An Unsuitable Attachment by Barbara Pym

Many of you will know about my fondness for Barbara Pym’s novels, populated as they are by ‘excellent’, well-meaning women, idiosyncratic Anglican clergymen and somewhat fusty academics. It’s a place that seems both mildly ridiculous and oddly relatable, full of the sharply-observed details that Pym captures so well.

This charming book, Pym’s seventh (or eighth if we include Crampton Hodnet), is the one that plunged her into the wilderness when it was rejected by Jonathan Cape in 1963. The cold, insensitive manner of this dismissal and its negative impact on Pym are well documented in Paula Byrne’s comprehensive biography and elsewhere. In a changing Britain where literature’s ‘Angry Young Men’ were in the ascendancy, the publishing world considered Pym’s novels, with their splendid spinsters and befuddled men, to be unexciting and old-fashioned; and despite amendments and resubmissions of the revised manuscript to several publishers, the novel continued to be roundly rejected by all. 

Luckily for us, Pym experienced an unexpected renaissance in the late 1970s when two leading writers – Philip Larkin and Lord David Cecil – named her in a TLS article as the 20^th century’s most underrated writer. This honour transformed Pym’s reputation overnight, turning her into a most unlikely literary sensation. Her next novel, Quartet in Autumn, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1977, with another two novels following soon after.

An Unsuitable Attachment was finally published posthumously in 1982, with the help of literary executor Hazel Holt. It’s not top-tier Pym – that would be too much to expect; nevertheless, this delightful story of life, love and the small absurdities of a forgotten world has plenty to offer her fans. I enjoyed it immensely – probably more than Civil to Strangers and Less Than Angels, although they too have their own particular charms.

At the heart of Attachment is the question of whether someone’s suitability as a marriage partner should be dictated by love and human emotions or by society’s expectations about their age, class, occupation and financial situation. As such, it could be regarded as a reflection of Britain’s changing social landscape as the old pre-war social conventions and class structures were being dismantled, ushering in more progressive attitudes to living arrangements and relationships. Like most of Pym’s fiction, it is not a plot-driven story; rather, the emphasis is on characters’ behaviours and experiences – their hopes, dreams, preoccupations and failings.

We are in very familiar Pym territory here – a sedate, closeted enclave revolving around a respectable Church of England parish in the early 1960s. Nevertheless, occasional references to West Indian immigrants and beehive hairstyles aside, one could be forgiven for initially thinking the novel is set in the 1930s, such is the conservative nature of the world the characters inhabit.

Central to the story is Ianthe Broome, an unmarried librarian in her thirties who has recently moved to North London following her mother’s death. As a Canon’s daughter, Ianthe has established a friendship with the local C of E vicar, Mark Ainger and his wife, Sophia, who live nearby. The Aingers have no children, but their cat, Faustina – Sophia’s pride and joy – is cosseted beyond belief.

Class and associated markers of one’s social standing are key themes in the novel – points that Pym signals almost immediately with the impression that Sophia may have ‘married beneath her’ by partnering with Mark, a man with no private means other than his Church income.

Sophia’s mother spoke in hushed tones of her son-in-law’s parish – much too near the Harrow Road and North Kensington to be the kind of district one liked to think of one’s daughter living in, though of course a vicarage was different. The clergy had to go to these rather dreadful places, but it was a pity Mark couldn’t have got something ‘better’, like a Knightsbridge or South Kensington church, or even a good country living. (pp. 19–20)

Rupert Stonebird – a young, unmarried anthropologist specialising in the marriage rituals of obscure African tribes – is another new arrival in the street, occupying the house opposite Ianthe’s. As Rupert is similar in age and class to Ianthe, one might consider him to be a suitable match for the respectable librarian, but Sophia has her eye on this new arrival as a possible suitor for her sister, Penelope, who at twenty-five has already suffered several disappointments in her search for love.

In typical Pym fashion, a series of amusing encounters ensues, comprising dinner parties, church bazaars and chance meetings, all of which show Rupert to be a slightly pompous, tactless man lacking in self-awareness. For an academic who studies human behaviour for a living, Rupert seems to have precious little understanding of how to apply this knowledge to his relationships with women! In this telling scene, he reflects on Ianthe while visiting her at home.

