I don’t love The Beatles, I have to confess… but this version of Let It Be by Aretha Franklin is incredible.
All
A Curious Friendship (sneak preview)
I’m going to be writing about it more fully in the next issue of Shiny New Books, but (since today is publication day for this book) I thought I had to bring A Curious Friendship by Anna Thomasson to your attention. Especially since I saw her give a lovely talk about it at the Oxford Literary Festival yesterday, to a gratifyingly large number of people.
Why gratifyingly large? Because the people A Curious Friendship is about aren’t really household names. It’s a biography of the friendship between Edith Olivier and Rex Whistler. Now, a lot of my blog readers will know who they are, and may have read Olivier’s glorious 1927 novel The Love-Child (which I wrote about in my DPhil at length) – but perhaps won’t know much else.
Thomasson’s book takes us from their meeting, when Olivier was in her early 50s and grieving her beloved sister, and Whistler was a 19 year old art student newly arrived in a Bright Young Thing set. Their friendship would last two decades, and encompass many achievements and emotions. And A Curious Friendship is a really, really excellent book. Whether or not you’re interested in them, you can’t help but be impressed by the compelling way Thomasson tells their story, and the way she brings two quite different trajectories into one whole. As she said in the talk, it is neither about Olivier nor about Whistler, but about a third entity: the two of them together.
As I say, my full review will be out soon – but don’t wait til then; go and grab a copy. It’s a real delight, and an emotionally involving one (I cried a bit, not gonna lie). My one hope now is that Thomasson will be allowed (and willing) to edit a collection of their letters. Please.
Miss Garnet’s Angel by Salley Vickers
I’m afraid (to give you advance warning) this is going to be one of those reviews about a book that I finished ages ago. So, apologies if I get a bit vague. It’s also a review about a novel that I’d been intending to read for about a decade: Miss Garnet’s Angel by Salley Vickers. Back when I joined dovegreybooks in 2004, it was the novel that everyone was talking about. Dutifully, over the following ten years, I bought five novels by Vickers – but had never read any of them until somebody chose Miss Garnet’s Angel for my book group. So, was it worth the wait?
Well, I remain conflicted. I didn’t love it as much as I thought it would, but that is largely because it wasn’t quite what I expected. I thought it might be a charming tale of a spinster wandering around Venice, heartwarming and witty in turn, and perhaps not without a healthy dose of the fey and whimsical (which I am sometimes – nay, often – in the mood for). Well, that’s not quite what it was.
It does start off in a similar vein (as you may well know). Julia Garnet’s closest friend dies and, lonely and unattached, she decides to go to Venice for six months. Before long she has managed to become entangled with a handsome art dealer named Carlos, a young boy who runs errands for her and whom she unsuccessful tries to teach English, and a young man and woman engaged in restoring a church or something. Incapable of making friends in England, she seems beset with them here.
So far, so charming. But did I mention that Miss Garnet’s Angel mirrors the Apocryphal account of Titus? And that that story is also retold in sections between chapters (that, I have to confess, I started skipping)? This is a technique with some literary precedence – Stella Benson did it in the 1930s with Tobit Transplanted, which I’ve yet to read – but I don’t know the original story well enough to notice how close the influence was.
So, why was I not entirely sold? Well, I guess I found the writing and plotting just a bit blah. Here’s an excerpt I noted, though I forget why…
The notion which had come to Julia Garnet, as she lay looking at her fingers twisting the fringe of the pearl-white coverlet (which, she had learned, during the course of the Signora Mignelli’s care of her, was a survivor of the Signora’s once extensive dowry), was that there existed in life two kinds of people: those who tangled with their fate, who took issue with what life brought them, who made, in short, waves, and those who bore heir circumstances, taking life’s meaning from what came to them, rather than what they wrested from it.
It seemed to her, lying watching the bars of the sun cross the white walls and making them jump from side to side as she tried the child’s experiment of winking alternate eyes, that from her limited knowledge St George, Florence Nightingale and Old Tobit fell into the first class, while Socrates, Jane Austen and Tobias fell into the second. Jesus of Nazareth, she decided after further contemplation, belonged to both categories – and so possibly did Karl Marx.
And I suppose there’s no reason why Vickers should have created a sweet character in Miss Garnet; I have myself to blame for my expectations. I’d have loved either a sweet character or an amusingly cantankerous one. What we actually got was rather an unpleasant woman, I thought. She thinks, of a friend who visits, ‘There were horrible depths of meanness in her character – no wonder she found herself on her own now.’ Well, Julia G, you’re also on your own now. And how come you absolutely loathe your closest friend, who has made the effort to visit you?
These things I could perhaps have forgiven, but the tone of the novel takes a serious knock on a couple of occasions, where Vickers launches into sexual controversy (including paedophilia) for no obvious reason – and certainly no sense of consistency in the novel.
I’m aware that these may not be popular opinions, particularly given the praise I’ve heard lavished on Vickers over the years. I didn’t hate the novel by any means (if I had, I’d probably have reviewed it far more quickly! I love writing those reviews, when of sacred cows), but I did feel rather disappointed. It simply didn’t do very much for me, and left me a tiny bit underwhelmed. It was fine. Which does not a compelling review make, does it?
Shiny New Books competition
Just a quick note to say, guys, there are four awesome books available in the Shiny New Books competition – one chosen by each of the four editors, including my choice of Essays on the Self by Virginia Woolf – and all you have to do for a chance to win is tell us about your ideal book club members (in the comments on the homepage).
Back from holiday (with, yes, books)
The Thomases had a very lovely time in beautiful Pembrokeshire. We were right by the coast, and in a gorgeous area – a house about every half a mile, and nothing else but unspoilt, craggy countryside. So we spent our time reading, walking, and playing games. Here we are…
Our Vicar and Colin did rather more walking than me and Our Vicar’s Wife; we turned our attentions to painting instead. We have curiously different styles – Mum does beautiful, accurate watercolours. I go for bold colours and slapping it on and seeing what happens… here is what happened.
We went to Haverfordwest in search of secondhand books (well, the others may have had different reasons for going, but that was mine); sadly the two the town had were now closed, but I bought a couple in an Oxfam. Then we headed over to St. David’s, a city with fewer than 1800 residents (my kind of city!), and stumbled across this bookshop. It’s tiny, and crammed to the rafters – including one wall of books which all seemed to be from the early 20th century. That sort of faded red hardback that calls to me… and all very cheap, which helped me add another eight to the pile for less than £8 in total. And here they are:
Dames of the Theatre by Eric Johns
I remember seeing the name May Whitty on the front, and now I forget who else was there (and I’m sat in a different room now…) but it’s dames of the theatre from the generation before Maggie and Judi.
