Things We Lost in the Fire by Mariana Enriquez (tr. Megan McDowell)

The Argentine writer and journalist Mariana Enriquez grew up during the country’s Dirty War. From 1976 to 1983, when Argentina was in the grip of the military dictatorship, several thousands of citizens were murdered or disappeared, many of whom were not formally documented due to the terrorist regime in place. While the primary targets were communist activists and sympathisers, others were also singled out, from artists, writers and journalists to students, militants and trade unionists – in short, anyone suspected of being a left-wing activist. Things We Lost in the Fire – a superb collection of twelve short stories, first published in Spanish in 2016 – alludes to this history, bringing the country’s horrors to life in vivid, highly compelling ways. I hope to find a place for it in my 2024 highlights.

In these macabre, deeply disturbing stories, elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery are intertwined with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present. Time and time again, the country’s dark underbelly bursts through the surface, making its presence felt in the characters’ anxieties and fears. Importantly, the shocks come not only from the violence and traumas we are exposed to directly but also from a growing immunity to these horrors once they become embedded within the fabric of society.

Many of these stories begin in the realms of contemporary normality, only to shift into darker, nightmarish territory as they unfold. In some instances, Enriquez’s protagonists are left questioning whether what they are experiencing is real or imaginary, like a manifestation of past or present horrors resurfacing to haunt them.

In ‘The Dirty Kid’, a middle-class woman who prides herself on being savvy enough to survive in a rough neighbourhood becomes fixated on a homeless kid sleeping on the street corner. When a boy is murdered and his body dumped nearby, the woman becomes convinced it’s the same child, chastising herself for not having helped him more. This excellent story exposes the latent guilt bubbling under the surface of our untroubled lives until it confronts us directly.

Enriquez is terrific at building tension, and this can be seen in ‘Adela’s House’, one of the creepiest, most atmospheric stories in the collection. Siblings Pablo and Carla befriend Adela, a confident, one-armed girl who is mocked by the other kids at school. After developing a taste for horror stories, Pablo and Adela set off to explore an abandoned, bricked-up house, taking Carla with them. What follows is deeply unnerving, tapping into our fears of the unknown and unresolved.

He needed to know what had happened in that house, what was inside. He wanted it with a fervor that was strange to see in an eleven-year-old boy. I don’t understand, I could never understand what the house did to him, how it drew him in like that. Because it drew him to it, first. And then he infected Adela. (p. 74)

Enriquez also excels in using imagery to unnerve both her protagonists and her readers. In ‘Spiderweb’, a woman sees a house engulfed in flames with no firefighters in sight. Ten minutes later, the blaze has disappeared leaving only a patch of scorched earth visible on the ground. How could the fire have been extinguished so quickly? Was it real or just an illusion? It’s hard to tell. The story is narrated by a woman trapped in a loveless marriage who, on visiting her family in the north, becomes increasingly convinced that she should dump her arrogant husband. Other unsettling incidents come to light as the trip unfolds, blurring the margins between the real and the imaginary. It’s another excellent, enigmatic story laced with notes of ambiguity, especially towards the end.

It’s harder to breathe in the humid north, up there so close to Brazil and Paraguay, the rushing river guarded by mosquito sentinels and a sky that can turn from limpid blue to stormy black in minutes. You start to struggle right away when you arrive, as if a brutal arm were wound around your waist and squeezing. (p. 94)

Imagery also plays a key role in ‘No Flesh over Our Bones’, in which a young woman becomes obsessed with a jawless skull she finds by a tree, naming it Vera, short for ‘Calavera’, the Spanish word for skull. Her boyfriend is freaked out by this, especially when she makes a kind of shrine out of the object, complete with candles, jewellery, and a wig. As her obsession with human bones deepens, we wonder where this fixation will end.

We all walk over bones in this city, it’s just a question of making holes deep enough to reach the buried dead. (p. 131)

This creepy, unsettling story is one of many that reflect the dark shadow of Argentina’s past atrocities; and, like others in this striking collection, it leaves the reader worrying about what might happen next.

In ‘Under the Black Water’, another atmospheric, vividly realised piece, a drowned boy appears to come back from the dead, emerging from a heavily polluted river which has been used as a dumping ground for everything from toxic waste to children murdered in the slums. Enriquez shines a light on police corruption here, weaving some coruscating social commentary into her picture of the neighbourhood. 

…that was what the cops did in the southern slums, much more than protect people: they killed teenagers, sometimes out of cruelty, other times because the kids refused to “work” for them—to steal for them or sell the drugs the police seized. Or for betraying them. The reasons for killing poor kids were many and despicable. (p. 157)

Most of Enriquez’s protagonists are women or girls, highlighting the horrors of life in Argentina from the female perspective, ranging from arrogant, unsympathetic partners and violence at the hands of men to mental illness and self-harm.

In ‘The Neighbor’s Courtyard’, one of the most unnerving pieces here, Paula and her partner, Miguel, move into a spacious new home in an up-and-coming part of the city. Paula is studying to complete her sociology degree after being fired from her previous role in charge of a children’s shelter – an isolated incident of negligence she has been trying to come to terms with ever since. Unsurprisingly, she is also recovering from depression – a situation not helped by Miguel, who has no time for specialists or anti-depressants.

When Paula decided to consult a psychiatrist, Miguel flew into a rage and told her not to even think of going to one of those charlatans. Why did she have to talk to someone else, he asked. Didn’t she trust him? He’d even said they probably needed to have a baby. (p. 136)

When Paula catches glimpses of a boy chained by the ankle in her neighbour’s courtyard, an opportunity for atonement beckons; but when she tries to show Miguel, the boy is nowhere to be seen. Is he real or imaginary? A manifestation of Paula’s traumas, from her guilt over the incident at the shelter to the destructive impact of Miguel’s behaviour? Again, it’s not entirely clear – initially at least. This brilliant story ends on a chilling note, neatly suggesting there is no easy escape from the horrors of life.

Other stories, particularly ‘End of Term’, in which a teenage girl hears a man’s voice telling her to self-harm, reinforce the belief that no woman is safe or immune from the effects of trauma.

The collection ends with the titular story, another blistering view from the female perspective. In this piece, women become compelled to participate in burnings, deliberating disfiguring themselves as a response to male violence. In the past, several women have been set alight by men, either in incidents of domestic abuse or in ritualistic burnings stretching back over several years. Now is the time for women to take control as a spate of ‘underground’ burnings sweeps across the city.

“Burnings are the work of men. They have always burned us. Now we are burning ourselves. But we’re not going to die; we’re going to flaunt our scars.” (p. 193)

In summary then, these brilliant, intoxicating stories explore the horrors of Argentine society, encompassing the military, police corruption and brutality, violence, especially towards women and adolescents, poverty, drug addiction, pollution, marginalisation, depression, misogyny and the ghosts of the murdered or disappeared. Elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery add texture to these tales, dialling up the tension and evocative atmosphere while enhancing the social criticism. I was knocked out by this collection, which I highly recommend, especially to readers of women in translation.   

Things We Lost in the Fire is published by Granta; my thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.

Notes from the Henhouse by Elspeth Barker

I had a lot of fun reading Notes from the Henhouse, a wonderfully witty and idiosyncratic collection of autobiographical essays by the Scottish writer Elspeth Barker, whose 1991 novel O Caledonia I so enjoyed a couple of years ago. During her time as a journalist, Barker wrote for various publications, from the Independent and the Observer to the LRB, covering a variety of subjects in her articles. Whether she’s waxing lyrical about childhood holidays, badly behaved pets, driving lessons or the trials of parenthood, Elspeth Barker is a delight to read. 

This collection, which comes with a beautiful introduction by Elspeth’s daughter, Raffaella, comprises four main sections covering Barker’s childhood in Scotland, her adult life with husband George and their children, widowhood following George’s death, and a new chapter that emerged late in life. The volume closes with an ‘Appendix’ containing six pieces – mostly fictional with loose connections to some of the key themes from Elspeth’s life. As with every collection of this type, I won’t be covering every essay – there are twenty-three in total! – rather, my aim is to give you a flavour of the book as a whole.

Barker writes lovingly of her childhood in the Scottish Highlands, which reads like a cross between Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle and a Barbara Comyns novel minus the violence. (The family home was a castle, complete with an immense staircase and a menagerie of animals.) In the first essay, Birds of Earth and Air, we learn of Barker’s pet jackdaw, Claws, whom she rescued and nursed back to health to become her devoted companion for eleven years. (Fans of O Caledonia will be familiar with Claws as he is faithfully reproduced in that book!)

