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.

Rediscovered literary gems – a few of my favourites from the shelves

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about A Silence Shared, a lovely rediscovered classic by the Italian writer and artist Lalla Romano (tr. Brian Robert Moore). First published in 1957, this haunting, dreamlike novella was recently reissued by Pushkin Press in a beautiful new edition for a whole new generation of readers to enjoy.

In many ways, that review reminded me of just how much interest there is in these rediscoveries from the past at the moment. Naturally, trailblazing publishers such as Virago Press and Persephone Books have been championing this area for several years; but other, more recent imprints are also contributing to the renaissance, enhancing the current demand for these fascinating rediscoveries. It’s certainly an area that chimes very strongly with my own reading interests, especially women writers from the mid-20^th century.  

So, to cut a long intro short, I thought it might be interesting to highlight some of my favourite rediscovered classics from recent years – I’ve deliberately avoided selecting anything from Virago or Persephone as they probably warrant posts of their own at some point!

Maud Martha by Gwendolyn Brooks (1953)

Every now and again, a book comes along that captivates the reader with its elegant form and glittering prose. Maud Martha is one such book, painting an evocative portrait of the titular character’s life from childhood to early adulthood. Over the course of the novella, which is written as a series of short vignettes, we follow Maud Martha through childhood in Chicago’s South Side, her early romances as a teenager, to marriage and motherhood, moving seamlessly from the early 1920s to the mid-’40s. I loved this book for its gorgeous, poetic prose and beautiful use of imagery. A wonderful rediscovery courtesy of Faber Editions, a fascinating imprint dedicated to showcasing radical literary voices from around the world.

(Other Faber Editions to seek out include the captivating Mrs Caliban, a subversive feminist fable by Rachel Ingalls, and the excellent Termush, Sven Holm’s unnerving post-apocalyptic dystopia, still wildly relevant today.)

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Cespedes (1952, tr. Ann Goldstein 2023)

Recently reissued by Pushkin Press, Alba de Cespedes’ novel Forbidden Notebook is a remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature, a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria Cossati, 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 confessional of sorts, 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.

I adored this illuminating exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands. (Fans of this book might also appreciate Anna Maria Ortese’s stories and reportage, Evening Descends Upon the Hills, another superb reissue from Pushkin.)

O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker (1991)

First published in 1991 and more recently reissued by Weidenfeld & Nicolson as part of their W&N Essentials series, O Caledonia was Barker’s only novel. It’s a dazzling gem of a book, rich in a wealth of vivid imagery – clearly the product of a highly imaginative writer with a sharp eye for detail and an affinity for outsiders. Ostensibly a coming-of-age narrative, the novel blends elements from a range of literary traditions, from the Gothic novel to Classical Myths, skilfully weaving them into the fabric of the text. Andy Miller (of Backlisted fame) described it as Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle meets Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle, a description that certainly rings true. There’s also a dash of Barbara Comyns here – Barker’s prose is expressive and evocative, portraying a world that combines the sharply recognisable with the macabre and the surreal. A kaleidoscopic, jewel-like novel with a noticeably poignant touch.

Valentino and Sagittarius by Natalia Ginzburg (1957, tr. Avril Bardoni 1987)

The publishing arm of Daunt Books has been championing the critically-acclaimed Italian writer Natalia Ginzburg for the past five years, and rightly so – she is a marvel! Last year, I loved All Our Yesterdays, Ginzburg’s rich, multilayered novel following two very different neighbouring Italian families during the Second World War. It’s a truly remarkable book, a story of ordinary people living through extraordinary times.

Luckily for UK-based readers, Daunt has also just reissued two of my favourite Ginzburg novellas, Valentino and Sagittarius, in gorgeous new editions. Both stories deal with the messy business of family relationships, the tensions that arise when one person behaves selfishly at the expense of those around them. When viewed together, they highlight how foolhardy we can be, especially when investing all our hopes in a particular individual or venture – the fallout for the surrounding family members is often painful in the extreme. So, two brilliant novellas here, each representing an excellent introduction to Natalia Ginzburg, a writer whose insights into the minor tragedies in everyday life are remarkably astute.

The Caravaners by Elizabeth von Arnim (1909)

Over the past five years, Handheld Press has been reissuing forgotten gems from a variety of 20^th-century writers, including Rose Macaulay, Margaret Kennedy and Sylvia Townsend Warner.

