2000s

Home From Home

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I remember two revelations dawning on me in my early school years – the first was that girls don’t all like each other. Goodness knows why I’d think they would, but up until the age of 8 or 9 I’d naively and contentedly been under the impression that all girls were friends. Perhaps females thought the same of boys, at that age? When I discovered that Amy and Emma and Felicity and Faith were not all amicable, my life changed a little bit… but the next revelation did not come until I was 11 or so. Guess what – teachers don’t all like each other either! Who’d have thought?

After these learning curves, it came as no surprise that tutors might no like each other in Rosy Thornton’s Hearts and Minds. Though it’s set in The Other Place (Cambridge) Rosy T is a Fellow there, and we can’t hold it against her. Something of my naivety has remained unsullied throughout the battlefield of life, and I tend not to notice the animosities that whirl around me – I remember being asked by my tutor if the “situation” in my English group had settled down, and had to confess ignorance as to its existence. Seems I was blessed by not giving or receiving any of it. And thus it may be that Magdalen was a hotbed of back-stabbing and internal politics, but it all just passed me by.

Similarly, I’ve not met this sort of thing in fiction. When Rosy offered me a review copy of Hearts and Minds, I had to confess to not having read any campus novels. Ever. Apparently they are a male-dominated beast – so setting one in an all-female college is doubtless an intriguing twist to the genre, but I’m afraid it’s the only part of the genre that I’ve read.

I say all-female. Hearts and Minds opens with the controversial arriving of James Rycarte as Head of House at St. Radegund’s College. He’s the first non-female (or ‘male’, if you will) Head of House they’ve ever had, and is even known as Mistress for a while. From Oxford I am familiar with the vague nomenclature for this position – Magdalen has a President, but other colleges opted for Master, Rector, Provost, Principal, Dean, Warden or Regent. Rycarte, as well as being a man, comes from the world of media – perhaps the flipside of the coin from academia.

Joining James on centre stage is loveable Dr. Martha Pearce, the Senior Tutor whose administrative tasks have meant her academic pursuits have slipped, and who struggles to motivate a high-school dropout daughter and inactive husand who writes occasional poetry in Italian. There are a host of others, most notably Rycarte’s nemesis, the cunning uber-feminist Ros Clarke, who bitterly opposes the appointment of a Master rather than a Mistress. What drives the novel forward is the announcement that an old media friend of Rycarte’s, Luigi Alvau, wants to make a donation of £1,000,000 to St. Radegund’s. Oh, and his daughter is applying as well, just thought he’d mention it.

Is it ethical to accept a donation, even if the daughter will be interviewed on her own merits? Must one be seen to do right, as well as actually doing it? At one point the Admissions Tutor is asked what the kids from comprehensives (oo, like me) would say –
“I think they would laugh at us, to be honest – laugh at this whole discussion. It would never cross their minds for a moment that anyone would turn down the offer of a million pounds.”
It is to Thornton’s credit that the reader doesn’t dismiss the dilemma as silly – nobody works harder than Oxbridge to encourage admissions from all sectors and conduct admission honourably, yet nobody is more speedily censured. (Just Google ‘Laura Spence’ for the most ridiculous example).

I was keen throughout to find how Rycarte et al would solve the predicament – but the personal levels were as gripping as the professional. Martha’s attempts to organise and understand her family, without nagging, is depicted honestly and movingly. To be honest, the cover and title of Thornton’s novel don’t do her any favours – it looks and sounds like ‘chick lit’ (for want of a better term) whereas Hearts and Minds is a witty, well-thought-out and excellently structured novel. A perfect glimpse not only into Oxbridge university life, but into the minds of humans doing the best they can in tricky situations.

Short Review

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The Carbon Copy is here for the weekend, so no time to write long posts at the moment. He also pointed out that ‘Reading Between The Covers’ post sounds like I’ve never actually read a book, and just look at the covers and “how many birds I saw on the day I bought the book”… oops, if I came across as a bit of a dullard! Succinctly, what I meant was that if I want to enjoy a book, I’m more likely to do so.

Being a brief post, I’m going to tell you about the book I’m reading in as few words as possible. It’s Yes Man by Danny Wallace.

Review in 10 words: Man starts saying yes to everything. Non-fiction. Very funny indeed!

Hmm. Verbose. Let’s try 5 words: Man always says yes; funny!

3 words: Comedian says yes!

1 word: YES!