Seaside holidays became an annual event for young Elspeth, each trip requiring a ‘migration of immense proportions’ as the family and assorted animals travelled to their ‘normal house’ by the sea. Train journeys proved especially eventful on these occasions, as Barker recalls in this piece.

All the animals, birds, fish and reptiles came, as well as we five children, Nanny, Nanny’s helper and Nanny’s sister. I have horrible memories of the horses escaping from the train and galloping down the railway line, and the scrabble of the tortoises’ claws against the floor of their box as the train swung over the perilous Tay Bridge. (p. 22)

Animals are a recurring theme in Barker’s life, from her beloved jackdaw, Claws, to her golden retriever, Rab, to her pet pig, Portia, a Christmas gift from one of her daughters. Portia, it seems, was rather fussy when it came to food, as evidenced here in this delightful passage.

Her tastes in food are demanding; not for her the bucket of pig slops, potato peel and vegetable trimmings. Salad is acceptable only if dressed with olive oil, carrots are too dull to contemplate, and you can keep your brassicas. But ratatouille and pumpkin pie provoke cries of ecstasy which I can only liken to sex noises on television. (pp. 151–152)

Portia also displayed a fondness for wine – the ‘Bulgarian vintage, as Barker calls it. On one occasion, the pig swiftly dismantled a rustic wine box, catching the elixir in her mouth as it squirted from the container. Barker clearly treated animals as if they were human, loving them unconditionally but always with respect. ‘Dogs are us in heart and soul, but better’, she writes at one point, illustrating one of the central values of her life.

In Hens I have Known, one of many amusing pieces here, Barker shares stories of her substantial brood of hens, who often made guerrilla raids on the kitchen, tables and picnic rugs.

At twenty-two, Elspeth met and fell in love with the poet George Barker, the former lover of Elizabeth Smart, author of the novella By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. By the early 1960s, Elspeth and George were living together in Norfolk, an unconventional, bohemian existence that Barker captures in some of the essays here. Memories of George Barker conveys a myriad of reflections, from his wild driving and enthusiasm for sport to his scrupulous work ethic. George didn’t drink at all on weekdays, preferring to let rip on Saturdays at the couple’s generous parties, often holding the room spellbound with poetry readings and songs.

Elspeth also writes lovingly of her children, particularly in Cherubim, where she shares some of their accidents over the years. (George fathered a total of fifteen children, five with Elspeth.) One of the boys super-glued his ears to his head to prevent them from sticking out, and another ate a bumper pack of firelighters – both incidents ended with hospital visits. Then, in another incident, one split his skull pogo dancing while dressed as an Egyptian mummy – presumably for a fancy dress party, although no further details are given!

I have spent a great deal of time hanging about hospitals, waiting for them to be mended. […] You are never safe again after you’ve had a baby, terror and loss lurk around every corner. (p.80)

Some of the collection’s best and most poignant pieces explore Elspeth’s grief following George’s death. These are beautiful, profound reflections imbued with a sense of loss.

It is a year now since my husband died. On the day he most hated, when the clocks turn back and our days pitch into cold and darkness. It seems like yesterday. Everything that has happened since is like an incident recorded in the chapter summary of an old history book, remote events impinging on someone else, seen through the wrong end of a telescope, the print almost too small to read. (p. 109)

Barker writes movingly about how when a husband or wife dies, the surviving partner also experiences a loss of self – the self that was ‘refracted and reflected by the other’, a shared past together that no one else can replace.

I find death absolutely unacceptable and I cannot come to terms with it. I can no more conceive of utter extinction, of never, than I can conceive of infinity. I cannot believe that all that passion, wit, eloquence and rage can be deleted by something so vulgar as the heart stopping. Where have they gone? (p. 111)

Moreover, Elspeth refuses to see herself as a widow; rather, she is George’s wife. The term ‘widow’ seems to imply that the husband’s death has nullified the marriage, which is clearly not the case. Other family members, such as sons, daughters, aunts and uncles, all retain their status when a relative dies, so why not the wife?

There are brighter moments too of course, especially once Elspeth emerges from the shadow of grief and experiences a renaissance when she marries again. Her second husband, an American, is a visionary gardener, coaxing the most shrunken flowers and wayward plants into exquisite displays.

He has made a vast, overbalancing buddleia into an airy cavern of blue delight, underplanted by cranesbill and campanula; butterflies fold their wings along the silvery boughs and its haunting raspberry fragrance hangs in the air. (p. 124)

Elsewhere in the collection there are pieces on the trials of leaning to drive, the capricious nature of jealousy, the joys (or not) of owning an Aga and the obsessive pursuit of the perfect dress.

What comes through so vividly in these essays is Barker’s exuberant zest for life. They read like a series of journal entries, revealing Barker to be the erudite, amusing, idiosyncratic woman she was to those who knew her. There’s a real sense of warmth and generosity in these pieces, the kind of intimacy one feels with a trusted friend. Highly recommended, especially for fans of O Caledonia – of which there are many, I suspect!  

Notes from the Henhouse is published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

Happy 10th Birthday to JacquiWine’s Journal!

I don’t usually mark my blog’s birthdays, but as JacquiWine’s Journal is 10 years old today, I couldn’t resist this post as a celebration of sorts! It seems such a long time since I first dipped my toe in the blogging world with some reviews of books longlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize in 2014. I was part of a Shadow Panel back then, and initially, the other shadowers kindly posted my reviews on their blogs as I didn’t have one of my own – not until I set up the Journal in May 2014, and the rest as they say is history.

Much has changed since I started blogging, but the bookish community on various sites and social media platforms continues to be a joy. I’ve had so many lovely conversations with readers over the years, so thank you for reading, engaging with and commenting on my reviews – I really do appreciate it.

To mark this milestone, I’ve selected a favourite book reviewed during each year of my blog, up to and including 2023. (My favourite reads of 2024 will have to wait till later this year!) Happy reading – as ever, you can read the full reviews by clicking on the appropriate links.

Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker (reviewed in 2014)

Cassandra, a graduate student at Berkeley, drives home to her family’s ranch for the wedding of her identical twin sister, Judith, where she seems all set to derail the proceedings. This is a brilliant novel featuring one of my favourite women in literature. Cassandra is intelligent, precise and at times witty, charming and loving. But she can also be manipulative, reckless, domineering, self-absorbed and cruel.  She’s a mass of contradictions and behaves abominably at times, and yet it’s very hard not to feel for her. If you like complex characters with plenty of light and shade, this is the novel for you!

Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor (reviewed in 2015)

Taylor’s 1971 novel follows a recently widowed elderly lady, Mrs Palfrey, as she moves into the Claremont Hotel, joining a group of residents in similar positions – each one is likely to remain there until a move to a nursing home or hospital can no longer be avoided. This beautiful, bittersweet, thought-provoking novel prompts readers to consider the emotional and physical challenges of old age: the need to participate in life, the importance of small acts of kindness and the desire to feel valued, to name just a few. Taylor’s observations of social situations are spot-on – there are some very funny moments here alongside the undoubted poignancy. Probably my favourite book by Elizabeth Taylor in a remarkably strong field!

In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (reviewed in 2016)

A superb noir which excels in the creation of atmosphere and mood. As a reader, you really feel as though you are walking the Los Angeles streets at night, moving through the fog with only the dim and distant city lights to guide you. Hughes’ focus is on the mindset of her central character, the washed-up ex-pilot Dix Steele, a deeply damaged and vulnerable man who finds himself tormented by events from his past. The storyline is too complex to summarise here, but Hughes maintains the suspense throughout. (This was a big hit with my book group, and we went on to read The Expendable Man, too!)

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (reviewed in 2017)

A beautiful and compelling portrayal of forbidden love, characterised by Wharton’s trademark ability to expose the underhand workings of a repressive world. Set within the upper echelons of New York society in the 1870s, the novel exposes a culture that seems so refined on the surface, and yet, once the protective veneer of respectability is stripped away, the reality is brutal, intolerant and hypocritical. There is a real sense of depth and subtlety in the characterisation here. A novel to read and revisit at different stages in life.

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore (reviewed in 2018)

This achingly sad novel is a tragic tale of grief, delusion and eternal loneliness set amidst the shabby surroundings of a tawdry boarding house in 1950s Belfast. Moore’s focus is Judith Hearne, a plain, unmarried woman in her early forties who finds herself shuttling from one dismal bedsit to another in an effort to find a suitable place to live. When Judith’s dreams of a hopeful future start to unravel, the true nature of her troubled inner life is revealed, characterised as it is by a shameful secret. The humiliation that follows is swift, unambiguous and utterly devastating, but to say any more would spoil the story. An outstanding, beautifully written novel – a heartbreaking paean to a life without love.