Elizabeth von Arnim’s The Caravaners is a satire of the highest order, not least because the novel’s narrator – the German baron, Otto von Ottringel – is a colossal ass, a pompous, insufferable individual with absolutely no self-awareness. The novel focuses on a caravanning holiday through the countryside of Kent, ostensibly to mark the von Ottringels’ silver wedding anniversary. What von Arnim does so well here is to let the reader see how Otto is perceived by those around him, even though the novel is narrated entirely from the baron’s own viewpoint. In short, this is a brilliantly-written book, one that casts a sharply satirical eye over such subjects as misogyny, class differences, power dynamics in marriage and Anglo-German relations during the early 20^th century – not to mention the delights and follies of caravanning in the inclement British weather!

(Jane Oliver and Ann Stafford’s Business as Usual is another Handheld favourite, also warmly recommended here.)

More Was Lost by Eleanor Perényi (1946)

In many respects, the NYRB Classics imprint is the quintessential source of rediscovered gems. Their list is chock-full of literary gems from the past, beautifully recovered in their stylish trademark livery.

There are so many options to choose from here, but I’ve plumped for More Was Lost, a remarkable memoir by the American-born writer Eleanor Perényi. In essence, the memoir covers the early years of Eleanor’s marriage to Zsiga Perényi, a relatively poor Hungarian baron whom she meets while visiting Europe with her parents in 1937. It’s a gem of a book, both charming and poignant in its depiction of a vanishing and unstable world, all but swept away by the ravages of war. By turns beautiful, illuminating, elegiac and sad; a rare book that feels both expansive in scope yet intimate in detail.

(Dorothy Baker’s superb novel, Cassandra at the Wedding, and Olivia Manning’s equally brilliant School for Love would also be excellent choice from the NYRB Classics list.)

Territory of Light by Yuko Tsushima (late 1970s, tr. Geraldine Harcourt)

I loved this. A beautiful, dreamlike novella shot through with a strong sense of isolation that permeates the mind. Originally published as a series of short stories, Tsushima’s novella focuses on a year in the life of a young mother recently separated from her somewhat ambivalent husband. There is a sense of intimacy and honesty in the portrayal of the narrator’s feelings, something that adds to the undoubted power of the book. Themes of isolation, alienation and disassociation are heightened by the somewhat ghostly nature of the setting – an apartment located in a commercial building where the mother and child are the sole occupants at night. Reissued by Penguin in 2019 as part of their Modern Classics series, it’s a wonderful rediscovery – strangely unsettling in tone yet thoroughly compelling.

(Irmgard Keun’s evocative novella Gilgi, One of Us is another favourite PMC, a striking portrayal of a determined young woman set in Weimar-era Cologne.)

Chatterton Square by E. H. Young (1947)

Probably the richest, most satisfying entry in the British Library’s Women Writers series so far, Chatterton Square is a novel of contrasts, an exploration of lives – women’s lives in particular – in the run-up to the Second World War. On the surface, Chatterton appears to be a straightforward story of two neighbouring families – one relatively happy and functional, the other much more constrained. However, the degree of depth and nuance that Young brings to her portraits of the main characters makes it a particularly compelling read – more so than my description suggests. Set in Upper Radstowe’s Chatterton Square – a place modelled on Bristol’s Clifton – the novel features one of the most pompous fictional characters I’ve ever encountered: Herbert Blackett, a conceited, self-absorbed puritan who considers himself vastly superior to his more relaxed neighbours.

(The Home, Penelope Mortimer’s brilliant but painful exploration of life after a separation, and Tea is So Intoxicating, a delightful social comedy by Mary Essex, are also fully deserving of mentions here.)

So, there we have it – a lovely selection of literary gems for you to peruse!

Do let me know your thoughts if you’ve read any of these books. Or maybe you have a favourite rediscovered classic you’d like to share with others. If so, please feel free to mention it below.

My favourites from a year in reading, 2022 – the books that almost made it

This December, I found it harder than usual to settle on a manageable number of titles for my ‘Books of the Year’ lists. In truth, there were very few disappointments amongst the 100+ books I read in 2022, partly because I tend to gravitate towards the mid-20^th century for my reading. These modern classics have stood the test of time for a reason; in other words, they’re VERY GOOD!

As I looked back at this year’s reading, I found myself earmarking another eight books that didn’t quite make it into my final selections. All these books are brilliant in their own individual ways, and any of them could have easily found their way onto my ‘best of’ lists had I been compiling them on a different day. So, just in case you need yet another list of suggestions for your toppling TBR piles, here are books that almost made it. Enjoy!

