…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.
Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany
I’m going to be spending my weekend doing some painting, I think (of the still life variety, rather than the walls-and-ceiling variety), but before I get out my brushes, here’s a weekend miscellany…
1.) The blog post – is a delight of a poem on Kate Macdonald’s blog. It’s ‘The Plaint of the Middlebrow Novelist’ by Phoebe Fenwick Gaye, and will ring true to any of us immersed in the middlebrow world.
2.) The link – is a YouTube video of a documentary from a few years back called Twincredibles. I believe the title here is in Hungarian, but that’s only because it’s the only version I could find… c’mon, BBC, update your archives. It was part of a ‘Mixed Race Season’ that they did, and looks at several sets of mixed race twins who have very different skin tones. The thing I find strangest about some of these pairs, though (particularly Daniel and James) is how little they seem to get on. I can’t imagine a twin not being the most important person in your life.
3.) The books – I went to the Oxfam bookshop near my work the other day, with my colleague and friend Kirsty, and picked up a couple of books I know nothing about. (I also revelled in the fact that she bought four; it’s rare that I’m out-booked by a fellow shopper.) Has anybody read I Thought of Daisy by Edmund Wilson or The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne? I bought the former because I’ve vaguely meant to read him for ages, and the latter… for the amusing cover.
The Guest Cat by Takashi Hiraide
I’m over at the foxes again… talking about The Guest Cat by Takashi Hiraide, an impulse buy when I went to Foyle’s recently. Read all about it!
London War Notes by Mollie Panter-Downes
I was recently contacted by Tombola about an initiative they’ve got going with Loose Women (which they sponsor) where they’re asking various bloggers which book they’re most looking forward to in 2015 – and they’re bringing them together in a feature (which I’ll link to when it’s live).
Unsurprisingly, my first question was “do reprints count?” Because that’s where my heart lies, as you know. When they assured me it did, I picked London War Notes by Mollie Panter-Downes – which is being republished by Persephone Books in April, I believe. Here is (a very slightly adapted version of) what I wrote about it a while ago…
There are plenty of books about World War Two. There are even plenty of diaries, and some – like Nella Last’s or Mathilde Wolff-Mönckeberg’s – are exceptionally good. But these sorts of diaries are, inevitably, extremely personal. There is plenty of detail about the war, but primarily they record one person’s response to the war – and any private emotions they are experiencing, relating to their marriage, children, or any other aspect of their lives. Mollie Panter-Downes’ objective is different – she is documenting the war experience for all of London. (It is emphatically just London; she often refers to ‘the British’, but the rest of the country can more or less go hang, as far as she is concerned.)
Panter-Downes wrote these ‘notes’ for the New Yorker, but it is impressively difficult to tell this from the columns. Even at the stages of the war where America was umming and aahing about fighting, she observes British feelings on the topic (essentially: “yes please, and get on with it”) as though relating them to her next-door neighbour, rather than the country in question. And, of course, Americans and Britons are two nations divided by a single language, as George Bernard Shaw (neither American nor British) once said. This gives Mollie Panter-Downes the perfect ‘voice’ for a book which has stood the test of time. Her audience will be aware of major events in the war, but the minutiae of everyday life – and London’s response to the incremental developments of war – are related with the anthropologist’s detail, to a sympathetic but alien readership.
And nobody could have judged the balance of these columns better than Panter-Downes. The extraordinary writing she demonstrates in her fiction (her perfect novel One Fine Day, for instance) is equally on show here. She offers facts and relates the comments of others, but she also calmly speaks of heroism and bravado, looks at humour and flippancy with an amused eye, and can be brought to moving heights of admiration. The column she writes in response to D Day is astonishing, and it would do it an injustice to break it up at all – so I shall post the whole entry tomorrow. This, to give you a taste, is how she describes the fall of France – or, rather, the reaction to this tragic news, in Britain:
June 22nd 1940: On Monday, June 17th – the tragic day on which Britain lost the ally with whom she had expected to fight to the bitter ed – London was as quiet as a village. You could ave heard a pin drop in the curious, watchful hush. A places where normally there is a noisy bustle of comings and goings, such as the big railway stations, there was the same extraordinary, preoccupied silence. People stood about reading the papers; when a man finished one, he would hand it over to anybody who hadn’t been lucky enough to get a copy, and walk soberly away.