Quoth the Raven…

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I’m building up quite a library of books from Two Ravens Press, having read a little pile of them before, and now another two. I intended to talk about both of them today, but will have to postpone Dexter Petley’s One True Void as I’ve written too much on the first one…


First of all, it was very brave of Lisa Glass to send me a book I couldn’t possibly enjoy. She very kindly popped Prince Rupert’s Teardrop in the post to me, and mentioned that Chapter 4 was one I might want to steel myself for, and having read this post probably knew that tales of genocide, rape, torture and – let’s face it – even descriptive skin irritants were unlikely to find a place close to my heart.

That said, and before I go any further I must state, I greatly admire Lisa’s novel. It is very, very good – well-written, cleverly characterised, excellent plot and a style which leaves one a little nonplussed but entirely doffing one’s cap to the authoress.

Mary’s 94-year old Armenian mother, Meghranoush, goes missing. She’s just not there. What’s happened? There are rumours of a serial killer and sexual abuser in the area, specialising in nonagenarians. We even read a few chapters from his perspective (or do we: discuss) and Mary wanders the novel with a skewed self-determination, intending to trace her mother’s whereabouts.

Mary is an unattractive heroine. She is middle-aged (gasp!), obstreperous (gasp!), slightly mad (gasp!). Not mad in the endearing way characters are in Angela Thirkell or Richmal Crompton – rather an uncertain mental illness, which winds a thick thread of ‘unreliable narrator’ through everything. Nearly all the chapters are presented from her viewpoint, and some seem straight-forward enough – others are evidently slightly distorted. By the end I was questioning everything, but also questioning the questioning, and questioning the questioning the questioning… Lisa Glass has offered a unique heroine, and wielded a potentially tangled-up viewpoint with skill and finesse.

So I couldn’t enjoy reading this novel. Too much graphically disgusting – but without this, it would have been a very different novel, and entirely not the one Lisa Glass wanted to write, and has written so well. Above all else, her power of language is incredible – and her vocabulary is formidable. A “dazzling linguistic exuberance,” the quotation on the front proclaims – and, what is most impressive, it never seems forced or pretentious, not even close. She uses the words which are most appropriate – if I’ve not heard of them, it’s an opportunity for me to learn, not to sneer.

All in all – very good novel; didn’t like reading it. Which is odd. But not something new for me – how about you, are there any books you can strongly admire, but couldn’t admit to liking? For me, the ultimate is Wuthering Heights. Emily B’s novel is far and away the most powerful I’ve ever read, but I hated reading it – because Heathcliff is so detestable and loathsome that it sapped my power just reading and hating him. I don’t hate human beings, but I don’t think there have been any humans with the unredeemable hate-inspiring characteristics of Heathcliff – how any woman ever falls for him, I can’t imagine. There is no love story in this novel: it is all about hate. But, for all this, Wuthering Heights is a stunningly superlative novel.

 

The Crowded Bed

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As promised, a review of Mary Cavanagh’s The Crowded Bed today. For those keeping tabs, Blogger appears to have once more changed the format for posting, so we’ll see how this goes…

“Good evening, dear friend. I’m extremely pleased to see you, but I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t give you my full attention. Joe Fortune is just about to kill his father-in-law, and I’ve no intention of missing this long awaited event.”

So opens The Crowded Bed…

Gosh. From the first sentence I sensed this wouldn’t be an uneventful novel – and, genre-wise, it’s a canny decision by Cavanagh. If it hadn’t been arranged thus, we’d have had a Hamlet-esque tussel over whether or not Joe wanted to kill his father-in-law – and let’s face it, who hasn’t watched Hamlet and thought “to be or not to be, don’t care, just get on with it!”

I digress. The Crowded Bed follows Joe, a Jewish boy and later doctor, from childhood through various relationships and to just after the pivotal moment described. Like many recent novels I’ve read, the narrative jumps about a bit, so ‘the present’ is shown parallel to various sections of the past – though, like those novels too, it’s not confusing. I found Joe a fairly repugnant character, but I think that’s ok – he has manifold sins under his belt, and more or less his only redeeming trait is a deep love for his son. And an abiding love for Anna.

She’s the other lass. Liked her. Despite her name, she’s not Jewish – she’s more like Botticelli’s Venus, as shown on the cover. My favourite sections of this novel were the opening chapters, when the childhoods of Joe and Anna were depicted alongside each other, and thus contrasted. Where Joe has indulgent and proud parents, Anna had a vicious father and a passive mother. And a twin brother, a theme popping up in quite a few recent reads. Reading their childhoods in this comparative way is so revealing about the characters and the way they interrelate.