Something in Disguise by Elizabeth Jane Howard (1969)

Back in October 2021, the Backlisted team covered Elizabeth Jane Howard’s 1969 novel Something in Disguise on their Halloween episode of the podcast. It’s a book I had read before, with somewhat mixed feelings. However, Andrew Male and Laura Varnam’s impassioned case for it being a rather sly, perceptive novel about the horrors of domestic life prompted me to revisit it with a fresh pair of eyes. Naturally, they were right! (How could they not be?) On my second reading, I found it much more chilling from the start, partly because I already knew just how painfully the story would play out for some of the key characters involved…The less said about the plot the better; just cut to the book itself.

Gigli, One of Us by Irmgard Keun (1931, (tr. Geoff Wilkes, 2013)

Irmgard Keun’s novellas always have something interesting to offer, and this striking portrayal of a determined young woman in Weimar-era Cologne did not disappoint. Right from the very start, I found Gilgi an utterly captivating protagonist, a strong feminist presence with a thoroughly engaging voice. In essence, the novella explores Gilgi (and the competing demands on her future direction) as she finds herself torn between two seemingly irreconcilable passions: her desire for independence and a successful career vs her love for the free-spirited Martin and the emotional fulfilment this delivers. Keun does a terrific job capturing her protagonist’s conflicted emotions, frequently in a state of flux. In many respects, this is a very progressive book. Not only is it written in a modernist style, but it also touches on several forward-thinking themes, including adoption, opportunities for women in the workplace, financial independence from men, sex outside of marriage, unwanted pregnancy, and the impact of debt on a person’s mental health. A thoroughly engaging book by one of my favourite women writers in translation.

The House of Dolls by Barbara Comyns (1989)

I have written before about my love of Barbara Comyns and the eccentric worlds she portrays in her novels – stories that combine darkly comic humour and surreal imagery with the realities of day-to-day life. The setting for this one is a Kensington boarding house during the swinging ‘60s, a time of great social change. Amy Doll, a widow in her mid-thirties, has four female boarders – all middle-aged or elderly, all divorced or widowed and cast adrift from any immediate family. Low on funds and in need of support to pay the rent, the ladies have turned their hands to a little light prostitution, fashioning a sort of ‘lounge’ for elderly gentlemen in Amy’s gold and crimson drawing room. The story follows the progress of two of these women, Berti and Evelyn, as they try to survive. Dolls is a charming, wickedly funny novel with some serious themes at its heart – how sometimes our hands are forced by unfortunate circumstances, e.g. loneliness, poverty, abandonment or adversity. An underrated Comyns that deserves to be better known.

O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker (1991)

First published in 1991 and more recently reissued by Weidenfeld & Nicholson as part of their W&N Essentials series, O Caledonia was Barker’s only novel. It’s a dazzling gem of a book, rich in a wealth of vivid imagery – clearly the product of a highly imaginative writer with a sharp eye for detail and an affinity for outsiders. Ostensibly a coming-of-age narrative, the novel blends elements from a range of literary traditions, from the Gothic novel to Classical Myths, skilfully weaving them into the fabric of the text. Andy Miller (of Backlisted fame) described it as Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle meets Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle, a description that rings true. There’s also a dash of Barbara Comyns here – Barker’s prose is expressive and evocative, portraying a world that combines the sharply recognisable with the macabre and the surreal. A kaleidoscopic, jewel-like novel with a noticable poignant touch.

Maud Martha by Gwendolyn Brooks (1953)

Every now and again, a book comes along that captivates the reader with its elegant form and glittering prose. Maud Martha is one such book, painting an evocative portrait of the titular character’s life from childhood to early adulthood. Over the course of the novella (which is written as a series of short vignettes), we follow Maud Martha through childhood in Chicago’s South Side, her early romances as a teenager, to marriage and motherhood, moving seamlessly from the early 1920s to the mid-’40s. Gwendolyn Brooks has created something remarkable here, a celebration of resilience, grace, dignity and beauty – a powerful image of black womanhood that remains highly relevant today. I loved this book for its gorgeous, poetic prose and beautiful use of imagery. A wonderful rediscovered gem courtesy of Faber Editions, a fascinating imprint that always delivers the goods.