For once the cheerful cockney comeback of the average Londoner simply wasn’t there. The boy who sold you the fateful paper did it in silence; the bus conductor punched your ticket in silence. The public seemed to react to the staggering news like people in a dream, who go through the most fantastic actions without a sound. There was little discussion of events, because they were too bad for that. With the house next door well ablaze and the flames coming closer, it was no time to discuss who or what was the cause and whether more valuables couldn’t have been saved from the conflagration.
I’ve read quite a lot of books from the war, both fact and fiction, and have studied the period quite a bit, but there were still plenty of things I didn’t know. I hadn’t realised, for instance, that boys were conscripted into mines at random, or that German planes dropped lots of bits of silvery paper (which children then collected) to disrupt radar equipment, or that in 1940 all foreigners in Britain – including the recently-invaded French – were banned from having cars, bicycles, or cameras. More significantly, I had never got my head around the order in which things happened during the war. I mean, I knew vaguely when various invasions happened, when America entered the war, when D-Day took place – but London War Notes offers a fortnight-by-fortnight outlook on the war. We can see just which rations were in place, which fears were uppermost, and how public opinion shifted – particularly the public opinion concerning Winston Churchill. Films made retrospectively tend to show him as much-adored war hero throughout, but London War Notes demonstrates how changeable people were regarding him and his policies – although there was a lot more approval for various politicians than is imaginable in Britain today, where they are all largely regarded as more or less scoundrels. (Can you think of a politician with a very good general public approval? I can’t.) This is why I think the book is essential for anyone writing about life in England (or perhaps just London) during the war – Panter-Downes gives such an insight into the changing lives and conditions. It also made me think about things from a perspective I hadn’t previously. I’d never really appreciated how devastating tiredness could be to a nation.
Sept. 29th 1940: Adjusting daily life to the disruption of nightly raids is naturally what Londoners are thinking and talking most about. For people with jobs to hold down, loss of sleep continues to be as menacing as bombs. Those with enough money get away to the country on weekends and treat themselves to the luxury of a couple of nine-hour stretches. (“Fancy,” said one of these weekenders dreamily, “going upstairs to bed instead of down.”) It is for the alleviation of the distress of the millions who can’t afford to do anything but stay patiently put that the government has announced the distribution of free rubber earplugs to deaden the really appalling racket of the barrages.
One of the keynotes of London War Notes is Panter-Downes’ admiration for the resilience and good-humour of the British people during war. I’d always assumed this was something of a war film propaganda myth, but since Panter-Downes is more than happy to note when people grumble and complain, then I believe the more frequent reports of cheeriness and determination. And, lest you think London War Notes is unremittingly bleak or wearyingly emotional, I should emphasise that Panter-Downes is often very amusing and wry. An example, you ask? Why, certainly:
Jan. 31st 1942: The Food Ministry has been flooded with letters, including one supposedly from a kitten, who plaintively announced that he caught mice for the government and hoped Lord Woolton would see his way clear to allowing him his little saucerful. In the country, the milk shortage has brought about a boom in goats, which appeal to people who haven’t got the space or the nerve necessary to tackle a cow but who trustingly imagine that a goat is a handy sort of animal which keeps the lawn neat and practically milks itself.
London War Notes isn’t a book to speed-read, but to luxuriate in, and pace out. I can’t imagine a more useful, entertaining, moving, and thorough guide to the war, beautifully finding a middle path between objectivity and subjectivity. Thank goodness it’s being reprinted soon.
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Back in the days when I’d only dimly heard of David Sedaris, the book I had heard of was Me Talk Pretty One Day. Based on the title alone, I was under the assumption that it was a novel about a girl with mental development problems. It was perhaps that which led to me getting an embarrassingly long way into Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim before realising that it was not a novel about a young girl. But now, on my third Sedaris book, I’m in the swing of things – he writes humorous essays about his own life. But you probably know that already.
