Some of My Favourite Books from NYRB Classics

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One of the most interesting literary trends in recent years has been the success of various imprints specialising in reissues – lesser-known or neglected books given a new lease of life by publishers with a flair for curation. Virago Press and Persephone Books have been doing sterling work in this area for many years by focusing almost exclusively on female writers; but with Karen’s Read Indies event currently in full swing, I’d like to highlight another leading indie publisher in this sphere, NYRB Classics.

The NYRB Classics series, which began in 1999 with the publication of Richard Hughes’ A High Wind in Jamaica, now comprises over 500 titles from novels and short stories to memoirs, travel writing, literary criticism and poetry. Each title comes with an introduction or afterword from a leading writer to set the book in context. Clearly, a lot of work has gone into curating this list, which is still directed by the imprint’s founder, Edwin Frank. There are so many gems in this series that it would be impossible to mention them all, but here are some of my favourites.

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A View of the Harbour by Elizabeth Taylor (1947)

One of Taylor’s most absorbing novels, A View of the Harbour is a beautifully crafted story of the complications of life, love and family relationships, all set within a sleepy, down-at-heel harbour town a year or two after the end of World War II. It’s a wonderful ensemble piece, packed full of flawed and damaged characters who live in the kind of watchful environment where virtually everyone knows everyone else’s business. Into this community comes Bertram Hemingway, a retired Naval Officer who intends to spend his time painting the local scenery – ideally a magnificent view of the harbour which he hopes to leave behind as a memento of his visit. Slowly but surely, Bertram comes into contact with virtually all of the town’s inhabitants, affecting their lives in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Fans of Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Bookshop will likely enjoy this one!

Our Spoons Came from Woolworths by Barbara Comyns (1950)

One of my favourite novels featuring a highly distinctive female narrator – in this case, Sophia, a young woman who is looking back on her unhappy marriage to a rather feckless artist by the name of Charles. In writing this book, Comyns has drawn heavily on experiences from her own life. It is, by all accounts, a lightly fictionalised version of her first marriage, a relationship characterised by tensions over money worries and various infidelities on her husband’s part. Sophia and Charles’ hardscrabble bohemian lifestyle and North London flat are vividly evoked. Although it took me a couple of chapters to gel with Sophia’s unassuming conversational style, I really warmed to her character, particularly as the true horror of her story became apparent – her experiences of the insensitive nature of maternity care in 1930s London were especially disturbing to read. This is a wonderful book, by turns humorous, sad, shocking and heart-warming.

The Expendable Man by Dorothy B. Hughes (1963)

If I had to pick just one of these books as a must-read NYRB Classic, The Expendable Man would probably be it. A young doctor picks up a dishevelled teenage girl on a deserted highway while driving to a family wedding in Arizona. What could possibly go wrong? Well, pretty much everything, as it turns out, in this remarkably gripping novel set in 1960s America. There’s a crucial ‘reveal’ at a certain point in the story, something that might cause you to question some of your assumptions and maybe expose a few subconscious prejudices as well. The Expendable Man was a big hit with my book group, along with another of Hughes’ novels, the equally compelling In a Lonely Place, also reissued by NYRB.  

More Was Lost by Eleanor Perényi (1946)

This remarkable memoir by the American-born writer Eleanor Perényi deserves to be much better known. In essence, More Was Lost covers the early years of Eleanor’s marriage to Zsiga Perényi, a relatively poor Hungarian baron whom she meets while visiting Europe with her parents in 1937. Following the couple’s wedding, Eleanor moves to Zsiga’s charming but dilapidated estate on the shifting borders between Hungary and Czechoslovakia. It’s a gem of a book, both charming and poignant in its depiction of a vanishing and unstable world, all but destroyed by the ravages of war. There is a sense of lives being swept up in the devastating impact of broader events as the uncertainty of the political situation in  Europe begins to escalate. By turns beautiful, illuminating, elegiac and sad, it’s the type of book that feels expansive in scope but intimate in detail.

Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker (1962)

One of the first NYRB Classics I read, and it remains a firm favourite. Baker’s novel revolves around Cassandra, a graduate student at Berkeley, who is heading home to her family’s ranch for her identical twin sister’s wedding, which she seems hell-bent on derailing. Cassandra is a fascinating yet very complex character – possibly one of the most complicated I have ever encountered in fiction. Yes, she’s intelligent and precise, and at times charming and loving, but she can also be domineering, manipulative, self-absorbed and cruel. Her thoughts and actions are full of contradictions, and there are instances when she tries to delude herself, possibly to avoid the truth. At heart, Cassandra is emotionally dependent on her twin, Judith, and deep down, her sister’s earlier departure to New York and imminent marriage to Jack feel like acts of betrayal. (Identity is a key theme here, particularly how it can limit our sense of self as well as define us.) And yet it’s very hard not to feel some sympathy for Cassandra despite her abominable behaviour. If you like complex characters with plenty of light and shade, this is the novel for you!

