FurrowedMiddlebrow

Babbacombe’s by Susan Scarlett

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Writing about my latest Furrowed Middlebrow / Dean Street Press read, I have to mention the recent, tragically early death of Rupert Heath – the brainchild behind Dean Street Press. He leaves behind him an extraordinary legacy of reprint publishing – thanks for everything, Rupert. You can read more about this at Scott’s blog.

And this blog post will be yet another tribute to what he has achieved, because Babbacombe’s (1941) by Susan Scarlett is a lovely book. It was recommended to me many years ago, but at that point it was impossible to lay hands on a copy – thank goodness it’s now available as a Furrowed Middlebrow book. And it is right bang in the middle of middlebrow – totally predictable, but all the more enjoyable for that.

If you don’t recognise the name Susan Scarlett, you may well known the writer behind the pseudonym – because this was the name under which Noel Streatfeild wrote her lighter novels. In this one, Beth has just left school and is getting her first job. She manages to secure one at Babbacombe’s – the department store where her father has worked for decades. It’s a large, tightly organised place where young employees have to quickly find their place in the whirring cogs of the machine, and Beth is keen to do her best in the frocks section. Less keen to please is Dulcie – a cousin who moves in with them. She considers herself a cut above because she is paying them board and has a small private income, and is keen to be a model in the shop – but instead finds herself as a ‘lift girl’. She is vain, impractical and selfish, and hung out to dry by the narrative in a way that did feel a bit uncomfortable to read in 2023.

Beth, on the other hand, is filled with decency and morals – but also, in order to make her lovable, a tendency to speak her mind to anybody. And that includes the curious young man she ends up stick in a lift with. (Being stuck in a lift with someone seems such a 1990s romcom trope, so it’s oddly reassuring to know that it’s been around since at least the 1940s.) She had previously caught his eye when she tripped over his brilliantly named dog, Scissors. And she tells him how much she loves Babbacombe’s and admires the owner, Mr Babbacombe, a self-made man who has worked his way from obscurity to riches – but, naturally, kept his salt-of-the-earth character. Not that she says all that; we see that for ourselves a bit later.

Little does she know – though the reader has probably suspected from the first time the man was introduced – that this is David Babbacombe, the son of the owner. He is an affluent idler, on his way up to ask his father for some more money. And, let me tell you, this way of life doesn’t strike Beth and her work ethic as being very noble:

Beth examined his lean, athletic figure in shocked surprise.

“Don’t you work at anything?”

“No. A little beachcombing now and again, and I’ve a hoard of silver cups won for this and that.”

Beth forget he was Mr. Babbacombe’s son and only felt that she liked him too much to want to despise him.

“I should have thought doing nothing but playing games was pretty dull.”

He tapped some ash clear of his coat.

“Oh, it’s all right.”

Beth hated that.

“But it isn’t. It’s miserable. You might as well be a cabbage.”

Rather chastened, David changes his mind when he gets to his father. Rather than asking for a handout, he asks for a job – and starting at the bottom.

The rest of this lovely novel is David winning Beth’s heart, and then convincing her that the class difference between them is immaterial. She takes some winning over, and in real life he would seem pretty appalling for how little agency he gives her, but Babbacombe’s is not real life and we all know the ending that we both want and are going to get. Along the way there is some fun mistaken identity business, stuff with a shoplifter, a rather tense section about an eye operation, and much more. The stakes may be high for the characters, but they are never particularly high for the reader because we know what sort of book this is.

You wouldn’t necessarily want to read a book like Babbacombe’s every day, but there is indisputably a talent in creating something this perfectly frothy and engaging. Even besides the delightful storyline, this is a wonderful novel for period detail on the inner workings of a department store – and I suspect there are many of us who can’t resist that.

When I posted a photo on Instagram, the comments were filled with other people saying how much they’d enjoyed this book. An absolute triumph and a perfect example of the sort of book it’s trying to me. Vale, Rupert, and thank you for all the lovely books like this.

