Matty and the Dearingroydes – Richmal Crompton

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I spent most of my childhood reading Enid Blyton (before I moved onto Goosebumps and Point Horror… eugh, don’t remind me) and thus missed out on quite a lot of classic children’s literature. But one series I did include alongside a diet of all things Blyton is the William series by Richmal Crompton. I’m sure everyone knows about the escapades of this eternal eleven-year-old, but if not – hie thee to a library. Anarchic without being too anarchic, and always well-meaning, William Brown is one of the great creations of children’s – indeed, any – literature.

It was about eight years ago that I started reading Richmal Crompton’s novels for adults, and I was hooked. (This all fits in nicely with Polly’s post that I highlighted at the weekend.) There are over thirty, and plenty of them are very scarce, so it gave me a treasure hunt with wonderful rewards. Frost at Morning is one of my 50 Books You Must Read But May Not Have Heard About, over in the right-hand column, but there are plenty of other wonderful books by this neglected novelist. They are a bit patchy, and the quality is variable, but at her best Crompton is infectious and very comforting.

I’ve recently re-read one of my favourite Crompton novels, Matty and the Dearingroydes. The title is a bit of a mouthful, but it does what it says on the tin. Matty Dearingroyde makes her living buying clothes door-to-door, and selling them in a secondhand shop. Her method of going door-to-door is a little unusual:

“We’ll go down this street and we’ll go into the first house with blue curtains.”… “We’ll go into the first house we come to with a bird-cage in the window.”… “I’m going to say the beginning of Paradise Lost to myself and we’ll go into the house we’ve got to when I’ve reached ‘And justify the ways of God to men’.”
You begin to sense the sort of character Matty is: irrepressible, a little eccentric, and exactly the sort I always love. Anyway, she knocks at a door and gives her card… and by coincidence she has stumbled upon her extended family.

The rest of the Dearingroydes are well-to-do, and Matty is something of poor relation crossed with a family secret. Some misplaced family loyalty, and some inherited guilty, prompt supercilious Matthew Dearingroyde to ‘welcome’ Matty into the family circle. But it would be too burdensome for her to live solely with his family, and instead she is to spend a section of the year in various different households.

The plot and its many characters would be too much to summarise here, because Crompton always wields huge casts in fairly short novels, but it’s all well drawn. There are parents using their daughter to battle with each other; aging members of respectable families forced to live in a hotel; a shop-owner who pours a little too much alcohol into her cups of tea; a pair of teachers in a silent power struggle – a whole canvas of characters.

Crompton does often use the same sorts of characters across her novels (the pair of friends, one sucking the other dry of energy, crops up a lot and is always affecting) but they’re so involving that I can forgive her. In Matty and the Dearingroydes, because Matty is peripatetic, characters do tend to be left and forgotten once Matty has moved onto the next house – but so, I suppose, they would be. As long as exhuberant Matty is always in the foreground, then that’s fine.

Crompton will never be a prose stylist of genius, or even of a very high standing. Her writing certainly isn’t bad – it will never make you squirm – but it is mostly just functional. It gets the job done, without being in itself memorable. But Crompton’s novels are, and they are definitely comfort reads. I have a stock of ones I’ve yet to read, and I love knowing they’re there waiting for me. Matty and the Dearingroydes is quite tricky to track down, although Oxford country library has it and probably others do too, but you can pick up one of many Richmal Cromptons and be equally diverted. As I said, they are variable, but ones I’ve loved include Family Roundabout (published by Persephone; currently reprinting), Frost at Morning, Mrs. Frensham Describes a Circle, Narcissa, Millicent Dorrington, Four in Exile, There Are Four Seasons, Linden Rise, Westover, The Ridleys…

Books to get Stuck into:

So many suggestions I could make for this sort of book, but looking back through my past posts, I’m going to plump for…

Miss Mole – E.H. Young: similarly irrepressible older woman encountering a staid and jaded family…

Miss Hargreaves – Frank Baker: always popular here, can’t blame a boy for trying – if you haven’t read this novel yet, and the idea of an eccentric lady appeals, then you can do no better than this novel which is hilarious, moving, and even sinister, in turns.