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell (reviewed in 2019)

I’m cheating a little by including this twelve-novel sequence exploring the political and cultural milieu of the English upper classes, but it’s too good to leave out. Impossible to summarise in just a few sentences, Powell’s masterpiece features one of literature’s finest creations, the odious Kenneth Widmerpool. It’s fascinating to follow Widmerpool, Jenkins and many other individuals over several years in the early-mid 20^th century, observing their development as they flit in and out of one another’s lives. The author’s ability to convey a clear picture of a character – their appearance, their disposition, even their way of moving around a room – is second to none. Quite simply one of the highlights of my reading life!

The Children of Dynmouth by William Trevor (reviewed in 2020)

Probably my favourite William Trevor to date, The Children of Dynmouth tells the story of a malevolent teenager and the havoc he wreaks on the residents of a sleepy seaside town in the mid-1970s. It’s an excellent book, veering between the darkly comic, the deeply tragic and the downright unnerving. What Trevor does so well here is to expose the darkness and sadness that lurks beneath the veneer of respectable society. The rhythms and preoccupations of small-town life are beautifully captured too, from the desolate views of the windswept promenade, to the sleepy matinees at the down-at-heel cinema, to the much-anticipated return of the travelling fair for the summer season. One for Muriel Spark fans, particularly those with a fondness for The Ballad of Peckham Rye.  

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff (reviewed in 2021)

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. While this premise seems simple on the surface, the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its magical charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something remarkable – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. This is a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for, a throwback perhaps to simpler, more modest times.

Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym (reviewed in 2022)

First published in 1977, at the height of Pym’s well-documented renaissance, Quartet in Autumn is a quietly poignant novel of loneliness, ageing and the passing of time – how sometimes we can feel left behind as the world changes around us. Now that I’ve read it twice, I think it might be my favourite Pym! The story follows four work colleagues in their sixties as they deal with retirement from their roles as clerical workers in a London office. While that might not sound terribly exciting as a premise, Pym brings some lovely touches of gentle humour to this bittersweet gem, showing us that life can still offer new possibilities in the autumn of our years.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes, tr. Ann Goldstein (reviewed in 2023)

A remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature, I adored this candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare her world with all its demands and preoccupations. For Valeria, the act of writing becomes a disclosure, an outlet for her frustrations with the family – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children who live at home. As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her; nevertheless, the very act of keeping the notebook leads to a gradual reawakening of her desires as she finds her voice, challenging the founding principles of her life with Michele.

If you’ve read any of these books, do let me know your thoughts!

This Train is For by Bernie McGill

Regular readers of this blog will be aware of my fondness for Irish writing from both sides of the border, the kind of quiet, understated fiction that William Trevor, Claire Keegan, Lucy Caldwell and Maeve Brennan have produced. Now I can add Derry’s Bernie McGill to my list of favourites, courtesy of this excellent collection of short stories, which scooped the Edge Hill Short Story Prize earlier this year.

Here we have stories infused with loss, where the past disrupts the present, foregrounding the fallout from longstanding trauma, disagreements and secrets we try to conceal. Interestingly, virtually all the standout stories here involve travel, reconnecting the protagonists with their families and troubling events from the past. Nevertheless, it’s the emotional journeys McGill’s characters undertake that give these pieces their humanity and depth. 

In the titular story, one of my favourites from the collection, an elderly man travels by train to see his estranged sister, who is nearing the end of her life. As the landscape slips by outside – a sequence of urban and rural scenes, each with a vivid sense of place – we learn the source of their longstanding estrangement, a bitter disagreement rooted in prejudice and political divides. 

This is what we do here: move forward while facing back, keeping a sharp eye on what has been, in case it gets a run on us, overtakes on our blind side. (p. 1)

A sibling reunion of sorts also features in ‘There is More Than One Word’ as a middle-aged woman, Jaynie, returns to Belfast to deal with the discovery of the remains of a man – possibly her brother, Paul, who went missing aged seventeen.

She has told the principal at her current school that her brother has died, that she needed leave to come home for the funeral. She hasn’t told him that between these two events is a gap of forty-seven years; that she isn’t certain there will be a burial; that she hopes there will, but that she couldn’t say for sure. It was too complicated to get into. (p. 24)

In this powerful story, Jaynie is haunted by the fear of the unknown, which manifests itself in a recurring, looping vision – the sense of a body being bundled into a car, a kidnapping or ambush, perhaps? Shadowy images that refuse to sharpen into focus before the sequence begins again.

Language plays a crucial part in both of these pieces. What did Paul do back then? What did he say (or not say) to antagonise his aggressors? What unspoken rules or codes were broken? With piercing insight, McGill suggests there can be no easy release from past traumas; instead, they continue to reverberate, taunting and unnerving us till the end of our days.

The fallout from traumatic incidents can be felt in several of the best stories here – not least in ‘A Fuss’, my favourite in the collection. As Rosa waits at Dublin’s Connolly Station, her thoughts turn to the days ahead and the time-honoured rituals the family will conduct to mark her father’s death.

They’ll sit side-by-side on borrowed chairs and sip tea out of china cups that haven’t seen daylight for years, not since her mother’s mother was waked. They’ll nibble at sandwiches that have arrived ready-made, packed into loaf bags, ferried in by neighbours; they’ll nod and shake hands and thank people for coming and agree that it’s a shock; they’ll search long-unseen faces for some clue to recognition and sit silent and bleary-eyed by the coffin during the lulls. (p. 98)

No one in Rosa’s family shows much emotion; they’re not the kind to make a fuss. But as this achingly sad story unfolds, we discover the devastating consequences of these character traits, how denial and suppression – largely to avoid a potential scandal – have scarred Rosa’s life indelibly. At first, Rosa is unsettled by a chance encounter with an eccentric lady at the station, an incident that ultimately highlights the joys of a more demonstrative family. Later in the journey, this chatty woman is openly embraced by her nephew on leaving the train; and as Rosa watches from her carriage, this simple reunion, full of warmth and affection, throws her painful, suppressed emotions into sharp relief.   

She [Rosa] doesn’t know if she’s crying for the little woman with the carpet bag heavy with condiments, or for her father who went out in the morning, not knowing he wouldn’t come back that day, or for her mother who will never get over this, no matter how attentive her relatives are, or for herself, for the lack of love in her life, because she hasn’t allowed it in. (p. 103)

It’s a brilliant story in the style of William Trevor, especially in its depiction of a life blighted for the sake of respectability.

Death also haunts ‘A Loss’, in which the tragic horrors of an elderly woman’s early life are revealed when her nephew clears out her home. A note, an old mattress and an anxious dog all come together to trigger long-buried childhood memories in this haunting, unsettling story of secrets and concealment.

I think of my aunt often, and wonder about her, and about the words that she wrote on that scrap of paper, words that must have been long in her head. And I marvel, not for the first time, at the secrets people keep, for themselves, and for others, at the sadnesses that betray them, and at the small quiet lives that they continue to live out until the end of their days. (p. 43)

Like many masters of the short-story form, McGill can see into her characters’ hearts and minds with insight and precision, laying bare their deepest preoccupations for the reader to see. Her stories are quiet, subtle and poetic, often conveying the hidden sadness of life. She bears witness to the small rituals and moments of solitude when everyday life must continue, despite the grief, suffering and loneliness we all experience from time to time.

Some of these stories seem deceptively simple on the surface, but as they unfurl, other, more poignant layers are revealed. ‘The House of the Quartered Door’ and ‘Glass Girl’ are excellent examples of this, both hinging on feelings of guilt and notes of ambiguity.

Despite the melancholy tone, there are moments of brightness here, too. ‘The Snagging List’ is rife with humour, unfolding through a series of text messages between two thirty-something women, close friends since childhood. As the messages fly back and forth, a note of poignancy is ultimately revealed, putting a different slant on each character’s situation. It’s a clever story showing a different string to McGill’s bow, a welcome addition to this accomplished collection.

Others are flecked with a different brand of humour – the wry or dry kind that works so well. In ‘The Cure for Too Much Feeling’, a menopausal woman develops a susceptibility to other people’s sorrows, which she tries to manage by avoiding likely triggers. News reports are a major hazard, not to mention bus journeys, open fires and pubs!