My Dear Timothy and More For Timothy by Victor Gollancz
I keep buying biographies and autobiographies about publishing sensations, but have yet to read any of them… Gollancz addressed his to his grandson Timothy, which (as a concept) could be brilliant or mawkish…
The Loving Friends: A Portrait of Bloomsbuy by David Gadd
I can’t resist a book about Bloomsbury now, can I?
The Knox Brothers by Penelope Fitzgerald
Fitzgerald’s biography of Charlotte Mew was astonishingly good, and I’m sure she’ll be equally adept turning her hand to the Knox brothers.
House in the Sun by Dane Chandos
I very much enjoyed Abbie by Dane Chandos, so would love to read more. ‘His’ (it was a duo) most famous book seems to be Village in the Sun, so I’m assuming this one is related?
The Humbler Creation by Pamela Hanford Johnson
I’ve read two books by PHJ – loved one, disliked the other – so I need to try and third and settle the score one way or the other.
O, The Brave Music by Dorothy Evelyn Smith
I read one of Smith’s novels a couple of years ago and enjoyed it, so it seemed wise to nab another.
Adventures of Bindle by Herbert Jenkins
I’ve got four Bindle books now, so I really should get around to reading one of them.
The Mystery Man by Ruby M. Ayres
How do I know about Ruby Ayres? Not sure, but the name rang a bell and it was 20p, so how could I go wrong? Anybody read her?
Shiny New Virginia Woolf
I think there are a whole bunch of things from Shiny New Books Issue 4 that I haven’t mentioned yet – and Issue 5 is less than a month away! So, for Virginia Woolf fans, here are some links to explore (since I wrote THREE posts about Woolf for that issue, folks):
1.) Essays on the Self
A lovely edition, from Notting Hill Editions, with a selection of some of Woolf’s best essays (and… some others too.)
2.) A Room of One’s Own
You probably don’t need me to tell you what a ground-breaking, phenomenal, and brilliant book this is – but, in case you do, click through.
3.) Five Fascinating Facts about Virginia Woolf
I love a Five Fascinating Facts post, and had fun putting this one together about Ginny.
Our Vicar’s Wife’s Persephone Prize essay
And, as promised – here is Mum’s entry to the competition!
‘How did I get here?’
The life-changing choices of ‘superfluous’ women and ‘expendable’ men in works by seven writers from the Persephone bookshelf.
We all make choices throughout our lives. In this essay I aim to explore the concept of ‘choice’ by looking at some of the diverse outcomes dictated by even the smallest choice in six Persephone novels and with reference to ideas in Ruth Adams’ A Woman’s Place. The effects of ‘choice’ are not restricted to women, but I will start my exploration here.
Choices made on the cusp of womanhood can dictate what kind of life a ‘girl’ will live. The ‘girl’ figure (as opposed to the ‘woman’ in so many books on the Persephone bookshelf) is often regarded as an unwritten page, to be moulded by the man who claims her.
In Family Roundabout, Richmal Crompton writes of Mrs Fowler in these terms, as she recalls the early days of her marriage to Henry:
‘He had been ten years her senior, and she had fallen in love with him at their first meeting, realizing even then how unlike she was to the wife he wanted. He wanted, she knew, a ‘little woman’, clinging, adoring, self-effacing; ready to accept and defer to his judgement – a replica, in short, of his mother. And deliberately, determinedly, she had set to work to make herself that woman, becoming, for love of him, stupid and docile, hiding her intelligence as though it were some secret vice’.[1]
In many of the portraits of adult social life, mores, and manners, the ‘Persephone woman’ is defined by rigid strictures often imposed by more powerful figures in society. Sometimes these are men, sometimes women of an older generation. The expectations thus placed upon the young, mould their choices and narrow their sphere. We watch them struggle with their desire to move out into the wider world, snared and captured by the subtle pressures exerted by home and family – as seen in Whipple’s Someone at a Distance, where a seemingly innocent arrangement brings a family’s security tumbling down in ruins.[2]
Choice of employment (or none), of marriage partner, and of personal happiness appears constrained. From within a cage of respectability, the young woman may perhaps look enviously on her more sophisticated and independent sister. However, the ‘unhappy woman’, the ‘woman jaded by the world’, a figure of hollow pride and flawed character[3] is designed to attract dislike or in some cases pity from the reader. As Henry James pointed out in What Maisie Knew[4] and The Awkward Age,[5] ‘Knowledge’ (of the world) sullies. The girl who adopts worldly values, who sneers at society or holds its values cheap, finds every back turned and all her influence – and life choices – gone. Such attitudes remained powerfully entrenched in British society, well into the twentieth century.
It was all too easy, in the Edwardian and post Edwardian era, for a woman to become ‘superfluous’. As Ruth Adam writes in A Woman’s Place:[6]
‘On the whole the man’s world which came to an end with the Great War was a pleasant enough one for wives – at least compared with any previous period. But it was a very harsh world indeed in which to be a spinster. Spinsters had to face the fact that they were a nuisance to everybody, because there was no provision for them to be independent of a man’s help, in an economy set up by males for males.’
A woman without a husband could remain a daughter or a niece, or become an aunt – like Anne Elliot,[7] or a poor relation – such as Fanny Price,[8] of a century before. But for many, the reality would have been more akin to Daphne du Maurier’s un-named heroine, who would become the second Mrs de Winter, but whom we first meet as the poorly paid companion of a tyrannical American woman, whose character has been ruined by too much money and too little understanding.[9]
As we look at women whose characters have been determined by the society around them, it is refreshing to meet the occasional (and usually central) character who sets out to buck the system. The woman who, side-lined by spinsterhood, poverty or the bullying management of others seeks her destiny outside the group, comes into print as a breath of fresh air in a claustrophobic world. In some of my favourite books this woman is not the feisty heroine of twenty-first century literature, but instead a quiet, unassuming character who, with almost accidental determination finds herself popped, like a mollusc out of her confining shell, to bask on a sunnier shore.
D E Stevenson’s delightful Miss Buncle[10] repeatedly asserts that she has ‘no imagination’, but her ‘golden boy’ (clearly a figment of an active imagination) transforms the village and the lives therein. A seemingly innocent and simple soul, she wreaks havoc as her neighbours see themselves drawn ‘warts and all’. Such characters offer a ray of hope and the possibility of a better chance in life for one with the courage to seize it.
