The Levant Trilogy (Book One: The Danger Tree) by Olivia Manning

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Five years ago, I read and loved Olivia Manning’s Balkan Trilogy, a superb series of largely autobiographical novels based on the author’s experiences of a life lived on the advancing edges of turmoil as the Germans closed in on Eastern Europe during World War II. The trilogy is also an acutely perceptive portrait of the early years of a fraught marriage unfolding against the backdrop of displacement and uncertainty. In these books, we meet Guy and Harriet Pringle as they embark on married life, firstly in Bucharest, where Guy is employed by the British Council as a University lecturer, and then in Athens, where he finds himself sidelined with fewer opportunities to put his teaching skills to good use. The Pringles are, of course, based on Manning and her husband, Reggie Smith, and the fictional couple’s movements across the Balkans mirror those of the author and Smith.

The final book in The Balkan Trilogy ends with the Pringles sailing from Athens to Alexandria in Egypt, after been forced to flee Greece as the Germans approached. From there, The Danger Tree (the first book in The Levant series) picks up the couple’s story in Cairo, where their lives seem just as precarious and unsettled as before. Allied Government officials and assorted hangers-on from Eastern Europe appear to have come to Cairo to ‘live off the charity of the British government’. Consequently, the city is abuzz with the friendships, rivalries and scandals that occupy the refugees while they await the next development in the ongoing war.

As in Athens, Guy finds himself out of favour with the British Council’s teaching operation in Cairo, now headed up by Colin Gracey, an odious man with a disdainful air. Consequently, Guy finds himself packed off to the outskirts of Alexandria – practically in the desert – to teach English to business students. There are one or two talented pupils in his cohort, but once again, his skills are grossly underutilised due to personal clashes with the higher-ups. Meanwhile, Harriet stays in a cheap pension in Cairo, eking out a living with a clerical role at the American Embassy, where she is acutely conscious of her position as an outsider, even amongst other Allies.

The Pringles see one another at weekends once the working week is through, but the situation is far from ideal. Moreover, as the Germans make inroads into Egypt, there is a genuine risk of Guy being cut off in Alexandria if Rommel chooses to annexe it. Consequently, Harriet travels to the city with the aim of persuading Guy to return to Cairo, but without success.

As before, tension in the Pringles’ marriage is a major focus of this novel, with Guy continuing to prioritise the needs of his students, friends and assorted acquaintances over those of Harriet. Idealistic, naïve and scholarly by nature, Guy persists in throwing himself into his work, partly to provide a sense of purpose and status, even though he is aware of having been sidelined by Gracey. Harriet is unsure whether Guy’s optimism and lack of concern about the war come from his inability to recognise reality, or a refusal to flee from its threat. Nevertheless, despite her personal frustrations with the state of their marriage, Harriet is fully conscious of how this situation is affecting Guy.

‘…He’s stuck at that commercial college, wasting his talents. He’s not allowed to leave the Organization and Gracey can’t, or won’t, give him a job worthy of him. Other men are at war, so he must take what comes to him. He cannot protest, except that his behaviour is protest. He must either howl against his life or treat it as a joke.’ As she spoke, protest rose in her, too. ‘This is what they’ve done to him – Gracey, Pinkrose and the rest of them. He believes that right and virtue, if persisted in, must prevail, yet he knows he’s been defeated by people for whom the whole of life is a dishonest game.’ (p. 113)

But when Gracey is sacked from his role for fleeing from Cairo to the relative safety of Palestine, Guy gets a lucky break. In short, he is appointed as head of the teaching unit in the capital, enabling him and Harriet to move to a room in Garden City, a more desirable area of Cairo. Their new home is a flat share with the British diplomat, Dobson; an attractive and much sought-after socialite, Edwina; and a moody chap named Percy, who seems to resent the Pringles’ presence. Harriet hopes to become good friends with Edwina, but despite her pleasant manner, Edwina is more interested in her own social life than getting to know the new flatmates. Instead, Harriet is taken up by Angela Hooper, a wealthy married woman who has recently separated from her husband following the death of their child.

Alongside the ups and downs of the Pringles’ lives, Manning also introduces another thread to her story of developments in Egypt, that of twenty-year-old Simon Bouldestone, a junior officer in the British army who has come to the country to fight. And it is here that Manning’s narrative extends to areas beyond her own personal experiences to great effect. She is particularly insightful on the realities of war in the desert, when long stretches of travelling or conducting routine patrols can be suddenly interrupted by intense bursts of conflict.

The enemy seemed to be on the alert. Repeated gun flashes dotted the German positions and the men, who were in close order, instinctively kept closer than need be as they marched into no-man’s-land. The moon had set and they moved by starlight. There was little to see and Simon thought it unlikely that anyone had seen them, yet, a few hundred yards from their objective, a flare went up from the hill-top, blanching the desert and revealing the two close-knit platoons. Immediately there was uproar. Red and yellow tracer bullets, like deadly fireworks, passed overhead and machine-guns kept up their mad, virulent rattle. (pp. 154–155)

The heady mix of heat, boredom, fear and uncertainty, punctuated by the adrenaline rush of battle, the anger towards of the enemy, and the dreadful smell of death, is brilliantly conveyed here.

These two storylines briefly intersect in Cairo when Simon meets Harriet and Edwina, whom he believes to be his brother’s girlfriend – connections that seem set to be developed further in the next two books.

A little like her contemporary Elizabeth Taylor, Manning is remarkably adept at sketching memorable secondary characters with economy and precision. Early in the novel, we are reintroduced to Professor Pinkrose, a pompous visiting lecturer whom the Pringles reencounter in Egypt.

Harriet watched Pinkrose with a smile, quizzical and mildly scornful, while Pinkrose’s small, stony eyes quivered with self-concern. She had known him first in Bucharest where, sent out to give a lecture, he had arrived as the Germans were infiltrating the country and had been abandoned then just as he was abandoned now. He was, she thought, like some heavy object, a suitcase or parcel, an impediment that his friends put down when they wanted to cut and run. (pp. 29–30)

Manning also shows herself to be sceptical of the alleged wisdom of colonialism by questioning the prevailing view that the British are somehow morally, culturally and socially superior to other nationals.

They [the British] arrived in Egypt, fresh and innocent, imbued with the creed in which they had been brought up. They believed that the British Empire was the greatest force for good the world had ever known. They expected gratitude from the Egyptians and were pained to find themselves barely tolerated.

[Harriet:] ‘What have we done here, except make money? I suppose a few rich Egyptians have got richer by supporting us, but the real people of the country, the peasants and the backstreet poor, are just as diseased, underfed and wretched as they ever were.’

Aware of his own ignorance, Simon did not argue but changed course. ‘Surely they’re glad to have us here to protect them?’

‘They don’t think we’re protecting them. They think we’re making a use of them. And so we are. We’re protecting the Suez Canal and the route to India and Clifford’s oil company.’ (p. 24)

As ever with Manning, the settings are vividly evoked. From the bustling streets of Cairo to the great expanse and oppressive heat of the desert, she captures these locations with a painter’s eye for an atmospheric scene.

The main streets impressed and unnerved him [Simon]. The pavements were crowded and cars hooted for any reason, or no reason at all. Here the Egyptians wore European dress, the women as well as the men, but among them there were those other Egyptians whom he had seen flapping their slippers round the station. The men came here to sell, the women to beg. And everywhere there were British troops, the marooned men who had nothing to do but wander the streets, shuffling and grumbling, with no money and nowhere to go. (pp. 14–15)

At various points in the novel, rumours about the relative vulnerability of Cairo swirl around the city, leading Harriet to wonder whether she and Guy will need to flee again. However, as this instalment in Manning’s broader story draws to a close, the Pringles’ marriage appears to be in more trouble than ever as Harriet finds herself questioning her husband’s fidelity, while Guy wonders whether she would be better off in England. Once again, Manning offers us an excellent insight into Guy’s character, particularly his lack of understanding of Harriet’s need for love and affection.

He [Guy] found it difficult to accept that his own behaviour could be at fault. And if it were, he did not see how it could be changed. It was, as it always had been, rational, so, if she were troubled, then some agency beyond them – sickness, the summer heat, the distance from England – must be affecting her. For his part, he was reasonable, charitable, honest, hard-working, as generous as his means allowed, and he had been tolerant when she picked up with some young officer in Greece. What more could be expected of him? Yet, seeing her afresh, he realized how fragile she had become. She was thin by nature but now her loss of weight made her look ill. Worse than that, he felt about her the malaise of a deep-seated discontent. That she was unhappy concerned him, yet what could he do about it? He had more than enough to do as it was… (pp. 192–193)

So, in summary then, this is another immersive, richly imagined instalment in Manning’s ambitious sequence about lives lived on the edge of WW2. The novel is imbued with a profound sense of loss – a loss of stability, of innocence, of opportunities, of spontaneity and fun – and most poignantly of all, the loss of life itself for those unfortunate enough to become the casualties of war.

The Levant Trilogy is published by NYRB Classics in the US and by W&N is the UK; personal copy.

Christmas Pudding by Nancy Mitford

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First published in 1932, Christmas Pudding was one of Nancy Mitford’s early books, written before she hit the big time with her semi-autobiographical novels, In the Pursuit of Love (1945) and Love in a Cold Climate (1949). In some respects, Christmas Pudding is a lesser work but no less enjoyable for readers who like farce. In short, it satirises the idiosyncrasies of Britain’s upper classes and Bright Young Things while also having fun with the country house novel, a popular genre in the British literary world at that time.

While Pudding is something of an ensemble piece, the story hinges on Paul Fotheringay, a young writer who has just scored a hit with his debut novel, Crazy Capers, hailed by critics and readers as a hilarious farce. Paul, however, is crestfallen, largely because he’d intended the book to be a serious work of literature, infused with poignancy and tragedy.

As a possible way forward, his friend, the wealthy widow Amabelle Fortescue, advises Paul to make his next book a biography, ideal fare for a writer who longs to be taken seriously. So, following some research on gaps in the biography market, Paul identifies Lady Maria Bobbin as a suitable subject. Lady Maria’s journals and correspondence are now in the hands of her granddaughter, the current Lady Bobbin, who lives at Compton Bobbin in Gloucestershire. But when Paul writes to Lady B requesting access to her grandmother’s papers, his application is turned down, largely because his first book has been deemed a riotous farce!

Consequently, Amabelle devises a ruse to install Paul at the Compton Bobbin estate as a tutor to Lady Bobbin’s seventeen-year-old son, Bobby, currently in his final year at Eton. While Bobby hopes to secure a place at Oxford, Lady Bobbin has other plans for the boy, envisaging a spell at Sandhurst once his Eton days are through. Either way, Bobby will need some additional tuition over the Christmas holidays to pass his exams, hence the reason for employing a tutor – or, in other words, Paul Fotheringay in disguise.