She tuned in to Classical FM, though she had to be careful around a violin solo. (p. 121)

The collection ends with an intriguing story, ‘In the Interests of Wonder’, in which a schoolteacher provides tuition for an illusionist’s daughter when a travelling fair comes to town. It’s another story where fear of outsiders or ‘others’ breeds suspicion, mistrust and misguided accusations, scuppering potential relationships for those concerned. An excellent finish to a lyrical collection I’m pleased to recommend.

This Train is For is published by No Alibis Press; personal copy.

Remembering Laughter by Wallace Stegner

Last week, I wrote about some of my recommended reads for Karen and Simon’s #1937Club, which has been running all this week. The event finishes today, giving me just enough time to post this review of Wallace Stegner’s 1937 novelette Remembering Laughter before the Club closes its doors!

I’ve written about Stegner before, with this review of his 1987 novel Crossing to Safety, back in the early days of the blog. While Crossing to Safety was Stegner’s final novel, Remembering Laughter was his first – a brief, beautifully written story of marital infidelity, intense bitterness and the refusal to forgive. All the early signs of Stegner’s skills are here, from his attention to characterisation and ability to craft a compelling story to his lyrical prose style and a clear sense of place. It’s a quiet, heartbreaking story, beautifully told.

Central to the novelette are two sisters, twenty-nine-year-old Margaret Stuart and her younger sister, Elspeth. Hailing from Scotland, Margaret is married to a prosperous, fun-loving farmer, Alec, who owns several farms in his native Iowa. While Margaret is a respectable woman with standards to maintain, the Stuarts have a comfortable life together, hosting occasional parties for their friends and acquaintances. The only fly in the ointment is Alec’s fondness for drink, a habit Margeret dislikes as she tries to look away.

When the sisters’ father dies, Elspeth travels from Scotland to live with Margaret and Alec, leaving her role as a teacher to begin a new life on the farm. At twenty-two, Elspeth – who has her whole future to look forward to – is captivated by her new surroundings and the beauty of the natural world. Alec, too, is captivated by Elspeth, responding to her youthful vigour and interest in the farm. In turn, Elspeth is delighted by her brother-in-law’s antics, from his tall tales and stories to his frequent horsing around.

As summer turns to autumn, the inevitable happens – friendliness gives way to intimacy and passion between Alec and Elspeth, two sensations sorely lacking from Alec’s marriage to Margaret. While Elspeth finds her trysts with Alec pleasurable and exciting, she is not without remorse. Consequently, her transgressions are tinged with a sense of guilt.

…stumbling over the rough clods beside Alec she [Elspeth] studied him furtively until he turned and smiled down at her, a wavering smile that made his mouth seem suddenly weak. She bent her eyes to the ground again, ashamed of him and of herself, choking back the frantic thought of Margaret and pushing away with numb defensive caution any visions of the future. (p. 83)

One evening, the second inevitability happens. Margaret catches Alec and Elspeth together in a comprising position, shattering her world in an instant as the pair’s intentions are clear. 

Through the long sleepless night she [Margaret] lay revolving the bitter cycle from passionate protest to puritan judgement, fumbling for a way out, for a pattern of action, trying to imagine what the others would do, furiously crying that it didn’t matter what they did, she could never forgive them. (p. 94–95)

From this moment onwards, everything in the house changes. The two women are no longer sisters to one another, so while Margaret adopts a cold, stern attitude born out of bitterness, Elspeth is reduced to timidness, wracked with guilt over her shameful actions.

On those days, Margaret would be grimmer than usual, and Elspeth, creeping timidly about the house with dustpan and broom, would see her sitting motionless in the hard mahogany rocker in the darkened parlor, stiff, unmoving, her face showing bonily and her eyes cavernous in the wintry gloom… (p. 101)

Moreover, Alec and Margaret are no longer husband and wife, avoiding contact with one another where possible. In the presence of others, Margaret maintains the semblance of a normal life, largely for the sake of appearances. But inside, she is devastated, unable to forgive Elspeth and Alec for their betrayals – ‘neither her jealousy nor her religion would allow that’.

In short, Margaret condemns Elspeth to a life of loveless, unforgiving repression, a bleak, hollow existence as the years stretch out ahead of them. All traces of Elspeth’s former gaiety disappear, lost to the consequences of her terrible transgressions. Alec, too, is condemned for his actions, to the point where Margaret actively seeks additional reasons to penalise him out of spite.

She was waiting for Alec with some need to know that he had been drinking again, some positive necessity to find him guilty of more and more and yet more crimes against her and God. In his further damnation was the justification of her vindictiveness… (p. 102)

Meanwhile, the house is steeped in a frigid atmosphere devoid of love – a place where laughter is but a memory, a cruel reminder of a distant, irretrievable past.

I don’t want to reveal how this excellent novelette plays out; that would spoil things, I think. Nevertheless, this simple, deeply affecting story is beautifully expressed, showing all the early hallmarks of Stegner’s elegant, lyrical prose. The turning of the seasons and the rhythms of farm life are vividly conveyed, giving the narrative a gorgeous sense of place.

The perfect weather of Indian Summer lengthened and lingered, warm sunny days were followed by brisk nights with Halloween a presentiment in the air. In the afternoons the smoke of straw fires was blue on the horizon, and the lawn before the house was thick with crisp leaves. (p. 78)

The characterisation is excellent, too – poignant, well developed and highly believable, despite the tragic nature of the scenario Stegner has created here. I couldn’t help but think of the Derdon stories from Maeve Brennan’s The Springs of Affection as I read this book, another insightful depiction of a marriage destroyed by an emotional gulf shrouded in bitterness, albeit for very different reasons.

In an afterword to this edition, Stegner’s wife, Mary, reveals that Remembering Laughter was inspired by the story of her ‘two gaunt aunts’ who lived together in western Iowa, partly explaining why the tale feels so truthful. In some respects, the story highlights how bitterness and an inability to forgive others for their transgressions can be more corrosive than the misdemeanours themselves, especially when pushed to the extreme. In summary, a salutary tale with hints of Edith Wharton’s Summer and Ethan Frome – highly recommended as an introduction to Wallace Stegner’s work.

(My edition of Remembering Laughter was published by Penguin Books; personal copy.)

The Garrick Year by Margaret Drabble

First published in 1964, The Garrick Year was Margaret Drabble’s second novel, nicely placed between her debut A Summer Bird-Cage (which I loved) and The Millstone (which I have in my TBR). It’s a brilliant, sharply observed book which explores how women’s lives in this era were frequently dictated by the demands of marriage and motherhood, irrespective of any personal ambitions and desires these individuals may have held. We are firmly in the early ‘60s here, when young women were beginning to question these traditional societal expectations while still feeling the pressure to conform.

Drabble’s heroine and narrator is Emma Evans, a spiky, city-loving mother and former model in her mid-twenties. Emma has been married to David, a self-centred young actor, for three years, and they have two children together – Flora, still a toddler, and baby Joe. From the outset, the couple’s relationship has been characterised by ‘provocation and bargaining for domination’, with barbed, wryly amusing exchanges being the order of the day.

Just as Emma is contemplating a return to work in a pioneering, part-time role as TV newsreader – a job she would dearly love to do – David announces a new opportunity of his own. The respected theatre director Wyndham Farrar has approached him to appear in a season of plays at Hereford’s Garrick Theatre. Naturally, David wishes to accept, expecting Emma to put her needs and ambitions aside in favour of his own.

I could hardly believe that marriage was going to deprive me of this too. It had already deprived me of so many things which I had childishly overvalued: my independence, my income, my twenty-two inch waist, my sleep, most of my friends who had deserted on account of David’s insults, a whole string of finite things, and many more indefinite attributes like hope and expectation. (p. 10)

So, while David prattles on about the charms of country living – green fields, cows, peace and quiet, etc. – Emma foresees a year of boredom, frustration and domesticity ahead. She will be lost out there in the wilds – isolated and insignificant.  

Drabble is great on the nitty-gritty of daily life, capturing just how patronising a man can be to his wife or partner. So much of this dialogue rings true to me – especially the last line, which is a killer.

[David:] ‘You can get another job. Someone like you can get any number of jobs.’

[Emma:] ‘In Hereford?’

‘Well, I’m sure there’s something you could find to do there.’

‘You think so? Perhaps I could apply to be an usherette at your theatre, you mean?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, my love. There must be something you can do.’

‘I’m sure, on the contrary,’ I said, ‘that there would be simply, literally nothing that I could do.’

‘You could look after the children.’ (p. 16)

So, reluctant to split up the family while her husband pursues his ambitions, Emma has little option but to up sticks and move to Hereford for the season, leaving her broadcasting opportunity behind. Naturally, she expresses her frustration over the situation, but it’s of little use – after all, the man’s career must come first.