The path isn’t smooth for Joe and Anna. That crowded bed gets pretty crowded as the novel progresses, and I’ll keep schtum over whether or not they manage to kick everyone else out but, suffice to say, the shocks keep coming to the very end. Cavanagh has written a novel which is both gentle and vicious, warm and unsettling. It’s hard to like many of the characters, but that doesn’t stop being compelled to find out more – and the rollercoaster they go through is dramatic but believable. Certainly not comfort reading (though someone recently described The Kite Runner as that, so it takes all sorts) but is a very engaging and perpetually surprising novel. Oh, and it features Oxford, which is always exciting!

Billybob

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You’ll be delighted to know that my failsafe computer tactic – ignore the problem and it will go away – has once more worked its magic. My ‘b’ key, though needing a tiny bit more persuasion than the others, is almost as good as new. All through the magic of ignoring the issue. Trust me, if restarting the computer doesn’t fix the issue, then try ignoring it. Like all other dangerous animals, it secretly craves attention, and will right itself if is starved of it.
So why is this particularly pertinent today? Well, I realised I hadn’t blogged properly about Shakespeare by Bill Bryson. That’s a lot of ‘b’s, especially when you remember that William is known fondly as Billybob by myself and others who took the Shakespeare paper alongside me in finals.

The Carbon Copy bought me Shakespeare for my birthday, along with the wonderful and moving film Amazing Grace and, possibly my favourite, a little picture of Eeyore receiving his birthday balloon. My previous experience with Bill Bryson is positive – loved Mother Tongue, which I read about five years ago. Fascinating stuff on the evolution of the English language, and incredibly readable.

‘Readable’ always sounds a bit like damning with faint praise – cereal packets deserve the same honour – but it really isn’t. Take it from one who had to read a lot of literary criticism, readability (is that a word?) is a must. Shakespeare follows suit – Bryson has obviously done a great deal of arduous and scholarly research, and the resulting book manages to be both deeply informative and incredibly amusing. Tricky combination.

So why do we need another book about Shakespeare? Bryson is honest enough to tell us how many thousands are on offer. Can’t remember the exact amount, but enough to make sure I could comfortably be reading a book about Shakespare every week for the rest of my life – not mentioning the rate at which they’re still being published. What sets this book apart is that Bryson’s character and authorship is expressed through style and wit, not groundless speculation or wide context. Shakespeare is only about 200 pages long, but it is an essential and reliable tome. Everything we know about Shakespeare is in here. A few theories and possibilities are mentioned, but they are shown to be just that, and not argued as certain. The funniest chapter is the final one, on Anti-Stratford theorists i.e. those who, for some reason or other, refuse to believe Billybob wrote his plays. Littered with such scathing lines as “an excellent theory, if it weren’t for the complete lack of evidence to support it,” and “X demonstrated amazing foresight in, seeing as he died before many of Shakespeare’s plays were written, secreting enough manuscripts that they could be gradually released, and correctly estimating the time period between his own and Shakespeare’s death”. I paraphrase, but you get the gist – very funny.

For the rest of the book – the first chapters sketch out Shakespeare’s life; where he was, different instances at which he is mention in some document or other. A nice touch is that Bryson often details the person who discovered a new fact about Billybob, often through laborious and painstaking reading of many manuscripts and documents. Credit where due, is Bryson’s motto. Subsequent chapters talk about the plays and the sonnets – not lit crit, but where they were performed or when they were first published. All very interesting, and if it sounds dry (and to me it doesn’t!) then Bryson’s wit and charm will fascinate you.

There have been thousands of books written about Billybob, and I daresay there will be thousands more, but for the facts in an engaging and funny way, this can’t be bettered.

The Kite Runner – and a pondering…

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I read The Kite Runner for Book Group last week, and after a few people raved about it, I was expecting something brilliant. Well, I quite liked it – there we go, nothing if not effusive! The first 100 pages or so were great – a very vivid and complex portrait of an unequal fraternal relationship. Fascinating glimpse at issues of servitude, power, jealousy, love and a very believable pair of main characters. For those not in the know, Hassan is the son of Amir’s father’s Hazara servant – so the boys are the same age, and very close, but in very different circumstances. Perhaps their relationship is best shown in the sport which gives the novel its title – Amir flies his kite in an important local competition; Hassan is one of those who run after the cut-down kites, to keep as prizes. Hassan runs after them in order that he can give the kite to Amir – and his loyalty is such that he will endure much rather than relinquish the kite.