As it happens, Amabelle will also be in Gloucestershire for the season, having rented a house just two miles from Lady Bobbin’s estate. So, with Paul successfully placed at Compton Bobbin, his mornings can be devoted to reading Lady Maria’s journals on the quiet while Bobby naps on the sofa; meanwhile, Lady Bobbin, believes these sessions are devoted to tutoring, so she leaves the boys to it.

The afternoons are another matter altogether as Lady Bobbin insists that Bobby must immerse himself in outdoor activities to prepare for his spell at Sandhurst. Much to her annoyance, the usual hunts have been suspended due to an outbreak of foot-and-mouth; however, there’s nothing to stop Bobby and Paul riding the horses in the grounds. Cue much amusement as Paul, who is scared stiff of riding, tries to cope with one of Lady B’s horses as she watches them setting off.

Paul, his unreasonable terror of horses now quite overcome by his unreasonable terror of Lady Bobbin, whose cold gimlet eye seemed to be reading his every emotion, decided that here was one of the few occasions in a man’s life on which death would be preferable to dishonour, and advanced towards the mounting block with slight swagger which he hoped was reminiscent of a French marquis approaching the scaffold. (p. 83)

Once the boys are safely out of sight, Bobby pays one of the grooms to exercise the beasts. This leaves Bobby and Paul free to while away their afternoons with Amabelle and her society friends, also down for the break.

That, in a nutshell, is the novel’s ‘plot’, although I’m using the term quite loosely here as it’s not really a plot-driven book. Rather, Mitford’s focus seems to be on farce and satirical humour, which gives Pudding the feel of a lighter version of Evelyn Waugh’s early novels, minus the acerbic bite.

Much of the amusement is provided by the other characters in the book, from Lady Bobbin with her outrageously prejudiced views to the jolly japes of Amabelle’s society set. Lady B is particularly good value in this respect, convinced as she is that Communism has infiltrated British society and politics – hence her ‘Bolsheviks in Britain’ rhetoric!

Florence Prague was saying only yesterday, and I am perfectly certain she is right, that the Bolsheviks are out to do anything they can which will stop hunting. They know quite well, the devils, that every kind of sport, and especially hunting, does more to put down Socialism than all the speeches in the world, so, as they can’t do very much with that R.S.V.P. nonsense, they go about spreading foot and mouth germs all over the countryside. I can’t imagine why the Government doesn’t take active steps; it’s enough to make one believe that they are in the pay of these brutes themselves. (p. 55–56)

Amabelle’s friends include Walter and Sally Monteath, who, despite having virtually no money and a baby daughter to care for, seem to be the very embodiment of the phrase ‘live now, pay later’. By day, Walter plays bridge, gambling money he doesn’t really have; then by night, he and Sally drink, dance and party hard, often relying on their friends’ generosity to keep them vaguely afloat. Mitford has much fun satirising the Bright Young Things and their flippant, laissez-faire approach to life, as typified by the following quote.

‘…When’s the christening, Sally?’

Well, if the poor little sweet is still with us then we thought next Tuesday week (suit you?), but she’s most awfully ill today, she keeps on making the sort of noises Walter does after a night out, you know.’

‘D’you think she’s likely to live or not?’ said Paul. ‘Because if there’s any doubt perhaps I could use your telephone, Amabelle, to call up the jewellers and see if I’m in time to stop them engraving that mug. It’s such an expensive sort, and I don’t want it spoilt for nothing, I must say.’ (p. 21)

Mitford seems particularly interested in a woman’s reasons for getting married – or, more specifically, whether she should marry for love or for money. As far as Amabelle sees it, a girl ought to marry for love when she is young, if such an opportunity presents itself. The marriage probably won’t last, but it will be an experience if nothing else. Then, later in life, she should marry for money, as long as it’s big money; one mustn’t settle for anything less. Besides, apart from love or money, there aren’t any compelling reasons for marrying at all!

‘When I was a girl,’ said Sally, ‘and before I met Walter, you know, I fixed a definite price at which I was willing to overlook boringness. As far as I can remember it was twenty-five-thousand pounds a year. However, nothing more than twelve seemed to offer, so I married Walter instead.’ (p. 95)

The introduction of a couple of other characters – Bobby’s twenty-one-year-old sister, Philadelphia, and Amabelle’s former suitor, Lord Michael Lewes – allows Mitford to develop these themes further, exploring what role happiness plays in all of this. In fact, Paul and Amabelle both question whether happiness is a realistic expectation to have in life, especially if marriage is involved.

‘Oh dear,’ said Paul gloomily, ‘it really is rather disillusioning. When one’s friends marry for money they are wretched, when they marry for love it is worse. What is the proper thing to marry for, I should like to know?’

‘The trouble is,’ said Amabelle, looking at Philadelphia whom she thought surprisingly beautiful, ‘that people seem to expect happiness in life. I can’t imagine why; but they do. They are unhappy before they marry, and they imagine to themselves that the reason of their unhappiness will be removed when they are married. When it isn’t they blame the other person, which is clearly absurd. I believe that is what generally starts the trouble.’ (p. 126)

Amiable, intelligent, and interested in culture, Philadelphia is bored stiff living at home in the country with her mother, and she longs for some genuine, like-minded friends. Both Paul and Michael Lewes are attracted to her, which poses something of a dilemma, especially when Michael proposes. As Amabelle points out, Michael would make the more suitable husband, given his wealth and social position, but Philadelphia’s heart seems wedded to Paul. As the novel unfolds, various developments ensue, but which way will Philadelphia turn? You’ll have to read the book to find out…

The Christmas festivities offer Mitford plenty of scope for ridiculing the upper classes as Lady Bobbin welcomes her guests to Compton Bobbin. On the downside, there are a few superfluous minor characters that could have been cut in the edit, and the story sags a little as these are figures introduced. Nevertheless, it’s a fairly minor quibble in the scheme of things at this stage in Mitford’s career.

Alongside her satirical sideswipes at Bright Young Things and the upper classes, Mitford also takes the opportunity to poke fun at the literary scene, albeit more gently.

[Amabelle:] ‘…Really that young man [Michael], I’ve no patience at all with him; he behaves like a very unconvincing character in a book, not like a human being at all.’

[Bobby:] ‘ Yes, doesn’t he. The sort of book of which the reviewers would say “the characterization is weak; the central figure, Lord Lewes, never really coming to life at all; but there are some fine descriptive passages of Berkshire scenery.”…’ (p. 164)

All in all, then, this is an enjoyable piece of farce, a seasonal treat for lovers of this type of fiction, but not to be taken too seriously. A book club friend chose it as our Christmas read, and I’m looking forward to hearing what everyone thinks (while also suspecting that it might divide opinion due to Mitford’s signature style)!

Christmas Pudding is published by Penguin Books; personal copy.

The Wycherly Woman by Ross Macdonald

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After a lengthy but inexplicable break, I’m returning to my long-term project of reading Ross Macdonald’s Lew Archer books in publication order, which brings me to number nine in this excellent series: The Wycherly Woman. For those unfamiliar with Macdonald, whose career spanned the late 1940s to the mid-1970s, he is now considered one of the leading proponents of hardboiled fiction, up there with Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett in terms of substance and style. Several of Macdonald’s books feature Lew Archer, a private eye with a conscience, a fundamentally decent man in pursuit of the truth, who finds himself battling against the systemic violence and corruption that frequently exist in dysfunctional families, corrupt organisations and other powerful institutions.

Ostensibly a ‘missing girl’ story, albeit one with many, deeper layers to reveal, The Wycherly Woman is an excellent entry in the Archer series, written at a time when Macdonald was at (or near) the height of his powers, showcasing many of his skills. While the novel delves into many of this author’s favourite themes – twisted, dysfunctional families with dark secrets to conceal; highly damaged individuals with complex psychological issues; and finally, elements of greed, murder, blackmail and guilt – there’s something very melancholic about this one, a tragic sadness that’s hard to shake.

Wealthy oil magnate Homer Wycherly has returned from a two-month cruise to discover that his daughter, Phoebe – a twenty-one-year-old college student, recently transferred from Stanford to Boulder Beach College – has been missing for two months. Wycherly last saw Phoebe on the day he left for his trip, which means she could be anywhere, dead or alive. Consequently, he approaches Archer to locate the girl; however, there are various restrictions that must be observed. Firstly, Archer must not approach Phoebe’s mother, Catherine – now divorced from Homer following allegations of her infidelity – as Homer considers her poisonous. If anything, she would only confuse the issue, so Homer claims. Secondly, Homer is wary of attracting any publicity concerning the case, meaning no involvement of either the press or the police in the search for Phoebe’s whereabouts.

His [Homer’s] expression didn’t change much; it crinkled a bit around the mouth and eyes. It was the smile of a man who wanted to be liked and hadn’t always been. (p. 4)

Somewhat reluctantly (as is often the case in novels of this type), Archer agrees to take on the case, which sees him travelling to Boulder Beach to begin his investigation. Neither Phoebe’s roommate, Dolly, nor her surfer boyfriend, Bobby, has seen Phoebe since she left to say goodbye to her father when he embarked on his two-month cruise. Nevertheless, her landlady remains convinced that Phoebe was planning to return to her room that day (or very soon thereafter). Why else would she leave all her best clothes and belongings behind?

Despite Homer’s warnings not to approach Phoebe’s mother, Archer sets off on Catherine’s trail – a quest that soon leads him from one murky development to another, taking in family secrets, lies, blackmail, murder, infidelity and exploitation along the way.

As ever, Archer approaches these tangled networks of crime, corruption and cover-ups with his usual world-weariness and dogged pursuit of the truth. In some respects, the intricacies of the plot are not particularly important here (for me, least); rather, much of the pleasure stems from observing Archer doing his job, which Macdonald conveys in his trademark hardboiled style. The writing is excellent throughout, very much in tune with the mood of this genre.

He offered me his dismayed smile, which tried hard to be likable and wasn’t. I gave up hoping for much realism from him. He was a weak sad man in a bind, ready to bandage his ego with any rag of vanity he could muster. (p. 42)

Once again, Macdonald demonstrates his skill in moving the narrative forward through dialogue, underscored with the ring of authenticity. While Archer is the most well-developed character here, the other players are also nicely drawn, particularly the minor characters who frequently add some interesting texture to the mix. Sad, damaged individuals often feature in the Lew Archer books, offering Macdonald ample opportunities to sketch out these jaded, worn-down characters with the skill of a master.

The words were a little out of synchronization with the movements of her mouth. She flapped her blue eyelids at me as if it was herself she was trying to sell. Thirtyish blonde, available at a bargain, abandoned by previous owner, needs some work. More work than I felt up to. (p. 261)

Mr. Fillmore, the manager, was in his office behind the main desk. He was one of those slightly confused, middle-aged men who needed someone to remind him that his dark suit could use a pressing and that his lank hair stuck up like weeds at the back. I introduced myself as Homer Wycherly. I was stuck with the name and the tragicomic role as long as I stayed around the Champion Hotel. (p. 115)

As usual with Macdonald, the sense of place is excellent too, from his portrayal of the rapidly developing parts of the Californian coast…

Oceano Avenue was a realtor’s dream or a city-planner’s nightmare. Apartment houses were stacked like upended boxes along its slope; new buildings were going up in the vacant lots. The street had a heady air of profits and slums in the making. (p. 16)

…to the ominous feel of a deserted college campus at night.