School for Love by Olivia Manning (1951)

Set in Jerusalem during the closing stages of World War II, this highly compelling coming-of-age story features a most distinctive character, quite unlike any other I’ve encountered, either in literature or in life itself. When Felix Latimater is orphaned following the death of his mother from typhoid, he is sent from Baghdad to Jerusalem to live with his late father’s adopted sister, the formidable Miss Bohun, until the war comes to an end. In Miss Bohun, Manning has created a fascinating individual who is sure to generate strong opinions either way. Is she a manipulative hypocrite, determined to seize any opportunity and exploit it for her own personal gain? Or is this woman simply deluded, acting on the belief that she is doing the morally upstanding thing in a changing and unstable world? You’ll have to read the book yourself to take a view…

Agostino by Alberto Moravia (tr. Michael F. Moore) (1944)

Another excellent novel about a young boy’s coming-of-age and loss of innocence – in this instance, the setting is an Italian seaside resort in the mid-1940s. Moravia’s protagonist is Agostino, a thirteen-year-old boy who is devoted to his widowed mother. When his mother falls into a dalliance with a handsome young man, Agostino feels uncomfortable and confused by her behaviour, emotions that quickly turn to revulsion as the summer unfolds. This short but powerful novel is full of strong, sometimes brutal imagery, with the murky, mysterious waters of the setting mirroring the cloudy undercurrent of emotions in Agostino’s mind. Ultimately, this is a story of a young boy’s transition from the innocence of boyhood to a new phase in his life. While this should be a happy and exciting time of discovery for Agostino, the summer is marked by a deep sense of pain and confusion. Another striking, evocative novella deserves to be much better known.

Grand Hotel by Vicki Baum (tr. Basil Creighton) (1929)

Set in the late 1920s, this engaging, cleverly constructed novel revolves around the experiences of six central characters as they cross parths in a Berlin hotel. There are moments of lightness and significant darkness here as Baum weaves her story together, moving from one figure to another with consummate ease – her sense of characterisation is remarkably vivid. At the centre of the novel is the idea that our lives can change direction in surprising ways through our interactions with others. We see fragments of these individuals’ lives as they come and go from the hotel. Some are on their way up and are altered for the better; others are on their way down and emerge much diminished. What appears to be chance and the luck of the draw may in fact turn out to be a case of cause and effect. In some ways, the hotel is a metaphor for life itself, complete with the great revolving door which governs our daily existence. All in all, it’s a wonderfully entertaining read.

A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr (1980)

A sublime, deeply affecting book about love, loss and the restorative power of art. Set in a small Yorkshire village in the heady summer of 1920, Carr’s novella is narrated by Tom Birkin, a young man still dealing with the effects of shell shock following the traumas of WWI. A Southerner by nature, Birkin has come to Oxgodby to restore a Medieval wall painting in the local church – much to the annoyance of the vicar, Reverend Keach, who resents the restorer’s presence in his domain. However, there is another purpose to Birkin’s visit: to find an escape or haven of sorts, an immersive distraction from the emotional scars of the past. Imbued with a strong sense of longing and nostalgia for an idyllic world, Carr’s novella also perfectly captures the ephemeral nature of time – the idea that our lives can turn on the tiniest of moments, the most fleeting of chances to be grasped before they are lost forever. In short, it’s a masterpiece in miniature, full of yearning and desire for times gone by. 

Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them. Or maybe you have some favourite NYRB Classics of your own – if so, feel free to mention them in the comments below.

Stories for Mothers and Daughters – Maeve Brennan, A. S. Byatt, Jeanette Winterson & more!

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Over the past few years, the British Library has been doing sterling work with its excellent Women Writers series, reissuing lesser-known 20th-century novels by female authors for modern-day readers to enjoy. Alongside the novels, the series includes a handful of carefully curated anthologies, one of which – Stories for Mothers and Daughters – I’m discussing here.

Sometimes, these types of collections can be a little uneven, but in this instance, almost all the entries are very good. Here we have stories that explore various facets of mother-daughter relationships, from headstrong, liberated daughters opposing the more traditional authority figures their mothers represent, to shy, uncertain girls being pushed into society with limited support. In other tales, we learn of the sacrifices some mothers are prepared to make for the benefit of their children. It’s a fascinating collection, spanning a variety of different styles and the full breadth of the 20th century in settings / timeframes. As is often the case, different stories will likely resonate with different readers depending on their tastes, but there really does appear to be something for everyone here, from humorous sketches to poignant pieces to dramatic stories of clashing ideals.

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The collection opens with Week-End by Richmal Crompton, who is probably best known for her Just William books, which makes perfect sense given the protagonists in this tale. As the story opens, a widowed mother who values peace and quiet is preparing to welcome her three boisterous adult daughters and their friend, ‘Nibbles’, for the weekend. The girls duly arrive, sweeping through the country cottage in a whirlwind of noise, selfish behaviour and blatant disregard for their mother’s way of life, The crux of this story rests on illustrating how blinkered these daughters are to their mother’s true desires – in short, they assume their mother needs cheering up, while in actual fact, she’d much rather be on her own. However, Compton overdoes it in the execution of this tale, portraying these girls as spoilt ten-year-olds rather than working women in their twenties or late teens. I loved the concept behind this one but couldn’t buy the girls’ behaviour, which included sliding down bannisters and surfing on tea trays when the weather turned foul!

Clashing priorities of a different kind feature in Inez Holden’s excellent story, The Value of Being Seen, in which Mrs Ascot is determined to launch her daughter Daphne into London society. Every preparation has been made, from ‘polishing’ Daphne at a Parisian finishing school and taking a house in London for the debutante season to instructing the girl on the importance of being seen and making a good impression. And yet, Daphne, who is shy and retiring at heart, finds the endless whirl of society dances terribly intimidating. As the interminable season unfolds, Daphne finds herself fading into the background to the point of becoming invisible to those around her.

Daphne’s existence went on. There were more dances, tea meetings, Lord’s, Goodwood, helping with plays for good causes; the unending putting on of dresses and having pictures taken; Daphne went about in a group of other débutantes all the time. They had nothing of any interest to say to one another—only cries of approval, foolish little laughs, and accounts of dancers fixed for the future. There was not a quiet minute, and through it all no one seemed to see Daphne. She was unconscious of herself, and she went on being unseen. (p. 22)

It’s a very striking story – sad, dark and beautifully executed.