This collection is (I believe) his bestselling title, and it is extremely funny. The focus is not so much on his family as it was in the other two books I read, although the first few stories do take place among those many brothers and sisters. They’re anecdotes, really, more than stories – about how David’s father forced them all to play instruments, with the misguided idea that they would become almost instantly proficient; about his overly-invested speech therapist; about tanning competitions on the beach. His eye for an anecdote is perfect. Sedaris is endlessly dry, self-deprecating, and able to find the humour in any experience – often through the throwing in of a bizarrely specific detail or unlikely piece of dialogue. Are all his reminiscences accurate? One assumes not. They are exaggerated at the very least. But that doesn’t matter a jot.
The two main sections of Me Talk Pretty One Day deal with Sedaris’ student years and his experiences trying to learn French. I’m always amazed at how many things Sedaris has crammed in his life, and one of those is a period during which he thought he’d try his hand at performance art. It is all extremely amusing (as that topic is more or less set up to be), even given my discomfort at reading about drug-taking. What makes it so brilliant is the dry, eye-rolling narrative that subtly looks back on disaffected, youthful David from the vantage of disaffected, middle-aged David. And when it comes served with sentences like the following, what more could you want? He is the master of putting together a sentence that neatly wraps up the ridiculous without making a song and dance about it:
I enrolled as an art major at a college known mainly for its animal-husbandry programme.
But the most sustained theme I’ve seen in the three books I’ve read so far is, as mentioned, his attempts to learn French and live in France (thanks to the French-dwelling of his partner Hugh). It is these experiences that give the collection its title – with a sort of oh-I-see sense that eluded me with Dress Your Family in Corduory and Denim and Let’s Discuss Diabetes With Owls. From his first venture to France, knowing only the French for bottleneck, to his intense lessons with an aggressive teacher, to living fairly confidently off phrases cribbed from medical audiobooks… His lessons sounded brutal, but also led to some amusing moments (of course), and this one gives a good example to Sedaris’ style for those who haven’t read him:
“And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?”
It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.
“Might one sing on Bastille Day?” she asked. “Might one dance in the streets? Somebody give me an answer.”
Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays accompanied by a scattered arrangement of photograph depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object of the lesson was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the pronoun they. I didn’t know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.
I love that sort of pay-off at the end of that; the detail that is curiously specific and off-kilter, but carefully within the world that Sedaris has created. This world isn’t the real world, and isn’t a fictional universe, but it’s a beautiful, bizarre, grumpy, and very amusing realm that Sedaris has both created and made his own.
Oh, and I forgot to say – Liz very kindly gave me this copy; thanks so much, Liz!
Whither silliness?
An interesting question was posed today in my online book group – in passing, actually, in a discussion of Elizabeth von Arnim – about silliness in books. It was agreed (between the two of us, at least) that silliness could be on the level of either plot or dialogue. I think there’s a place for either, but definitely prefer the latter.
Let me briefly explain… Novels that have silliness on the level of plot are those like P.G. Wodehouse that have absurd event after absurd event – a sort of narrative farce – that is expertly organised but so unlikely as to be impossible. Silliness on the level of dialogue encompasses rather more – the example given was from von Arnim’s In the Mountains, where a pompous guest begins a reminiscence with “Our father …” and the narrator thinks she is about to start praying. I suppose it is moments or wordings that are unlikely to happen.
I love dialogue taken to unlikely extremes. It’s why I love Ivy Compton-Burnett, and strident heroines like Lady Catherine de Burgh. I also love narratives which leap to hyperbole or litotes – which is why I adore Richmal Crompton’s William books and the Provincial Lady series. Silliness perhaps isn’t the word, but it isn’t realism. Silliness in plot, however, I have only limited tolerance for. Wodehouse yes; almost everyone else, no.
Does this division chime with anyone? What are you thoughts? Did you think I was finally going to blog about the Mr Men? (One day…)
The Fur Person by May Sarton
I can’t remember exactly how it came about – begging, borrowing, or stealing (or, y’know, a present), but when I stayed with Thomas in Washington D.C. about 18 months ago, he gave me The Fur Person by May Sarton. That was not even amongst the nicest things he did – he’s a great guy, y’all – but it was definitely very exciting to get. He has been keen for me to read May Sarton for ages, and the one I did read (As We Are Now) never made its way to Stuck-in-a-Book – so, rather than strike out two for two, I’ll be talking about The Fur Person now. Full disclosure: I loved it.