It was a rough night, and it got no smoother. About three o’clock I pulled into the north side of Boulder Beach, where motel neons hung their cold lures on the darkness. I turned off the highway towards the college area. The campus lay like a city of the dead under ectoplasmic fog rolling up from the sea. The moon had a halo. (p. 199)

Overall, The Wycherly Woman is an excellent addition to the Lew Archer series. While the plot might seem a little convoluted and tricky to follow at times, everything slots into place relatively smoothly in the final chapters, with some additional unforeseen twists towards the end. (And, as mentioned earlier, I don’t think the plot is the main attraction here – for me, it’s more about the dialogue, atmosphere, mood and prose style, all of which are great.) Initially, I assumed the ‘Wycherly Woman’ was Phoebe, but as the novel unfolds and more layers of complexity are revealed, one could make an argument for it applying to Catherine Wycherly (Homer’s wife) just as much as her daughter. Again, as I touched on earlier, there’s a sad, melancholic feel to much of this novel, a prevailing mood that lingers throughout. Alongside The Way Some People Die and The Drowning Pool, it’s probably one of my favourite Lew Archer novels to date,.

The Wycherly Woman is published by Vintage Crime / Black Lizard; personal copy.

The Long Shadow by Celia Fremlin

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Back in the 1960s and ‘70s, the British author Celia Fremlin carved out a niche with her wonderfully suspenseful domestic noirs, slowly building tension by leveraging her protagonists’ understandable yet sometimes irrational fears. First published in 1975, The Long Shadow is broadly in this vein, although I think it’s best viewed as a family drama in which peculiar things start happening, rather than a tense noir. As with Fremlin’s other recently reissued novels, Uncle Paul, Appointment with Yesterday and The Jealous One, it’s also a very enjoyable read, albeit a little far-fetched in terms of plot!

Central to the novel is Imogen, the recent widow of Ivor, a well-respected but self-centred, egotistical Classics professor, who died in a car accident four months ago. Imogen was Ivor’s third wife, and while his loss has left a mark, it’s fair to say she’s ready to move on.

To Ivor’s vast, irrepressible ego, for ever would have been all too short a tribute. He’d have loved to imagine that Imogen would grieve him for ever, miss him for ever–indeed, that everyone else would, too: pupils, colleague, neighbours; even his former wives and mistresses. All of them, all tearing their hair, rending their garments, flinging themselves on his pyre in an abandonment of grief. (p. 2)

Nevertheless, her friends and family are more concerned – and with Christmas fast approaching, Imogen finds herself with a houseful of unwanted guests, keen to keep her company in what they assume to be a time of need. Firstly, there is Ivor’s daughter, Dot, her husband, Herbert, and their two young sons, Vernon and Timmie – a family with marital troubles in the mix. Then there is Ivor’s unmarried son, Robin, a nonchalant thirty-year-old who doesn’t seem interested in holding down a job – maybe he could move in with Imogen rather than wasting money on rent for a flat? Even Ivor’s second wife, Cynthia, is threatening to fly over from the Caribbean to join in the collective grieving over Christmas, a prospect Imogen is not looking forward to one bit. If only she could tell Cynthia what she really thinks…

O. K., so Ivor would have liked it. But then he won’t be here, will he, dear? It’s whether I like it that counts now, I’m the one who’ll have to meet you at the airport, put clean sheets on your bed, ask you if you’d like hot-water-bottles, cocoa, cornflakes…And then there you’ll still be, next day, and I’ll have to talk to you, pass you the marmalade, think what the hell to do with you. And you’re bound to want to stay for weeks and weeks, coming all the way from Bermuda, £400 return, isn’t it?

It isn’t that I hate you, dear, it’s just that I don’t want to have to bother about you. Just like Ivor… (pp. 15–16)

To add to the confusion, Robin has brought a young woman named Piggy with him – a lovesick waif with nowhere else to go, although why Imogen should be expected to accommodate her, heaven only knows. Fremlin’s trademark wit is very much in evidence here as Robin introduces Piggy to the group.

‘This is Piggy,’ announced Robin, leading in out of the darkness a tall, heavily-built girl with a huge suitcase, and a heavy, loosely-braided plait of blonde hair falling over one shoulder. ‘I’m not sleeping with her,’ he added, glancing round as if for applause. (p. 55)

A widowed neighbour, Edith, is also on hand to inadvertently add to Imogen’s guilt for not grieving Ivor sufficiently, almost as though mourning one’s late husband were some kind of competition or public display. The problem is, Ivor had numerous faults and failings, which Imogen cannot forget as the Christmas traditions get underway…

…a brilliantly expensive Kaftan, covered in golden embroidery, and glitteringly unsuitable for anything except the kind of parties that Imogen would never be going to again. It would have been allright for the kind of parties she sometimes used to go to with Ivor; and he would have liked her to wear a thing like this. Would have liked it, that is, all the while she remained at his side, manifestly his possession; but on the other hand, he hated her to remain at his side at parties: it cramped his style with the beautiful wives of important husbands. And so actually it would all have been rather complicated. Her grief for Ivor was always running into tangles like this… (pp. 57-58)

The sense of unease steps up a notch when strange occurrences begin to happen. Imogen receives a phone call from a man she met at a social gathering, accusing her of being involved in Ivor’s death. All nonsense of course as Ivor was on a business trip at the time while Imogen remained at home. Then she finds some of Ivor’s belongings in unexpected places around the house: a glass and a whisky bottle by his favourite chair; a textbook left out in his study; and an old manuscript scattered over his bed. Stranger still, alterations are being made to this manuscript from one day to the next – in Ivor’s handwriting to boot. And when Imogen receives another warning of her involvement in Ivor’s death – this one claiming the existence of proof – she determines to get to the bottom of it all, even if it means facing an uncomfortable truth.

Uncle Paul, Appointment with Yesterday and The Jealous One are wonderfully suspenseful explorations of what can happen when we allow our imagination to run wild and unfettered, conjuring up all sorts of nightmare scenarios from our fears and suspicions. The Long Shadow, however, seems more focused on the tensions created through family dynamics than sinister theories around Ivor’s accident. Yes, there are the threatening messages about Imogen’s supposed involvement in her husband’s death and various odd things happening around the house, but one never quite gets the sense that Imogen is culpable in any of this. Where Fremlin really excels, though, is in her priceless observations about the pressures and tacit judgements that seem to breed amongst friends and families, particularly in suburban environments.

…’you know, don’t you, that there’s no need to keep a stiff-upper-lip with me. Go on—don’t bottle it up—have a good cry. Remember, I’ve been through it myself, I know just what you’re feeling.’

You don’t, though, Imogen would think sullenly. If you did you’d shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up! While aloud, ‘Yes, Edith, I know’, she’d prevaricate, docile, and dimly guilty, and unable to summon up a single tear. (p. 23)

In fact, as far as Imogen is concerned, the most horrific outcome would be if her relatives moved in for good, especially as they show no signs of leaving once the holiday season is over.

…At the thought of it all, Imogen felt a sort of panic rising within her, she was actually trembling. An ailment common enough, though little recognised by orthodox psychiatry, had her in its grip: landlady-panic. The thought of all these people actually living here, under her roof, became terrifying. The assorted faces—anxious, kindly, self-absorbed, indifferent—began to coalesce in her mind into a single monstrous entity, an unstoppable force, nosing its way into her home, blindly and brainlessly devouring everything in its path… (p. 124)

The solution to the peculiar occurrences is somewhat far-fetched. Nevertheless, this is a minor quibble in the scheme of things for me, particularly given Fremlin’s wit and sharp insights into families, societal attitudes and the role of women at the time. All in all, then, this is another very enjoyable novel by one of my favourite writers – not top-tier Fremlin, but still pretty good.

The Long Shadow is published by Faber; personal copy.

Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea by Teffi (tr. R Chandler, E Chandler AM Jackson & I Steinberg)

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Born in St. Petersburg in 1872, Teffi (Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya) went on to become a celebrated writer in early 20^th-century Russia, publishing poems, short stories, satirical sketches and plays to great acclaim. In the autumn of 1918, with the Russian Civil War intensifying around her, Teffi was persuaded to leave Moscow for a short series of public readings in Kiev and Odessa. The trip was due to last around a month, offering Teffi a brief respite from the uncertainties swirling around Moscow as the Bolsheviks closed in. Events, however, swiftly intervened, forcing Teffi and many of her fellow writers and creatives to move south, shuttling them from one Russian city to another as the advancing Bolsheviks nipped at their heels.

Memories is Teffi’s deeply moving account of that whirlwind time – a series of fraught departures, anxious journeys and brief regroupings in new cities, culminating in a trip across the Black Sea to Constantinople, which marked the beginning of Teffi’s new life as an émigré. Sadly, she was never to return to Russia again, eventually settling in Paris, where she lived for many years.

While Teffi supported socialism and the 1905 revolution, her sympathies did not extend to the Bolsheviks, and her disdain for Lenin was clear to see. In Memories, Teffi brings her trademark wit, humour and humanity to some of the uncertainties and tragedies of the Russian Civil War. Her insights are often sharp, spiky and satirical. However, these humorous notes only serve to accentuate the chaos, bewilderment and fear unfolding around her during that time.

The book opens in Moscow with brief preparations for her literary trip, which she will undertake with another writer, two actresses and their respective impresarios. Naturally, travel permits must be secured – easier said than done under the circumstances! – but the group is soon on its way, travelling by train, and then by caravan, towards Kiev. Unsurprisingly, there are various unscheduled stops and close shaves along the way, all recounted in Teffi’s incisive style.

On her arrival in Kiev, Teffi finds the conditions much improved. Food is plentiful, other writers and colleagues duly arrive, and the cultural community starts to regroup. New journals are quickly established, giving Teffi and her fellow writers fresh outlets for their work. However, all too soon, the mood in the city begins to dampen as the Bolsheviks edge closer, setting the pattern for the months that will follow. Everywhere Teffi goes during her travels, she witnesses a similar dynamic. Following their arrival in a new city, refugees such as Teffi try to rebuild cultural and social structures, only to be displaced once again as the war catches up with them.

Now the talk is of Odessa, and Teffi – along with many others in her situation – prepares to leave Kiev. And it is here that Teffi’s account becomes particularly disturbing to read, capturing as it does the true horror of the situation as it unfolds.

The crush at the station was unimaginable. Troop trains were occupying nearly all the lines. We didn’t know whether they were just arriving or just departing. They probably didn’t even know themselves.