I also loved A. S. Byatt’s evocative story Rose-Coloured Teacups, my first experience of this writer’s work. When Veronica’s daughter, Jane, breaks her mother’s sewing machine – a treasured family heirloom – Veronica is filled with rage at the girl’s behaviour. But the incident also prompts Veronica to recall a similar experience from her student days when she broke several rose-coloured teacups – a gift she detested at the time. Just like the sewing machine, the rose-coloured tea-cups were a treasured possession, passed from one generation to the next in an emotionally charged gesture. When the terrible breakage was discovered, Veronica’s mother was outraged by her daughter’s carelessness, not only at the destruction of the cups themselves but also as a howl of anguish at being trapped by the restrictions of marriage, motherhood and domesticity in general.

The teacups had been given by her mother’s old college friend, to take back a new generation to the college. She had not liked the teacups. She did not like pink, and the floral shape of the saucers was most unfashionable. She and her friends drank Nescafe from stone mugs or plain cylinders in primary colours. She had left folded in her drawer the tablecloth embroidered for her by her grandmother, whose style of embroidery was now exemplified by the cloth, so stiff and clean and brilliant, in the visionary teaparty she had taken to imagining since her mother died. It was a curious form of mourning, but compulsive, and partly comforting. It seemed to be all she was capable of. The force of her mother’s rage against the house and housewifery that trapped her and, by extension, against her clever daughters, who had all partly evaded that trap, precluded wholehearted mourning. (pp. 122–123)

Another excellent story, full of emotional truth. 

A clash of another sort is central to Mary Arden’s striking story The Stepmother,in which a former schoolmistress, Esther King, who prides herself on being able to understand young girls, finds herself struggling to form a bond with her teenage stepdaughter, Ella. Newly married to Ella’s middle-aged father, Esther tries every trick in her armamentarium to befriend Ella, who remains stubbornly polite yet distant and aloof.

In the days, in the weeks after Ella’s coming, Esther was not at all happy. She felt that she was always trying to be nice to Ella, and yet always her advances were met—no, not exactly coldly, and yet somehow not met at all. And still—utterly unlike the Miss King of former days—Esther simply had to go on being sweet to this obstinate creature who refused to respond to her charms. Sometimes she hated herself for it, sometimes there came a little twinge of hatred for Ella, but there was something about the child… (p. 190)

When an infatuated former pupil of Esther’s comes to stay during the holidays, the situation comes to a head, forcing a brutal showdown between Ella and her stepmother. It’s a crushing story culminating in a dramatic denouement.

Phyllis Bottome’s The Battle-Field is another standout example of a mother and daughter pulling in different directions, but in this instance, the mother’s behaviour poses a serious risk to her child’s health. Madeleine has always been a delicate young woman, prone to lung disease and other related conditions, which her mother has nursed. Nevertheless, when a new physician takes over Madeleine’s care, complete rest in a sanatorium is prescribed, which ultimately means no visits from her mother. As this excellent story plays out, the nature of the maternal bond is tested, emotional truths come to light and secrets are revealed, forcing Madeleine to reassess the true aim of her mother’s actions. Bottome paints a vivid picture of a toxic, co-dependent relationship in this dark, beautifully executed story that chills the soul.

Deceptions of a different kind are at the heart of Amy Bloom’s Love is Not a Pie, in which two grown-up sisters develop a deeper awareness of the tangled nature of their mother’s love life in the wake of her death. The significance of puzzling scenes from the girls’ childhoods now slots into place, revealing hard truths about a family friend and his complex relationships with both of their parents.

What was that, I thought, what did I see? I wanted to go back and take another look, to see it again, to make it disappear, to watch them carefully, until I understood. (p. 139)

This surprising story will take readers to some unexpected places, echoing perhaps the sexual freedoms of the ‘60s and ‘70s in its narrative arc.

Maeve Brennan’s The Shadow of Kindness is a bleak, melancholic gem, in which the absence of Delia Bagot’s two children – on holiday with their aunt and uncle in the country – throws the emptiness of Delia’s life into sharp relief. The most heartbreaking aspects of this story stem from the semi-estranged state of the Bagots’ marriage, now an emotional desert following the early death of their first child some ten years earlier.

She knew things were not as they should be between them, but while the children were at home she did not want to say anything for fear of a row that might frighten the children, and now that the children were away she found she was afraid to speak for fear of disturbing a silence that might, if broken, reveal any number of things that she did not want to see and that she was sure he did not want to see. Or perhaps he saw them and kept silent out of charity, or out of despair, or out of a hope that they would vanish if no one paid any attention to them. (p. 111)

This story appears in Brennan’s superb collection The Springs of Affection, which I would highly recommend if you haven’t read it already – it’s one of my all-time favourites!

Elsewhere, Jeanette Winterson has fun with her darkly humorous tale Psalms, whose fervently religious mother and sanguine daughter reminded me of Oranges are Not the Only Fruit. Janet Frame’s Pictures is particularly lovely – a touching story of a mother and daughter enjoying a trip to the cinema. There is no conflict here, just beauty and humanity, an escape from the lonely boarding house where the pair live.

It was a wonderful picture. It was the greatest love story ever told. It was Life and Love and Laughter, and Tenderness and Tears. (p. 49)

Tillie Olsen’s I Stand Here Ironing is another poignant one, highlighting the challenges faced by a poor single mother, raising a daughter during America’s Great Depression.

