennifer is a great character. With her love of nature, her unconventionality (she sleeps outside on a mattress when she first arrives), and her naive but firm belief that she can escape her father’s domain, she is an attractive and engaging heroine.

Though dealing with some slightly sombre issues at times, von Arnim can never leave her humorous tone completely to one side. There are some very funny scenes – particularly, perhaps, one where James and Alice are both trying to abandon the other one in Switzerland (it makes sense in context), though Jennifer’s quirky world-view makes many otherwise mundane sentiments wryly amusing to read.

I’m always intrigued about the effect a choice of title has on a novel. If this one had been called (say) Jennifer, it would feel very different. Though her father isn’t on the scene all that often, calling the novel Father makes him feel curiously omnipresent; it seeps throughout the narrative. A clever decision on Elizabeth von Arnim’s part.

Not the easiest of her books to track down (unless you have a Kindle, where it’s probably free [EDIT: maybe it’s not…]) – and also not up there with her best novels – but definitely an entertaining and interesting one which I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend. And a perfect companion to the excellent Lolly Willowes!

 

My Husband Simon by Mollie Panter-Downes

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I was very excited to get an abebooks alert about an affordable copy of My Husband Simon (1931) by Mollie Panter-Downes (which is usually either unavailable or extortionately expensive). Her novel One Fine Day is (bold claim) one of the best I’ve ever read, and her war diaries are exceptionally good, and naturally I wanted to read more. After I posted about buying it, I was inundated with (ahem) two requests that I read and review it quickly. So, dear readers, I have.

I’ll start by managing expectations – it’s not as good as One Fine Day, London War Notes, or her volumes of short stories published by Persephone. But I still rather loved reading it. The heroine (with the extraordinary name Nevis – is this a name?) is a young wife and novelist, and the novel does, indeed, largely concern her relationship with ‘my husband Simon’. Nevis is literary, intelligent, cultured, and quite the intellectual snob; Simon is none of these things, but is charismatic and jovial (as well as fond of horse-racing). They are not temperamentally suited, but they do have rather a physical attraction – more than I would have expected to find in a 1931 novel, until I remembered The Sheik – and the novel negotiates Nevis’ attempts to write her third novel and manage her marriage. Oh, and she’s 24.

From what I can gather on her Wikipedia page (which isn’t a lot), My Husband Simon is intensely autobiographical. Both Nevis and Mollie had had runaway bestsellers while still teenagers (Mollie was only 17 when The Shoreless Sea became a huge success); both married at 21; Mollie was 24 when writing My Husband Simon – which was her third novel. As far as I can tell, it was all very much drawn from life – and it is nice to know that her real-life marriage lasted for many decades beyond the three-year-anxieties.

As far as plot goes, it is all fairly simplistic. It’s not really the love triangle that the ‘about this novel’ section promises; it’s more introspective and undecided than that. While Nevis’s problems are fairly self-indulgent, and perhaps look a bit ridiculous to anybody older than 24 (which she obviously considers a couple of steps from the grave), the novel is still engaging and enjoyable.

Mollie P-D’s greatest quality – in her finest work – is that of a stylist, I would argue. Particularly in One Fine Day, where the prose is like the most unassuming poetry. There was a 16 year gap between My Husband Simon and One Fine Day (in terms of novels); her attention was transferred to short stories. And so there is only a hint of what her writing could become. It is certainly never bad, but there are only glimpses of beauty. I did like this moment of looking out from a tram, that has the same observational stance as much of One Fine Day:

We climbed on top of the tram and away it snorted. A queer constraint was on us. We hardly said a word, but in some way all my perceptions were tremendously acute so that I took in everything that was going on in the streets. A shopping crowd surged over the pavements. In the windows were gaping carcases of meat, books, piles of vegetable marrows, terrible straw hats marked 6/11d. I though vaguely: “Who buys all the terrible things in the world? Artificial flowers and nasty little brooches of Sealyhams in bad paste, and clothes-brushes, shaped like Micky the Mouse and scarves worked in raffia?” A lovely, anaemic-looking girl stood on the kerb, anxiously tapping an envelope against her front teeth. Should she? Shouldn’t she? And suddenly, having made her decision, all the interest went out of her face and she was just one of the cow-like millions who were trying to look like Greta Garbo.
So, be comforted to know that the best of Panter-Downes’ work is easily available – but this is a novel that certainly wouldn’t disgrace Persephone covers, if they ever decided to publish more by Mollie, and a really interesting example of how she developed into the writer she eventually became.

A review round-up

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image source

As with 2012’s Century of Books, there are some books which – for one reason or another – don’t get their own blog post, but I still need somewhere to link to in my run-through of 100 books.  So… here is that place!  Or at least the first part of it.  Let’s call them mini-reviews; that sounds better.

The Perfect Stranger (1966) by P.J. Kavanagh
A friend lent me this; it is a memoir of a young man’s life – at Oxford, at war, and in love.  I certainly liked it, and it was rather moving, but that’s about all I remember now.

The Sittaford Mystery (1931) by Agatha Christie
I think my Reader’s Block is FINALLY over, and that means my Agatha Christie binge has probably come to an end too.  Whenever I read too many in a row, the plots have to be really good to impress me, and – well – I just read too many, I guess.  So I liked The Sittaford Mystery and I think it was probably quite artful, but I didn’t appreciate it as much as I could have done.  I did very much like the feisty, no-nonsense, secretly-sensitive heroine who took on the role of quasi-detective.  I think her name was Emily?

Inclinations (1916) by Ronald Firbank
Mike Walmer kindly sent me a copy of this, but I’m afraid I didn’t have a clue what was going on while I read it.  I love some books which are mostly in dialogue (I call Dame Ivy Compton-Burnett to the stand) but this one just baffled me.  Luckily Karen/Kaggsy enjoyed it more – read her review for more elucidation.

Riding Lights (1955) by Norman MacCaig
Green Song and other poems (1944) by Edith Sitwell
Every now and then I think I should try poetry. I don’t remember anything at all about these.