Everyone looked bewildered, resentful, and tired.

With some difficulty we made our way to our allocated train car. It was third class, which seemed to mean three tiers of sleeping boards. Our cases were thrown in after us.

The train stood at the station for a long time. Official and unofficial departure times had all long come and gone. We were on the second track and there were trains full of soldiers on either side of us. We could hear yells and shots. Through the gaps between cars we could see people rushing about in panic. (p. 106)

Suspicions and rumours are rife, accentuated by reports of the dead and the wounded, which only add to the travellers’ fears. In fact, at one point, it is thought that the Bolsheviks might be lying in wait for them a few miles down the tracks.

Something Teffi does particularly well here is to communicate the uncertainty of the situation and how quickly this becomes the ‘new normal’ for those seeking safety. For instance, the sense of not knowing whether a train will depart for its destination – or if it will be stopped and attacked en route – is vividly conveyed. There are various instances when journeys are interrupted by officials or soldiers, some of whom wish to be entertained by Teffi and her fellow artists, while others prove more mercenary.

We stopped many times. At dark stations or in the middle of nowhere, where there was more yelling and shooting and dancing pinpoints of light.

Soldiers with bayonets appeared in the doorways.

“Officers! To the end of the car!”

There were no officers in our car.

I remember seeing people running beside the track, past our windows. Breathless soldiers stormed into the car and stabbed under the benches with their bayonets.

And nobody knew what was going on, and nobody asked. Everyone sat quietly with their eyes closed, as if they were dozing, as if to show that they did not consider any of this to be in the least out of the ordinary. (p. 107)

Despite these anxieties, Teffi’s spirit remains resolute, and she proves herself remarkably resilient in the face of adversity. There are brighter moments too, especially on arrival at a new destination, such as Odessa, which has managed to maintain a lively nightlife despite the presence of criminal gangs.

But we were not easily deterred. All night long, the theaters, clubs, and restaurants remained crowded with people. Fabulous sums were lost at cards.

In the morning, stupefied by wine, gambling, and cigar smoke, bankers and sugar manufacturers would emerge from these clubs and blink their puffy eyelids at the sun. Shadowy figures from Moldavanka [a poor part of Odessa with a reputation for criminality] would be hanging about in doorways, sifting the piles of nutshells and sausage skins for scraps and leftovers. Their eyes hungry and sullen, they would stand and watch as the revelers walked away. (p. 110)

Unsurprisingly, the tone darkens somewhat as Teffi is forced further south. Before long, Odessa also becomes unstable, prompting her to move again. But now she and her friends have run out of land; only the sea remains ahead of them.

Now that something had been arranged, I realized just how much I wanted to leave. Now that I could gather my thoughts, I felt frightened. I could see what life would be like for me if I stayed. It wasn’t death itself that I was afraid of. I was afraid of maddened faces, of lanterns being shone in my eyes, of blind mindless rage. I was afraid of cold, of hunger, of darkness, a rifle butts banging on parquet floors. I was afraid of screams, of weeping, of gunshots, of the deaths of others. I was tired of it all. I wanted no more of it. I had had enough. (p. 134)

In this instance, however, Teffi’s flight proves more tenuous to arrange as promises of a safe passage out of the city fall through when so-called friends leave her stranded. Luckily, though, an acquaintance comes to her rescue, and they leave on a largely crewless ship bound for Sevastopol, with all the passengers mucking in together in lieu of the crew.

Ever alert to the absurdity of the situations in which she finds herself, Teffi deploys her trademark wit to great effect here. In this scene, while searching for a spoon with which to eat her dinner, she comes across an officious young woman who looks ‘like a pike’.

“Here on this ship, we have no nobility, no tips, and no money. Everyone has to work and everyone receives the same rations. I saw you trying to employ money in order to obtain privileges. I’m ready to bear witness to all I have seen and heard. I shall go to the captain and tell him everything.”

She spun round and flew out of the kitchen.

Not only was I a depraved criminal but I was also, for all my depravity, still in need of a spoon. (pp. 161–162)

Teffi has a wonderfully distinctive eye for detail in the most unnerving of circumstances. For instance, she observes that the duration of a woman’s life as a refugee can be measured by the condition of her sealskin coat, the de rigueur item of clothing of the day. Not only was it warm, it was valuable, too.

I saw sealskin coats in Kiev and in Odessa, still looking new, their fur all smooth and glossy. Then in Novorossiisk, worn thin around the edges and with bald patches down the sides and on the elbows. In Constantinople—with grubby collars and cuffs folded back in shame. And, last of all, in Paris, from 1920 until 1922. By 1920 the fur had worn away completely, right down to the shiny black leather. The coat had been shortened to the knee and the collar and cuffs were now made from some new kind of fur, something blacker and oilier—a foreign substitute. (p. 64)

As this shattering account draws to a close, we find Teffi in Novorossiisk, where the only viable option open to her is to cross the Black Sea to Constantinople, signalling the start of her new life as an émigré.

My memories of those first days in Novorossiisk still lie behind a curtain of gray dust. They are still being whirled about by stifling whirlwind—just as scraps of this and splinters of that, just as debris and rubbish of every kind, just as people themselves were whirled this way and that way, left and right, over the mountains or into the sea. Soulless and mindless, with the cruelty of an elemental force, this whirlwind determined our fate. (p. 204)

It’s a poignant ending, particularly as we now know she would never return to her homeland – the country she loved so dearly despite the conflict that ripped it apart.

In some respects, Memories is an elegy to the resilience of the Russian people, thousands of whom journeyed across the country during this brutal era in Soviet history. It also vividly captures the cultural milieu in which Teffi circulated at the time, touching on their hopes and dreams, concerns and preoccupations in evocative, poetic prose. Recommended reading for anyone interested in this period of history.

Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea is published by NYRB Classics (USA) and Pushkin Press (UK); translated by Robert & Elizabeth Chandler, Anne Marie Jackson and Irina Steinberg.

(I read this book for Kim’s #NYRBWomen25 project, more details here.)

My Books of the Year, 2025 – Part 2

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As in previous years, I’ve spread my Books of the Year across two posts. Part 1, published on Tuesday, highlighted my favourites from the first half of the reading year (roughly speaking), while Part 2 features the standout reads from the second half of 2025. Apologies, but I couldn’t bear to leave any of them out, even though it means a total of twenty-six books for the year as a whole.

So, to cut to the chase, here are my favourite reads from mid-2025 onwards, most of which were first published in the 20^th century. Alongside the titles featured in Part 1, these are the books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the books I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. I’ve summarised each book in this post, but in each instance, you can find my full review by clicking on the relevant title.

(Not pictured: A Land in Winter, read on audio)

Brother of the More Famous Jack by Barbara Trapido (1982)

Brother… is a coming-of-age novel, and a superb one at that, partly due to Trapido’s prose, which is sharp, lively and flecked with dry wit. Our narrator is Katherine Browne, a bright, impressionable young woman, ready to break away from her prim, suburban upbringing in North London at the age of eighteen. Happily, I found her voice utterly engaging from the start. The novel follows Katherine as she moves to London, where she is taken under the wings of her ebullient philosophy professor and his bohemian family. Love, heartache and a spell in Italy duly follow, with more heartbreak hovering on the horizon.

In summary, it’s a captivating and insightful novel about first love, heartache, disillusionment and growing up – as moving and unsentimental as it is funny and charming. Trapido also touches on motherhood, grief and depression in the narrative, weaving together wry humour and genuine poignancy to excellent effect.

Amongst Women by John McGahern (1990)

Ostensibly the story of Moran, an ageing, tyrannical father, whose wife and daughters both love and fear him, this novel can also be seen as a reflection of the deeply conservative nature of Irish society during much of the 20th century, a world dominated by stifling patriarchal power structures in which women were kept firmly in their place. Beautifully constructed in simple, unadorned prose, McGahern has written a superb character study here – a minor masterpiece with an immersive sense of place. I adored this subtle novel, which feels so well suited to fans of William Trevor, Colm Tóibín, Claire Keegan and Dierdre Madden, all of whom have an innate ability to see into the hearts and minds of their characters with insight and precision, laying bare their deepest preoccupations and insecurities for the reader to see.

Palladian by Elizabeth Taylor (1947)

First published in 1946, Palladian is something of an outlier in Elizabeth Taylor’s oeuvre. On one level, it is the story of a recently orphaned eighteen-year-old girl, Cassandra Dashwood, whose headmistress finds her a position as a governess following the death of her father. Young, naive and something of a romantic, Cassandra quickly determines to fall in love with her new employer, Marion Vanbrugh, a rather closeted, effeminate widower who, in the wake of WW2, seems disconnected from the harsh realities of British life. So far, so Jane Eyre, albeit a 20th-century version.

However, beyond this initial set-up, darker preoccupations emerge. Decay, disintegration and self-destruction seem to be Taylor’s major themes here, from the crumbling façade, interiors and statues that characterise Copthorne Manor, the Vanbrugh’s jaded estate, to the self-loathing, bitterness and angst exhibited by various family members and their acquaintances. As ever with Taylor, the characterisation is sharp and insightful – from the main protagonists to the supporting players, everyone is brilliantly sketched. Interestingly, this book has really grown in my mind since I re-read it earlier this year. A surprisingly enduring novel, which demonstrates that even a ‘lesser’ Taylor is streets ahead of many other writers’ best.

A Woman by Sibilla Aleramo, 1906 (tr. Erica Segre and Simon Carnell)

What a phenomenal book this is, an autobiographical feminist novel first published in Italian in 1906, under a pseudonym due to its radical content! Touching on similar themes to Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s seminal text The Yellow Wallpaper and Alba de Cespedes’ startling confessional novel Forbidden Notebook, in which a woman explores the right to her own existence in light of the demands of marriage and motherhood, Aleramo’s A Woman reads like a howl from the past, a cry of anguish for liberty, independence and intellectual fulfilment in an oppressive world.

In passionate, emotive prose, Aleramo lays bare the horrific realities of life for a young Italian woman trapped in a brutal, patriarchal society, in which a married woman is considered her husband’s property to do with as he pleases. I found it a vital, propulsive read, an early example of feminist autofiction that deserves to be widely read. Annie Ernaux fans should be rushing to pick this up!

Love in a Fallen City by Eileen Chang, 1943-7 (tr. Karen S. Kingsbury, 2007 & Eileen Chang, 1996)

In this insightful, exquisitely written collection of four novellas and two short stories, Chang exposes the traditional social mores at play in 1940s Shanghai and Hong Kong, complete with all the cruelties, restrictions and hypocrisies these unwritten rules dictate. Born into an aristocratic family in Shanghai in 1920, Chang was raised by her deeply traditional father, an opium addict, and her more progressive mother, a woman of ‘sophisticated…and cosmopolitan tastes’, partly developed during time spent as a student in the UK. Her family background and formative experiences enabled Chang to straddle different cultures and see the world from different angles.