Brother of the More Famous Jack

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Back in the mists of time, Bloomsbury very kindly sent me a set of Barbara Trapido’s novels – which featured in a Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany back here – but somehow I’ve only just got around to reading the first: Brother of the More Famous Jack (1982). I’m afraid the title remained a mystery to me to the end – they do mention that it is in reference to W.B. Yeats, but I’d never heard of Jack Yeats (is that the point?) and I couldn’t see why the title had been chosen… anybody able to enlighten me, do pop your answer in the comments, please.

But that’s by-the-by, really, because I was very impressed by Brother of the More Famous Jack. It is, although I hate the expression and usually hate the genre, a coming-of-age novel. That phrase always makes me shudder and think of ghastly books like The Catcher in the Rye (which we didn’t much like as a whole, remember?) but Trapido’s novel is much better than that. We see Katherine start off as an ingenuous eighteen year old, thrown into the maelstrom of the Goldman household. And since the novel is in the first person, we feel thrown into it as well. Eccentric, forthright Professor Jacob – a ‘creative and inspired grumbler’ – his kind but sharp wife Jane, and their six children (especially Roger and Jonathan, competing at various points throughout the novel for her affection) provide a world of which Katherine has no experience. They are in turns enchanting, frustrating, and bewildering – for the reader as much as Katherine. Katherine herself it is difficult not to like, if only for this: ‘I reverted, as I do in moments of crisis, to rereading Emma, with cotton wool in my ears.’ A sound course of action for anyone, I think you’ll agree. At the same time, Katherine is not a wholly endearing character – more an empathetic one. Watching her grow wiser, we understand rather than adore Katherine.

And aside from the characters, Oxford is often a star of the novel. Although a country bumpkin like me is captured more by the descriptions of the Goldmans’ rural estate, I must admit to being won over by this depiction of Oxford, as experienced by Roger Goldman: Oxford was a place of magical cobbled lanes which led to the sweet-shop. It was a place where tea came with strawberries before the peal of bells for Evensong, where Grandmother, in a Pringle sweater and thick stockings, took one to watch punters from the bridge over the High Street, and where one went through doors into secret gardens with high stone walls. He never came to see it as a place afflicted with too much trad and old stones. He was not, as I was, embarrassed by the idea of privilege. He described to me with an almost hol joy the journey he would make from the railway station, past the litter and grot beside the slime-green canal, past the jail and on into St. Ebbes towards the ample splendour of Christ Church. The middle section of the novel, where Katherine heads off to Rome and a volatile relationship with a jealous Italian, is less successful and at times a little wearing. Trapido is much more successful when back amongst the Goldmans – my only quibble about them is that all their names begin with J. With Jane, Jacob, Jonathan, John and all the various appellations therefrom, it did get a bit confusing… I suppose it was deliberate, and with ‘Jack’ from the title being conspicuously absent… I don’t know. Another potentially interesting angle about which I require enlightening.

Like many of the novels I enjoy, Brother of the More Famous Jack is more about character and style than it is about plot – which makes it difficult to describe or recommend successfully. So I suggest you just pick up a copy and give it a go. It’s not my favourite novel this year and it isn’t cosily enchanting or anything like that, but I might just be inclined to agree with the blurb which claims that, with this novel, Trapido redefined the coming-of-age novel.

Books to get Stuck into:

Dodie Smith – I Capture the Castle: I’ve never actually blogged about it, but this is THE quintessential coming-of-age novel – and the only one before Trapido’s that I’d ever enjoyed. Funny, wise, and I’m even prepared to use the word ‘enchanting’.

Angelica Garnett – The Unspoken Truth: fiction, but heavily influenced by her own life, these four stories evoke the same ingenuousness amongst wry bohemia.

Ssshhhh…

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Let’s start the week as we mean to go on – with a review of a rather good book. The book in question is Secret Lives (1932) by Mr. E.F. Benson. Thanks to Nancy for bringing this to my attention absolutely AGES ago, I was finally able to get around to it just before I was struck down with illness.

It’s no secret that I love, love, and love the Mapp and Lucia series, as do many of you, but I hadn’t read any other EFB novels – despite having quite a few on my shelves. Secret Lives is reportedly the closest to that series and, although it isn’t as good as them, it certainly has the same spirit.