While David would naturally gravitate towards a modern house for comfort and convenience, Emma shuns anything new, opting instead for an older, characterful property despite its impractical nature. It’s a choice that illustrates their different personalities, partly explaining why they match relatively well as a couple irrespective of their bickering!

With David busy in rehearsals all day, Emma sees very little of him, especially when his work spills into the evenings. Moreover, everyone that Emma meets in Hereford assumes she must be an actress or something to do with the theatre. Otherwise, why else would she be there?

Consequently, she finds herself drawn into a dalliance with the director, Wyndham Farrar, who is well into his forties. In truth, only the ‘dark and wanting part’ of Emma responds to Wyndham’s advances, hijacking the rest of her to submit to its whims. Deep down, she knows the affair is ill-judged, but somehow, she cannot stop herself from succumbing, despite recognising it as a sign of her ‘own inadequacy and inability to grow’. 

There would have been no point in saying no, and yet I felt that I had involved myself in disaster by saying yes. It was not merely that our appointment had a distinct flavour of the clandestine, nor that Wyndham Farrar himself seemed to be a dangerous undertaking, though both these factors were involved. It was more that the way I had said yes, the helpless, rash, needing way I had been unable to refuse, laid me open to all sorts of conjectures about myself and my position. (p. 90)

In short, the responsibilities of marriage and motherhood, of constantly caring for two small children, have subsumed Emma’s own personal ambitions. All her social, cerebral and emotional needs have been suppressed – hence Emma’s craving for recognition and self-validation, which Wyndham taps into with his advances, albeit superficially.

I don’t want to reveal too much about how this story plays out, other than to say that Emma comes to a realisation. She is neither the self-pitying type nor the romantic, self-indulgent type who would feel satisfied by an affair with Wyndham. Rather, she is not cut out for it at all.

While there are several novels about the limitations of marriage, motherhood and the desire to feel valued, the sharpness of Drabble’s writing gives The Garrick Year an edge. The novel is laced with wry, pointed humour – partly from Emma’s lively narrative voice, which feels spiky and true. 

I stared hard at people to stop them staring at me: this is one of my amusements. (p. 46)

Drabble’s flair for a cutting observation also comes through in her descriptions of the supporting characters – not least with Sophy, the young, talkative actress fresh out of drama school, who catches David’s eye. She is glossy, well-dressed and a little dim – perfect fodder for the local press and their eager photographers.

She was clearly in her element: she was made, one could tell, for that gluttonous negative machine. (p. 47)

The respected actress, Natalie Winter – a woman with no dress sense whatsoever – also falls under Emma’s penetrating gaze. 

She was wearing a cocktail dress in emerald green, a colour better left to emeralds, with a black satin evening bag and white satin shoes (p. 46)

Drabble is also terrific on the world of reparatory theatre and the people within it – an environment she knew well through her marriage to the classically trained actor Clive Swift.

I like watching rehearsals: they are far more interesting than performances. One can see in a rehearsal every detail of what has preceded: who loves whom, who is nervous, who is confident, who is vain, who has been bullied by the director, who is admired by the rest of the cast, who is on the verge of tearful disaster. (p. 83)

The novel’s 1960s setting – a time of pivotal social change – also makes it feel distinctive. Even though I’ve yet to read The Pumpkin Eater, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Penelope Mortimer’s brilliant, incisive short stories, Saturday Lunch with the Brownings, as I was reading this book.

So, in summary then, The Garrick Year is another excellent novel by Margaret Drabble – a perceptive exploration of the frustrations of putting aside one’s own career and life ambitions for the sake of one’s partner. It’s also very insightful on the minutiae of daily life for a young mother with small children, how you can never take your eyes off a toddler for more than a couple of seconds when out and about. Very highly recommended, especially for readers interested in women’s lives in the mid-20^th century.

The #1937Club – some reading recommendations for next week

It’s early April, so it must be almost time for another of Karen and Simon’s ‘Club’ weeks! On Monday 15^th, the #1937Club will begin – a week-long celebration of books first published in 1937. These ‘Club’ events are always great fun, and I’m looking forward to seeing all the various tweets, reviews and recommendations flying around the web.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, given my fondness for mid-20^th-century lit, I’ve reviewed a few 1937 books over the years. So, if you’re thinking of taking part in the Club, here are my recommendations.

La Femme de Gilles by Madeleine Bourdouxhe (tr. Faith Evans)

Probably my favourite of the five novels featured here, although all have something interesting to offer. Elisa is devastated when she realises that her husband, Gilles, has become entangled with her attractive younger sister, Victorine. Beautifully written in a sensual, intimate style, La Femme de Gilles is a very compelling novella with a powerful ending. The writing is spare but very emotive – Bourdouxhe holds the reader close to Elisa’s point of view giving us near-complete access to her inner thoughts and feelings. A timeless story of desire, selfless love, and the pain these things can bring. Highly recommended, particularly for fans of writers such as Simenon, Anita Brookner and Jean Rhys.

These Names Make Clues by E. C. R. Lorac

An intriguing mystery by one of my favourite women writers from the Golden Age of crime fiction, now back in print as a British Library Crime Classic. A treasure hunt party in a well-to-do London house, various literary pseudonyms, a sudden blackout and two dead bodies all come together to form a complex puzzle for Chief Inspector Macdonald to solve. As the story unfolds, the action shifts from London to the Berkshire countryside, widening the novel’s scope. Fans of cryptic crosswords and anagrams will likely enjoy this one, especially given the relevance of the novel’s title.

After Midnight by Irmgard Keun (tr. Anthea Bell)

This book was published while Keun was living in exile in Europe after leaving Germany in 1936. Deceptively straightforward and engaging on the surface, the novel is actually a very subtle and insightful critique of the Nazi regime, written by an author who had experienced the challenges of navigating the system first-hand. It’s an excellent book, drawing the reader in from its striking opening line.

You can open an envelope and take out something which bites or stings, though it isn’t a living creature.

After Midnight also provides a genuine insight into a country on the brink of self-destruction. Keun is particularly illuminating on how easily a society can shift such that the unimaginable becomes a reality as a new world order is established.

Mona Lisa by Alexander Lernet-Holenia (tr. Ignat Avsey)

Some of you may be familiar with Alexander Lernet-Holenia’s intriguing novella I Was Jack Mortimer, a fast-moving, offbeat crime story set in 1930s Vienna. Nevertheless, there’s more to this author than that mystery suggests. Mona Lisa is a charming tale about love, life, and the search for beauty, told with much verve and wit. I thoroughly enjoyed this story of the captivating power of art and how we project our own emotions and feelings onto the images we see before us. Highly recommended, especially if this description appeals.

Journey by Moonlight by Antal Szerb (tr. Len Rix)

This marvellous novel was a pre-blog read for me, so I haven’t written about it before. Nevertheless, several other reviewers have, so do check out their reviews – you can find Max’s and Karen’s posts by clicking on the links. When I think of this novel, it’s the nostalgic, dreamlike atmosphere that comes to mind. There’s a lot more to Journey by Moonlight than that, of course, but the evocative mood is the first thing I recall. Various train journeys across Italy also feature prominently. I’d really like to reread this at some point, even if it doesn’t happen next week!

So there we are, a few recommendations for next week’s #1937Club! Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them. Or maybe you have plans of your own for the week – if so, feel free to mention them here.

Her Side of the Story by Alba de Céspedes (tr. Jill Foulston)

Last year, the Italian-Cuban writer Alba de Céspedes secured a spot in my books-of-year with Forbidden Notebook – a candid, exquisitely written novel in which a middle-aged woman in post-war Rome finds a release from marriage and motherhood by keeping a secret journal. This year, she looks set to repeat this feat with her immersive, richly-textured 1949 novel Her Side of the Story – at once a blistering portrayal of the constraints, frustrations and realities of life for women trapped in a patriarchal society and a vivid coming-of-age story giving voice to the female experience in 1940s Italy.

The granddaughter of the first president of Cuba, de Céspedes was born and raised in Rome, and her first marriage, at the age of fifteen, ended in divorce after just five years. While working as a journalist in the 1930s, she was politically active, lending her support to anti-fascist activities for which she was imprisoned twice. I mention these things because they are relevant to Her Side of the Story, which follows its central protagonist, Alessandra, from her adolescence in Rome to early adulthood, taking in the rise of fascism in Italy, the impact of WW2 and anti-fascist activities. These acts of resistance are spearheaded by Alessandra’s great love, Francesco, a university lecturer and prominent member of the anti-fascist movement. It’s a fascinating story, echoing Natalia Ginzburg’s marvellous novel All Our Yesterdays in style and themes.