Winifred Watson’s Miss Pettigrew[11] accidently tumbles into an entirely different world when she innocently answers an advertisement. Thrust into the Bohemian orbit of Miss LaFosse, she finds herself, for the first time, both visible to her employer and regarded as a person with thoughts and opinions worth hearing. As New York reviewer Priya Jain writes:
Miss Pettigrew, after all, is a woman who finds her true self amidst girl talk and female solidarity. And though she thrills at the romantic hi-jinks that are erupting around her, it’s the relationships between the women that drive the narrative. As Miss LaFosse presses her for help with lover number two, Miss Pettigrew transforms. “For the first time for 20 years some one really wanted her for herself alone,” Watson writes, “not for her meager (sic) scholarly qualifications. For the first time for 20 years she was herself, a woman, not a paid automaton.” [12]
Such a scenario might suggest that the remedy to a ‘world run by men’[13] lies with women alone. But Watson does not exclude men from the provision of happiness and the expression of generosity and kindness. Michael’s love for Miss LaFosse is broad enough to offer Miss Pettigrew a way out of poverty, insecurity, and obscurity. Her happiness is bound up in his own desire for happiness. One will secure the other. If Watson had so wished, the story could have ended there, but the inclusion of Joe in the last paragraph includes a ‘beau’ for Miss Pettigrew. The happiness of the two women is balanced by that of the two men.
In Richmal Crompton’s Family Roundabout the need to break away from family is explored through the eyes of ‘two widowed matriarchs who embody opposite kinds of mothering’.[14]Aykroyd speaks of this inter-war period as ‘one of upheaval for women’.
‘To be married,’ she writes, ‘and have children was no longer a woman’s only acceptable destiny’.
But for all her sharp insight into the inequalities, faults and human frailties underlying family life, Crompton nevertheless manages to entertain and amuse her readers. She draws characters with redeeming features – ones with whom the reader can sympathise.
All these catalysts could be thought of as quaint or exaggerated characters, but the whole point of their delineation is to inject simplicity and honesty into a tired and artificial world: the weary world so often portrayed being that of Britain between and around the two world wars. Certainties are gone, and in reaction to this, society has sought to impose a rigid set of petty rules which will keep everyone in their place. Any escape is worth the throw of the dice. Deliciously, in many of the books of the period, the wicked get their just deserts – but not in all.
In Consequences,[15] E M Delafield uses a restricted palette, focusing on a small community and a narrow social class. She sets the book between 1889 and 1908. By this strategy she is able to minutely explore the frustrations and restrictions of her own childhood, and emergence into adult life. Her subjects are girls from whom the full truth is hidden. They are forced to make their choices ‘in the dark’. Hers is a sharper, more incisive pen. Her description of Alex’s disintegration when her beloved Mother Gertrude is about to leave her shows the raft of unreality upon which Alex has based her life choices. Alex believes she is dedicated to God, but is confronted by the truth: she desires only the love of Mother Gertrude.
‘She knew that she had thought herself to be answering a call of God, when she had been hearing only the voice of Mother Gertrude…
Physical pangs of terror shot through her from head to foot as she realized to what she had bound herself, which now presented itself to her overstrung perceptions only in the crudest terms…
…There was nothing, anywhere.
And with that final certainty of negation came a rigidity of despair that no terms of time or space could measure.’
The tragedy of Alex’s choices works its way through to the end of the book. Perhaps the saddest line of all is the very last, spoken to Cedric, by Barbara:
‘…Alex was such a pretty little girl!’
However, women are not alone in this accident of choice. During the twentieth century racism restricted opportunity for countless people, giving birth to the ongoing struggle for recognition, freedom of action, and equal rights for all, regardless of race, creed or colour. In Dorothy Hughes’ The Expendable Man [16]we are confronted by a set of outcomes dominated by racism. The ‘expendable man’ is one Dr Hugh Densmore. He picks up a hitchhiker named Iris Croom. He is black and the girl is white. When she is found dead, Densmore is accused of her murder, and in the racist culture of Arizona during Kennedy’s presidency, the probability is that Densmore will pay for a crime he did not commit. In 1963 America a black man was of as little account as single women in early 20th century Britain.
Densmore’s plight is triggered by his choice to pick up the solitary white girl – goaded into it by the racist chanting of street thugs. A simple choice, which seems insignificant, comes to assume huge significance affecting the lives of many. This is a recurring theme throughout the books I have selected. In all of them choices are made for all manner of apparently trivial reasons – ranging from a dip in the interest rate[17] to the muddling of two advertisements, [18] and from the accident of geography (bringing disparate families into collision)[19] to the trivialities which drive them apart.
The ‘expendable’ men and ‘superfluous’ women in these books all begin life as innocents, moulded by time and place, society, manners, mores, and accident. Growing and maturing, they are forced to make choices which are sometimes based on partial knowledge – or deliberately contrived ignorance. Sometimes they are coerced into a course of action, other times they may have to choose the lesser of two evils. Some texts examine their plight with great sensitivity and seriousness (as in Consequences), others pick out the ridiculous and take the reader on a roller-coaster of entertainment (as in Miss Pettigrew) only touching on the pathos and the unfair luck-of-the-draw which makes one character privileged and another deprived.
In these texts we see riches versus poverty, black versus white, and truth versus lies. The human condition is seen to be affected both by huge upheavals in world history and by the minutiae of daily life. However, it is foolish to believe that our era has a better, truer grasp of the meaning of freedom of choice than those which went before us. We must acknowledge the delicacy of the pens which deal with the treatment of men and women, creed and colour, and social and educational status with such wit and generosity: those of Crompton, Delafield, Hughes, Stevenson, Watson, and Whipple (not forgetting the insights of Adam in A Woman’s Place).
I write this on a day of autumnal gales and lashing rain, and I consider myself lucky to curl up before a glowing hearth, surrounded by the elegance of my chosen Persephone books; dipping into the wit and wisdom of a time when the central heating didn’t always work, academic study for women was thought unnecessary or unnatural, and girls were schooled only for marriage. The times are different, but the writers are just the kind of people with whom one could enjoy afternoon tea and a debate about the role of choice in the shaping of a life. I can imagine a heated argument about earnestness as opposed to frivolity as the best tool to sculpt the message of a book; and the scones might grow cold as Crompton does battle with Delafield over the matter of servants. This is their delight – they used what power they had to write about what they saw about them. In subtle ways (and thanks to Persephone) their power reaches into the 21st century: the power to make us look askance at our own lives. Have we accepted restricted choices? Are we part of a generation which seeks to restrict the choices of others? Do we, through ignorance or lack of interest, consider our own happiness as more valuable than that of our weaker neighbours?
Our world is much smaller today than when these authors were weaving their stories. We have every possible aid to help us discover the outcomes of actions we take. But a few hours enjoying the incisive wit of these seven writers might sharpen our vision. Hopefully, with a wry smile and genuine feelings of warmth towards our fellow men (and women) we will find ourselves better equipped to make good choices. We may even begin to understand ‘how we got here’ and, more importantly, see more clearly the way that we should go.