Think Lucia in London for the setting – i.e., we’re not in a Tillingesque village, we’re instead on the exclusive Durham Square in London. Exclusive, indeed, because Mrs. Mantrip’s father had systematically whittled his tenants down to the respectable and well-to-do, making sure Durham Square became the residency of choice for the highest society in London. And, for all that, it is incredibly provincial in its in-fighting, and the fact that everybody knows everybody else’s business. For a start, there is the matter of dogs in the garden. Mrs. Mantrip’s father (whom she reveres, and whose Life she is gradually writing – or, indeed, thinking about writing) expressly forbade it. But Elizabeth Conklin and her ten Pekinese – all circling her on leads – are keen to oppose. Cue all the wonderful cattiness and polite venom which fans of Mapp and Lucia have come to expect.

But then the title comes into play. ‘Below the seeming tranquillity of the Square surprising passions and secret lives were seething in unsuspected cauldrons.’ Margaret Mantrip’s secret passion, despite her outward literary pretensions, is for the novels of Rudolf da Vinci. Think Marie Corelli – i.e. atrociously written, probably addictive, lots of swooning heroines and dashing heroes.

The only distinguished thing about it, from a literary point of view, was its unique lack of distinction. It was preposterous to the last degree, but there was a sumptuousness about it, and, though nauseatingly moral in its conclusion, there was also fierceness, a sadism running like a scarlet thread through its portentous pages.
Margaret keeps these titles on a bottom shelf, hidden by a curtain and surrounded by her father’s collection of theological titles… And then there is mysterious Susan Leg who has recently moved into the Square – very wealthy, but says ‘Pardon?’ and ‘serviette’ and serves caviar spread on scones. What’s going on?

It doesn’t take an overly-perceptive reader to realise quite quickly that Rudolph da Vinci and Susan Leg are one and the same. And, indeed, E.F. Benson doesn’t leave us in the dark for long. In the hands of a lesser novelist, Leg’s unveiling might have been the denouement – but Benson is more interested in the intrigue and humour to be found in deception and social superficiality. Throw in an anonymous society columnist and a scathing reviewer, and there is enough confusion and hypocrisy all round to make the most ardent Tillingite happy.

As I said at the beginning, Secret Lives doesn’t match the brilliance of the Mapp and Lucia series, where every character (even when a bit two-dimensional) is a delight – but, once you’ve exhausted that series, this is a wonderful place to look. And a middlebrow novelist being biting about lesser novelists – and, especially, about critics – is always good fun. Thank you, Nancy, for recommending this novel – I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

I forgot about the Books to get Stuck into feature on my Persephone reviews (N.B. the poll results, with all 163 votes, are up now – thanks for voting!) but here they are, back again. Obviously the best companion novels, if Secret Lives sounds intriguing, are the Mapp and Lucia series, and Tom Holt’s or Guy Fraser-Sampson’s sequels, but here are some other suggestions:

Books to get Stuck into:

Elizabeth Taylor: Angel – although not very similar in tone, the wonderfully awful and self-unaware Angel is also modelled on the Marie Corelli type.

Rose Macaulay: Keeping Up Appearances – funny and arch, this 1920s novel has a mediocre novelist, but also all sorts of secrets and secret lives tangled up together, and is definitely worth seeking out.

Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany

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Well, after promising my return yesterday, I was out late last night at my church small group, and somehow slumping in front of a soap opera took precedence over writing a proper book review. Apologies… And for those keeping tabs on the state of all things technological chez Stuck-in-a-Book, the current score is Laptop: 1, iPod: 0. Yes, in a fit of pique, my iPod won’t turn on, and none of the usual methods of fixing it seem to work. It did this a while ago and just started working again after a while, so fingers crossed… or I might have to go without new shoes for a while.

For those who know things about computers, unlike me, I opted for a Compaq CQ61-427SA. Goodness knows what that means, but it’s nice and shiny.