Mrs Lorimer’s Quiet Summer by Molly Clavering

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Sometimes it does feel like the corner of the book internet I occupy is really just Scott’s kingdom, and we live in it. Scott being Furrowed Middlebrow, of course, both blog and the series of reprints from Dean Street Press. One of the things I really like about his series is that, most of the time, they don’t just bring out one or two books by an author – they drop a whole load at once. The most recent author to get a job-lot of reprints is Scottish mid-century writer Molly Clavering – and I started with Mrs Lorimer’s Quiet Summer from 1953. She wrote a bunch of novels in ’20s and ’30s, and this was the first of seven novels after a break of fourteen years.

It was generally considered that Mrs Lorimer, that quiet woman, was not at all a sentimental person. Therefore when Nan Gibson, her valued and trusty and frequently tiresome cook-housekeeper, announced one morning as she twitched back the bedroom curtains, ”I hear Harperslea’s been sold,” the pang which her mistress felt must have been simply because another suitable house – a house she would have liked for herself, had been bought by someone else.

There are shades of Netherfield being let at last at the beginning of Pride and Prejudice – but Mrs Lorimer is not looking for an eligible young man. She is looking for enough space to host all her adult children and their spouses and offspring. There are quite a few of them, so I shan’t go into all the details – one of the most prominent is the son-in-law obsessed with his car, and his wife (Mrs Lorimer’s daughter) who feels neglected in comparison. She decides to make her own entertainment, which she does by finding the daughter of the house at Harperslea – a Nesta Rowena Smellie. There is a lot of discussion about the name ‘Miss Smellie’, and it is a name of course, but it did all feel like an unnecessary tangent. They re-Christen her Rona, which has become rather less acceptable as a nickname in the past eighteen months…

The bulk of the tension and romance of the novel comes from the various young married couples – and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what might happen between the sole unmarried child, Guy, and this Rona girl. There are some obstacles connected with her nouveau riche family and his inability to stick to any career, but the writing is on the wall from the first moment they are mentioned.

Mrs Lorimer’s Quiet Summer is, indeed, quite packed with incident – a great deal of which crops up and is resolved throughout the novel, rather than tidying everything away at the end. But the beating heart of the novel is Mrs Lorimer herself, and what makes the book more than the sum of its parts. She is patient and consistently underestimated by those around her – who see her as a mother and not as someone with passionate feelings and thoughts herself. Her life is broadly happy and she is not demanding of others, but I enjoyed how Clavering showed the layered life behind the dependable matriarch.

Clavering doesn’t demand much of her reader, and this is definitely a cosy read where the stakes never feel quite as high to the reader as they do to the characters – but it’s cleverer than it might seem at first, and I’m glad to have found another fab new-to-me author from Furrowed Middlebrow.

Begin Again by Ursula Orange – #1936Club

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Of all the authors Scott at Furrowed Middlebrow has talked about over the years, Ursula Orange is the one who appealed most. So it was very exciting when he got three of her novels reprinted through his Dean Street Press series – and Begin Again is the third of those I’ve read. Orange is a wonderfully witty writer, and this novel is no different.

The novel opens with Leslie (early 20s) explaining to her mother why she feels she must move to London, where her schoolfriends Jane and Florence are living a lifestyle that Leslie considers ideal. Leslie wants to spend all the money she has on an art school – though it will not cover tuition and expenses for all that long – and also thinks she should probably have her own little studio, to be taken seriously. Whatever happens, she has to get away from the privileged and calm life she is currently living with her parents:

She knew, not only from Jane and Florence’s conversation (it had been some time since she had had a really good talk with them) but also from the pages of modern novels exactly the way in which young people living their own lives in London talk together – an attractive mixture of an extreme intensity and a quite remarkable casualness. “Henri says Marcovitch’s new poems are the finest things he’s ever read – will certainly found a school of their own. By the way – hand me the marmalade – Elissa is living with Henri now. He says he needs her for his work at present.” Clearly the sort of person who talked like this lived a much freer, a much wider, a much better life than the sort of person who merely said, “Good morning, mummy. Did you sleep well? When Alice brought my tea this morning she said a tree was blown down in the orchard last night.”

One of the things I like a lot about Orange is that she doesn’t have any throwaway characters. While four young women are at the centre of this novel, the secondary characters are not simply there to serve them. I loved the sardonic dryness of Leslie’s mother – which Leslie totally misses, since she expects her mother to be humourless. The reader is quite like Leslie’s mum – we have a definite affection for all the women at the heart of Begin Again, but also recognise they are young and silly.