In her precision, attention to detail and scalpel-like dissection of the complexities of human behaviour and social mores, Chang reminds me of Edith Wharton, another female writer whose characters often find themselves trapped between two worlds: one driven by personal needs and desires, another by societal conventions and moral codes. There are other similarities too, not least an interest in their characters’ inner lives, often closed to outside observers, but vividly alive inside. Both writers are also adept at combining psychological acuity with a strong sense of cultural place, all cloaked in precise, elegant prose. Highly recommended for fans of this style.

A Note in Music by Rosamond Lehmann (1930)

An exquisitely observed exploration of two loveless, unfulfilling marriages and the shifts in dynamics that occur when two captivating visitors enter their stagnant world. Set in an unnamed provincial town during the interwar years, A Note… features two couples, Grace and Tom Fairfax and their friends, Norah and Gerald MacKay, all of whom are discontented in their different ways. Into this troubled world comes Hugh Miller, a bright, sensitive, passionate young man who charms everyone he meets, and his sophisticated, liberated sister, Clare.

Something that Lehmann does particularly well here is to illustrate how inner lives can be altered in subtle but highly significant ways, even when outwardly everything remains broadly the same. By the end of the year, Hugh and Clare will have departed, leaving the Fairfaxes and MacKays to carry on with their lives largely as before. Nevertheless, internally, the tectonic plates have shifted, opening up new levels of understanding and appreciation between Grace & Tom – and between Norah & Gerald. Early middle age is a tricky period for many of us, a time when the optimism, rapture and ambitions of youth may have given way to routine, resignation and a lack of fulfilment. Lehmann writes beautifully about these challenges, showing us how new understandings can be reached in the present, even if the past can never be recaptured.

A Private View by Anita Brookner (1994)

This superb novel is somewhat different from Brookner’s trademark stories of unmarried women living quiet, unfulfilled lives while waiting for their unattainable lovers to make fleeting appearances before disappearing into the night. In this instance, Brookner turns her gaze towards the aptly named George Bland, a quiet, respectable, recently retired man in his mid-sixties living a dull, highly ordered existence in a comfortable London flat. In many respects, he is the male equivalent of Brookner’s archetypal spinsters – a man adrift, living a narrow life on the periphery, while all the excitement and passion seems to be taking place elsewhere.

As the novel unfolds, Brookner explores what can happen when such a life is disrupted, raising the tantalising possibility that it might veer off course. With Brookner’s A Private View, the catalyst for the potential derailment is the arrival of an alluring, infuriating young woman, who takes up residence in the flat opposite George’s. Every time I read another Brooker, I find a new favourite, and this was no exception to the trend!

The Land in Winter by Andrew Miller (2024)

A moving, elegantly crafted novel that goes deep into character, Miller’s latest takes place in the winter of 1962-63, one of the coldest British winters on record, when temperatures plummeted, blizzards swept in and rivers began to freeze over. It’s an atmospheric backdrop for this story of two marriages, in which the author gives us access to the inner world of each of his main characters – their hopes and dreams, their preoccupations and fears.

As this slow-burning novel unfolds, Miller excels at reflecting the bleak, desolate landscapes of the brittle West Country winter in the emotional isolation felt by his four protagonists – a troubled, hard-to penetrate GP and his lonely, pregnant wife, plus an ambitious, educated farmer and his flighty partner, a former dancer in a Bristol nightclub. Each figure is preoccupied and adrift in their own individual way, raising the possibility that either of these marriages could easily fracture, should the hand of fate twist one way instead of the other. It’s a beautifully written book, very much in tune with the 20th-century writers I love.

The Juniper Tree by Barbara Comyns (1985)

Regular readers of this blog are probably aware of my fondness for Barbara Comyns – a startlingly original writer with a very distinctive style. Her novels have a strange, slightly off-kilter feel, frequently blending surreal imagery and touches of dark, deadpan humour with the harsh realities of life. This wry sense of the absurd is one of Comyns’ trademarks, cleverly tempering the darkness with a captivating lightness of touch. There’s often a sadness in her narratives too, a sense of poignancy or melancholy that runs through the text. First published in 1985, The Juniper Tree is very much in this vein.

In short, it’s a clever, dreamlike reimagining of the Grimms’ fairy tale of the same name – in fact, the novella’s epigraph is a rhyme taken directly from that classic story. Ostensibly set in London in the late 20th century, Comyns’ spin on The Juniper Tree reads like a timeless dark fable, weaving together the innocence and savagery that characterise many of this author’s best books. While much of what happens here is rooted in reality, Comyns invests her narrative with a surreal, otherworldly quality, tilting the familiar into something slightly off-kilter. Right from the very start, the reader is unsettled, sensing perhaps the tragedy to come…

Crooked Cross by Sally Carson (1934)

For a novel first published in 1934, Sally Carson’s Crooked Cross feels remarkably timely, charting, as it does, the rise of Nazism in the early 1930s, the falling apart of a country’s fundamental codes of decency and the moral fortitude required to stand against persecution. Recently republished by Persephone Books, the book makes chilling reading in 2025, a time when far-right extremism, hate speech and inhumane discrimination against various groups continue to increase.

Carson was a frequent visitor to Bavaria in the early 1930s, and her insights into what was happening there fed into Crooked Cross. In some respects, she was writing in real time, sounding a warning alarm on the pernicious rise of fascism and its grip on the nation. By scrutinising the broader political developments spreading across Germany through the lens of the Klugers, an ordinary middle-class family living in the fictional town of Kranach, close to the Austrian border, Carson illustrated the allure of the fascist movement, particularly for disaffected young men. Lacking the structure and focus of regular work, these men saw the Nazi Party as providing many of the things that had been lacking in their lives, from stability, status, power and responsibility to purpose, direction and a reason to exist. Moreover, the movement gave young Germans a convenient scapegoat – i.e. the Jews – to blame for everything that had been denied them in the lean post-WW1 years. A brilliant, terrifying, immersive novel that deserves to be widely read – it’s also an excellent combination of the personal and political, just the type of book I love.

Lady L. by Romain Gary (1958)

Published in English in 1958 and subsequently translated into French by the author himself, Lady L. was my first experience of Romain Gary’s fiction, but hopefully not my last. What a delightful novella this turned out to be – an elegant story of love, long-held secrets and railing against the conventional establishment, in which the pull of personal desires is pitted against political principles and beliefs! It reads like a work of 19th-century French fiction, which fans of du Maupassant, Flaubert and Louise de Vilmorin’s Madame de__ will likely enjoy.

In short, this charming picaresque tale takes the reader from the slum districts of Paris to the upper echelons of French society, with a story involving spectacular robberies, betrayal, capture, escape, reunion and unexpected marriages, all topped off by a surprising denouement. I’m delighted to see this back in print, courtesy of the Penguin Archive series.

The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington (1974 or ‘76)

Born in Lancashire in 1917, Leonora Carrington is perhaps now best known as a surrealist artist; however, during her career, she also wrote novels, short stories, a play and a memoir, all infused with her dreamlike, idiosyncratic worldview. First published in English in the mid-1970s but reputedly completed in 1950, The Hearing Trumpet is as unconventional as one might expect from this visionary creative – a surreal, subversive, wildly imaginative novella that challenges traditional patriarchal and ageist societal structures, turning them neatly on their heads in thrilling fashion. It is, by turns, hilarious, surprising, esoteric and poignant – a wonderful sui generis work that defies categorisation.

The novella is narrated by Marian Leatherby, a ninety-two-year-old woman who lives in Mexico with her family, who, in turn, consider her somewhat burdensome and eccentric. Before long, Marian is packed off to a care home, which turns out to be more sinister than it appears at first sight. Much is made of the seemingly ‘eccentric’ nature of elderly women here, a label often attached to marginalised individuals to explain away their unconventional qualities. Carrington, however, was well aware of the revolutionary potential of women who looked at the world differently, and as the novella unfolds, eccentricity is portrayed in a positive, liberating light as a rebellious force for good.

The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett (1896)

First published in 1896 and recently reissued as part of the Penguin Archive series, The Country of the Pointed Firs is a classic example of literary regionalism, a genre of writing in which the local setting, landscape, history, community and customs are centre stage. Through a series of evocative vignettes, Jewett conveys a rich picture of everyday life in the fictional small-town community of Dunnet Landing on the east coast of Maine. It’s a gem of a book – reflective, affecting and beautifully crafted.

Central to the story is Jewett’s narrator, an unnamed female writer (possibly Jewett herself) who has come to Dunnet Landing for the summer to work on her writing. Through her landlady, Mrs Todd, who has lived in the area since her birth, the narrator is drawn into the lives of the local inhabitants – their stories and histories, preoccupations, and concerns. Something Jewett does particularly well here is to capture the traditional rhythms and rituals of life in this coastal community, the importance of female friendships and shared stories, resilience and independence, occasional family gatherings and reunions, nature and landscape. In short, it’s a gorgeous paean to ordinary lives well lived, where small acts of kindness and generosity brighten the spirits, easing some of the difficulties humanity must face.

So that’s it for my Books of the Year, 2025! Do let me know your thoughts on my choices – I’d love to hear your views.

Thanks so much to everyone who has read, commented or engaged with my thoughts on books over the past year. I really do appreciate it.

All that remains is to wish you all the very best for the festive season and the year ahead. Here’s to another great year of reading and more book chat in 2026!

My Books of the Year, 2025 – Part 1

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I seem to say this every year, but 2025 really has been a great reading year for me. From new releases to treasures from the TBR to brilliant reissues and rediscoveries, the books have been excellent, with very few misses.

As before, I’m splitting my favourite reads of the year into two parts, with thirteen highlights in each post; however, in this instance, the split is fairly arbitrary. Today’s post covers my favourites from the first half of the reading year (roughly speaking), while part two (coming at the weekend) will feature the standout reads from the second half of 2025. I couldn’t bear to leave any of them out, even though it means a total of twenty-six books.

So, without further ado, here are my favourite reads from Jan – May 2025! These are the books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the books I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. As ever, many of these titles were first published in the 20th century, although there are a few recent releases as well. I’ve summarised each one in this post, but in each instance, you can find my full review by clicking on the relevant title.

The Fate of Mary Rose by Caroline Blackwood (1981)

With its undercurrent of domestic horror and flashes of pitch-black humour, this unnerving novel is a brilliant exploration of our collective fascination with gruesome true crimes, how sometimes we can become emotionally involved in a media story with which we have no personal connection. Blackwood seems particularly interested in how a mother’s protectiveness towards her child can tip over into an unhealthy obsession – in this instance, the transition is prompted by the brutal assault and murder of a young girl in the local community, fuelled by media reports and underlying social anxieties. It’s a fascinating, disturbing book, reminiscent of Shirley Jackson in its darkness and unflinching pursuit of a singular vision.