Right. Enough of that – as we all know, computers are just a means to an end, and that end is books. So let’s get on with the book, the blog post, the link…

1.) The book – is Stephen Benatar’s Wish Her Safe At Home, which my friend’s family gave me (yes, I did *choose* it, but that doesn’t count as me *buying* it). I read an article about this novel in The Week magazine, which was reprinting this article from The Times, I believe. As well as sounding irresistible from this description – ‘a gripping and haunting story about a middle-aged, genteel woman called Rachel Waring who inherits a Georgian house in Bristol and slowly goes mad’ – I was also impressed by Benatar’s tireless and heartfelt promotion of the novel. And, let’s face it, I was won over by the ever-beautiful NYRB Classics editions. I’m not on their payroll, but I should be…

2.) The blog post – isn’t especially new now, but I was sans laptop for over a week, and in the blogosphere a week is a long time. So cast your minds back to the 5th May, those heady days before the election, and wander over to Polly (aka Novel Insights) and this post on forgotten authors. More specifically – and even more up my street – Polly has collected suggestions of novels by authors more famous for their work for children. That’s a bit of a mouthful, but I hope you know what I mean. Novels by authors known for their children’s writing. Not writing by their children, but… oh, I’m sure we’re on the same page now. It’s no secret that I love non-children’s work by A.A. Milne and Richmal Crompton, but there are plenty of others. In fact, I wrote A Level coursework on the topic, now I think of it… ahh, memories.

3.) The link – is the one for which I can never think of anything… but this YouTube video is quite funny. Oh, they seem to have removed the import-videos-into-Blogger function, but you can see it if you click here. It’s David Mitchell (the comedian, not the novelist) on the topic of Punctuation. Thanks Mel for showing it to me!

New laptop!

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Just to let you know that I am the proud owner of a new laptop, so hopefully will be back to regular posting soon. Hurrah! They said it would come between 9-5, and of course it came about 3.45pm, after I’d been anxiously waiting all day…

Lots and lots of books waiting for me to write about them, so hopefully there will be a lot of reviews going up soon (before, as usual, I forget every last thing about them).

Off to play with my new toy…

Come on, Comyns

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Very few authors mentioned here elicit such an enthused response as Barbara Comyns. Usually posts attract comments in the 48 hours after they’re posted, and that’s that – but posts about Comyns continue to get fans popping up for months and years afterwards, waving the flag for Bidford-on-Avon’s finest.

I’ve read five novels by Comyns now, and have a few waiting – on Saturday, both Polly and Claire got hold of copies of The Vet’s Daughter (Polly got it in the book exchange, from me!) and we thought it would be fun to do a read-along. Quite short notice, but we’ll be kicking off at the beginning of June. If you can get yourself a copy before then, do join us. It’s nice and short, and I’ve yet to read a dud Comyns! Start posting reviews around the second week of June, although it’s all quite relaxed.

There should be quite a few copies around, both sides of the Atlantic. It was a Virago back in the 1980s, and has recently been reprinted in a beautiful NYRB Classics edition – which is the one I’ll be reading. Do let us know if you’re planning on reading along…

Bloggers Galore!

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My laptop is still not working, although there is hope on the horizon, but I’m managing to sneak onto the internet for a few minutes to give you a little round-up of bookish things from the past few days.

First things first, Saturday saw the first UK Book Bloggers’ Meet-Up – hopefully the first of many. Although numbers dwindled steadily, due to all sorts of unfortunate reasons, there were still 18 of us who met up. Some started at the Persephone Books shop (where I resisted temptation manfully, partly aided by the fact that I have twenty-three unread Persephones at home – and partly be sublimating my desire to buy into an over-zealous desire to recommend) and then we moved onto The Lamb, a very nice pub with an elegant function room. We talked books, and exchanged ones we’d brought wrapped up (picture below, courtesy of Marcia). I did well – receiving Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier, and also Nightrunners of Bengal by John Masters: David Nolan had won this on Gaskella’s blog, but very kindly asked Annabel (Gaskella) to pass it onto me – thank you David, and thank you Annabel!


The bloggers present were, apart from me:

Annabel (Gaskella)
Boof (The Book Whisperer)
Claire (Paperback Reader)
David (Follow the Thread)
Guy (Pursewarden)
Hayley (Desperate Reader)
Jackie (Farm Lane Books)
Katy (5th Estate)
Kim (Reading Matters)
Kirsty (Other Stories)
Lizzy/Marcia (Lizzy’s Literary Life)
Naomi (Bloomsbury Bell)
Polly (Novel Insights)
Rachel (Book Snob)
Sakura (Chasing Bawa)
Simon (Savidge Reads)
Verity (The B Files / Verity’s Virago Venture)