She was too vulnerable for that terrible world of youthful competition, of preening and parading, of constant measuring of yourself against every other, of envy… (p. 175)

This is a sad story of a child whose life is shaped by harsh circumstances, but there are glimmers of something more hopeful here, especially towards the end.

Finally, a mention for Winifred Holtby’s The Silver Cloak, one of my favourites in this delightful collection – a memorable story in which age and experience must give way to the freshness of youth, even when the mother is still relatively young (thirty-six!) and beautiful herself.

Annie stared at her daughter, and as she looked, the hot shame brought dark blushes to her own cheeks, bathing her neck in warm colour. “Why, Katie!” Katie was jealous. Jealous of her. She had been a thief. She had wanted to steal the pretty things and the attention and the fun which belonged to youth by right of birth. She had been greedy, usurping the girl’s place, because, through her own experience, she knew so much better than Katie what to say and do and wear. She saw the lovely relationship which had bound them so closely breaking down before her grasping desire for a good time. And all for a cloak, a silly silver cloak which wasn’t even very suitable. (pp. 62–63)

As ever with the BL’s Women Writers series, the book is beautifully produced and comes with an informative introduction – in this instance by Molly Thatcher and Simon Thomas. Highly recommended; my thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy, which I read for Karen’s Read Indies event.

The Waterfall by Margaret Drabble

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Alongside my ongoing aim of reading Anita Brookner’s novels in publication order, roughly one every six months, I’m trying to do the same with Margaret Drabble, albeit more slowly. Drabble’s first three books, A Summer Bird-Cage, The Garrick Year and The Millstone, all hit the spot for me, but her fourth, Jerusalem the Golden, seemed to lack a certain spark. This brings me to Drabble’s fifth, The Waterfall (1969), which at first glance might be at risk of being dismissed as simply another story of an extra-marital affair. Nevertheless, what makes this novel so fascinating to read is the way Drabble chooses to tellthe story – in other words, the book’s form, which oscillates between the third and first person as the story unfolds. I’m not entirely convinced that Drabble’s execution of this concept works; nevertheless, it’s a very intriguing way to examine an affair in detail, and I found the novel pretty compelling throughout.

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Even when writing in the third person, Drabble remains focused on her protagonist, Jane Gray, a twenty-eight-year-old married woman whose husband, Malcolm, has recently left her. When we first meet Jane, a poet, she is about to give birth to her second child, which duly takes place at home as planned, aided by a midwife. Meanwhile, Jane and Malcolm’s young son, Laurie, is being looked after by her parents. While Jane is recovering at home, her cousin, Lucy, and the latter’s husband, James, take turns in supporting her, with Lucy covering the day shifts and James taking over at night when his wife leaves to look after their own children.

At first, Jane feels uncomfortable with James watching over her at night, but this unease soon disappears, and before we know it, they are sharing a bed, sparking an intense, deeply felt affair. In short, James seems to unlock something in Jane, tapping into feelings she has never experienced before. Her marriage to Malcolm was arid and unfulfilling, a stark contrast to the passion she feels for James.

She [Jane] began to live for his coming, submitting herself helplessly to the current, abandoning herself to it, knowing then at the beginning things that were to be obscured from her later by pain and desire – knowing it could not end well, because how else could it be, what good ends were there to such emotions? And she did not care: she foresaw and surrendered to the whole journey, she did not withhold herself, she kept nothing back. (p. 41)

As the days pass, Jane has less need for Lucy’s help around the house, but James continues to visit at night. What Lucy makes of all this is never mentioned, leaving us to wonder whether she actually knows where he is…

By now, we are 40 pages into this intense account of the affair, all written in the third person; but then, Drabble suddenly changes tack, switching to a first-person narrative that casts doubt on the veracity of what we have been reading.

It won’t, of course, do: as an account, I mean, of what took place. I tried, I tried for so long to reconcile, to find a style that would express it, to find a system that would excuse me, to construct a new meaning, having kicked the old one out, but I couldn’t do it, so here I am, resorting to that old broken medium. Don’t let me deceive myself, I see no virtue in confusion, I see true virtue in clarity, in consistency, in communication, in honesty. Or is that too no longer true? Do I stand judged by that sentence? I cannot judge myself, I cannot condemn myself, so what can I make that will admit me and encompass me? Nothing, it seems, but a broken and fragmented piece: an event seen from angles, where there used to be one event, and one way only of enduring it. (pp. 48–49)

There is a sense here that the third-person narrative is a selective account of the affair – not a lie as such, but an incomplete and carefully edited version of events. As first-person Jane says at one point, ‘this is dishonest, but not as dishonest as deliberate falsehood’ – a misrepresentation of sorts, but not a complete fabrication.

Drabble uses the first-person narrative to explore various aspects. Firstly, there is the meta element in which Drabble, via Jane, seems to be commenting on the writing process, i.e. the challenges of finding a form or style in which to convey this story.

I must make an effort to comprehend it. I will take it all to pieces, I will resolve it to its parts, and then I will put it together again, I will reconstitute it in a form that I can accept, a fictitious form: adding a little here, abstracting a little there, moving this arm half an inch that way, gently altering the dead angle of the head upon its neck. If I need a morality, I will create one: a new ladder, a new virtue. (p. 55)

Secondly, Jane analyses her thoughts and behaviour during the affair, searching perhaps for some justification for her illicit actions. Initially, she does not consider the potential impact on Lucy; nor does she consider her own husband, Malcom, whom she admits to neglecting before his departure. These considerations will come later, once unforeseen developments force her hand. Nevertheless, when Jane hears Malcolm’s voice on the radio (he is a singer), she is assailed by feelings of guilt.