The Odd Woman and the City by Vivian Gornick (2015)

First published in 2015 and reissued this year by Daunt Books, The Odd Woman and the City is Gornick’s ode to New York, a book that captures the rhythms and idiosyncrasies of this vibrant metropolis in sharp, insightful prose. Presented as a sequence of beguiling vignettes, the book delves into Gornick’s reflections on friendship, romantic love, childhood memories, ageing, navigating life alone in a busy city and the kaleidoscopic nature of New York itself. The relationships other writers enjoy with major cities are also briefly featured. The vignettes are not grouped chronologically or by topic; rather, Gornick moves seamlessly backwards and forwards in time and from one theme to the next, sharing insights and confidences on a variety of different subjects as she goes. In fact, the book’s rhythm – vibrant, fast-moving and constantly changing in nature – reflects the city’s character itself.

There is so much insight, honesty and intelligence in these vignettes, and Gornick is a delightful companion – smart, curious and ever-observant. If, like me, you enjoy exploring cities on foot, soaking up the atmosphere of the urban streets, you will likely love this one.

Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper by Donald Henderson (1943)

I can’t quite recall where I first heard about Donald Henderson’s excellent novel, Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper, a wickedly satirical portrayal of a murderer operating under the cloak of the London Blitz. It may have been on Backlisted, always an excellent source of lesser-known gems, or possibly during a discussion about boarding-house novels, a genre close to my heart. Either way, I’m very glad to have discovered it. That said, this pitch-black wartime gem might not be to everyone’s tastes. If you’re a fan of Patrick Hamilton’s Hangover Square, William Trevor’s The Boarding-House or Patricia Highsmith’s The Blunderer, chances are you’ll enjoy this book. If not, you might want to steer clear! I loved this darkly satirical portrayal of Henderson’s twisted, opportunistic killer, and the Patrick Hamilton-style vibe really drew me in. Not for the sensitive or faint-hearted, but a wickedly compelling novel nonetheless. Raymond Chandler was a huge fan!

A Little Luck by Claudia Piñeiro, 2015 (tr. Frances Riddle, 2023)

A fascinating, utterly gripping novel about chance vs fate, split-second decisions and their irreversible consequences, guilt vs responsibility and condemnation vs redemption. In short, this thought-provoking story follows a middle-aged woman, Mary Lohan, who returns to her old neighbourhood in Temperley, Buenos Aires, after an absence of twenty years. At first, we don’t know why she has come back, or the reasons behind her earlier departure, but things gradually become clearer as the novel unfolds. Piñeiro is very skilled at withholding key information, and the novel is a masterclass in measured pacing and the piece-by-piece reveal. The compelling first-person narrative reads like a kind of confession, establishing a level of intimacy with the reader and drawing them into Mary’s story from the opening pages. An outstanding, beautifully written novel that’s hard to shake.

Box Office Poison by Tim Robey (2024)

There is something genuinely fascinating about raking over the coals of a humungous financial disaster – a point eloquently illustrated by film critic and writer Tim Robey in his hugely enjoyable book, Box Office Poison, a catalogue of cinematic catastrophes from the past hundred years. In some respects, this roll call of wreckage presents an alternative history of Hollywood through its most costly failures, and it’s a delight to read!

Robey’s definition of a flop is simple. Crucially, the film must have made a significant loss at the box office. In other words, flops are defined in commercial terms rather than ruinous reviews by critics (although in some instances, the two go hand in hand). Moreover, the production must have been truly insane in some way for a film to qualify for inclusion, thus making the story suitably interesting to recount. From outright horrors with few redeeming features (such as Jan de Bont’s pedestrian actioner Speed 2: Cruise Control and Thomas Lee’s ‘textbook shambles’ Supernova) to genuinely decent films that flopped due to unfortunate circumstances (e.g. William Friedkin’s Sorcerer), this is catnip for the cinephile in your life!

The Sweet Dove Died by Barbara Pym (1978)

Barbara Pym has made several appearances in my reading highlights over the years, and she’s here again in 2025 with a fairly recent reissue. First published in 1978, The Sweet Dove Died is one of Pym’s post-wilderness novels, and as such, the tone feels somewhat darker than her earlier work. There’s a genuine poignancy here, a sense of a woman losing her beauty and allure as younger, more attractive rivals threaten to supersede her in the search for affection. While the novel’s tone is poignant, especially towards the end, there are some wonderful touches of humour here, too. Pym’s fiction may at first seem light or inconsequential, but it’s a testament to her skill as a writer that she captures the delicate tension between humour, pathos and absurdity that characterises so much of our lives. I adored this beautifully written exploration of the narrowing opportunities for love as we age and lose our lustre – it’s top-tier Pym for me!

There’s No Turning Back by Alba de Céspedes, 1938 (tr. Ann Goldstein, 2024)

Groundbreaking on its initial publication in 1938, There’s No Turning Back can now be viewed as a prescient, transgressive exploration of women’s desire for independence, autonomy and self-expression. By weaving together the stories of eight young female students living in the Grimaldi, a convent-style boarding house in Rome, de Céspedes presents the reader with a range of different experiences as each of these women must find a way to live, to shape her future direction for the better.

In essence, each student is trying to bridge the gap between the role society has deemed for her and the one she herself wishes to adopt. Moreover, she must consider what challenges must be overcome and what sacrifices need to be made to achieve her aspirations. With many of these women looking to branch out beyond the traditional gender-based roles of wife and mother, the novel explores themes such as female friendship, agency, independence, autonomy, ambition, desire, and fulfilment in a wonderfully engaging way. By focusing on the choices these characters make to break free from their constraints, de Céspedes explores the upsides and downsides of progression through education vs work, love vs independence and personal desires vs familial duty. An immersive, richly imagined novel that deserves to be better known.

Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood (2023)

Strange, unsettling and beautifully written, Stone Yard Devotional is a quiet, meditative novel that explores themes of loss, grief, forgiveness, guilt, atonement and death – the kind of mysterious, slow-burning narrative that gets right under the skin. Written partly as brief diary-style entries and partly as a series of reflections on events, the novel is narrated by an unnamed woman in late middle age. With her marriage crumbling and a loss of faith in her environmental work, Wood’s narrator has come to an isolated retreat in New South Wales to reflect and contemplate her existence. All proceeds smoothly until the retreat’s peaceful atmosphere is rudely disrupted by three unsettling visitations (more of which in my full review).

Wood’s style is subtle and understated, leaving much unsaid for readers to contemplate and fill in for themselves. Forgiveness and atonement are recurring themes here as the author invites us to consider what it means to forgive someone who has wronged us and what we truly want when attempting to atone. An absorbing, thought-provoking book – one of the best new novels I’ve read in recent years.

It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over by Anne de Marcken (2024)

This strange, magical, exquisitely written book is a tricky one to summarise in a few lines, but I’ll give it a go! On one level, it’s a remarkably poignant reflection on what it might be like to exist in the afterlife, how it feels emotionally to be caught between life and death, to be a member of the undead. In other words, it’s a zombie story, but not as we know it – de Marcken’s vision is much more inventive and beautiful than that brief description suggests. Alongside (and perhaps entwined with) its themes of yearning, loss and grief, the book can be viewed as a metaphor for our current existence in an isolated, alienating 21st-century world, where the overwhelming horrors and uncertainties of modern life leave us feeling disillusioned and numbed. The ending, when it comes, is beautiful, enigmatic, sad and strangely fitting. I adored this deeply affecting exploration of grief and all the longing, pain and sadness this all-consuming experience evokes. A highly original novella that deserves to be widely read.

Turtle Diary by Russell Hoban (1975)

First published in 1975 and now well established as a modern classic, Turtle Diary is a charming, piercingly perceptive exploration of different facets of loneliness and the fear of stepping outside one’s comfort zone in the maelstrom of middle age. The novel’s premise seems at once both simple and eccentric – and yet, it all works remarkably well. Divorced bookseller William G. lives in a London boarding house run by a landlady, Mrs Inchcliffe – a far cry from his former life in Hampstead as a husband and father with a job in advertising. While his work at the bookshop brings William into contact with the smart ladies of West London, his personal life is a desert – dry, lonely and painfully directionless.

Also feeling lost is Neaera H., a writer and illustrator of children’s books who works from home with nothing but a water beetle for company. Middle-aged and unmarried, Neaera is adrift in a sea of loneliness, lacking a clear purpose or direction as she struggles with writer’s block. As the novel opens, these two individuals are unaware of one another, but as Hoban’s narrative unfolds, their lives become inextricably entwined, setting up the premise for this marvellous story. An unexpected gem tinged with sadness.

The Reef by Edith Wharton (1912)

Over the years, Edith Wharton has become one of my favourite authors. She writes precisely and perceptively about the cruelties embedded within the upper echelons of American society in the early 20th century. For instance, the tensions that exist between restraint & passion and those between respectability & impropriety. These qualities are central to Wharton’s much-loved society novels The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth, both of which I adore. The Reef could easily be added to this list, particularly given the devastating nature of the premise. It’s a story of indiscretions, deceptions and complex romantic entanglements where what remains unsaid can be more damaging than the details revealed.

Central to the novel, which revolves around a love triangle (or possibly a quadrangle), are questions of trust and integrity. For instance, it is better for us to be honest about our past mistakes, even when we know such revelations will hurt the ones we love, or should we lie and cover our tracks to avoid undue distress? And if the terrible truth should come to light, will it be possible for our loved ones to forgive and forget?

The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enriquez, 2009 (tr. Megan McDowell, 2021)

Last year, I read and loved Mariana Enriquez’s Things We Lost in the Fire, a superb collection of macabre, deeply disturbing short stories in which elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery mingle with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present. Enriquez grew up during the Dirty War, when several thousand Argentine citizens were murdered or disappeared. Consequently, the ghosts of the vanished – both literal and metaphorical – haunt many of her stories, bringing the country’s horrors to life in vivid and compelling ways.

Translated into English in 2021, The Dangers of Smoking in Bed is in a very similar vein to Fire – another unnerving collection of stories with the power to destabilise and disturb contemporary readers. Enriquez excels at weaving together the surreal and supernatural, embedding these into the real-world socio-political horrors of life in Argentina, from poverty, parental neglect and sexual abuse to disappearances, murders and other criminal activities. There’s a wildness or sense of craziness to many of these stories, twisting the recognisable into distorted, destabilising shapes – and it’s this rooting in reality, the real and inescapable, that makes Enriquez’s stories so horrifying and impactful to read. Unnerving, alluring and inventive, these stories are not for the faint-hearted; otherwise, very highly recommended indeed!

The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett (1902)

I loved this hugely enjoyable, fast-moving caper, largely set in a high-class London hotel. Fashioned on the Savoy in London, the Grand Babylon is expensive, exclusive and efficient, a model of discretion and quietude favoured by royalty and other dignitaries from the upper echelons of society. Newly arrived at the hotel are Theodore Racksole, a wealthy American magnate, and his daughter, Nella, a self-assured young woman full of initiative. Following a run-in with the haughty head waiter at dinner, Racksole buys the hotel, and within hours, strange things begin to happen, culminating in a sudden death.