The others are the aforementioned Jane and Florence, who work in offices and just about earn enough to pay for their unorthodox food and tiny flat – and Sylvia, who still lives in her parents’ grand home, thinking herself very modern with her thoughts on sexual and social liberation. All the women are very earnest, and their problems are real problems inasmuch as they genuinely feel anxiety about them, but Orange is also very funny about them. It’s also a joy to read about arguments over who used the hot water when you no longer have to house-share.

My favourite story of the four was Florence’s – who works as a typist, despite being pretty bad at it, and longs to be recognised as something more valuable. The other typist has fewer ambitions and class hang-ups, and is also much better at her job. The whole set-up of the office was believably unnerving for Florence, while also a joy to read about. That joy continues when the whole bunch travel over to Sylvia’s house for a party, and things get more dramatic and just as absurd.

This was a delightful 1936 read – enough genuine angst to make you take it seriously, and good-heartedness not to mind laughing at the characters. I’m not sure why Furrowed Middlebrow stopped after reprinting three of her novels, but I have my fingers crossed that they bring out the other three at some point…

The Stone of Chastity by Margery Sharp

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I was VERY excited when I saw that the Furrowed Middlebrow series from Dean Street Press will be reprinting many Margery Sharp and Stella Gibbons titles in January. Do I have many books by both these authors still unread? Yes, of course. But it’s still great to be able to get easily available copies of books that have eluded many fans for years – most notably Rhododendron Pie by Sharp, something of a golden fleece for book bloggers.

Dean Street Press have kindly sent me that as a review book, but I have started with the other one they sent – one I’ve had my eye on for a while: The Stone of Chastity by Margery Sharp, from 1940. I had high hopes, because the next novel she wrote is probably my favourite of the seven Sharps I’ve read, Cluny Brown. And the premise is irresistible: there is a little village called Gillenham where there was reputed to be a ‘stone of chastity’ in the stream. It was a stepping stone that any ‘unchaste’ woman would stumble on – sort of like one of those medieval witch trials, though believed to have been around in the time of the current population’s grandparents.

Professor Pounce arrives in the village, with his widowed sister-in-law and his young adult nephew Nicholas, intending to investigate the legend. Oh, and there’s also the beautiful, distant Carmen, whose presence is not quite explained. It’s a delightful set up – because the Professor can’t understand why anybody would find his investigations impertinent or insulting. As his sister-in-law points out, people might be offended at his prurient questions about their grandmother’s purity – but he has only science in mind. Nicholas, meanwhile, has other things in mind – and begins to fall both for Carmen and for a Bloomsbury-type who is staying in the village and writing terrible verse-set-to-music.

Nicholas’s objections to distributing the Professor’s questionnaire are disregarded, and he sets off to an unsympathetic local community. Here’s a sample of Sharp’s delightful prose:

Wobbling down the road next morning, on a borrowed bicycle with the bundle of questionnaires stacked in its carrier, Nicholas Pounce felt himself to be, both literally and figuratively, in a very precarious position. He was practically certain that only the front brake worked, and he was extremely apprehensive as to the effect upon its recipients of his Uncle Isaac’s questionnaire. By a curious chance all the villagers he passed were able-bodied males. Some of them said “Mornin'” to him, and Nicholas said “Good morning” back. He said it ingratiatingly. In each stolid pair of eyes he detected, or thought he did, a complete lack of scientific interest and a fanatic regard for the good name of woman.

As I’ve said before, Sharp is equally good at funny and poignant – and in The Stone of Chastity, she is in full comic mode. It reminded me a lot of R.C. Sherriff’s equally delightful The Wells of St Mary’s – a local village dealing with the unexpected introduction of the miraculous, and responding with the sort of village politics that have changed little in the decades since. Factions are formed, rumours spread and, yes, the stone itself turns up.

Thanks so much, Dean Street Press and Scott from Furrowed Middlebrow, for bringing back this wonderful novel – like so many of Sharp’s books, it deserves to be a modern classic. Incidentally, it seems to have reprinted a number of times – check out the range of cover images it has received over time.