…as she sat there waves of panic, so familiar to her, evoked by that disembodied voice, began to possess her – guilt, senselessness, terror, failure, betrayal. She could not make sense of where she was, of what she was, of what she was doing: she wanted to write poetry and she could not, she wanted this man [James] and she could not have him. (p. 77)

Drabble also uses the first-person narrative to flesh out Malcolm’s backstory, followed by Lucy’s. Winding back in time, we see how Jane meets Malcolm, a singer and classical guitarist, at a party. Following a period of courtship, Jane marries Malcolm (who comes from a lower middle-class background than her own), largely out of convenience. In short, he represents safety, dignity and companionship rather than passion or love; meanwhile, she has no idea what to expect from marriage itself – no knowledge of her own body, sexual desires or untapped depths.

At the time, Jane blames herself, but all too soon, she feels isolated in her marriage with Malcolm – a husband she does not love, partly because he seems to have no emotional need for her. Motherhood, too, leaves her feeling alienated and adrift.

…I felt all the comfort drain so quickly out of our relationship as it transformed itself into the very things I had sought to escape – loneliness, treachery, hardness of heart. I know now that the fault was partly his, because having got me he did not really want me: he did not want a woman at all. It took many me so many years to discover this that I felt oddly light-headed, to be able to write it down, simply, in an ordinary sentence, like that. (p. 106)

Drabble began writing at a time when more young women were going to university than ever before, opening up the possibility of interesting careers for many girls. But despite these developments, traditional societal expectations remained somewhat entrenched, isolating many women in marriage and motherhood despite their potential for personal growth. It’s a recurring theme in Drabble’s early novels, and it comes up again here.

The strange confidence with which I found myself able to handle a baby could, perhaps, have given me an identity, could have rescued me from inertia: I could have turned myself into one of those mother women who ignore their husbands and live through their children. But with me, this did not happen;  my ability to kiss and care for and feed and amuse a small child merely reinforced my sense of division – I felt split between the anxious, intelligent woman and the healthy and efficient mother – or perhaps less split than divided. (p. 110)

In the end, Jane admits to driving Malcolm away due to her detachment, poor housekeeping skills and lack of affection – so much so that he embarks on an affair with another woman, an infidelity that predates Jane’s infidelity with James.

Turning to Jane’s cousin, Lucy, for a moment, the two girls were close in early childhood, having been born within two weeks of one another. If anything, Lucy is more of a sister to Jane than her own younger sibling, Catherine, who happens to be their parents’ favourite.

By the time Lucy and Jane go to university – one to Cambridge, the other to Oxford – Lucy is popular and sexually voracious, working her way through a succession of eligible boys rather than studying for exams. On graduating with a mediocre grade, she finds a job with a publisher, where she meets James. Marriage soon follows, precipitated by her pregnancy with their first child.  

Does Jane have an affair with James simply because he belongs to Lucy, because deep down she wants to be Lucy? Jane asks herself this question at one point in her analysis, then quickly dismisses it as a possible reason. But once again, the reader might wonder whether there is a grain of truth in this hypothesis. More likely, perhaps, is a sense that past failures have conspired to throw Jane and James together, especially once we discover more about the fractured nature of James’ relationship with Lucy.

Inevitably, Jane and James’ affair comes to light – in this instance, when a dramatic development makes concealment no longer an option, taking this story in some surprising directions. It’s a striking denouement, foreshadowed by some of the fears Jane experiences as her reliance on James increases.

As this fascinating, complex novel draws to a close, Jane (in first-person mode) once again casts doubt on the truthfulness of the opening section of this account, which is written in the third person.

At the beginning of this book, I deliberately exaggerated my helplessness, my dislocation, as a plea for clemency. So that I should not be judged. Poor helpless Jane, abandoned, afraid, timid, frigid, bereft. What right had anyone to point an accusing finger? Poor Jane, lying in that bed with her newborn child, alone. Poor Jane, child of such monstrous parents. How could she not be mad? (p. 241)

As an aside, names seem to be significant here as Jane Gray might be a nod to Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Days Queen, beheaded for high treason. There are also references to Jane Eyre in the novel, hinting at possible parallels between James and Mr Rochester, particularly in the story’s closing sections.

The more I think about this novel, the more I like it, partly because it raises interesting questions about how we choose to frame and relate stories to one another, especially when infidelity and other complex feelings are involved. As readers, how can we trust what we are being told? Unreliable narrators are not uncommon in fiction, so it’s natural to be somewhat cautious about the veracity of a first-person narrative. But, conversely, how can we ‘trust’ what is presented to us in the third person? How selective or representative might it be? Sometimes, it’s hard to tell…and maybe that’s partly what Drabble is trying to illustrate here in this intriguing book.

In Farthest Seas by Lalla Romano (tr. Brian Robert Moore)

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A couple of years ago, I read and thoroughly enjoyed A Silence Shared, a beautiful, enigmatic novel by the Italian writer, translator and artist Lalla Romano. First published in Italy in 1957, Tetto Murato (A Silence Shared) was translated by Brian Robert Moore and published by Pushkin Press in 2023. Now Moore and Pushkin have returned with an elegant English translation of another of Romano’s books, Nei mari estremi or In Farthest Seas, a profound, intimate and deeply moving elegy to Innocenzo (Cenzo) Monti, Romano’s husband of circa fifty years. If anything, I loved Seas even more than A Silence Shared, possibly because it reads like a work of autofiction. There is a genuine sense of honesty and vulnerability here, a palpable poignancy that cuts close to the bone.