Her Side comes with an interesting framing device, but this only becomes fully apparent as the narrative draws to a close. Nevertheless, it’s clear from the outset that Alessandra – who narrates the novel – is reflecting on her life thus far, charting her journey to date. As the narrative unfolds, we see how Alessandra’s early years are marked by the death of her older brother, Alessandro, who drowned at the age of three, robbing their parents of a much-feted child. While Alessandra can never live up to the unfulfilled promise of her dead brother, she must also contend with an unsettling darkness within her, almost as if Alessandro’s spirit is driving her blackest thoughts.

De Céspedes excels at portraying the crushing realities of life for Italian women in the late 1930s/early ‘40s, offering us a coruscating critique of this oppressive, patriarchal society.

They [the women] would wait, preparing their trousseau, and trusting in the hope of love and happiness. Instead, they found life draining–-the kitchen, the house, the swelling and flattening of their bodies as they brought children into the world. Gradually, beneath an appearance of resignation, the women began to feel angry and resentful about the trap they’d been lured into. (p. 22)

The suffering that life inflicts on the female body is a prominent theme here, touching on the shock of adolescence, the repeated violations of sex, the ruptures from childbirth and the indignities of old age.

While Alessandra’s father – a simple man from country peasant stock – is spiteful, crude and controlling, her mother, Eleanora, is more emotionally attuned to the world around her. In short, she is a compassionate, graceful woman with an artistic flair, and naturally Alessandra adores her.

Having sidelined any ambitions of playing the piano professionally, Elenora is now reduced to tutoring children alongside her designated roles as wife and mother. Nevertheless, like many women in her apartment block, she finds herself drawn to another man – an artistic soulmate by the name of Hervey, whom she meets while teaching piano to a wealthy family in the city. While other Roman women willingly take lovers as a release from domestic oppression, Eleanora is more romantic, falling for Hervey and the values he embodies.  

We finally understood the reason for the silence that fell over the deserted courtyard every afternoon. Released from their thankless tasks and making a brave stand against the dull life they had to live, the women fled the dark rooms, the gray kitchens, the courtyard that, as darkness fell, awaited the inevitable death of another day of pointless youth. The old women, bent over their sewing, stayed behind like pillars, guarding those neat, silent houses. They didn’t betray the young women: rather, they helped them, as if they were members of the same congregation. They were bound by a silent and long-standing scorn for men’s lives, for their cruel and selfish ways, in a repressed bitterness that was handed down from one generation to the next. (p. 21)

This initial section of the novel ends in tragedy – a tragedy for which Alessandra feels partly responsible. Sadly, her father supports this view, making their home life untenable. Consequently, Alessandra is packed off to her father’s sizeable family in rural Abruzzo, where she finds solace and beauty in the natural world while fighting fiercely to continue her studies. Alessandra’s powerful grandmother, Nonna, initially opposes her granddaughter’s aspirations, envisaging a life of marriage, motherhood and domesticity instead. However, after some lobbying from Alessandra’s uncle, Nonna ultimately relents, demonstrating an understanding of her granddaughter’s determination, even if she doesn’t agree with its direction.

The rhythms of this simple, rural life are vividly evoked as the women immerse themselves in cooking, cleaning, childrearing and sewing while the men see to their farms. Land ownership is a sign of status here, but it’s not an ambition Alessandra recognises or aspires to. In short, she wishes to break the cycle of oppression, escaping the traditional expectations of marriage and motherhood, a life solely dedicated to the needs and whims of men. Rather, she sees her future as being entwined with her mother’s (and maternal grandmother’s) artistic pursuits. Having observed Eleanora’s love for Hervey, Alessandra believes passionately in the existence of romantic love, but it’s a myth or fallacy that ultimately dictates her fate…

When Alessandra rejects the prospect of marriage from a local farmer – a transgression compounded by her brutal strangling of a prized rooster – she is dispatched back to Rome to care for her father. This move coincides with the encroachment of war, heightening the sense of anxiety in this tense, febrile city.

The real danger of war, in fact, seemed to lie precisely in the fear and inertia that, like a dense fog, gradually and inexorably overtook us, robbing us of our faith in the future. (p. 235)

Even in the depths of Abruzzo, Mussolini – repeatedly referred to as ‘the arrogant voice on the radio’ – proves an ominous presence in people’s lives, infiltrating their world as the country prepares for war.

Back in Rome, Alessandra meets the great love of her life – the charismatic writer and academic Francesco Minelli, an active member of the anti-Fascist resistance – through a mutual friend. Francesco is everything Alessandra has been looking for, and she falls deeply in love with him, blissfully unaware of his political affiliations, initially at least. Marriage soon follows, but the honeymoon period is short-lived. With her romantic ideals and aspirations, Alessandra hopes Francesco will be as emotionally invested in their marriage as she is. But her husband’s focus lies elsewhere, dictated by the demands of his anti-fascist campaign, leaving little time for Alessandra’s dreams and desires. Even her perilous efforts to support the resistance – transporting bombs amidst the vegetables in her bicycle basket while Francesco is in jail – fail to win his praise.

At twenty-one and a year into her marriage, Alessandra is left feeling disillusioned and unappreciated. In truth, she wishes to free herself of her love for Francesco but is unable to achieve this. Meanwhile, Francesco is striving for freedom of another sort – ideological or political freedom from the heinous fascist regime.

…I would have to accept my marriage, the loneliness it brought with it, its decline, the end of the romantic plan through which we had invented ourselves. I had to have the courage to live behind the wall [of Francesco’s shoulders in bed at night], as Claudio lived behind barbed wire. But I didn’t have that sort of courage, just as Francesco didn’t have the courage to accept the annihilation of his own moral freedom. (p. 408)

This intimate portrayal of Alessandra’s inner life gives the novel its undeniable power. Every thought, incident or emotion is vividly conveyed, offering readers a rich insight into Alessandra’s feelings as she navigates the challenges life throws at her. The settings too are brilliantly evoked, from the urban poverty of wartime Rome to the wildness and natural beauty of the countryside in Abruzzo.  

The wide valley was embraced by a chain of hills and mountains, which were tinted pink or yellow depending on the position of the sun in the sky. And in the light of the sun they looked benevolent and welcoming. But other miserable hamlets emerged on the mountainside like mushrooms, or warts, cut off by creeks and valleys, their bell towers rising from the center like a howl (p. 169)

De Céspedes also finds time for a little humour, particularly in her wryly amusing descriptions of rural life. 

Nonna was alone in the dining room, apparently sleeping. Her eyes were closed, her hands on the armrests, and she was resting upright, like some majestic horse. (p. 152)

So, in summary then, another thoroughly immersive rediscovered gem of Italian literature from this powerful feminist voice. It’s also a fascinating insight into women’s lives in Italian society during the rise of fascism. One of the most compelling aspects of Her Side is just how candid it feels, especially for a novel first published in 1949. De Céspedes artfully illustrates how the cumulative impact of multiple humiliations and frustrations can suddenly erupt, driving the most sensitive of individuals to desperation – the passing down of trauma through the generations is also significant here. Interestingly, the novel contains a noticeable undercurrent of darkness throughout, which might explain why Elena Ferrante holds de Céspedes – and Her Side of the Story – in such high esteem. Fans of Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels will find much to enjoy here. This freshly translated version, beautifully produced by Pushkin Press, comes with a thoughtful afterword by Ferrante herself, shedding further light on the significance of certain scenes.

(My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.)

Neighbors and Other Stories by Diane Oliver

The black American writer Diane Oliver had a promising career ahead of her when she died in a motorcycle accident in 1966 at the age of twenty-two. A graduate student at the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop, Oliver had published four short stories during her lifetime, with another two following posthumously. These six stories and eight previously unpublished pieces make up Neighbors and Other Stories, a remarkably striking collection recently issued as part of the uber-reliable Faber Editions series.

Born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, Diane Oliver was writing at a time when racial segregation in America was being challenged through the civil rights movement, but longstanding prejudices remained entrenched. Much of her work portrays life for black women – frequently young black women – in 1960s America, complete with the abuse and microaggressions that characterised these people’s days. Nevertheless, despite the undeniably powerful nature of these themes, Oliver’s fiction is subtle, taking in a range of experiences that feel authentic and true. Here we see racial discrimination, both explicit and less overt, social exclusion, abandonment, exoticisation, activism, interracial relationships and much, much more, giving a rich insight into black lives in this crucial period of history.