A House in the Country by Ruth Adam

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It’s always exciting when there’s a new set of Furrowed Middlebrow titles from Dean Street Press, and I always want to read all of them. I got a couple as review copies, and went straight to A House in the Country (1957), partly because I thought I’d already read it and realised I hadn’t.

I love books about houses, and particularly about rambling old mansions. This one is enormous and in a little village – and is the place that Ruth Adam, her husband, and a handful of relatives and friends decide to rent together. What they couldn’t afford on their own, they can manage as a household of eight. Incidentally, A House in the Country is marketed as a novel, but it is very heavily based on real life, including the names. So is it a memoir or a novel? Probably a fictionalised version of real life, in the mould of the Provincial Lady series. It doesn’t really matter. It’s just a delight.

Though the first page of the book warns the reader that it will be far from an unalloyed delight for the group experimenting with this venture:

This is a cautionary tale, and true.

Never fall in love with a house. The one we fell in love with wasn’t even ours. If she had been, she would have ruined us just the same. We found out some things about her afterwards, among them what she did to that poor old parson, back in the eighteen-seventies. If we had found them out earlier…? It wouldn’t have made any difference. We were in that maudlin state when reasonable argument is quite useless. Our old parents tried it. We wouldn’t listen. “If only you could see her,” we said.

She first came into our lives through the Personal Column of The Times. I have the advertisement still. Sometimes I look at it bitterly, as if it were an old dance-programme, with some scrawled initials on it which I had since learned to hate.

If that sounds like quite a bitter opening, then don’t worry. It’s better that we know all will not end well, to ameliorate the sadness when things start to go wrong – but I was still about to dive into the joyfulness of the first chapters. Quite a lot of space in the book is devoted to finding, taking, and inhabiting the house. They assign rooms, they decorate, they marvel at the extraordinary beauty of a magnolia tree on the lawn.

Moving house is one of my favourite themes in literature. Moving somewhere this magical is a dream to read about, with hope in the air offset by the gentle bite of the narrative. Because Adam writes very amusingly, somewhere between the self-deprecation of E.M. Delafield and the snark of Beverley Nichols. She sees herself and her companions and her new neighbours with clear eyes, willing to see the best in all and unable to avoid highlighting the less good. It’s a complete joy to read, and the through-line of mild cynicism prevents it from being cloying.

The only difficulty with the book being heavily based on real events is that it messes up the structure of A House in the Country a little. The second half of the book covers a great deal more time than the first, as inhabitants splinter off and are replaced – sometimes by new long-termers and sometimes by short-term rentals who might deserve more than the few, funny paragraphs they are given. But Adam has to cover a lot of similar years in a short space, and she chooses to rush through some events and characters rather than let the book become repetitive.

And the end of the book, as they have to leave the house, is as sad a description of mourning as I’ve ever read – prepared as we were from the outset. Yet, somehow, I still look back on the book as fun, light, joyous. I suppose it has a bit of every emotion felt in a love affair – albeit a love affair with a house.

 

My Caravaggio Style by Doris Langley Moore

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It’s always exciting when Dean Street Press announce the next batch of novels in their Furrowed Middlebrow series, chosen by Scott at the excellent Furrowed Middlebrow blog. Every time I want all of them, and every time I only manage to read a handful – but thank you very much to the publisher for sending me a review copy of My Caravaggio Style (1959) by Doris Langley Moore. Don’t worry too much about the title – I’ll come onto that in a bit.

Quentin Williams is the narrator. He works in an antiquarian bookshop and is the writer of fairly unsuccessful biographies of people nobody much cares about. In a chance conversation with a passing American, he somehow manages to suggest that he has access to the memoirs of Lord Byron, believed to have been destroyed. One thing leads to another, and Quentin decides that he’ll give forgery a go.

Moore was a Byron expert and there is plenty of background detail about Byron here – or, rather, enough so that those of us who’ve never read a word of Byron don’t feel entirely adrift. She even does a good job of making you feel the significance these memoirs would be, though mostly because they’d be worth a lot of money. The cleverest thing is that we are always reluctantly on Quentin’s side when it comes to the forgery – because he is such an intensely dislikeable person.