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Written as a series of crystalline vignettes, In Farthest Seas constructs an evocative portrait of the first four years of Lalla’s relationship with Cenzo (culminating in their wedding in the early 1930s), and the final four months they spent together before his death in the mid-1980s. In a candid Afterword, Lalla explains that she wrote the second part of the book (subtitled Four Months) first, with the first section (Four Years) following later to fill in the backstory of their burgeoning relationship. Nevertheless, looking back at that earlier time, the subtle premonitions of loss seem particularly noticeable.

A little earlier on the snowfield – we were at a distance from the group during the ascent, too – we made out before us, in the uniform white (in the shadows), as strand of black marks spaced apart, coming into focus as small pointed bodies: birds, swallows. Stuck in the snow. Seven of them. No doubt blinded, tricked by the white, they had missed the mark in their low flight. Or some impact, a sudden violence of the wind. The small tragic image was one of defeat, but also a transfiguration. (p. 30)

At times, Romano’s exquisite prose style is akin to a stream of consciousness, blending memories with personal reflections, ruminations on the nature of life and touchstones from the arts – paintings and works of literature are particularly significant here.

In Part One (Four Years), we see how Lalla and Cenzo meet during a hiking trip, quickly bonding over a shared fondness for Modigliani’s artworks. As they begin to spend more time together, a deep attraction develops between the pair.

It was November, we needed to light the wood stove. He chopped wood in a little clearing and grew warm from this exertion, so that, despite the cold, his shirt gleamed white in the twilight. There was something at once adventurous, exotic (in sense of far-away countries) and intimate in that image, as though already lived (or dreamed). It matched, or rather expressed all the risk and mystery there was in that cold light, in that solitude. In the stories by Lawrence that I had just read, I had found this; and for a moment I felt an attraction for him that was violent, secret, but I believe already tenaciously deep. It wasn’t an idea, it was a sensation; head-spinning, but not unsettling. Rather, familiar. (p. 18)

Lalla detests conventional role-based labels such as ‘wife, husband, mother-in-law, daughter-in-law, and the like’, indicating her reluctance to submit to traditional societal expectations and conventions. Nevertheless, when her relationship with Cenzo becomes serious, Lalla’s family make it known that the two are engaged, partly to maintain a sense of respectability. Cenzo’s family, however, are less happy about the match as they consider Lalla a step down from their social position, particularly with Cenzo’s father’s position as a Colonel. But despite these barriers, the couple do marry, albeit in a quiet ceremony in Boves, where they have spent previous summers.

In Part Two (Four Months), the tone of voice becomes more poignant, highlighting Lalla’s fears over the forthcoming loss and the grief she will inevitably feel. References to distance and absence recur, offering painful contrasts to the closeness and presence she has shared with Cenzo.

It was not in illnesses that I feared losing him; but in absences, in distance. To die is to move off into the distance: I’d find this out later. (p. 58)

He had always loved departures. In airports, upon arrival, he’d turn to look at the planes ready to leave, and say: ‘I’d like to board another one!’

Back then, a departure meant a beginning. More than departing, now it seemed to mean distancing, ‘moving off’. To be dead is to be absent. To die is to set out towards absence. (p. 128)

Oftentimes, it’s the smallest things that hit the hardest for Lalla – a noticeable pallor in Cenzo’s face, an uncharacteristic slowness in his walk, a persistent pain in his back – all early warning signs that something might be amiss.

Interwoven with these meditations are thoughts of happier times, memories and reflections that illustrate the depth of their love for one another while also giving us insights into Cenzo’s character.

In my books Innocenzo is a virile character: rational, a protector; but he was also feminine: gentle, fanciful. Such that his face’s ‘manly’ beauty was not aggressive, but delicate, in its strong structure. That strength was granted by the prominence of his cheekbones: the ‘nomad’ structure (which I’d first discovered with Giovanni and which I always need). And manly beauty is more complete if it has something feminine. As with the spirit, in fact. (p. 92)

The publisher’s description likens In Farthest Seas to the work of Annie Ernaux and Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, presumably due to its rawness and emotional honesty. These are valid comparisons, for sure, but to my mind, Romano’s prose style is more poetic than either Didion’s or Ernaux’s. There is a graceful lyricism here, a stylistic approach that seems perfectly in tune with the subject matter, breathing life into Lalla’s emotions without ever over-dramatising them.

Life – ours – had reached a summit. The last loving breakfast at Piperno, in the small piazza. Between shade and light. Only the two of us, and a gentle wind blowing through the set and empty tables. Usually we went in the evening. For the first time I walked over to see, from up close, the old, dry fountain.

Tranquil happiness. Deluded – maybe I alone – by the bliss of that moment. His anaemia had been defeated by six transfusions. Delusion, I don’t think so. Knowing abandon – and not regrettable. Gratitude, actually. (p. 114)

Unsurprisingly, the poignancy steps up again in the final stages once it becomes clear that Cenzo has only a few weeks left to live. The darkness falls on Lalla as she attempts to slow down time – psychologically, at least.

Everything went dark. That was it, the true sentence. In that moment I lost him, I knew I had lost him.

Suddenly time had been cut frighteningly short; like for a person plummeting  who sees moving towards her the ground where she’ll be crushed. (p. 125)

As I mentioned earlier, various references to writers and artworks are woven through this text. From Marguerite Duras and Simone de Beauvoir to Rembrandt’s portraits and Bacon’s Triptychs, these touchstones add another dimension to Lalla and Cenzo’s story. In fact, Bacon’s paintings prove especially striking, resonating even more sharply as the spectre of death closes in. The loss of a loved one is always hard to bear, even when we know the end is coming, as is the case here.