[1] Chapter One, Richmal Crompton: Family Roundabout (1948) Persephone Book 24
[2] Dorothy Whipple: Someone at a Distance (1953) Persephone Book 3
[3] E.g. Mrs Featherstone Hogg in D E Stevenson: Miss Buncle’s Book (1934) Persephone Book 81
[4] Henry James: What Maisie Knew (1897)
[5] Henry James: The Awkward Age (1899)
[6] Ruth Adam: ‘The Superfluous Women’ in A Woman’s Place (1975) Persephone Book 20
[7] Jane Austen: Persuasion (1817) Chapter 7 (little Charles’ fall) ‘It was an afternoon of distress, and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to send for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to support and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest child to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe; besides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the other house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened, enquiring companions, than of very useful assistants.’
Chapter 12… Captain Wentworth’s: “no one so proper, so capable as Anne.”
[8] Jane Austen: Mansfield Park (1814) Chapter One: “There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my daughters the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a Miss Bertram. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct.”
[9] Daphne du Maurier: Rebecca (1938) Chapter Four: (Maxim and the girl who becomes the second Mrs de Winter) “Your friend,” he (Maxim) began, “she is very much older than you. Is she a relation? Have you known her long?” I saw he was puzzled by us.
“She’s not really a friend,” I told him, “she’s an employer. She’s training me to be a thing called a companion, and she pays me ninety pounds a year.”
“I did not know one could buy companionship,” he said; “it sounds a primitive idea. Rather like the Eastern slave market.”
[10] D E Stevenson: Miss Buncle’s Book (1934) Persephone Book 81
[11] Winifred Watson: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (1938) Persephone Book 21
[12] Priya Jain (March 05, 2008) http://www.focusfeatures.com
[13] Ruth Adam: Chapter One in A Woman’s Place (1975) Persephone Book 20 ‘At the beginning of the reign of King George V, it was taken for granted that the birth of a daughter must be a disappointment, in any walk of life, because men were in short supply and it was a man’s world.’
[14] Juliet Aykroyd: Preface to Richmal Crompton: Family Roundabout (1948) Persephone Book 24
[15] E M Delafield: Consequences (1919) Persephone Book 13
[16] Dorothy B Hughes: The Expendable Man (1963) Persephone Book 68
[17] D E Stevenson: Miss Buncle’s Book (1934) Persephone Book 81
[18] Winifred Watson: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (1938) Persephone Book 21
[19] Richmal Crompton: Family Roundabout (1948) Persephone Book 24
Off away…
…I’m off on hols for a week, with plenty of books! I’ve scheduled a couple of posts, but only a couple… see you soon :)
My Persephone Prize essay
The Persephone Prize was announced yesterday – many congrats to the winner; their winning essay will be published by Persephone soon, I believe. I didn’t expect to make the shortlist, and (indeed) did not, but it was only today that I realised that I’d accidentally sent an early, incomplete draft… doh! But I’m sure I wouldn’t have won anyway.
I asked them if I could publish my essay here – and they said I could. And so below is my (complete! I think… I’m now wondering if I’ve misplaced the final version…) essay about forms of adoption in some Persephone titles; soon I’ll be posting my Mum’s (aka Our Vicar’s Wife’s) entry too. I just thought, since we spent time writing them, we may as well share our efforts with the wider world! Here goes…
I asked them if I could publish my essay here – and they said I could. And so below is my (complete! I think… I’m now wondering if I’ve misplaced the final version…) essay about forms of adoption in some Persephone titles; soon I’ll be posting my Mum’s (aka Our Vicar’s Wife’s) entry too. I just thought, since we spent time writing them, we may as well share our efforts with the wider world! Here goes…
‘I must try to make
her feel at home!’: forms of adoption
her feel at home!’: forms of adoption
Persephone Books, it could be argued, performs the work of
an adoption agency. That is one, at least, among its many roles and activities.
Novels, biographies, cookery books, and more, are found neglected and unappreciated
– and given new homes; firstly between dove grey covers, joining a united
family bearing the same likeness, and then in actual homes of readers across
the world. It is appropriate, then, to look at the forms of adoption which appear
in a selection of Persephone’s novels. While actual adoption is not (I believe)
given centre stage in any Persephone novel – although some, like The Children Who Lived in a Barn by
Eleanor Graham, seem almost to be crying out for it – there are versions of it
which can be seen in several, particularly in Doreen (1946) by Barbara Noble.
an adoption agency. That is one, at least, among its many roles and activities.
Novels, biographies, cookery books, and more, are found neglected and unappreciated
– and given new homes; firstly between dove grey covers, joining a united
family bearing the same likeness, and then in actual homes of readers across
the world. It is appropriate, then, to look at the forms of adoption which appear
in a selection of Persephone’s novels. While actual adoption is not (I believe)
given centre stage in any Persephone novel – although some, like The Children Who Lived in a Barn by
Eleanor Graham, seem almost to be crying out for it – there are versions of it
which can be seen in several, particularly in Doreen (1946) by Barbara Noble.
Looking through the Persephone catalogue, it quickly becomes
apparent how many of the books show how wartime disrupts families – which is,
of course, a truism. The Second World War splits up a family in the moving
non-fiction work On the Other Side:
Letters to my children from Germany 1940-46 by Mathilde Wolff-Mönckberg; it
creates an unusual family in Jocelyn Playfair’s A House in the Country, where Cressida Chance’s large home (‘big
enough to be a hotel’[1],
as one character thinks) houses an increasing number of paying guests; it is
the catalyst of a search for family and identity in Little Boy Lost by Marghanti Laski.
apparent how many of the books show how wartime disrupts families – which is,
of course, a truism. The Second World War splits up a family in the moving
non-fiction work On the Other Side:
Letters to my children from Germany 1940-46 by Mathilde Wolff-Mönckberg; it
creates an unusual family in Jocelyn Playfair’s A House in the Country, where Cressida Chance’s large home (‘big
enough to be a hotel’[1],
as one character thinks) houses an increasing number of paying guests; it is
the catalyst of a search for family and identity in Little Boy Lost by Marghanti Laski.
In Doreen, the
Second World War does both actions: it disrupts a family and it creates a new
one, while continually asking what it means to be a family. Doreen is the young child who is evacuated to the
countryside, to be away from war-torn London. Her mother is poor and fiercely
protective, but recognises that she must place her child’s safety over her own
happiness (and the picture is complete with a dead child neighbour, Edie, who
acts as a warning of what could have happened had Doreen not moved to safety).
If adoption is the transferral from one home to another, then Doreen has not
only done this, she has had her first home changed out of recognition (‘it was
a come-down living in two rooms after you’d had a whole house to yourself’[2]), and
has already experienced life in another quasi-home: the air-raid shelter that
she finds diverting but hardly domestic.
Second World War does both actions: it disrupts a family and it creates a new
one, while continually asking what it means to be a family. Doreen is the young child who is evacuated to the
countryside, to be away from war-torn London. Her mother is poor and fiercely
protective, but recognises that she must place her child’s safety over her own
happiness (and the picture is complete with a dead child neighbour, Edie, who
acts as a warning of what could have happened had Doreen not moved to safety).
