For Flute and Piccolo by E.H. Lomer

One of the loveliest parts of being Series Consultant for the British Library Women Writers series is getting to speak to the relatives of authors we’re republishing. When the extraordinarily good The Spring Begins by Katherine Dunning was brought back to life, I got to have a phone call with Dunning’s great niece. Did I know, she asked, that Dunning’s sister also wrote books? Then, so kindly, she sent me not only a pile of Dunning’s novels – but one by Dunning’s sister (her grandmother): For Flute and Piccolo (1955) by E.H. Lomer.

At the centre of the novel are Alice and her adult (or almost adult) children – Harold, Stephen, Jenny. Alice is a widow who is not as well-off as she once was, and she borrows money from a dear, long-standing friend, Mark. The first conflict in the novel is the dispute this occasions between Mark (and Alice) and Harold. He is staid, fiercely respectable, abiding by rules that he believes must be stringently enforced upon others, whatever the cost – though these rules derive as much from pride as decency. And other rules, as we shall learn in the novel, are not rigorously followed.

“So you wish to repay what you consider your mother has borrowed from me – is that it?” he asked.

“Precisely,” said Harold, but he was on his guard.

“Can you afford it?” said Mark, hitting below the belt.

Harold’s face grew pink and offended and a different note entered his voice. Now that he was no longer sparring with Mark but stated his case in a way that carried conviction.

“What I certainly cannot afford is to have it said that I cannot support my own mother – that she must turn to someone else for money on which to live.”

Alice moved uneasily. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she admitted, and threw a look of apology towards Mark.

“Neither had I,” said Mark, but without apology.

I love the small moments that mark Lomer out as a thoughtful stylist. She often does those little twists – like ‘but without apology’ – that do so much to elevate the writing, and to give an arch wit to depictions of the dynamics between characters. It’s that sort of sharp writing that really sets apart books like For Flute and Piccolo from the many other novels that look at the conflicts of domestic life in small communities.

The dynamic of Alice and Mark is also interesting. I wished the novel had a little more of Alice, and a little more of her psychology, for she plays the role of so many older woman in novels of the period (and in life) – considered chiefly in the light of mother and wife, and undervalued or disregarded for any other personality or autonomy that she might have. But – and I enjoyed this choice by Lomer – Mark also plays the role often played by women in novels. Throughout the anxieties and disagreements of the central family, Mark is the calm bystander – wise, listening, keeping his views concealed until they are asked for. He is perhaps the emotional heart of the novel, but also the most reticent.

Harold is the opposite of reticent. He is a very successful villain – because he is so frustratingly believable. Like so many naturalistic villains, he is able to twist anybody else’s words and actions into a slight against himself, meanwhile never considering or caring how his words and actions impact anybody else. He reminded me of the mother in E.F. Benson’s Mr Teddy. Here he is with his longsuffering (but not contentedly) wife, May:

“I really wouldn’t have liked to start my tea without you, Harold.”

“I can’t see why not.”

“But I always wait for you,” she said, her voice rising.

“Well, there’s really no necessity,” said Harold, getting impatient. He looked around the table, waiting for his tea, and because there was nothing else to do, May poured it out for him. She poured herself a cup, too, and the silence gathered. No one would talk now until Harold was satisfied, and whether May herself had anything to eat or not would be unnoticed by him. Perversely she ate nothing, hoping he would notice, knowing he wouldn’t, feeling aggrieved.

Isn’t that final sentence perfect – about the petty points that are disregarded by the one they’re aimed at, and the resentment that is tangled up in the useless action? Lomer is very good on the simmering fury of small feuds.

She is equally enjoyable on the possibility of happiness on a similarly small scale. The title comes from a scene in the novel between Mark and Lanty, the latter being enamoured with Jenny (and I believe Jenny and Lanty are depicted on the novel’s cover.) Lanty explains what he is hoping for:

“So that’s your idea of comfort?”

“What’s yours, Lanty?”

Mark asked the question smiling, but Lanty took him seriously.

“A home of my own,” he said after a moment, “and someone waiting for me. The kettle singing on the hearth and a wide arm-chair. Bright fires in winter, open windows in summer – ordinary things, Mr Hillary.”

“I see,” said Mark.

“Just ordinary things,” said Lanty again. “Everyday lives. A tune for flute and piccolo, if you get my meaning. No big drums.”

I’m never sure this sort of title works well – something that needs explaining, or a quote that doesn’t make sense out of context (I am famed for my dislike for Barbara Pym’s titles The Sweet Dove Died and Some Tame Gazelle). Perhaps Lomer gets away with it because the title somehow conveys the tone of the novel, even if you don’t know quite what she’s referring to.

Writing about animosity and petty resentment is perhaps easier than writing about infatuation, and there are occasional moments in the romantic storyline that land a bit falsely (e.g. ‘”I love the very ground you walk on,” said Lanty, carried away’) – though ‘carried away’ at least makes a nod to the jarring tone. But Lomer is overall so successful at her depiction of the emotional highs and lows of unambitious lives. On a grand scale, the disagreements of the family make no difference – but, to the people involved, they are everything. She conveys that beautifully.

As I’ve written above, what makes a small-scale domestic novel stand out is the writing – and I think the sharp precision of Lomer’s turns of phrase that make For Flute and Piccolo stand out. And this, of course, in turn gives the characters greater reality and distinction.

In a battle of the sisters, Katherine Dunning’s The Spring Begins is still the greater book, in my eyes – but I consider it a masterpiece. For Flute and Piccolo might not be quite a masterpiece, but it is extremely good. The sort of sharply written, keenly plotted novel with memorable, individual characters that you could easily imagine being a modern classic – and yet, because of the vagaries of publishing, has been nearly forgotten. I’m so glad that I had the chance to read it – and should you ever stumble across it, I think you’d enjoy doing so too.