There is an event about 100 pages in which changes the lives of the central characters, the nature of the relationship, and the rest of the novel. To be fair to Khaled Hosseini (the author) the event doesn’t feel signposted in any way. I’m always annoyed by pages which scream “Look! Most Important Event Happening Here! Get Ready For Everything To Change!” But after it happens, the main force of the novel is lost. I waded through the remaining 200 or so pages with some interest, but The Kite Runner had rather, ahem, run out of steam.

And it got me thinking. Much of the reason I didn’t enjoy the second half of the book, aside from its having lost momentum, was the violence and gore it involved. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t a slasher-horror or anything, it was just rather too much for a reader with as squeamish an imagination as mine. I think that political situations are best told through character, rather than graphic description. It’s easy to write something fairly disgusting (it’s farcically easy to write something which will make me feel ill) but difficult to write in such a way as creates true empathy.

So what was my pondering – it was about novels being challenging. Challenging mindsets and emotions rather than using long words, of course. I’ve always just assumed that they should (sometimes) be challenging – and in some areas I still do. I love it when novels change the way I think, especially the way I think about people, but I will no longer feel guilty for squeamishness. I always thought the fault was with me, being put off by novels too ‘challenging’, whilst now I think they’re just difficult to read without feeling ill.

Hmm. I’m still not entirely sure, though.

Two Ravens – The Books!

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Sorry for some technical difficulties yesterday – I’m going to blame my faulty internet connection. The USB Wireless thing was sticking out the back of the computer, when I accidentally smashed it against the window sill, and it came apart. Now works only sporadically. I went into Argos today but they didn’t have any in stock, so I shall have to be patient.

Anyway, as promised, here is my report back on three books published by Two Ravens Press. As always, the absence of ‘b’s is not intentional… I’ll write about these novels in the order that I read them – which also, coincidentally, happens to be the order I’d place them evaluatively.

First off, Parties by Tom Lappin.
It took me some time to notice the pun on ‘parties’, despite the fact that the cover, with its ballgown and political rosette, give the game away. Yes, this is about parties of both a social and a political nature, and specifically Beatrice, Grainne, Richard and Gordon. I’m going to be brutally honest – after the first chapter I had made up my mind. I wouldn’t mention it on my blog, because I don’t like being critical about new books, especially those published by small presses, but I did not get along with at all. It was only the fact that I’d been sent the novel that made me continue at all. Thank goodness I did.
I don’t know what it is, but the first few pages seem like another novel to the rest – or perhaps I just needed time to get into Lappin’s world and writing. Either way, I encourage potential readers to persevere – having read a couple of other reviews, I see I wasn’t the only person who almost gave up. Keep going.
Parties is structured so that each chunk of the novel has a one-word subtitle – Crisps, Coffee, Champagne, Beer etc. – and the following section is divided again into Beatrice, Grainne, Richard, Gordon. Not always that order. And what Lappin has done, one gradually realises, is write a magnificent bildungsroman – but in actual fact four of them in one. There are four protagonists, each so rounded and stunningly, painfully accurate and whole that it is difficult to believe they are not real.
Beatrice is a very beautiful part-Italian who bewitches men (mostly her tutors) but has a wry intelligence and discontent which the reader sympathises with, and allows her to be approachable as a character. Grainne is a little podgy and has manages to combine dreaming optimism with self-loathing and realism – she is paired with Gordon, a political climber who will exhaust everything and everyone to reach his pinnacle. Richard writes musical journalism and has listless relationships, while always admiring Beatrice.
It is hopeless to define these characters so briefly, since they are complete and can only truly be understood when the novel is read. I found Beatrice and Grainne the stand-outs of the four, but really all four are needed. Though their paths throughout the novel are dogged with disilluion and dissatisfaction, there remains an undeniable warmth and truth to the novel throughout. Quite unlike the sort of novel I usually read, but so utterly engaging that the characters remain in my head several months after I read Parties. Not for the faint-hearted, perhaps, but a striking work which I would foist on you – if you can get through the first pages. Oh, and I am the most apathetic person in the world when it comes to politics (which I’m sure would displease the author immensely) so if you have the slightest interest in that area, you’ll probably value Parties even more.