If adoption is the transferral from one home to another, then Doreen has not
only done this, she has had her first home changed out of recognition (‘it was
a come-down living in two rooms after you’d had a whole house to yourself’[2]), and
has already experienced life in another quasi-home: the air-raid shelter that
she finds diverting but hardly domestic.
Although shy on arrival, it is not long before Doreen has
found her place in her new surroundings:
found her place in her new surroundings:
With a child’s chameleon
adaptability she had acquired the colour of her new background. She was the daughter
of the house, petted by Francie, teased by Geoffrey, exercising an affectionate
authority over Lucy’s giggling simplicity. She was as much at ease as she had
been at home, and her domain was wider.[3]
adaptability she had acquired the colour of her new background. She was the daughter
of the house, petted by Francie, teased by Geoffrey, exercising an affectionate
authority over Lucy’s giggling simplicity. She was as much at ease as she had
been at home, and her domain was wider.[3]
Noble does not paint a portrait of a cruel or alienating
couple; Francie and Geoffrey Osbourne (Doreen’s new ‘parents’) are welcoming
and kind, although with different perspectives. Perhaps almost as important as Doreen’s
adoption (albeit temporary) into this household is her transition to a new home
and new surroundings. Doreen explores
not just the people that make up a family, but the idea of a landscape and a
building as a sort of family; it is familiarity with a landscape and
architecture that ultimately creates a home.
couple; Francie and Geoffrey Osbourne (Doreen’s new ‘parents’) are welcoming
and kind, although with different perspectives. Perhaps almost as important as Doreen’s
adoption (albeit temporary) into this household is her transition to a new home
and new surroundings. Doreen explores
not just the people that make up a family, but the idea of a landscape and a
building as a sort of family; it is familiarity with a landscape and
architecture that ultimately creates a home.
The home is extremely important in many Persephone novels
(and not just those that focus a title upon it: A House in the Country, The
New House, The Home-Maker, House-Bound). Few could forget the vivid
interior scenes in The Victorian
Chaise-Longue or the cosy domestic bliss of Greenery Street. Doreen is one of Persephone’s explorers of the
domestic:
(and not just those that focus a title upon it: A House in the Country, The
New House, The Home-Maker, House-Bound). Few could forget the vivid
interior scenes in The Victorian
Chaise-Longue or the cosy domestic bliss of Greenery Street. Doreen is one of Persephone’s explorers of the
domestic:
Left to her own devices, she
liked to from room to room, mounting first the flight of stairs to the floor
which contained her own bedroom and then the further flight which nowadays was
very little used and which led to what had been the servants’ bedrooms and a
lumber-room. She was fascinated by the thought of such a large house to contain
three persons.[4]
liked to from room to room, mounting first the flight of stairs to the floor
which contained her own bedroom and then the further flight which nowadays was
very little used and which led to what had been the servants’ bedrooms and a
lumber-room. She was fascinated by the thought of such a large house to contain
three persons.[4]
Alongside this (to Doreen) fantastically large house, she is
presented with a series of microcosmic or skewed homes – not just the air raid
shelter, but the Obsournes’ shed, and the toy house she is given as a present.
The image of the home recurs, multiplying itself through the novel, and echoing
the central problem facing this form of adoption that falls short of adoption:
the multiplicity of options facing Doreen. For, of course, as a friend says to
her sympathetically: ‘“You’ve got like two mothers, haven’t you, Doreen?”’ The
‘like’, interrupting the flow of the sentence, demonstrates that the sentiment
cannot be simple. She does not have two mothers; she has not transferred from
one family to another (or one home to another), but remains part of two
families, and torn between them: ‘She cried because she had learned to love
more than one person and it seemed that this was some kind of crime.’[5]
presented with a series of microcosmic or skewed homes – not just the air raid
shelter, but the Obsournes’ shed, and the toy house she is given as a present.
The image of the home recurs, multiplying itself through the novel, and echoing
the central problem facing this form of adoption that falls short of adoption:
the multiplicity of options facing Doreen. For, of course, as a friend says to
her sympathetically: ‘“You’ve got like two mothers, haven’t you, Doreen?”’ The
‘like’, interrupting the flow of the sentence, demonstrates that the sentiment
cannot be simple. She does not have two mothers; she has not transferred from
one family to another (or one home to another), but remains part of two
families, and torn between them: ‘She cried because she had learned to love
more than one person and it seemed that this was some kind of crime.’[5]
A similar situation arises in Family Roundabout (1949) by Richmal Crompton, where Mrs Willoughby
and Mrs Fowler are in unspoken competition for the role of grandmother – the
former ‘outraged’ when the latter appears to usurp her position; ‘That this
woman’s futility should have brought Jessica to a sense of duty when her own
authority had failed!’[6]
These non-romantic rivalries between women – particularly those that are not
voiced – evoke a certain distinct variety of domestic anxiety and
unsettledness. The difference here, of course, is that both of Crompton’s women
have equal standing – relationally and socially. Much of the tension in the
dynamics of Doreen develops from the
class distinction – which comes to a head when Mrs Rawlings visits (as Geoffrey
queries, ‘“Is Mrs Rawlings going to take her meals with us?”’[7])
and Mrs Fowler are in unspoken competition for the role of grandmother – the
former ‘outraged’ when the latter appears to usurp her position; ‘That this
woman’s futility should have brought Jessica to a sense of duty when her own
authority had failed!’[6]
These non-romantic rivalries between women – particularly those that are not
voiced – evoke a certain distinct variety of domestic anxiety and
unsettledness. The difference here, of course, is that both of Crompton’s women
have equal standing – relationally and socially. Much of the tension in the
dynamics of Doreen develops from the
class distinction – which comes to a head when Mrs Rawlings visits (as Geoffrey
queries, ‘“Is Mrs Rawlings going to take her meals with us?”’[7])
In Doreen, the
third corner of the triangle comes in the form of Doreen’s father, but he is
never a serious contender for a family, and – in the swift-moving train and
pipedream house – does not provide a stable option for a home. Doreen’s
loyalties are torn between these two homes, and only in the throes of a fever
is she able to embrace both options: ‘Doreen herself seemed to regard them
without discrimination.’[8]
third corner of the triangle comes in the form of Doreen’s father, but he is
never a serious contender for a family, and – in the swift-moving train and
pipedream house – does not provide a stable option for a home. Doreen’s
loyalties are torn between these two homes, and only in the throes of a fever
is she able to embrace both options: ‘Doreen herself seemed to regard them
without discrimination.’[8]
Mrs Rawlings senses the struggle, and thus gives one of the
few mentions of ‘adoption’ in the novel:
few mentions of ‘adoption’ in the novel:
[There] wasn’t any reason for
carrying on as if they’d adopted the child. She’d soon put a stop to that kind
of talk. Some people – give ‘em an inch and they’d take an ell. But it was a
nice room – it was nice for Doreen to have a room to herself.[9]
carrying on as if they’d adopted the child. She’d soon put a stop to that kind
of talk. Some people – give ‘em an inch and they’d take an ell. But it was a
nice room – it was nice for Doreen to have a room to herself.[9]
Like Doreen herself, who relishes the ‘privacy and seclusion
of her own bedroom’ and the ‘charm of possession’,[10]
Mrs Rawlings recognises the importance (articulated so famously by Virginia
Woolf, although perhaps not envisioning quite this set of circumstances) of a
room of one’s own. Independence is somehow found in this warren of
dependencies.