Several stories depict the fear and anxiety present within the black community at the time. In the titular piece – one of my favourites in the collection – Oliver portrays a family’s conflicted emotions the night before the youngest son is due to start at a new school. But what makes this situation so unusual is that Tommy will be the first black child to attend a previously all-white facility. Unsurprisingly, opinions within the community are divided, with strong views being expressed on both sides. In fact, the family has already received threatening letters and abuse, and as the night unfolds, their home comes under attack.

No one heard her speak, and no one came over to see if they could help; she knew why and did not really blame them. They were afraid their house could be next. (p. 20)

Central to the story is the family’s moral dilemma. Should they send young Tommy to the newly integrated school, knowing that he will be bullied and ostracised for months, or do they relent and put his emotional well-being first? Someone must be the first for progress to be made, but does it have to be Tommy?

This theme is developed further in The Closet on the Top Floor, when Winifred – who is fed up of being ‘the Experiment’ – is sent by her civil rights activist father to a prestigious girls’ college where all the other pupils are white. Oliver is adept at illustrating the different forms of racial prejudice at play here, from social exclusion (in the first passage below) to more explicit slurs (in the second). For clarification, Norma is Winifred’s roommate, while Ellen is Norma’s friend.     

Everybody was in a sorority but Winifred. She didn’t mind. Somehow she had become used to not being invited and when she received an invitation to a sorority tea—by mistake, of course—she very casually threw the envelope into the wastepaper basket. (p. 31)

“Norma?” Ellen asked, her voice sounded puzzled. “Do you think all of them are like this, or just her?”

“I don’t know,” Norma answered. “Our maid takes food, but she never really tries to hide anything.” (p. 36)

As the weeks pass, Winifred withdraws from college society, hibernating in her room and stockpiling food before Norma moves out. This sad, unsettling story highlights the devastating impact of racism – both casual and more deliberate – on a young woman’s mental health.

The detrimental effect on health – both physical and mental – is a recurring theme in several of these stories, perhaps most overtly in Health Service, where an impoverished woman, Libby, and her four children must walk for hours to see a doctor. White authority figures, such as nurses, managers, employers and police officers, are particularly aggressive in their treatment of black women, as illustrated in the following scene. In short, the clinic nurse shows no appreciation of Libby’s personal circumstances and the challenges of caring for young kids.  

“Your kid’s in here raising sand,” the nurse said. “We ask you people not to deposit your children in the waiting room. When only one’s sick, why don’t you leave the rest at home?” (p. 71)

After a tiring journey and a long, frustrating wait (the children are tired and fidgety), Libby is told to come back another day as the doctors will be finishing early. But Libby will be working the rest of the week, and with no husband on the scene, it’ll be hard for her to return.

These heavy-handed authoritarian attitudes also come into play in Before Twilight, when Jenny and her three friends enter a whites-only tea room determined to be served. It’s one of several stories where Oliver subtly drops hints about her characters’ backstories, fleshing out the broader context in coolly nuanced ways.

Jenny looked down at her mother’s hands, seeing the knuckles swollen in the middle of each finger. She knew what she was thinking about. The father of one of her friends had found the charred body last spring. Since then she guessed everybody had just stopped talking about voting. (p. 43)

Jenny’s mother doesn’t want her girl getting mixed up in any trouble, fearful of what might happen, but Jenny is swayed by her friend Hank, a civil rights activist intent on making a stand. A thoroughly unsettling story laced with a sense of dread.

When the Apples are Ripe also features a character eager to take an active role in the civil rights movement, dividing opinion within his family. In contrast to some of these other pieces here, this is a hopeful, touching story with an unexpected ending.

In Mint Juleps Not Served Here, Oliver shows us just how far one family, the Macks, will go to protect their child from bullying and racial abuse.

The town with all of the pale faces that ruined her baby frightened and angered her. But she and Mr Mack knew better than to become angry in their town. (p. 79)

However, their off-the-grid existence in the depths of a large forest is threatened when an inquisitive young social worker comes looking for their house. This darkly unnerving story has the power to shock…

“No Brown Sugar in Anybody’s Milk” is a fascinating story that starts in familiar territory – a black maid being bossed about by her privileged white employer – only to end up somewhere different with a rug-pull at the end.

I’d also like to mention four stories as important illustrations of Oliver’s breadth. In Banago Kalt, three American friends from college, Millie, Rita and Karen, stay with a Swiss family for the summer as part of an educational trip. While Rita and Karen (both white) are warmly welcomed, it is Millie (black) who generates the most curiosity amongst the locals. Everyone wants a piece of Millie, and she is exoticised wherever she goes. While all this attention is well-intentioned, it doesn’t always feel that way for Millie, who often finds it funny and unnerving. There are shades of Nella Larsen’s excellent novella 1928 Quicksand here, highlighting the damaging fetishisation of black culture and individuals – an issue that remains in some segments of society today.

In The Visitor, Oliver focuses on the tensions between Alice, a well-to-do stepmother of high social standing, and her disdainful stepdaughter, Katie, when the latter comes to stay. This excellent story explores class conflicts, differences in aspirations, and the damaging effects of making assumptions about someone based on one’s own views.

Alice thought she detected a slight smirk on her face. The child was unnerving, she reminded her of a wizened old lady in a child’s body. (p. 118)

Spiders Cry Without Tears – one of the standout pieces here – explores an interracial relationship from a white woman’s perspective. When Meg, a divorced white woman with a teenage son, starts seeing a black doctor named Walt, she finds herself excluded from social events, even when she tries to keep the relationship under wraps. This beautifully developed story is far more layered than this brief description suggests.

While short story collections can often be mixed, all of Oliver’s stories hits their marks for me, which is quite a feat. Even the experimental Frozen Voices – a startling tale of the messy, entangled lives of four young friends – is wonderfully raw and evocative. It’s a dazzling example of Oliver’s potential as a writer.

Come on, Jenny, wanna dance? Soft as April rain, smooth as a quiet mountain lake, as mysterious as an ocean, as dangerous as white water in deep rivers, she drops from a white cloud and falls to a green, a raindrop on a leaf. Dark, bloody drops of beer and wafer chips of flesh, a communion of human love. (p. 218)

So, to summarise then, these excellent stories skilfully portray various aspects of life for the black community in 1960s America, just as the Civil Rights movement was gaining momentum. There is a richness of experience here, taking in a wide range of scenarios and moral questions, many of which remain relevant today. Oliver’s style – strong on the grinding horrors and microaggressions of daily life – has drawn comparisons with Shirley Jackson, Nella Larsen and Toni Morrison, highlighting her literary promise and skills. It’s always tragic when a talented writer dies young, but it seems especially cruel in this instance. Bravo to Faber for publishing this terrific collection, which I strongly urge you to read.

(My thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.)

Barbara Comyns: A Savage Innocence by Avril Horner

Barbara Comyns is something of a marvel – a highly imaginative writer with an utterly unique voice. Her novels have a strange, somewhat off-kilter feel, frequently blending surreal imagery and touches of dark, deadpan humour with the harsh realities of life. Ever alert to the world’s horrors and disappointments, she understands the compromises a woman may need to make to survive. Nevertheless, her inspired use of deadpan humour prevents her novels from becoming too bleak. This wry sense of the absurd is one of Comyns’ trademarks, cleverly tempering the darkness with a captivating lightness of touch.

While many of us have long enjoyed Comyns’ unique blend of childlike innocence and macabre savagery – a combination that gives this fascinating book its title – she remains underappreciated today. Over the past seventy years, Comyns has repeatedly come in and out of fashion, her stock rising and falling on multiple occasions. Nevertheless, Avril Horner’s superb new biography, A Savage Innocence, looks set to cement Comyns’ position as one of the most original and talented writers of the 20^th century, ushering in the more widespread recognition she so richly deserves.

Drawing on a wealth of research, covering family memories, unpublished letters, diary entries and commentaries on Comyns’ work, Horner has produced a thorough (and thoroughly absorbing) insight into this writer’s tumultuous life, highlighting the myriad of connections between fact and fiction. Those familiar with the novels will recognise many of the incidents featured here, particularly as it’s long been acknowledged that Comyns drew on many of her own experiences as inspiration for her work. Nevertheless, Horner is careful to draw parallels between Comyns’ life and the novels only where a connection has been verified by other sources – a scrupulous approach that deserves to be applauded. What emerges is a vivid portrait of a turbulent life, oscillating between anxious periods of financial hardship and happier, more stable times, especially later in life.