How was I not going to love it, considering that it’s about a cat? Well, some cat-centric books have failed with me, one way or another. I wasn’t enamoured by Jennie (Paul Gallico), and – while I did adore Dewey, it was for all the wrong reasons. But The Fur Person (1978) combines a strong understanding of cats with a complete lack of sentiment – in the best possible way. So, although the novella undoubtedly includes cat-lovers, the narrative is presented from the cat’s perspective (albeit in the third person, if you see what I mean). He – Tom ‘Terrible’ Jones, no less – is pragmatic and selfish (like all cats) but willing to exchange affection and loyalty for the correct ‘housekeeper’, having realised that one cannot be a footloose, fancy-free young tom forever.
The story is simple, and supposedly based on the real life adventures of Sarton’s cat. He experiments with various housekeepers, before settling on the admiration and respect of Sarton and her partner. In a chilling warning to such as me, Tom is not interested in the cloyingly affectionate:
The trouble was, as he soon found out, that as soon as he came into reach, the lady could not resist hugging and kissing him with utter disregard for the dignity of his person. There are times when a Gentleman Cat likes very much to be scratched gently under his chin, and if this is done with savoir-faire he may afterwards enjoy a short siesta on a lap and some very refined stroking, but he does not like to be held upside down like a human baby and he does not like to be cooed over, and to be pressed to a bosom smelling of narcissus or rose.
Which is understandable, but there is a certain pathos in the way Sarton presents the scene. Tom is intent merely on getting out of the house – by the common feline method of standing silently by the door until obeyed – but, in the background, this would-be owner is mournful:
“You’re not a nice cat at all,” she said, and she began to whimper. “You don’t like me,” she whimpered, “do you?”
In another sort of novel, this might have been a tragic moment in her life – but, in The Fur Person, it is one of many instances that occur while Tom is finding his way to the idyll at the end of his journey.
The Fur Person bounded up the stairs, and at the very instant he entered the kitchen, the purrs began to swell inside him and he wound himself around two pairs of legs (for he must be impartial), his nose in the air, his tail straight up like a flag, on tip toes, and roaring with thanks.
It’s quite a sweet ending, but it doesn’t fall over the boundary into saccharine. And the reason for that, I believe, is because Sarton has observed the behaviour of cats so precisely. Everything she described rang true. Perhaps not the ten commandments for cats (individually they were accurate, but I suspect cats do not repeat these mantras by rote), but certainly the movements of tail and paws, the stretching, the staring and waiting – everything it described with such precision and accuracy that any cat-lover (particularly those of us who love cats but don’t live with any) will thrill to the reading experience.
Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany
My day started with pancakes and went on to pie (a mushroom, spinach, hazelnut and white truffle oil pie, since you ask = bliss), so it’s all going pretty well. My intention to read all day isn’t going great, although I am loving David Sedaris in brief snatches. And not reading the two books I told myself I’d read today. Still, it’s only 5.30pm, so still plenty of reading time left today – and time to give you a few bits of miscellaneous linking.
1.) You may know that Oliver Sacks is one of my heroes, and I love his books (and his humanity). His heroism continues in this beautiful, sad, wise piece for the New York Times about learning that he has terminal cancer.
2.) In a totally different tone, you might enjoy this quiz I put together in honour of Go Set a Watchman being announced: it is titles of books which are taken from elsewhere. Half are from the Bible; half are not. Can you tell which is which? (And thanks Susan for pointing out to me that Go Set a Watchman borrows its title from the Bible! I’m ashamed that I didn’t realise that myself.)
3.) Helene Hanff’s Letter from New York is on my bedside table, so I was excited to see Ali’s review of it – especially since it’s rather glowing.
4.) Do you (like me) love bad films? Not just mediocrity, but the ones with a script, direction, acting, and sound quality so bad that you ask ‘How did this get made?‘ Well, that just so happens to be the title of a hilarious podcast I discovered recently. It’s been going for four or so years, so there should be something in the archives to whet the appetite.