of her own bedroom’ and the ‘charm of possession’,[10]
Mrs Rawlings recognises the importance (articulated so famously by Virginia
Woolf, although perhaps not envisioning quite this set of circumstances) of a
room of one’s own. Independence is somehow found in this warren of
dependencies.
The idea of adoption was not brought about solely by war, of
course, nor was evacuation the concept taken to its extremes; Leonora Eyles
writes it Unmarried But Happy of
‘several cases where a lonely woman has taken on a little orphan of the air
raids (I imagine quite illegally, but there was not much law in those dark
nights) and made for it and herself a happy home.’[11]
But, in Francie, we see elements of the stereotype held up by those discussing
adoption earlier in the century: the woman who adopts for the sake of her own
emotional needs. In her 1977 memoir Woman
in a Man’s World, Rosamund Essex
wrote about adopting her son, David, at the beginning of the Second World War:
‘in the days when I adopted there were so many abandoned and unwanted children
that it was far better to have at least one parent rather than none’.[12]
(The choice facing Doreen – of two mothers – was not, of course, facing David.)
From an early age, Essex had wanted to adopt to avoid becoming ‘an acidulated
old spinster’;[13]
precisely the variety of person that some writers in the interwar period had
warned against adopting. The advice given in the many guides for (or treatise
on) spinsters considering adopting was: don’t. For instance, Laura Hutton
writes in The Single Woman and Her
Emotional Problems (1935) that ‘child adopted because the adopting mother’s affections are starved is [likely] to
suffer serious psychic damage’[14]
course, nor was evacuation the concept taken to its extremes; Leonora Eyles
writes it Unmarried But Happy of
‘several cases where a lonely woman has taken on a little orphan of the air
raids (I imagine quite illegally, but there was not much law in those dark
nights) and made for it and herself a happy home.’[11]
But, in Francie, we see elements of the stereotype held up by those discussing
adoption earlier in the century: the woman who adopts for the sake of her own
emotional needs. In her 1977 memoir Woman
in a Man’s World, Rosamund Essex
wrote about adopting her son, David, at the beginning of the Second World War:
‘in the days when I adopted there were so many abandoned and unwanted children
that it was far better to have at least one parent rather than none’.[12]
(The choice facing Doreen – of two mothers – was not, of course, facing David.)
From an early age, Essex had wanted to adopt to avoid becoming ‘an acidulated
old spinster’;[13]
precisely the variety of person that some writers in the interwar period had
warned against adopting. The advice given in the many guides for (or treatise
on) spinsters considering adopting was: don’t. For instance, Laura Hutton
writes in The Single Woman and Her
Emotional Problems (1935) that ‘child adopted because the adopting mother’s affections are starved is [likely] to
suffer serious psychic damage’[14]
Francie is not a spinster, of course, and her marriage is a
happy one. But her childlessness (and her unhappiness about this) is an
overarching theme in the novel: ‘“I’ve always felt sorry for children who
weren’t really wanted. […] That’s partly why I’ve always wanted children of my
own – because at least they couldn’t ever feel like that.”’[15] It
is even suggested that she chose her husband because she ‘wanted someone [she]
could mother’; the same phrase used in a (fairly repellent) book called Wasted Womanhood: ‘Life is without
meaning to her unless she “mothers”. It
may be her husband […]’.[16] While
individual women have, of course, always found fulfilment in different things
and different aspects of their lives (some wanting career, some wanting
romantic love, some wanting filial love, and many desiring a combination of the
above), there was a dominant line of thought in the early 20th
century that childless women had ‘an incessant aching longing for the
fulfilment of that primary feminine instinct’, to quote Mary Scharlieb’s
pessimistically-titled The Bachelor Woman
and Her Problems.[17]
happy one. But her childlessness (and her unhappiness about this) is an
overarching theme in the novel: ‘“I’ve always felt sorry for children who
weren’t really wanted. […] That’s partly why I’ve always wanted children of my
own – because at least they couldn’t ever feel like that.”’[15] It
is even suggested that she chose her husband because she ‘wanted someone [she]
could mother’; the same phrase used in a (fairly repellent) book called Wasted Womanhood: ‘Life is without
meaning to her unless she “mothers”. It
may be her husband […]’.[16] While
individual women have, of course, always found fulfilment in different things
and different aspects of their lives (some wanting career, some wanting
romantic love, some wanting filial love, and many desiring a combination of the
above), there was a dominant line of thought in the early 20th
century that childless women had ‘an incessant aching longing for the
fulfilment of that primary feminine instinct’, to quote Mary Scharlieb’s
pessimistically-titled The Bachelor Woman
and Her Problems.[17]
This is certainly true for Francie. While there is no
indication that Doreen suffers ‘serious psychic damage’ (at least from this
particular avenue), it quickly becomes clear that she is initially more comfortable
with the casual, undemanding affection of Francie’s husband – who, at the
outset of the novel, isn’t particularly enthusiastic about the idea of
temporarily adopting an evacuee. He remains affectionate but not overwhelmed by
the need for this surrogate daughter:
indication that Doreen suffers ‘serious psychic damage’ (at least from this
particular avenue), it quickly becomes clear that she is initially more comfortable
with the casual, undemanding affection of Francie’s husband – who, at the
outset of the novel, isn’t particularly enthusiastic about the idea of
temporarily adopting an evacuee. He remains affectionate but not overwhelmed by
the need for this surrogate daughter:
Was he abnormally detached or
Francie abnormally involved? And if the latter, was it with Doreen as an
individual, the affectionate, impressionable little girl who had fitted so
smoothly into their household during the past six months, or with a symbol of
childhood only, the representation of an idea? Long before Doreen had made her
appearance, there had been a niche prepared for her.[18]
Francie abnormally involved? And if the latter, was it with Doreen as an
individual, the affectionate, impressionable little girl who had fitted so
smoothly into their household during the past six months, or with a symbol of
childhood only, the representation of an idea? Long before Doreen had made her
appearance, there had been a niche prepared for her.[18]
Earlier in the novel, Noble writes that it ‘did not surprise
Francie to find that the child she had imagined and the child who had
materialised should blend so smoothly.’[19] She
becomes almost a Frankenstein figure. The same sentiment is seen in a fantastic
novel of the 1920s: Edith Olivier’s The
Love-Child. In this instance, the child has quite literally been ‘imagined’
and ‘materialised’; an imaginary childhood friend, Clarissa, is inadvertently
brought to life by the lonely spinster, Agatha. This scenario seems entirely
born from the starved emotions discussed by some interwar commentators, and
Olivier’s novel shows how this miraculous event cannot be controlled by the
woman; her ‘love child’ eventually changes and leaves her.