What follows is a gripping sequence of escapades taking Theodore and Nella to the darkest corners of Ostend while also embroiling them in the romantic entanglements of a missing European prince. Along the way, there are kidnappings and disappearances, disguises and concealed identities, not to mention various political machinations afoot. There’s even time for a sprinkling of romance, adding greatly to the novel’s elegance and pleasures. In short, it’s a delightfully entertaining story imbued with glamour, suspense and a great deal of charm!

So, that’s it for Part 1 of my favourite books from another year of reading. Do let me know your thoughts on my choices – I’d love to hear your views.

Join me again for Part 2, when I’ll be sharing another thirteen favourites, this time from the second half of my reading year.

The House Opposite by Barbara Noble

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There is often something very compelling about fiction written and published during World War II, when the outcome of the conflict raging across Europe would have been uncertain. Set during the turmoil of the London Blitz, Barbara Noble’s 1943 novel The House Opposite is one such book, a very absorbing character-driven story in which the tensions underpinning the lives of two families are contrasted with the mundanity, unpredictability and daily destruction unfolding across the city. It’s an excellent, well-written novel ideally suited to fans of Persephone Books and the British Library Women Writers series. In the UK, this novel is in print with Dean Street Press, which Liz is currently spotlighting through her DSP December event.

Noble centres her story on two main protagonists: Elizabeth Simpson, a twenty-eight-year-old secretary living at home with her parents, and Owen Cathcart, an eighteen-year-old boy whose family live in the house opposite the Simpsons’, hence the novel’s title.

Careful and self-contained by nature, Elizabeth has been embroiled in a love affair with her married boss, Alex Foster, for the past three years – a relationship that seems to be going nowhere as Alex is unwilling to leave his wife due to their children. While Alex does seem to care for Elizabeth, one gets the impression he is being rather selective with the truth, creating the impression that his relationship with wife, Naomi, is rather distant, both emotionally and physically. Naomi has moved to an Oxfordshire village with the couple’s two children, largely to escape the bombings. Consequently, during the week, Alex stays in a service flat in London, giving him plenty of opportunities to spend time with Elizabeth before travelling to Oxford to see his family at the weekends. For Elizabeth, the situation is far from ideal as she loves Alex and would like to be more than just his mistress. Nevertheless, she went into the relationship with her eyes open, and the benefits still outweigh the downsides – for now, at least.

In some respects, Owen Cathcart is the most interesting character here. Quiet and sensitive at heart, Owen is struggling to understand and reconcile the deep feelings he has for his older cousin, Derek, who is now in the RAF. The boys have spent many holidays together in the past, and Owen has developed something of a crush on Derek, whom he plans to follow by joining up. Noble excels at capturing the maelstrom of emotions Owen experiences as he wrestles with his sexuality, highlighting the uncertainty, embarrassment and self-loathing that accompany some of the joy.

He was overwhelmed once more with all the symptoms of acute neurosis which had tormented him so recently—self-disgust, terrified and terrifying ignorance, above all, a loneliness of spirit which made him sometimes want to beat his head against a wall. Everyone but himself, and an unnumbered, faceless, untouchable horde of others like himself, walked in light and fellowship; only he and his kind crawled miserably in darkness and despair. His mind could evoke nothing but images of separation, which cut him off from ordinary, normal people, the fortunate ones, the well-beloved. Most of all, he knew, he was cut off from Derek. Derek would not understand at all. He would be incredulous, embarrassed, concerned and utterly uncomprehending if Owen were ever to try to explain. (pp. 68-69)

Owen has taken a dislike to Elizabeth, having overheard her referring to him with an unfortunate turn of phrase which seemed to raise questions about his sexuality. For her part, Elizabeth considers Owen uncommunicative and ‘wet’, which makes the prospect of sharing Sunday night fire-watching duties with him very unappealing. Nevertheless, as these weekly sessions unfold, Elizabeth and Owen get to know one another a lot better, opening their eyes to the realities of their own lives and those around them. In particular, Owen becomes aware that Elizabeth is in an illicit relationship with Alex – probably a troublesome one – which evokes in him new feelings of sympathy and concern for her happiness.

They had arrived now at a point where they could be silent together without embarrassment and this evening they were both glad to take advantage of the fact. Elizabeth wanted to think about Alex, and Owen wanted to think about Elizabeth.

He did not himself realise what enormous advance this was. In the past he had been forced, against his will, to think about her; he had been obsessed by her, and always in relation to himself—what she thought, said or guessed about him. Now, for the first time, he was interested in her as an individual, with a separate, surprising and rather mysterious life of her own. (p. 111)

Noble’s depiction of the affair between Elizabeth and Alex is insightful and perceptive, replete with all the lies, frustrations and crushing humiliations Elizabeth experiences, particularly when circumstances force her to interact with Naomi. The doomed nature of the relationship is there for the reader (and Elizabeth) to see.

Another area where Noble excels is in her portrayal of London during the Blitz, as the novel is peppered with vivid descriptions of the sights, sounds and smells of a city under attack. The images she paints of landscapes, devastated by a combination of bombings and the resultant fires, are especially evocative.

Already it was an effort to remember what some of the shops had been. Bombed, blasted, burnt out—they had all become anonymous in their misfortune. Only here and there a display of muddy, soaked dresses clung limply and incongruously to their stands, no longer protected, no longer needing protection from the passer-by. A menu still hung on the lintel of a door which framed only rubble. Heavy shutters had been wrenched off and curtains blown into the street. Outside the least damaged buildings, commissionaires and assistants armed with brooms and shovels were clearing the pavement of an indescribable litter of glass and window fittings. The acrid smell of dust and charred wood filled the air. (p. 160)

Impressive too is Noble’s ability to convey a sense of normalcy amid the bombings, with Londoners going about their daily business as far as possible despite the destruction visible around them.

Not many people were about, even in Oxford Street, and those who were walked purposefully, all hurrying home to their little burrows–the inadequate protection of bricks and concrete, the far greater protection of dispersal, the law of averages and the anonymous ruling that many should be threatened but few harmed. Life was acquiring a large simplicity, all lesser insecurities swallowed up by that one enormous vulnerability. Time enough to worry tomorrow, when tomorrow might never come for you. (pp. 4–5)

As the novel unfolds, London adapts itself to the situation, responding with a mix of co-operation, compassion, bravery and resilience in the most testing of circumstances. There are eye-opening descriptions of nightly patrols, anxious waits at home, people camped out underground stations during bombing raids, and the aftermath of a direct hit on a dance hall and nearby pub – as readers, we see some of the casualties through Elizabeth’s eyes during one of her voluntary shifts as an auxiliary nurse.

Both sets of parents – Elizabeth’s and Owen’s – are brilliantly drawn, and everyone, it seems, has a secret to conceal. While Elizabeth’s mother gets drunk on a hidden supply of rum to blunt her anxieties over the bombing raids, Mrs Cathcart ponders the secret she is harbouring about her former lover, one that goes some way to explaining the emotional gulf between her husband, Lionel, and young Owen. Meanwhile, Lionel has serious troubles of his own, having been caught selling timber illegally on the black market. To his wife’s disgust, he shows no signs of remorse, only annoyance at being rumbled by the authorities.

“…I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done—so get that clear in your mind! It’s no worse than hundreds—thousands—of other men are doing every day, and getting away with it. What sticks in my gullet is that it’s come out. And not through my own books, but just because some snivelling, long-nosed busybody had to talk.”

Everything he said made it worse. She listened to him with increasing horror. If he had been unhappy, conscience-stricken, apprehensive, she would have closed the door on all her personal scruples and standards of conduct in order to comfort and reassure him. But how could she console him for the ignominy of being found out? They stood on opposite sides of a frontier. They did not even speak the same language. (p. 135)

Elizabeth’s father, Henry, is a calming, supportive presence in the Simpson household, an idealistic solicitor who also volunteers for fire-watch duty. Not only does he avoid judging Elizabeth when she confides in him about Alex, but he also helps Owen to appreciate that feeling deeply for another boy might not be an unusual experience in adolescence. Henry too has been carrying his own emotional burden, a form of guilt over the death of a close friend back in the days of his youth.

As this excellent novel draws to a close, there is a sense of closure on old issues and new beginnings for some, but not all, the main characters here. All in all, Noble paints an engrossing picture of what it must have felt like to live through the London Blitz, seen through the eyes of two ordinary families. It’s a thoughtful and absorbing read, ideally suited to lovers of home-front stories from World War II.

The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett

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Born in Maine, New England in 1849, the American writer Sarah Orne Jewett is known for her works of literary regionalism, a genre of writing in which the local setting, landscape, history, community and customs are centre stage. Willa Cather, an ardent admirer of Jewett’s books, was a key proponent of the style, which proved popular in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries.

First published in 1896 and recently reissued as part of the Penguin Archive series, The Country of the Pointed Firs is a classic example of the genre. Through a series of evocative vignettes, Jewett conveys a rich picture of everyday life in the fictional small-town community of Dunnet Landing on the east coast of Maine. It’s a gem of a book – reflective, affecting and beautifully crafted.

Central to the story is Jewett’s narrator, an unnamed female writer (possibly Jewett herself) who has come to Dunnet Landing for the summer to work on her writing. While there, the narrator lodges with Mrs Almira Todd, a sixty-seven-year-old widow who acts as the community’s herbalist. With her extensive knowledge of the medicinal value of herbs, Mrs Todd is a valuable adjunct to the town’s doctor, often receiving callers at home when her assistance is needed.

…Mrs Todd was an ardent lover of herbs, both wild and tame, and the sea-breezes blew into the low end-window of the house laden with not only sweet-brier and sweet-mary, but balm and sage and borage and mint, wormwood and southernwood. If Mrs Todd had occasion to step into the far corner of her herb plot, she trod heavily upon thyme, and made its fragrant presence known with all the rest. Being a very large person, her full skirts brushed and bent almost every slender stalk that her feet missed. You could always tell when she was stepping about there, even when you were half awake in the morning, and learned to know, in the course of a few weeks’ experience, in exactly which corner of the garden she might be. (p.3)

Through Mrs Todd, who has lived in the area since her birth, the narrator is drawn into the lives of the local inhabitants – their stories and histories, preoccupations, and concerns. Seafaring and fishing have been the community’s mainstays for many years, and while still important to the town’s economy and heritage, these traditions seem to be in decline.

For the most part, the locals’ stories are recounted to the narrator by the women of Dunnet Landing, namely Mrs Todd, her octogenarian mother, Mrs Blackett, and her childhood friend, Mrs Fosdick, who pays Almira a visit during the summer. Occasionally, though, one of the town’s male residents bares his soul to Jewett’s narrator, revealing tales of seafaring, fishing and various changes over the years.