Now the agony, the horror. No one has represented the torture of that final agony like Bacon. We’d gazed at it together for a long while, in London, many times. Especially that Triptych. The screaming, the fury, the disfigurement. And yet it is mercy. There is no mercy without mercilessness. (p.157)

Beautiful, candid and profoundly moving, In Farthest Seas is a kaleidoscopic elegy to a longstanding love and a loss deeply felt. It’s a heartfelt, melancholic read, and yet there is genuine beauty here too, while also encouraging us to reflect on our own mortality. I loved this book and hope to find a place for it in my 2026 highlights, even though we’re barely into the new year. (My thanks to the publishers for kind providing a review copy.)

Anna Ancher, Painting Light – an exhibition at the Dulwich Picture Gallery

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Time for another of my occasional posts on art exhibitions and accompanying catalogues – in this instance, the gorgeous Anna Ancher, Painting Light exhibition at Dulwich Picture Gallery, which runs until 8th March 2026.

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Study of a Seamstress in Blue, c. 1899, oil on canvas

Born in the northern seaside town of Skagen in 1859, Anna Ancher (née Brøndum) became one of Denmark’s most celebrated artists. Along with her husband and fellow artist, Michael Ancher, Anna was one of the leading lights of the Skagen group of painters who gathered in this remote fishing community in the country’s northernmost point during the 1880s and 1890s. Unlike other members of this group, Anna was the only artist native to Skagen, having been raised by the Brøndum family, who owned the only hotel in the village. As such, members of the local community often featured in her art.

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Profile of a Woman from Skagen, c. 1905,
oil on panel

The Dulwich show is the first major exhibition of Anna Ancher’s work in the UK, and it’s absolutely worth seeing if you can make it to London. What I love about these paintings is the way they capture light, particularly in interior spaces. Anna’s influences included the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, many of whom Anna will have seen during her visits to Paris in the 1880s. Moreover, she was also inspired by artists from the Dutch Golden Age, including Vermeer and De Hooch, particularly their artworks depicting women absorbed in domestic work or related pursuits.

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The Maid in the Kitchen, 1883/1886, oil on canvas

Something else that really stood out for me was the level of support Anna received from her family, particularly her mother, Ane, and husband, Michael. The Brøndums actively encouraged Anna’s artistic talents from a young age; for instance, Ane Brøndum did not experience a happy marriage and was reluctant to let her daughters follow suit. Therefore, there was time and space for Anna to pursue her creative interests – quite unusual for the time, especially given the traditional patriarchal societal structures commonplace in rural communities in the late 19th century. Michael Ancher also encouraged his wife to continue painting, even once their daughter, Helga (who also went on to be an artist), was born in 1883.

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Sunlight in the Blue Room, 1891, oil on canvas

As for the artworks themselves, they are superb, showing some of Anna’s influences while also possessing a style of their own. In her use of form and colour and focus on interiority, Anna Ancher reminds me of Vanessa Bell, whose work I wrote about last year following the exhibition at Milton Keynes. In short, these artworks portray the traditional rhythms of rural Danish life through progressive use of colour, light and form. Mortality is a recurring theme, especially in Anna’s paintings of her mother, Ane, during her final years.

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Mrs Ane Brøndum in the Blue Room, 1913,
oil on canvas

It’s wonderful to see Anna’s luminous work being showcased in this way, celebrating her as a pioneering artist whose legacy still speaks to many art lovers today.

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Interior, Brøndum’s Annex, c. 1916, oil on panel

It goes without saying that the accompanying softback catalogue (published by the gallery itself) is beautifully produced. Alongside plates of all the exhibits, the book contains an introduction to Anna Ancher by Mette Harbo Lehmann, curator and senior researcher at Skagens Museum, Denmark. There are also contributions from Helen Hillyard, Head of Collection at Dulwich Picture Gallery, plus a detailed timeline covering Anna’s life.

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Self-Portrait, c. 1879, oil on canvas

Incidentally, the Dulwich gallery also hosted the fabulous Tirzah Garwood, Beyond Ravilious Exhibition, which I write about last year.

London novels – another ten favourites from my shelves

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Back in July, I put together a list of ten favourite novels set in London. It seemed to strike a chord with many of you, so much so that I thought I’d pick another ten, including some of the books recommended by readers when that post came out.

As in my previous list, many of these novels portray lives lived on the fringes of society, from lonely women isolated in spinsterhood or unfulfilling marriages to younger outsiders marginalised from the mainstream for one reason or another. There are some brighter, funnier novels here too, shot through with a sense of adventure. Here are my picks!

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The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett (1902)

I loved this hugely enjoyable, fast-moving caper, set for the most part 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!

The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen (1938)

One of my favourite novels by this excellent writer. When both her parents die in fairly quick succession, sixteen-year-old Portia is sent to live with her half-brother, Thomas, and his wife, Anna, in their large house near London’s Regent’s Park. It was her late father’s wish that Portia should live with Thomas for a year, after which time she might move on to stay with an aunt. In truth, neither Thomas nor Anna is particularly keen to have Portia, although Thomas does feel some sense of duty towards the girl. Bowen is brilliant at capturing the sheer awkwardness and uncertainty of adolescence, particularly as Portia has very little understanding of how to behave around Anna, Thomas and their friends; her understanding of the workings of the adult mind is minimal.

Mostly left to her own devices, Portia falls in with Eddie is a selfish, uncaring young man with no real sense of integrity or responsibility. What follows is a very subtle exploration of the pain and confusion of adolescence, of how easy it is for an adult to toy with the emotions of a teenager, especially someone as vulnerable and as trusting as Portia. Bowen excels at capturing the central London setting with its cold, wintry days and brittle atmosphere – a reflection of the chilly mood in Thomas and Anna’s house.