Looking at her Rupert remembered his colleagues and their wives. A vague idea formed in his mind – not that he loved her but that he would like to see her always in his house, like some suitable decoration or finishing touch. (pp. 88–89)

As the story unfolds, we see how Rupert’s affections bounce between the two unmarried women – Ianthe, the respectable gentlewoman with a good house and fine furniture inherited from her parents, and Penelope, ‘the Pre-Raphaelite beatnik’ looking for love and excitement, far from the stuffy confines of her sister’s life at the vicarage.

Meanwhile, other developments are in store for Ianthe when a young man named John is taken on at the library. Ianthe, however, is unsure about his fit for the role. Not only does John have limited experience as a librarian – his last job was freelancing as an ‘extra’ for film and TV – but his shoes seem ‘a little too pointed’ for Ianthe’s liking, not quite what one would expect a respectable man to wear! Nevertheless, she finds herself warming to him over time, despite various uncertainties about his suitability as a potential partner. Firstly, John is five years younger than Ianthe; secondly, he lives in a cheerless, seedy bedsit in a run-down area; and thirdly, he has no money to speak of – what on earth would people think? All this leaves Ianthe a little confused about her feelings, although to the reader the situation is clear – she’d be much better off with John than with stuffy old Rupert!

Ianthe was not as yet bold enough to break away from her upbringing and background, and while she did not often think of herself as marrying now, she still hoped, perhaps even expected, that somebody ‘suitable’ would turn up one day. Somebody who combined the qualities of Rupert and John, if such a person could be imagined. (p. 94)

I won’t reveal how these troublesome entanglements play out, but as always with Pym they’re beautifully portrayed. The novel is full of those mildly amusing observations that Pym excels at, highlighting the small absurdities in the most innocent – and embarrassing – encounters. In this scene, Rupert is tasked with refilling Ianthe’s hot water bottle when he finds her in bed with flu – only to be interrupted by Sophia, who takes umbrage at his involvement in such an intimate activity, especially as she has designs on him for her sister, Penelope!

‘I [Rupert] called — quite unexpectedly — just before you came and found her [Ianthe] in bed, so I’m filling her hot water bottle.’

‘So I see,’ said Sophia, unable to keep a note of indignation out of her tone, for it was most disquieting that the man she intended for her sister’s husband should be discovered filling the hot water bottle of another woman. Besides, filling hot water bottles was not man’s work – fetching coal, sawing wood, even opening a bottle of wine would have been suitable occupations for Rupert to be discovered in, but not this. (p. 104)

Pym is equally perceptive on those small slights that women sometimes inflict on one another while trying to be polite. Spinsters are often on the receiving end of these patronising comments, and there are clear echoes here of how Mildred Lathbury (from Excellent Women) and Belinda Bede (from Some Tame Gazelle) are treated by others. The following exchange is a great example of this – the sort of ‘well-meaning’ comment that leaves Ianthe feeling crushed…

‘I rather feel that you’re one of those women who shouldn’t marry,’ Sophia said.

‘I don’t suppose I shall now,’ said Ianthe. ‘But of course one never knows – people do marry quite late in life.’

‘I always think that’s such a mistake,’ said Sophia. ‘You seem to me to be somehow destined not to marry,’ she went on, perhaps too enthusiastically. ‘I think you’ll grow into one of those splendid spinsters – oh, don’t think I mean it nastily or cattily – who are pillars of the Church and whom the Church certainly couldn’t do without.’

Ianthe was silent, as well she might be before this daunting description. Yet until lately she too had seen herself like this. (pp. 194–195)

Fans of Pym’s cameos, where characters from earlier novels fleetingly reappear, will be delighted to see a few familiar faces in the mix here. Excellent Women’s Everard Bone pops up at a dinner party hosted by Rupert, then Some Tame Gazelle’s Harriet Bede makes a spectacular entrance in Rome, gatecrashing a scene during a parish trip to Italy. Naturally, she is fussing over a curate – one Basil Branche – who happens to be accompanying the Bede sisters on their holiday as a paid companion.  

All in all, this is another delightful novel from one of my favourite writers, populated by genteel characters with modest expectations and concerns. The mildly absurd situations Pym weaves around them simply adds to its charm. It also has some interesting things to say about ‘suitability’ for marriage, but I’ll let you discover those yourself should you read the book!