…Captain Littlepage was sitting behind his closed window as I passed by, watching for someone who never came. I tried to speak to him, but he did not see me. There was a patient look on the old man’s face, as if the world were a great mistake and he had nobody with whom to speak his own language or find companionship. (p. 90)

As the novella unfolds, Mrs Todd also reveals a deep sense of grief and sorrow over a path not followed – another, more fulfilling life she might have lived had things worked out differently. Everyday occurrences, objects and elements of nature evoke powerful memories for the community’s inhabitants, such as the pennyroyal plant that reminds Mrs Todd of her one true love, a man she knew before her marriage to Nathan Todd. Nevertheless, this earlier love match was not destined to be, due to differences in the pair’s wealth and social class. While Almira came from a lowly family, the man she loved back then moved in higher, more comfortable circles, scuppering any thoughts of marriage between the two sweethearts.

In some of my favourite vignettes, Mrs Todd takes the narrator on a visit to nearby Green Island, home to her mother, Mrs Blackett – still small, light-footed and spry at the age of eighty-six – and her brother, William, a shy, gentle sixty-year-old, who lives with his mother. It’s a charming day out, suitably enlivened by Mrs Blackett’s warmth and generosity.

Her hospitality was something exquisite; she had the gift which so many women lack, of being able to make themselves and their houses belong entirely to a guest’s pleasure, – that charming surrender for the moment of themselves and whatever belongs to them, so that they make a part of one’s own life that can never be forgotten. (p. 47)

Despite being siblings, Mrs Todd and William cannot voice their deepest feelings in front of one another – a point the narrator notes during the trip. Something, possibly an inherent sense of pride or reticence, holds them back. Nevertheless, even William seems to enjoy the narrator’s company during the visit.

Something Jewett does particularly well here is to capture the traditional rhythms and rituals of life in this coastal community, the importance of female friendships and shared stories, resilience and independence, occasional family gatherings and reunions, nature and landscape.

To see the joy with which these elder kinsfolk and acquaintances had looked in one another’s faces, and the lingering touch of their friendly hands; to see these affectionate meetings and then the reluctant partings, gave one a new idea of the isolation in which it was possible to live in that after all thinly settled region. They did not expect to see one another again very soon; the steady, hard work on the farms, the difficulty of getting from place to place, especially in winter when boats were laid up, gave double value to any occasion which could bring a large number of families together. Even funerals in this country of the pointed firs were not without their social advantages and satisfactions. (pp. 111–112)

There’s a quiet, humble dignity to these people, many of whom have never travelled outside the local area. (Interestingly, conflict is not touched upon here – unusual for a novel focusing on a small, close-knit community, in which tensions often run high. The closest we get is the occasional disparaging remark mentioned in private.) These positive qualities are typified in the stories Mrs Todd shares about Joanna, a woman who left the mainland to live alone on the near-barren Shell-heap Island, having been jilted by her fiancé for another woman. Despite pleas from her friends and family, Joanna wished to be left alone to live a life of self-imposed penance following the shame of being abandoned. Following her move to the island, Joanna received the occasional parcel of food, dropped onshore by a passing fisherman, which bolstered the supplies of eggs, vegetables and fish she could access there. Many years later, when Joanna finally died, the whole community travelled over Shell-heap Island for the funeral, such was the importance of paying due respect despite her solitary existence .

Unsurprisingly for a novella in this style, the sense of place is very strong. Jewett excels in capturing the sights, smells and textures of the local landscape as Mrs Todd forages for plants and the narrator explores on foot.

As we looked upward, the tops of the firs came sharp against the blue sky. There was a great stretch of rough pasture-land round the shoulder of the island to the eastward, and here were all the thick-scattered gray rocks that kept their places, and the gray backs of many sheep that forever wandered and fed on the thin sweet pasturage that fringed the ledges and made soft hollows and strips of green turf like growing velvet. I could see the rich green of bayberry bushes here and there, where the rocks made room. (pp. 38–39)

The characters, too, are beautifully drawn, sketched with enough detail to bring them to life.

As this quietly moving novella comes to a close, Jewett’s narrator must say goodbye to Dunnet Landing and the friends she has made there. While some might find it restrictive to live a small, simple life, such as those depicted in this community, there are many pleasures to be had as well. The Country of the Pointed Firs is a gorgeous paean to ordinary lives well lived, where small acts of kindness and generosity brighten the spirits, easing some of the difficulties humanity must face.

The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington

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Born in Lancashire in 1917, Leonora Carrington is perhaps now best known as a surrealist artist; in 2024, one of her artworks sold for $28.5 million. During her career, however, she also wrote novels, short stories, a play and a memoir, all infused with her dreamlike, idiosyncratic worldview. First published in English in 1976 but reputedly completed in 1950, The Hearing Trumpet is as unconventional as one might expect from this visionary creative – a surreal, subversive, wildly imaginative novella that challenges traditional patriarchal and ageist societal structures, turning them neatly on their heads in thrilling fashion. It is, by turns, hilarious, surprising, esoteric and poignant – a wonderful sui generis work that defies categorisation.

The novella is narrated by Marian Leatherby, a ninety-two-year-old woman who lives in Mexico with her suggestible son, Galahad, his uncaring wife, Muriel, and their insensitive grown-up son, Robert. Despite being toothless and rather deaf, Marian remains sharp of mind while also enjoying her cats, hens and visits to Carmella, her delightfully resourceful friend.

“You never know,” said Carmella. “People under seventy and over seven are very unreliable if they are not cats. You can’t be too careful…” (p.9)

Marian is, in short, a wonderful creation, a character whose voice I found beguiling from the start.

Humanity is very strange and I don’t pretend to understand anything, however why worship something that only sends you plagues and massacres? and why was Eve blamed for everything? (p. 26)

When Marian is given a hearing trumpet as a gift, she soon becomes aware of the family’s plans to move her into a care home, much to her displeasure.

“Remember, Galahad,” added Muriel, “these old people do not have feelings like you or I. She [Marian] would be much happier in an institution where there’s proper help to take care of her. They are very well organized today. This place I told you about out in Santa Brigida is run by the Well of Light Brotherhood and they are financed by a prominent American Cereal company (Bouncing Breakfast Cereals Co.). It is all very efficiently organized and reasonably inexpensive.” (p. 15)

Before long, Galahad is positioning the institution as a kind of holiday for Marian, complete with company of her own age, a range of interesting pastimes, and trained staff to prevent her from getting lonely. Not that Marian is ever actually lonely; rather, she values her solitude and a degree of independence.

“You are going away on a nice holiday, Mother. You are going to enjoy it very much.”

“My dear Galahad, don’t tell me such silly lies. You are sending me away to a home for senile females because you all think I am a repulsive old bag and I dare say you are right from your own point of view.”

He stood mouthing at me, looking as if I had picked a live goat out of my bonnet. (p.23)

Presided over by the tyrannical Dr Gambit and his equally dictatorial wife, the Well of Light Brotherhood ‘care home’ is suitably surreal – a castle-like complex, in which the ten elderly residents, all female, live in individual huts, each one fashioned into a peculiar shape. There are Swiss chalets, toadstools, railway carriages and a boot – a birthday cake, complete with candle, also deserves a mention here for brio alone. However, despite these quirky, almost welcoming touches, the establishment is run as a kind of self-improvement cult that blends religious teachings with New Age Spirituality.

Dr. Gambit believes Marian exhibits a range of ‘impurities’ which must be addressed and eliminated for her to embrace the institute’s doctrines. These include ‘Greed, Insincerity, Egoism, Laziness, and Vanity. At the top of the list Greed, signifying a dominating passion.’ However, as Georgina, a fellow resident observes:

“Gambit is a kind of Sanctified Psychologist,” said Georgina. “The result is Holy Reason, like Freudian table turning. Quite frightful and as phoney as Hell. If one could only get out of this dump he would cease to be important, being the only male around, you know. It is really too crashingly awful all these women. The place creeps with ovaries until one wants to scream. We might as well be living in a bee hive.” (p. 42)

As the story plays out, Marian and her fellow inmates must find ways to resist and subvert the strict regime imposed on them by the Gambits, an adventure that harks back to an earlier time when a resourceful Abbess embarked on a dangerous quest to restore the Holy Grail to its rightful owner, the Goddess Venus. It’s a surreal, fantastical romp, like a wild, extraordinary dream sequence that unfolds before our eyes.

They saw Rosalinda and the Bishop inhaling Musc de Madelaine and by some process of enfleurage becoming so saturated with the vapours of the ointment that they were surrounded by a pale blue cloud or aura which apparently acted as a volatile element on solid bodies. Thus the Bishop and Abbess were wafted into the air and were suspended, levitating, over the open crate of Turkish delight with which they were both gorged. Modesty forbids a full account of the disgusting acrobatics which were then performed in midair. (pp. 97–98)

Back in the novella’s present day, all manner of strange motifs and occurrences come to light at the care home, from the portrait of a nun who appears to be winking at Marian to the production of poisoned fudge and an unintentional murder.

Much is made of the seemingly ‘eccentric’ nature of elderly women here, a label often attached to marginalised individuals to explain away their unconventional qualities. Carrington, however, was well aware of the revolutionary potential of women who looked at the world differently. Here, eccentricity is portrayed as a positive, liberating, rebellious force for good, enabling Marian, Carmella and the other elderly inhabitants of the Gambits’ draconian institute to challenge the oppressive doctrines which, alongside other longstanding conservative structures, have kept these women in check.

“…we have absolutely no intention of letting ourselves be intimidated by your beastly routine ever again. Although freedom has come to us somewhat late in life, we have no intention of throwing it away again. Many of us have passed our lives with domineering and peevish husbands. When we were finally delivered of these, we were chivvied around by our sons and daughters who not only no longer loved us, but considered us a burden and objects of ridicule and shame. Do you imagine in your wildest dreams that now we have tasted freedom we are going to let ourselves be pushed around once more by you and your leering mate? (p. 152)

Historically, patriarchal societies have sought to dismiss and oppress elderly women, preventing them from creating a fuss or being bothersome to others. Consequently, these women have often found themselves marginalised and stripped of any agency or influence. Even now, many are barely tolerated, often consigned to care homes away from their families. Carrington too was no stranger to incarceration, having spent time in a mental hospital in Madrid following a nervous breakdown in the early 1940s. The Hearing Trumpet, however, is a striking riposte to this archaic thinking, a glorious celebration of the liberation to be found when these stifling constraints are challenged, opening a door to a new world of possibilities. It’s a wonderfully empowering story, skilfully illustrating how new, more fulfilling realities can be created in the face of resistance.

Highly recommended, especially for fans of Angela Carter, Barbara Comyns and Olga Tokarczuk. In fact, the latter has written the afterword to the NYRB Classics edition, which also comes with a beautiful series of illustrations by Leonora’s son, Pablo Weisz Carrington. (Personal copy.)