Next, Nightingale by Peter Dorward
I shan’t talk as much about the other two novels, as they didn’t affect me as much, but this is still an admirable book. Rosie is in Italy on the journalistic track of a 1980 bombing. She is also encountering her father, Don, for the first time in many years. And he was a witness at the bombing. Political thrillers, again, aren’t top of my list of favourite genres, but Dorward presents this one as a tale about relationships, trust, lies, self-exploration and the like. It is divided into three – the first section sees Rosie exploring and interviewing, and recognising her own inability to tackle all the issues head on. The second section flings us back to the time of the bombing, and the exploits of Don. Eventually we are back with Don and Rosie as the mysteries are settled.
I found the first and third sections the most satisfying – perhaps because it is easier to sympathise with Rosie’s position as investigative, confused, intelligent but naive. Don’s plight was rather more self-enduced, and tales of sex, drugs and longing, though not paramount, were less able to grip my attention.

Finally The Most Glorified Strip of Bunting by John McGill
A novel about the United States Polar expedition of 1871-73? This is what I meant about Two Ravens Press publishing things you wouldn’t see elsewhere, and a topic I wouldn’t have dreamt of reading about unless it had been sent to me. This trip was doomed, as may or may not be common knowledge, and this novel has a predicated ending of deaths a-plenty. Throughout a fairly witty narrative, sections of a court case (or rather interviews in a criminal investigation) are interspersed, surrounding a potential poisoning. I think, given another time and place, I might have really liked McGill’s novel, but I just found it difficult to connect with the subject matter. Perhaps because it was close to Christmas and I fancied something cosy. Even having said that, I didn’t dislike the novel, and it was obviously well-researched, but with character always at the forefront, and never sacrificed to facts and figures.

A Proper Family Christmas

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Christmas Shopping is upon us, and I daresay some of you started some months ago, stirring the pudding back in March and planning the Christmas card list last Boxing Day. For the less organised amongst us, any ideas for presents are probably very welcome – and I’d like to push one under your nose for the bookish person in your life. Or perhaps you’d like to push this under someone else’s nose, since you’re the bookish person in their life.

I also have an AA Milne quotation for every occasion. Well, I can’t remember exactly how this goes, but something along the lines of: “Every critic instantly assumes that, should a writer be able to make his audience laugh, he secretly wishes he were making them cry”. Milne didn’t always love his critics, but the point is that we shouldn’t underestimate the comic writer – I think it’s much more difficult to make readers laugh than it is to make them cry, and a comic novel done well is a wonderful thing.

Step forward Jane Gordon-Cumming, and A Proper Family Christmas. I was worried people didn’t write books like this any more. Don’t get me wrong, I love pensive, slightly depressing, high-literary fiction more than anyone – Virginia Woolf is one of my favourite authors, after all (though she is incredibly funny, I must add) – but where did novels go which gently laugh at human nature and the tangles they get themselves in? Thankfully Jane G-C has written one such novel, and I know you’ll love it.

William lives by himself in a rambling old house, such as are only found in fiction – well, I say alone, he actually lives with a rather wonderful cat called Scratch. You can’t go wrong with cats in fiction – they’re such amusing and characterful creatures. Anyway, William is an obstreperous old man, but one you can’t help loving. Despite his best efforts, every member of his family descend on his house for Christmas – his forthright siser Margery; widow Hilary and her attractive teenage son; neurotic Lesley and Stephen with their spoilt child Tobias and put-upon nanny Frances; scatty Julia and innuendo-flinging Tony with worldy-wise daughter Posy and flirty nanny Shelley; arty Leo who seems to be perpetually ignored by all; charmer and antiquities expert Oliver. Phew, think that’s everyone. What a cast! Despite a lot of characters and a lot of names, like one’s own family one never gets confused. They all have their place and, like them or loathe them, you can’t help being quietly fond of each and every one.

This novel is definitely a character piece – throw together a lot of disparate and amusing people, and a few Wodehousian plots, and see what happens. And what happens is a witty and touching romp through the intricacies and politics of a family Christmas. If you don’t recognise it all, you’re lucky, but you’ll love it nonetheless. A perfect Christmas present for someone who loves something to read on Boxing Day, just so long as they can’t recognise themselves in its pages… and best not give it to anyone called William, Leo, Margery, Lesley, Stephen, Tony, Shelley, Tobias, Posy, Julia… at a pinch Frances, Oliver, Hilary and Daniel will take it as a compliment…

Findings…

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I’ve been at it again. Another impulse buy today, but one which I might just impulsively read straight away… or at least as soon as I’ve finished the latest review books. And Book Group books. Oh dear.