Do go and see them, they’re all wonderful. And fear not if you weren’t able to make this meet-up – we’re already talking about the next one, which will hopefully be in Oxford in the summer. The prize for furthest-distance-travelled went to Marcia this time, all the way from Glasgow to London – who will win the prize next time? Although it’s got ‘UK’ in the title, anybody fancying getting on a ‘plane is very welcome…

In other news… I’ve been meaning to mention Nymeth’s 1930s Mini-Challenge – basically the idea is to read at least one novel from the 1930s before July 18th. The challenge actually started about a month ago, but I forgot to post it in a Weekend Miscellany – better late than never! Now, it’s no hardship for me to read something from the 1930s. It’s probably the decade from which I read most, although review copies etc. now slant things towards modern-day as well. But I thought I’d pick a novel in particular to represent this challenge. It was recommended by my (non-blogging) friend Clare, and is Images in a Mirror by Sigrid Undset. I don’t know much about it, but Clare says it is right up my street, and she knows my tastes pretty well by now. I’ll be writing about it before too long – and to sign up for Nymeth’s challenge, pop along here.

Little Boy Lost

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Well, I’m still heading back to healthiness (though still not eating much – could be a cheap day out tomorrow!) and have managed to finish another Persephone. This is the one which lots of people raved about last year, and which made it to the top of my Persephone Must Read List. Oh, and it’s short. Step forward Little Boy Lost by Marghanita Laski.


Like Miss Ranskill Comes Home, this novel is from the late-1940s – but while Todd’s novel offers an unusual perspective on the war, Laski turns her eye to the chaos of the post-war world. Hilary – whose wife Lisa was killed by the Gestapo – is visited by another underground activist and told that his (Hilary’s) son is missing. Hilary has only seen his son once, the day after he was born. The rest of the novel follows Hilary to Paris as he tries to track down his son, and work out whether or not the boy he finds (Jean) is indeed his son.

Hilary is fairly taciturn, self-absorbed, and not particularly alert to the feelings of others – but he is someone still a very sympathetic character; even for someone like me who doesn’t have children and can’t tap into the desperation of his search. It doesn’t hurt, on the sympathy front, that Hilary is described as:

a fast reader and dreaded nothing more than to be stranded without print. He would read anything sooner than nothing, fragments of sporting news torn up in a lavatory, a motor journal on a hotel table, an out-of-date evening paper picked up in a bus. He would covetously eye the books held by strangers in trains, forcing them into conversation until he could offer his own read book in exchange for something new. But if, by ill-luck, he was reduced to reading nothing but haphazard chance finds that offered his mind only the bare fact of being print, he would become dreary, unhappy, uneasy, like a gourmet who suffers from indigestion after eating bad food.

That description could make me forgive Hilary a lot – even, almost, when he starts criticising Winnie-the-Pooh as unreadable. I can only assume Laski hadn’t read it of late, otherwise my opinion of her has gone down a lot….

Although the plot is fairly simple, its handling is beautifully subtle, especially as the novel progresses. Some of the earlier scenes are closer to thriller than ‘literary fiction’, for want of a better word – in that they seem to be about plot rather than character. But once Hilary has found Jean, their parallel emotional journeys are drawn brilliantly well. Hilary is reluctant to become attached to a child who might not be his; Jean is unused to any special attention, but is wary of accepting it with its unpredictability. It’s all done quite beautifully.

With all this subtlety, it is such a shame that Laski crams in a ridiculous last-minute character and accompanying quandary. I shan’t reveal too much, but it comes down to Hilary having to decide between lust and love, but the lust aspect is insultingly unconvincing and the character representing it seems the afterthought to an afterthought.

Putting this aside (and the novel would have been so much better without it) Little Boy Lost is an exceptional novel, and I’m very grateful to all those who waved flags for it last year. Now, should I go and add another tick to the poll?