Last Summer in the City by Gianfranco Calligarich (1970, tr. Howard Curtis, 2021)

Another wonderfully evocative read – intense, melancholic and richly cinematic, like a cross between Fellini’s La Dolce Vita and the novels of Alfred Hayes, tinged with despair. Set in Rome in the late 1960s, the novel follows Leo, a footloose writer, as he drifts around the city from one gathering to another, frequently hosted by his glamorous, generous friends. One evening, he meets Arianna, a beautiful, unpredictable, impulsive young woman who catches his eye; their meeting marks the beginning of an intense yet episodic love affair that waxes and wanes over the summer and beyond. Calligarich has given us a piercing depiction of a doomed love affair here. These flawed, damaged individuals seem unable to connect with one another, ultimately failing to realise what they could have had together until that chance has gone, frittered away like a night on the tiles. This intense, expresso shot of a novella will likely resonate with those who have loved and lost.

The Cost of Living; Early and Uncollected Stories by Mavis Gallant (1951-1971)

A precise, perceptive collection of short stories by the Canadian author, Mavis Gallant. The very best of these pieces feel like novels in miniature; the kind of tales where everything is compressed, only for the narratives to expand in the reader’s mind on further reflection. Gallant is particularly incisive on the emptiness of suburban domesticity, the type of stifling, loveless marriage depicted in Mad Men and the novels of Richard Yates. Several of her protagonists – typically women – seem lost, cast adrift and unmoored in the vast sea of uncertainty that is life. Here we have stories of terrible mothers and self-absorbed fathers, isolated wives and bewildered husbands, smart, self-reliant children who must learn to take care of themselves. A top-notch collection of stories, beautifully expressed. 

Elena Knows by Claudia Piñeiro (2007, tr. Frances Riddle, 2021)

Shortlisted for this year’s International Booker Prize, Elena Knows is an excellent example of how the investigation into a potential crime can be used as a vehicle in fiction to explore pressing societal issues. In short, the book is a powerful exploration of various aspects of control over women’s bodies. More specifically, the extent to which women are in control (or not) of their own bodies in a predominantly Catholic society; how religious dogma and doctrines exert pressure on women to relinquish that control to others; and what happens when the body fails us due to illness and/or disability. While that description might make it sound rather heavy, Piñeiro’s novel is anything but; it’s a hugely compelling read, full of depth and complexity. When Elena’s daughter, Rita, is found dead, the official investigations deliver a verdict of suicide, and the case is promptly closed by the police. Elena, however, refuses to believe the authorities’ ruling based on her knowledge of Rita’s beliefs, so she embarks on an investigation of her own with shocking results…

So, that’s it from me until 2023. Have a lovely New Year’s Eve, with very best wishes for the reading year ahead!

O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker

I have to start by thanking Andy Miller for recommending O Caledonia during a previous episode of Backlisted, back in January, I think. It was introduced as Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle meets Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle, a description that proved impossible for me to resist. Now that I’ve read the book myself, I can confirm that it definitely lives up to this billing, possibly with a dash of Barbara Comyns in the mix for good measure – The Skins Chairs and The Vet’s Daughter are the two that spring to mind.  

First published in 1991 and more recently reissued by Weidenfeld & Nicholson as part of their W&N Essentials series, O Caledonia is Barker’s only novel to date. it’s a dazzling gem of a book, rich in a wealth of vivid imagery – clearly the product of a highly imaginative writer with a sharp eye for detail and an affinity for outsiders. Ostensibly a coming-of-age narrative, the novel blends elements from a range of literary traditions from the Gothic novel to Classical Myths, skilfully weaving them into the fabric of the text.

Central to the novel is Janet, the eldest of five siblings – four girls and one boy – born in relatively quick succession at the end of the Second World War. We know from the opening page that Janet dies at the age of sixteen, found ‘twisted and slumped in bloody murderous death’ at the family’s rather forbidding home. However, the novel is not a murder mystery; instead, we are presented with an overview of Janet’s life, following a broadly linear arc from birth to death.

Barker wastes little time establishing the novel’s Gothic tone through a multitude of vivid descriptions, complete with touches of the macabre. It’s a world of glittering stained-glass windows, fox-fur tippets, jackdaws with crossed beaks, and animals nestling in prams.