I hope this was deliberate. He is arrogant, careless of the feelings of others, and particularly unpleasant to his girlfriend Jocasta. Every time he describes her, he talks endlessly about her beauty and stupidity. It’s the sort of viewpoint that is at the very worst edges of men-writing-about-women, so either Moore was impersonating a terrible man, or needed a quiet talking to. Let’s assume the former. This is the sort of thing Quentin says about Jocasta…

Such a vapid and unworthy comment quite irritated me. I had never regarded my beautiful Jocasta as an intellectual girl but she had been brought up by highly cultured grandparents, and I saw no reason why she should appear – no, I won’t say vulgar, for she had too little pretension ever to be that, but – I can only repeat – childish.

While we cannot forget the chief reason that he is dating her – she is so beautiful, y’all – it’s never clear what she sees in him. And, indeed, she’s very keen that they get married, despite him having no redeeming qualities at all. Quentin is rather easier to cheer for when he visits his great-aunt – by some convoluted reasoning, he needs some manuscript books from her attic and also needs her to witness him receiving them. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but Moore can be very witty – particularly in these sections. For example…

It was curious that so much good will towards the human race should be combined in my great-aunt with an inveterate reluctance to allow any member of it whom she saw at close quarters to be comfortable.

To distract Jocasta from finding out about the forgery, Quentin sets her off doing a research project on Byron and animals. She gets really into it and starts to love reading Byron – rather ludicrously, Quentin gets terribly jealous that she should love Byron. His reasoning is fairly unhinged: Byron was a notorious womaniser and thus he doesn’t want his girlfriend falling in love with him. Despite, of course, Byron being long dead. And so he tries to write things in the forged memoir that will alienate Jocasta…

It’s all bonkers, but Moore manages to make the logic of the novel work well. I found that I wanted Quentin to succeed in his efforts, even as I wanted Jocasta to get as far away from him as possible. It’s always fun to read about literary obsessions taken to great lengths, and once different Byron scholars get involved (including ‘Doris Langley Moore’ as a character!) it’s all very amusing and dramatic.

And the title is apparently a reference to something Byron said about his own writing, though that does make it one of those slightly silly titles that only makes sense to the in-crowd. That aside, Moore did a great job of making this interesting to someone who doesn’t care at all whether or Byron’s memoirs are discovered.

Another success for Furrowed Middlebrow. Just as long as Moore knew she was creating an idiot and not a hero.

 

Miss Carter and the Ifrit by Susan Alice Kerby

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When I was offered some review copies of the new Furrowed Middlebrow titles from Dean Street Press, top of my list was Miss Carter and the Ifrit (1945) by Susan Alice Kerby – and not just because it qualifies for #ProjectNames. It’s just the sort of premise I absolutely love – and, as it turned out, also a novel that I loved.

Possibly my favourite genre of books is the fantastic – books set in this world, but with an element of fantasy of them. It’s the sort of book I did my DPhil on, but I hadn’t heard of Kerby or her novel – thankfully it was published a bit too late to match the focus of my thesis, or otherwise I’d have been anxious about leaving it out.

To look at Miss Georgina Carter you would never have suspected that a women of her age and character would have allowed herself to be so wholeheartedly mixed up with an Ifrit. For Georgina Carter was nearing fifty (she was forty-seven to be exact) and there was something about her long, plain face, her long upper lip, her long, thin hands and feet that marked her very nearly irrevocably as a spinster. That she wore her undistinguished clothes well, had a warm, human smile, was fond of the theatre and had never occasioned anyone a moment’s trouble or sorrow, were minor virtues which had never got her very far.

That’s the opening paragraph, and that’s the Miss Carter who is the mainstay of the narrative. She has lived a quiet, unassuming life. As it’s wartime, she is working for the government’s censorship department – blacking out bits of letters – but, otherwise, she has spent years in middle-class isolation. She has one good friend, and that’s about it. The rest is propriety, boredom, and a little loneliness.

Into this life comes the Ifrit – whom she names Joe. He emerges from wood that she is burning on her fire, freed from a curse of centuries. And he is to obey her every whim. (I had heard the word ‘ifrit’ somewhere before, but didn’t know exactly what it was – the OED says it’s an alternative spelling of ‘afrit’ – essentially a genie.)