Francie to find that the child she had imagined and the child who had
materialised should blend so smoothly.’[19] She
becomes almost a Frankenstein figure. The same sentiment is seen in a fantastic
novel of the 1920s: Edith Olivier’s The
Love-Child. In this instance, the child has quite literally been ‘imagined’
and ‘materialised’; an imaginary childhood friend, Clarissa, is inadvertently
brought to life by the lonely spinster, Agatha. This scenario seems entirely
born from the starved emotions discussed by some interwar commentators, and
Olivier’s novel shows how this miraculous event cannot be controlled by the
woman; her ‘love child’ eventually changes and leaves her.
In Doreen, of
course, there is no fantastic panacea. Olivier’s Agatha has to go through the
formalities of filling out adoption forms, to explain the sudden appearance of
Clarissa, but Francie does not have even this procedure to turn to; inherent in
the evacuation is its finiteness. ‘The happiness she brought them was a
borrowed happiness. She was on loan to them’[20]
More than that, the home that is enlivened by Doreen’s presence will also
revert back to its previous state – and it is this domestic consideration that
is on Francie’s mind: ‘One day Doreen would go back. This house which bounded
her existence would be once more a house without a child. And that would be
hard to bear.’[21]
course, there is no fantastic panacea. Olivier’s Agatha has to go through the
formalities of filling out adoption forms, to explain the sudden appearance of
Clarissa, but Francie does not have even this procedure to turn to; inherent in
the evacuation is its finiteness. ‘The happiness she brought them was a
borrowed happiness. She was on loan to them’[20]
More than that, the home that is enlivened by Doreen’s presence will also
revert back to its previous state – and it is this domestic consideration that
is on Francie’s mind: ‘One day Doreen would go back. This house which bounded
her existence would be once more a house without a child. And that would be
hard to bear.’[21]
Perhaps Franice and Geoffrey would have been good candidates
for adoption. This form of it, though, only emphasises the absence of children
in the longterm home; Noble’s novel expertly shows the possible heartbreak for
all concerned as the aftermath of the kindness of evacuation.
for adoption. This form of it, though, only emphasises the absence of children
in the longterm home; Noble’s novel expertly shows the possible heartbreak for
all concerned as the aftermath of the kindness of evacuation.
And now to turn briefly to another Persephone novel,
published not long beforehand but with a very different form of adoption. If
the Second World War brought about disruption to families through bombings and
evacuation, then the First World War left its own legacy. Agatha (in The Love-Child) was of the generation
that had ‘two million surplus women’ (the much-mentioned figure of how many
more women there were than men in the 1920s). This, necessarily, led to large
numbers of women who neither married nor had children, chastised by those
interwar commentators, such as the one who proclaimed in 1920 that ‘it behoves
all who can in any way assist in the replenishing of the diminished population
of these islands to do so to the best of their ability.’[22]
Also among their number, perhaps, is Miss Pettigrew – of Winifred Watson’s Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (1938).
published not long beforehand but with a very different form of adoption. If
the Second World War brought about disruption to families through bombings and
evacuation, then the First World War left its own legacy. Agatha (in The Love-Child) was of the generation
that had ‘two million surplus women’ (the much-mentioned figure of how many
more women there were than men in the 1920s). This, necessarily, led to large
numbers of women who neither married nor had children, chastised by those
interwar commentators, such as the one who proclaimed in 1920 that ‘it behoves
all who can in any way assist in the replenishing of the diminished population
of these islands to do so to the best of their ability.’[22]
Also among their number, perhaps, is Miss Pettigrew – of Winifred Watson’s Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (1938).
Although the reader is not vouchsafed elaborate detail about
Miss Pettigrew’s past, and the ‘surplus women’ situation may or may not have
been the cause of her current life, but we know early in the novel that ‘there
was no personal friend or relation in the whole world who knew or cared whether
Miss Pettigrew was alive or dead.’[23]
Later on, she confides that she has never been kissed, but ‘still ha[s]
Feminine Instincts. Deep in the female breast burns a love of the conquering
males.’[24]
Yet it is not really sexual love that is foregrounded in the conclusion to the
Cinderella story Miss Pettigrew experiences. She is thrown into a frantic and
complex world of romance, intrigue, and even drugs – and, yes, she closes the
novel proudly announcing her ‘beau’ – but ultimately the happy ending to the
book is Miss Pettigrew’s own form of adoption.
Miss Pettigrew’s past, and the ‘surplus women’ situation may or may not have
been the cause of her current life, but we know early in the novel that ‘there
was no personal friend or relation in the whole world who knew or cared whether
Miss Pettigrew was alive or dead.’[23]
Later on, she confides that she has never been kissed, but ‘still ha[s]
Feminine Instincts. Deep in the female breast burns a love of the conquering
males.’[24]
Yet it is not really sexual love that is foregrounded in the conclusion to the
Cinderella story Miss Pettigrew experiences. She is thrown into a frantic and
complex world of romance, intrigue, and even drugs – and, yes, she closes the
novel proudly announcing her ‘beau’ – but ultimately the happy ending to the
book is Miss Pettigrew’s own form of adoption.
There is no child at the centre
of the adoption; it is not even entirely clear who is adopter and who adoptee.
It takes place in the final pages, when Miss LaFosse (who has introduced Miss
Pettigrew to this new world) asks Miss Pettigrew to look after her house:
of the adoption; it is not even entirely clear who is adopter and who adoptee.
It takes place in the final pages, when Miss LaFosse (who has introduced Miss
Pettigrew to this new world) asks Miss Pettigrew to look after her house:
“Michael and I are getting
married. Quite soon. But Michael has a kink. He will live in a big house with
big rooms. He says he spent all his youth with a family of nine all cooped in a
little flat with the walls closing in on him and never a room to himself, and
He Will Have Space. He has his eye on a beautiful house now, but it is immense.
We are both to live there. I can’t look after houses. I know nothing about
looking after houses.”[25]
married. Quite soon. But Michael has a kink. He will live in a big house with
big rooms. He says he spent all his youth with a family of nine all cooped in a
little flat with the walls closing in on him and never a room to himself, and
He Will Have Space. He has his eye on a beautiful house now, but it is immense.