As the story unfolds, it becomes clear that Janet is something of a misfit, an outsider in her family, viewing the world differently from those who surround her. A fiercely intelligent girl with an active imagination, Janet is rather unconventional in her ways, unwilling to conform to her parents’ traditional Calvinist expectations. Other family members are frequently exasperated by her idiosyncratic behaviour, typically resulting in punishment for the girl. However, she often acts out of a lack of understanding, especially when young – something a more nurturing approach from her parents would sorely help to address.

The first few years of Janet’s life are spent at her grandparents’ Manse in Glasgow – the war is still ongoing, and Hector, Janet’s father, is away for the duration. Luckily for Janet, there is solace in the company of her grandfather, a kindly, protective man who enjoys telling stories in the peaceful atmosphere of his study. Here Janet finds some respite from the stifling routines of domestic life, the rules laid down by her mother, Vera, and the family’s longstanding Nanny.

In this room was a genial liberality absent from the outer household with its routine, its timetable of rests and walks and meals, its grim insistence on self-control and cleanliness, scratchy vests and liberty bodices, tweed coats buttoned tight around the neck, hair brushed until the scalp stung, then dragged back into pigtails. (p. 20)

When Hector returns from the war, the family moves to a dilapidated castle in the wilds of North Scotland – a property left to Hector by his uncle, provided that Cousin Lila is allowed to stay, a condition which Hector duly accepts. The castle is a cold, shadowy place, exposed to the fierce winds that swirl through the Highlands. But for Janet, this new environment is a source of great wonder and beauty. With her strong affinity for animals, she revels in her surroundings, riding through the glens on her beloved pony, Rosie. There are some glorious descriptions of the natural world here; Barker writes beautifully about the Scottish landscape, capturing the wildness and feral nature of the landscape alongside its undoubted allure.

With her love of literature and languages – skills nurtured initially by her grandfather – Janet finds comfort in books, allowing her imagination to roam freely despite other constraints. There is solace too in the company of Cousin Lila, another outsider of sorts with her various eccentricities and habits. Russian by birth and a consummate daydreamer at heart, Lila spends her days collecting mushrooms, painting pictures and drinking whisky. Her room is another means of escape for Janet, complete with its heady aromas and eclectic possessions.

In one corner of the room a low archway led into a turret and here Lila’s cat Mouflon slept on a pile of old fur coats draped ineffectually over a mighty stack of empty whisky bottles. The aromas of ancient tom and evaporating spirits combined with Schiaparelli’s Shocking and Craven A tobacco to create an aura of risque clubland. (p. 54)

Perhaps the biggest challenge for Janet comes during adolescence when she is packed off to a girls’ boarding school, far away from home. With her preference for the company of animals over people and her intense dislike of team sports, Janet finds it challenging to interact with the other girls, most of whom are interested in clothes, games and their families. Naturally, Janet doesn’t care for these things, preferring school work and books to spending time with the other pupils. Nevertheless, she develops some basic coping strategies to deal with the inevitable cold-shouldering, a consequence of her rejection of group activities in any form.

She had tried St Uncumba’s in every season, months without end, fogs impenetrable, cold, windy sunlight – and she found it wanting, wanting in human kindness, in vision, in apprehension of the glories of the world. But the raw, sheer edge of her misery was blunted; she had learnt to cope, even to survive, by deviousness, by reading, and, as always, by day-dreaming. (p. 144)

Janet is a marvellous creation, and Barker excels in conveying a piercing portrait of her protagonist’s inner life, replete with all its frustrations and pain. The novel is semi-autobiographical, partly inspired by the author’s childhood, making it all the most affecting to read. While Janet is very much her own person, someone determined to stay true to her values and principles, part of her craves understanding from others – or, at the very least, a degree of acceptance. Consequently, this novel will likely resonate with anyone who has ever felt like an outsider, at odds with their peer group or those in authority. The sense of loneliness and bewilderment can be heartbreaking to bear.

Barker has created such a colourful, jewel-like novel here, almost kaleidoscopic in terms of style and tone. Her prose is expressive and evocative, portraying a world that combines the sharply recognisable with a dash of surrealism – a little like the Barbara Comyns novels I mentioned earlier or the work of Muriel Spark.

I’ll finish with a passage about Janet’s pet jackdaw, Claws, who nestles in an abandoned doll’s house in his guardian’s room – a quote that tugged at my heart, especially given the arc of Janet’s story.

He was free to range wherever he wished; always he came back to her and at night they repaired to her room, where he roosted like a guardian spirit on the Iron rail of her bed. He was a magic bird. She loved him more than she had loved anything, anything or anyone. (p. 182)