What I loved about Kerby’s novel was how she takes this fantastically unlikely scenario and makes every subsequent step believable. Joe is enthusiastic and bombastic, and is gradually taught to behave in a way more befitting the 1940s. The extent of his fantastic abilities is rather elastic and not always coherent – he can shape-shift and conjure up any foods required, but he has to dart around the world at lightning speed to gather clothing.  But it doesn’t really matter – if anything, it makes the reader feel as enjoyably dizzied as Miss Carter.

And Miss Carter is a wonderful character. Kerby starts with the isolated spinster trope, and gives us added dimensions – of ‘might have beens’ and ‘maybe still could bes’. She is sharp but uncertain – independent but unsure of this strange new thing happening to her.

It’s such a fun book, and Kerby handles the absurdities and humour well alongside a genuine pathos. I heartily recommend it, and if the other new Furrowed Middlebrow books are this unusual and winning, then we’re all in for a treat.

Company in the Evening by Ursula Orange #1944Club

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I loved the first Ursula Orange novel I read (Tom Tiddler’s Ground) and was glad that the 1944 Club provided an opportunity to read another. Company in the Evening is one of the Furrowed Middlebrow reprints – extremely welcome, especially given how much Scott has made us all want to read Ursula Orange over the years. And, yes, it’s another really good’un.

The novel is from the perspective of Vicky, a woman who has recently divorced and is looking after her young daughter (born after the divorce) while also working at a literary agency. She is managing life rather well, but her mother can’t believe this is possible – and decides that Vicky should take in her sister-in-law. Rene has been living with Vicky’s mother, after being widowed (a very WW2 element to the story) – and she makes the move to Vicky’s household, fitting neither in the role of servant or relative. She will provide, Vicky’s mother optimistically hopes, ‘company in the evening’.

Vicky is more a real character than a likeable one. Or, perhaps, she becomes likeable because she is so understandable. She does not particularly want Rene to move in with her, nor does she know quite how to speak to her. Orange is very good in the scenes where Vicky tries to reach across the intellectual and social chasm between herself and Rene, wanting to find the right topics and language, but also (because she is only ordinarily nice; nothing special) not putting in quite as much effort as is needed. She is definitely an intellectual snob and, to a lesser extent, a class snob – but it is undeniable that this chasm would exist, even if Vicky cared less about it. The women are two different to understand one another.

Meanwhile, she starts to reconnect with her ex-husband – recognising, for the first time, that he might want to make something of the role of father, and that she never really gave him the chance. Looping back to the title – might he become the aforementioned company?

The dynamics of the unusual household are done extremely well. We always know what people are or aren’t likely to say, do, and feel, and understand how awkwardly these elements cohere – or don’t cohere. It is a funny novel, but not in the way that Tom Tiddler’s Ground was. It’s the war – set in 1941, if memory serves – and a more sombre light is cast over the book.

Having said that, all the stuff at her literary agency is amusing – particularly her dealings with an author who sends all her best stories elsewhere, and is maddeningly unhelpful in meetings. I love reading about anybody engaged in literary work, and this was all rich material for what a literary agency was presumably like in the 1940s.

Dorothy Harper wafted herself out of the office, all pearls, fur-coat and scent. I am sure that she always pictured herself as bringing just a little colour and romance—a breath of the outside world—into our drab lives. As neither of us ever did anything but listen patiently while she talked her society prattle, perhaps we encouraged her in this conception. I was ‘Miss Sylvester’ to her, as I was to all our clients. I am sure that had she known that I was (like her) a divorcee, she would. have been deeply shocked. Little typists in offices (she would think) have no business to be also divorced women with private lives of their own.

The oddball humour is perhaps an odd fit with the social anxieties – and with all the motherhood aspect, particularly when Vicky’s daughter has a health crisis. But I think it works well together – because, of course, people’s lives have funny moments and unhappy moments, and Orange has written something that is naturalistic in tone, if not in every word spoken. I’m so grateful that Scott and Furrowed Middlebrow have brought Ursula Orange back into print – and you can read his detailed thoughts about this novel on his blog.