Our Vicar and Our Vicar’s Wife met me for lunch, and after a rather yummy broccoli and stilton soup (in a cafe, not my handiwork, I’m afraid) we browsed through the QI Bookshop. For any UK readers who also watch the QI television programme with Stephen Fry, yes, this is researched in the rooms above the bookshop. I’ve not been in before, and it might be my last chance, as apparently it’s moving to the top floor, alongside the exclusive QI-members-only restaurant. Shame.

They have a small stock, but an interesting one – a stock which bears the signs of being selected by a discerning buyer. Some successful sellers; others more obscure. They even had a Persephone Book, so I was impressed from the off (The Wise Virgins by Leonard Woolf, since you ask) – my eye was drawn towards Findings by Kathleen Jamie. I haven’t heard of her before, but I could tell immediately that this was A Sort Of Book. I don’t mean that there was some ambiguity as to whether it was a book or a mantlepiece, nothing like that, Sort Of Books are a publishing house – ‘distributed by Penguin Books’, so they might be an off-shoot, I don’t know. They publish the beautiful, beautiful Tove Jansson translations, and I thought I probably couldn’t go wrong with another of their books. And so I bought it…

Findings is non-fiction, Kathleen Jamie (a poet) travels around her native Scotland watching, listening, observing – and these observations are in this book. Not the biggest fan of travel literature, or even books set in other countries, because they have so much extraneous detail. I find an author noticing her/his own surroundings afresh much more involving. Have already heard from e-friends that this was a favourite read, hope others have come across Jamie too. Perhaps I’m the last? Anyway, will let you know when I’ve read it, but I can’t imagine not really liking Findings.

Dorothy Whipple, how I do love thee

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Though I now space them out, a new Persephone Books read is always a wonderful treat, and something to be treasured. When I first found out about this publishing company, through their publishing of Richmal Crompton’s Family Roundabout, I went on a bit of a rampage, and read lots. Though they cover quite a range of decades, genres, authors, forms – and, yes, some of the writers are even male! – there is something unmistakably Persephone about everything they issue, and thus something unmistakably great. The Closed Door and Other Stories, one of the latest batch of three, was no different. Nicola Beauman, who runs Persephone Books, very kindly sent me this to review when I made ingratiating noises in her direction – and, of course, I loved it.

Most aficiandos of Persephone agree that Dorothy Whipple is one of their major finds. Crompton and EM Delafield were already firm favourites with me, and I was delighted to see them come back into the light of day, but it is Whipple who has been the nicest new face. Though decidedly a domestic-fiction-writer, she demonstrates that this need not mean anything derogatory about writing style. Nicola Beauman has had to fiercely defend Whipple against some critiques over the past few years, mostly from people who, bewilderingly, have been against niche publishing in any shape or form – but just pick up Someone at a Distance or They Knew Mr. Knight and it is indisputable that Whipple needed bringing back into print.

The Closed Door and Other Stories is different from any other Whipple I’ve read, not least because it’s short stories rather than full-length prose. The first story, ‘The Closed Door’, is easily the longest – 75 or so pages – and the other eight are snapshots of characters’ lives. I read them all together at a fast pace, which probably isn’t the ideal way to approach short stories, and I must confess I found a lot of them to be quite similar – a daughter (always a daughter) is repressed by her selfish parents who expect her to act like a servant, and dismiss any academic or romantic ambitions the daughter has. I like that Whipple doesn’t aggrandise either of these ambitions over the other, but sees both as valid modes of self-expression and fulfilment. Anyway, as you read more of the stories in the collection this scenario becomes very familiar – but each story presents a different ending/solution/irresolution. ‘After Tea’ is an especially nice contrast. When presented together, the particular culminations grow even more significant, playing off against each other, and become less ‘closing’, as it were – more problematic, occasionally more triumphant.

Against the stories which fall into this mould, a couple stand out as really beautiful evocations of character and predicament – ‘The Rose’ and ‘Wednesday’ particularly. The latter is quite a brave portrait – a divorcee adulteress (though one coerced into it by her husband, we are led to understand) on one of her monthly permitted visits to her children. Agonising and realistic and a painful gem.

In case you hadn’t ascertained this yet – The Closed Door is a book definitely worth buying! Just spread the stories out a bit.