Back on track…

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Thank you for all your messages of sympathy – I am feeling very drained, but much better. But – to add insult to injury – my laptop chose yesterday to die. Few people understand computers less than I do, so I shall be begging my friend to ‘have a look at it’ (somehow I feel a stern glance from someone who Knows What He’s Doing will cause the computer to work). My housemate has kindly lent me her laptop, but it’s got the world’s teeniest tiniest keyboard. That’s all right for her, because she is herself teeny and tiny, but it will lead to me making all manner of typos, methinks…

I have not been entirely inactive during Persephone Reading Week. I’m not, perhaps, quite as far as I’d hoped to be – but I have managed to re-read Miss Ranskill Comes Home (1946) by Barbara Euphan Todd. I know, I know, re-reading when there are so many Persephones I’ve yet to read – but my book group are discussing the novel this month (and I didn’t even suggest it!) and I felt like revisiting.


Miss Ranskill Comes Home was the third Persephone book I read, after Family Roundabout and Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day and it’s just over six years since I read it. Is it as good as I remember? In a word: yes.

Miss Nona Ranskill is returning to England after four years on a desert island. If that sounds far-fetched, then run with it anyway – somehow Todd is able to make you accept the situation and see what happens. She had fallen overboard, whilst trying to rescue a hat (which she didn’t much like anyway) and was washed up on the island – where ‘the Carpenter’, also known as Reid, had been for some time already. The novel opens with Miss Ranskill having a makeshift funeral for the Carpenter, so we never meet him firsthand, but his voice permeates Miss R’s mind and his kind and sympathetic voice recurs throughout the novel.

And so Miss Ranskill heads off in the boat the Carpenter had made, and is eventually rescued and brought back to England. The desert island idea, though interesting, is really just a way of having Miss Ranskill turn up at home in the middle of the Second World War without any idea that it is going on. For this is the main gist of the novel: how surreal and foreign the war seems to one not in the know.

The first person she re-encounters is a school-friend Marjorie, who seems never to have heard of Nona’s ‘death’, and is described as ‘her development being arrested midway through the last term in the sixth form’. She reminds me a little of the women in E.M. Delafield’s The War Workers, who are selfish in their ‘self-sacrifice’, although Marjorie is probably just caught up in the excitement of regulations and hierarchies – able to relive her school days through them. And of course, these are all mysterious to Miss Ranskill. She doesn’t understand rationing or black-out curtains; ‘prohibited area’ or air raid sirens. Having anticipated coming home for so long, she is disturbed to find home so very different.

And alongside all this, of course, Miss R is comparing everything to her island experience. I liked the odd unexpected touch Todd threw in, such as:

A flash of red in a draper’s window caught her eye and she stopped to look. The sight of a jersey-suit in soft vermilion made her realise how much she had missed all the red shades of the world and how tired she was of blue and grey.I think Miss Ranskill Comes Home was a very brave book to publish in 1946, in its unusual perspective on a very recent war: it refers to soldiers as ‘hired assassins’, for instance. And yet, the novel was apparently extremely popular on both sides of the Atlantic. And has it translated to the 21st century? Possibly it is even more appropriate now. For people like me, whose parents weren’t alive in the Second World War, our only knowledge of it can be second-hand. We experience some of Miss Ranskill’s confusion, as she encounters wartime England, and perhaps feel ourselves equally uncertain and alien. While Todd’s 1946 readership would have been amused by Miss Ranskill’s cluelessness, as the years continue the reader can empathise more and more with her uneasiness.

Miss Ranskill Comes Home was chosen for book group after a discussion between myself and another member as to whether or not any of the Persephone books were out-and-out funny. This seemed to me to be the biggest dividing line between Persephone and the Bloomsbury Group reprints – both are excellent, but the latter is, in general, much funnier. And I think that’s probably still true for me – Miss Ranskill has plenty of comedy, but it is comedy heavily dosed with pathos and even a tinge of the tragic. Certain scenes, such as that where Miss R tries and fails to give a speech to a local society on Life on a Desert Island, are painful to read in their awkward sadness. But the novel still manages to have plenty of light-hearted moments alongside – all the rush of emotion of encountering a ‘brave new world’, I suppose.

And, which is more important, there are some very cute kittens. Now, that’s the kind of hard-nosed reviewing you’ve come to expect, isn’t it?

Persephone Reading Week: on hold…

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I’ve been struck down with food poisoning or a bug or something, so I’m afraid Persephone Reading Week is going to be on hold here for a bit, until I feel human again… but do keep voting in the poll (or, rather, vote if you haven’t voted yet!) and I’ll concentrate on being healthy enough to attend the UK Book Bloggers’ Meet-Up on Saturday…