We are both to live there. I can’t look after houses. I know nothing about
looking after houses.”[25]
In the same way that Doreen and Francie see their
relationship through houses, and interaction with them, so Miss LaFosse talks
only of the house – repeated almost like a mantra in this speech. Michael’s
childhood resembles Doreen’s (although she is able to think fondly of the
‘familiar, cluttered rooms and friendly, crowded streets’[26]),
and he is equally beguiled by the idea of an expansive home; one that exceeds
necessity and thus permits freedom. Miss Pettigrew’s response is not unlike
Doreen’s excitement at the room of her own:
relationship through houses, and interaction with them, so Miss LaFosse talks
only of the house – repeated almost like a mantra in this speech. Michael’s
childhood resembles Doreen’s (although she is able to think fondly of the
‘familiar, cluttered rooms and friendly, crowded streets’[26]),
and he is equally beguiled by the idea of an expansive home; one that exceeds
necessity and thus permits freedom. Miss Pettigrew’s response is not unlike
Doreen’s excitement at the room of her own:
Miss Pettigrew began to tremble.
It was little a great light bursting with a radiance that spread and spread. It
was fear gone for ever. It was peace at last. A house to run almost her own.
How she had longed for that! Marketing, ordering, like any other housewife.[27]
It was little a great light bursting with a radiance that spread and spread. It
was fear gone for ever. It was peace at last. A house to run almost her own.
How she had longed for that! Marketing, ordering, like any other housewife.[27]
It is not the husband that makes the housewife, in her case;
it is simply the house. Or, rather, the home; like Doreen, Miss Pettigrew has
experienced a series of quasi-homes – acting as a governess, rather than part
of the family – and the spectre of another looms on her horizon: ‘“There was
nothing for me but the workhouse, and now you offer me a home.”’[28] She
has been adopted into the household. Her temporary stay with Miss LaFosse –
effectively an evacuation from her dreary life into the safety of companions
and friends (even if the danger of other aspects) – is made a fixed and
permanent adoption, albeit an unconventional one. And, at the same time, she is
also adopting Miss LaFosse and Michael – becoming, in some way, their caregiver
and parent figure.
it is simply the house. Or, rather, the home; like Doreen, Miss Pettigrew has
experienced a series of quasi-homes – acting as a governess, rather than part
of the family – and the spectre of another looms on her horizon: ‘“There was
nothing for me but the workhouse, and now you offer me a home.”’[28] She
has been adopted into the household. Her temporary stay with Miss LaFosse –
effectively an evacuation from her dreary life into the safety of companions
and friends (even if the danger of other aspects) – is made a fixed and
permanent adoption, albeit an unconventional one. And, at the same time, she is
also adopting Miss LaFosse and Michael – becoming, in some way, their caregiver
and parent figure.
[3] Doreen p.59
[4] Doreen p.89
[5] Doreen pp.125f
[7] Doreen p.56
[8] Doreen p.206
[9] Doreen p.63
[10] Doreen p.89
[12] Essex,
p.48
p.48
[13] Essex,
p.15
p.15
[14] Hutton
p.138
p.138
[15] Doreen p.16
[16] Doreen p.87; Charlotte Cowdroy, Wasted Womanhood (London: Allen &
Unwin, 1933) p.82
Unwin, 1933) p.82
[18] Doreen p.165
[19] Doreen p.48
[20] Doreen p.217
[21] Doreen p.110
[24] Miss Pettigrew p.208, p.220
[25] Miss Pettigrew p.231
[26] Doreen p.38
[27] Miss Pettigrew p.232
[28] Miss Pettigrew p.233
Serial (or, how I got addicted to something some months after everybody else)
If you’ve looked at my Twitter feed recently, or spoken to me in any context whatsoever, chances are that I’ve spoken excitedly about Serial. Yes, I realise that everybody else was doing that last November, but I was busy… erm… I was probably watching Emmerdale or something. But now I have sped through all 12 episodes, and I’m ready to rush down the road after that bandwagon.
On the slim chance that you haven’t heard of Serial, and the slightly less slim chance that you’ve not listened to it, I am going to continue. It’s a podcast (Thoroughly Modern, no?) which is a spin-off of This American Life, and over the course of 12 episodes the presenter, Sarah Koenig, documents her experiences investigating a murder case that happened 15 years ago.
Here is the description of the case that Serial’s website offers:
On January 13, 1999, a girl named Hae Min Lee, a senior at Woodlawn High School in Baltimore County, Maryland, disappeared. A month later, her body turned up in a city park. She’d been strangled. Her 17-year-old ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, was arrested for the crime, and within a year, he was convicted and sentenced to spend the rest of his life in prison. The case against him was largely based on the story of one witness, Adnan’s friend Jay, who testified that he helped Adnan bury Hae’s body. But Adnan has always maintained he had nothing to do with Hae’s death. Some people believe he’s telling the truth. Many others don’t.
Koenig is neither one nor the other; she is not presenting the podcast with the aim of exonerating Syed, but rather of discovering the truth (an angle that, she notes, is not necessarily shared by lawyers for prosecution or defence). I went into the series knowing that there would not be any clear-cut conclusion to it, which certainly helped me enjoy (if enjoy is the word) Serial without a sense of disappointment at the end.
Koenig has access to an extraordinary amount of material. Many people don’t agree to speak with her – Jay being the most notable absence, although interviews with him have subsequently been done by other reporters – but she has many ‘phone calls with Syed, lots of recordings from the trial, excerpts from diaries and letters, and interviews with many, many people, including (to my surprise) jurors. I don’t know what the laws are in the US (or, indeed, the UK), but I was surprised that she was allowed to play court proceedings or speak to jurors. Syed’s lawyer died a couple of years after the case was lost, and is a fascinating character herself, as one episode explores (as well, I’m sorry to say, as having the most irritating voice I’ve ever encountered).
What makes it so brilliant is a mixture of the writing, editing, and presenting. I suppose the many question marks about the case also contribute, but Koenig’s humanity holds the whole thing together. She is as curious, impatient, confused, and witty. She is more or less exactly the same as her listeners. Her empathy shines through, but at the same time she is keeping her interviewees at a distance, because she doesn’t know whom to trust. Because at least one person is lying.
I was cautious about using the word ‘enjoy’, because you have to remember that this is a real murder, and a real young woman who lost her life. It is also (possibly) a real young man with life in prison for something he didn’t do. But what makes Serial so good, and also quaintly anachronistic, is how non-sensational it is. Think of it as a sort of chattier Panorama, perhaps; it’s investigative journalism, not reality radio. But that’s not to say you won’t get hooked. Click the link above, give the first episode a try (or you can hunt it down on iTunes etc.), and you won’t look back.