Barbara was forty when her first book, the largely autobiographical Sisters by a River, was published – a work that started life as stories relayed to her children to amuse them. Nevertheless, Barbara’s early life proved particularly fraught, characterised by complex, emotionally draining relationships and various hardships – all of which are captured in the initial chapters of Horner’s book.

Born into an upper-middle-class Warwickshire family in 1907, Barbara spent a semi-feral childhood running wild with her five siblings and their various pets. Her father – a resourceful, self-made man named Albert Bayley – drank heavily and was prone to violent outbursts, while her deaf mother, Margaret, proved emotionally remote.

On one occasion, wearing a pale suit, he [Albert] was sitting on a bus next to a man who had a joint of meat in a box on his lap. Blood began to leak out of the box on to Albert’s trousers; he was so furious that he frogmarched the man off the bus, shouting abuse as he did so. (p. 13)

While brother Dennis was sent to boarding school, Barbara and her sisters were home-schooled by a sequence of relatively inept governesses. Nevertheless, despite this volatile, emotionally fragile home environment, Barbara had a lively, imaginative mind, hinting at the creative achievements to come. Her maternal grandmother, Annie, played an important part in shaping Barbara’s imagination as a child, also passing on her rebellious nature and love of reading.

Art – particularly surrealism – played an important part in Barbara’s life. In fact, her initial ambition was to become a great sculptor, but a lack of money swiftly curtailed her studies in art. Having moved to London to study, she embraced a bohemian lifestyle, marrying John Pemberton, a fledgling artist, at the age of twenty-one. But their relationship came under strain when Barbara gave birth to a son, Julian, creating tensions at home. John, for his part, found fatherhood too burdensome, and rather than looking for regular work to support his family, he continued to paint, accepting occasional commissions whenever they turned up.

When her marriage to John hit the rocks, Barbara fell in love with a cultured, married man, Rupert Lee, who also happened to be John’s uncle by marriage. A baby girl, Caroline, soon followed, but when the affair faltered, Lee’s other lover, Diana Brinton, secretary to The London Group of artists, become the enduring presence in Barbara’s life. Their complex relationship, which oscillated between waves of benevolence and manipulation, is often painful to read.  

…Diana’s generosity was never disinterested. She was intent on keeping Barbara indebted to her as a means of control: the last thing she wanted was a scandal that might wreck her life with Rupert. (p. 72)

During her life, Barbara experienced a variety of horrors, including domestic abuse, complex, damaging relationships, periods of extreme poverty, traumatic childbirth, abortion and severe depression, all of which provided ample inspiration for her uniquely engaging books.

She [Barbara] concluded: ‘I don’t expect to be happy, I don’t mind as long as I’m not unhappy but dreadful things seem to never stop happening all the time, there is no space between them.’ (p. 81, letter to Diana Brinton in 1936)

Like many women at that time, Barbara’s life choices were severely limited by her circumstances. Effectively a single mother with no real childcare options to hand, she quickly became more resourceful, turning her hand to various jobs to stay afloat, from modelling and commercial art to restoring and trading antiques to renovating houses and collecting rent.

The roguish businessman Arthur Price, whom Barbara took up with in the late 1930s, proved pivotal to her survival. Price, who flourished during WW2’s black market, taught Barbara some much-needed independence, sharpening her business skills and drawing on her flair for interior design. Barbara’s time with Price is vividly captured in her novel Mr Fox, originally written several years before its publication in 1987.

‘He [Price] is an awful crook really but he has behaved very well to me and gone to a lot of trouble’, Barbara wrote to Diana. (p. 93)

When her protracted divorce from John Pemberton finally came through in 1945, Barbara married Richard Comyns Carr, whom she had met through Diana Brinton. A quiet, cultured man, fond of routine, Richard was Barbara’s truly soulmate, and they remained together until his death in the 1980s.

In the early years of the couple’s relationship, Richard worked alongside Kim Philby in a highly sensitive section of MI6. But when Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean defected to the Soviet Union in 1951, Richard (together with Philby) came under suspicion, and his contract was terminated. This ushered in another period of instability for Barbara, particularly as Richard struggled to find new work. Consequently, the couple moved to Spain in the mid-1950s for health and financial reasons, eventually staying there for eighteen years. As at other times in Barbara’s life, there were multiple house moves during this period, with the couple oscillating between urban and rural areas as the money ebbed and flowed. While creating a new home always energised Barbara, this frequent shuttling between properties undoubtedly took its toll.

By 1976, Richard and Barbara were back in the UK, where their lives were increasingly taken up by family matters – mostly concerns over their grandchildren and Barbara’s sisters – and the ever-present financial concerns.

Alongside events in Barbara’s life, Horner devotes much time to tracing her development as a writer, following the trajectory of her career with each rise and fall. The details are too numerous to go into here, but once again, Horner is excellent on the creation of each book, carefully highlighting the links with Barbara’s own life experiences where they exist. The reception of each novel is thoroughly documented too, illustrating the disparity between critical and economic success in certain instances (e.g. with The Skin Chairs). Barbara’s books divided opinion, and this division often worked against her.

Graham Greene was a keen champion of Barbara’s work, publishing her first two novels, Sisters by a River and Our Spoons Came from Woolworths, while working at Eyre and Spottiswoode in the late 1940s/early ‘50s. Barbara’s introduction to Heinemann, who went on to publish The Vet’s Daughter and The Skin Chairs, was also facilitated by Greene – and his influence came to bear again in Virago’s decision to reissue several of Barbara’s novels as VMCs in the 1980s.

Horner is also very insightful on the novels themselves, capturing their unique blend of realism and surrealism in a perceptive and engaging way. Horrific incidents seem even more grotesque when viewed through the prism of Barbara’s trademark style. Nevertheless, her deceptively simple prose is more skilled and sophisticated than might appear at first sight. As Horner notes, there are several instances where the childlike innocence of Barbara’s narrative voice is tempered by an older, more experienced worldview, adding a degree of perceptiveness that might initially be missed. The naive, matter-of-fact delivery gives her novels a powerful sense of immediacy, while the more sobering reflections add insight and depth. Sisters by a River, for instance, is not a sentimental, rose-tinted picture of growing up in rural England. There is immense darkness and cruelty here, albeit leavened with Barbara’s inspired use of humour.

By the mid-1960s, several exciting women writers, such as Muriel Spark, Angela Carter and Edna O’Brien, had emerged. Compared to these new feminist voices, the childlike innocence of Barbara Comyns’ narrators seemed out of step with second-wave feminism and Britain’s changing social landscape. A harsh judgement, perhaps, especially given the domestic horrors conveyed in Comyns’ books. Nevertheless, just like Barbara Pym, who struggled to place An Unsuitable Attachment with a publisher in the ‘60s, Comyns found herself out of step with the current times. Sales of The Skin Chairs and A Touch of Mistletoe were relatively poor, despite some positive reviews, especially for the former, and a new novel, The House of Dolls, was rejected by several publishers.

Now another year has come. The last one wasn’t too bad. The worst things are Chloe being so ill, money worries and disappointments with my writing, dogs dying, the goat breaking its neck, […] The good things were the lovely summer and all the flowers in the garden, Caroline and the children coming, having English books and television, not being foreigners. (p. 263, diary entry, 1st January 1976)

Thankfully for Barbara (and for us), Virago’s republication of The Vet’s Daughter in 1981 prompted a new wave of interest in Comyns’ work, and four further VMC reissues followed over the next six years. This newfound success restored Barbara’s belief in herself as a writer, prompting her to create a new novel, The Juniper Tree, which Methuen published in 1985. This was swiftly followed by Methuen editions of Mr Fox and The House of Dolls, two books that had failed to find backers some twenty years earlier. The major downside for Barbara was that Richard didn’t live long enough to share in most of this success. Nevertheless, her final years brought the critical and commercial acclaim she had hoped for all her life and with some much-needed financial security. Barbara died a relatively wealthy woman in 1992, leaving a legacy of magical books for readers to discover.

In summary, then, A Savage Innocence is a marvellous biography – detailed, fascinating and meticulously researched, bringing to life this uniquely talented author in a highly compelling way. As well as winning Comyns a new legion of fans, the book looks set to raise some tantalising questions for existing devotees. Horner quotes extensively from Barbara’s letters and diaries, leaving us to wonder if the full documents will ever see the light of day. There are also mentions of various short stories, some autobiographical notes termed ‘Rough Ideas’, and an unfinished novel provisionally titled ‘Waiting’, all of which would be fascinating to read. I for one hope there are more publications of Comyns’ work to come, but only time will tell…

A Savage Innocence is published by Manchester University Press; my thanks to the publishers for a review copy.