The House Opposite by Barbara Noble (1943)

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 still have been uncertain. Set during the turmoil of the London Blitz, Barbara Noble’s 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. 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. Elizabeth and Owen don’t much like one another at first, but as the pair share fire-watching duties on Sunday nights, a tentative friendship develops, opening their eyes to the realities around them.

Noble excels is in her portrayal of London during the Blitz, and 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. It’s a thoughtful and absorbing read, ideally suited to lovers of home-front stories from World War II.

Our Spoons Came from Woolworths by Barbra Comyns (1950)

One of my favourite novels featuring a highly distinctive female narrator – in this case, Sophia, a young woman who is looking back on her unhappy marriage to a rather feckless artist by the name of Charles. In writing this book, Comyns has drawn heavily on experiences from her own life. It is, by all accounts, a lightly fictionalised version of her first marriage, a relationship characterised by tensions over money worries and various infidelities on her husband’s part. Sophia and Charles’ hardscrabble bohemian lifestyle and North London flat are vividly evoked. Although it took me a couple of chapters to gel with Sophia’s unassuming conversational style, I really warmed to her character, particularly as the true horror of her story became apparent – her experiences of the insensitive nature of maternity care in 1930s London were especially disturbing to read. This is a wonderful book, by turns humorous, sad, shocking and heart-warming.

Under the Net by Iris Murdoch (1954)

My first experience of Iris Murdoch’s fiction but hopefully not my last. Under the Net – Murdoch’s debut novel – is a subtly clever blend of the picaresque and the philosophical, all set within the bohemian milieu of London and Paris in the early 1950s. The novel is narrated by Jake Donaghue, an impoverished hack who scrapes a living by translating mediocre French novels into English when in need of some ready cash. As the story opens, Jake arrives back in London following a trip to France to discover that he is being thrown out of the flat where he has been living virtually rent-free for the past couple of years. Thus, Jake must find a new place to live, a quest that sets off a sequence of misadventures, chance encounters and close shaves, all of which shape his outlook on life in subtly different ways.

This novel is witty, engaging and fast-paced, with the humour in particular coming as a complete surprise. Along the way, the action takes in various scuffles, the theft of a manuscript, a break-in, a kidnap and a spontaneous night-time dip in the Thames. There’s also some glorious writing about London here, very atmospheric and evocative; on one level it’s all tremendous fun. Nevertheless, debate and self-reflection play their parts too. Central to the novel is the exploration of one of Wittgenstein’s theories, the idea that our deepest emotions remain trapped ‘under the net’ of language, inaccessible to others despite our best efforts to express them through dialogue or the written word. I loved this novel and hope to read more Murdoch very soon!

The Ballad of Peckham Rye by Muriel Spark (1960)

The gloriously off-kilter world of Muriel Spark continues to be a source of fascination for me – she’s a writer whose intense, imaginative visions seem playful and  distinctive. The Girls of Slender Means featured in my first ‘London novels’ post, but this time I’ve chosen The Ballad of Peckham Rye, in which the mercurial, malevolent Dougal Douglas brings chaos into the lives of everyone he encounters. Spark makes excellent use of dialogue here to move the story along, and the setting – a South London borough in the 1960s – is captured to a T. It’s the sort of community where everyone is desperate to know everyone else’s business, and the pubs and shops bristle with gossip and rumour. There’s a touch of the dark arts about this novella with its slyly manipulative protagonist, who always strikes me as an older incarnation of Timothy Gedge from William Trevor’s brilliant novel The Children of Dynmouth.

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. When 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.

Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym (1977)

First published in the late ‘70s, at the height of Pym’s well-documented renaissance, Quartet in Autumn is a quietly poignant novel about loneliness, ageing and the passing of time – how sometimes we can feel left behind as the world changes around us. The story follows four work colleagues in their sixties (two of whom are spinsters) as they deal with retirement from their roles as clerical workers in a London office. Pym brings some lovely touches of gentle humour to this bittersweet gem, and the loneliness of life in a big city is sensitively evoked. 

As is often the case with Pym, it’s the small things that prove to be the most revealing, hinting at trouble brewing or secrets yet to be revealed. As the novel draws to a close, the group come together in a time of crisis, reaching out to one another in ways they have not managed to do before. For two of the quartet at least, there are decisions about their futures to be made, showing us that life still holds choices and new possibilities in the autumn of our years.

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, marking time in a narrow life on the periphery, while the excitement and passion take 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 proved no exception to the trend!

Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson  (2021)

This gorgeous, lyrical novella – which focuses on two central protagonists, one male, one female, both black and in their early twenties – is at once both a tender love story and a searing insight into what it feels to be young, black and male in contemporary South London. Nelson writes beautifully about the sensation of a relationship progressing from friendship to love, how our innermost feelings can be exhilarating yet also expose a noticeable sense of vulnerability. The story is imbued with a wonderful combination of intimacy and immediacy, a feeling that fits so naturally with the novella’s intertwined themes.

Nelson is particularly strong when it comes to conveying the experience of inhabiting a black body, that sense of being stared at but not seen – certainly not as a human being with emotions and feelings. What really comes across here is the fear young black men experience on a daily basis, and the South London setting forms a key part of this. Will today be a day when they are stopped and searched? Will today be a day of confrontation? Will today be the day they lose their life? It’s a story for our times, an exploration of love, creativity and the need to be seen, especially in a world where fear and prejudice seem ever-present.

Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them or are thinking of doing so. Or maybe you have some favourite London novels of your own – if so, feel free to mention them in the comments below, especially those from the 20th century.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.