This is a charming book full of warmth, wisdom and common sense – a delightful collection to dip into or read at a clip, depending on your preference.
Jan Struther was the pen name of Joyce Maxstone Graham (nee Anstruther), and Mrs Miniver is undoubtedly her best-known work. The book, which was first published in this format in 1939, comprises a series of newspaper columns that first appeared in The Times in the late 1930s. The idea for the column came about when Peter Fleming (brother of Ian) asked Jan Struther to write about “an ordinary sort of woman, who leads an ordinary sort of life—rather like yourself,” even though Struther was far from ordinary. Thus, Mrs Miniver was born, and the column featuring her musings was an instant hit.
While the vignettes are fictional, some elements are almost certainly inspired by Struther’s own personal experiences – and, as the columns build up, we begin to form a clear picture of Mrs Miniver and her philosophy on life. She lives in London with her architect husband, Clem, and their three children – Vin (aged fifteen), Judy (nine) and Toby (six). They have a comfortable existence, with a nanny and servants on hand to take care of the household, a holiday home (‘Starlings’) down in Kent, and annual trips to Scotland for the summer season. Nevertheless, despite her privileged lifestyle, Mrs Miniver herself is down-to-earth, pragmatic and approachable. She appreciates life’s little pleasures – the beauty in a bunch of chrysanthemums, ‘the sparkle of early autumn’, and the unexpected joy of a trip to Hampstead Heath.
There’s a wonderful lightness of touch about Struther’s style, a delightful poetic quality that elevates the prose. In an early vignette, Mrs M. writes movingly about her husband’s change of car; but rather than capturing the excitement of a new motor, it is the loss of a cherished possession that she laments and all the emotional attachments such a parting represents.
A car, nowadays, was such an integral part of one’s life, provided the aural and visual accompaniment to so many of one’s thoughts, feelings, conversations, decisions, that it had acquired at least the status of a room in one’s house. To part from it, whatever its faults, was to lose a familiar piece of background. (pp. 5–6)
Mrs M’s children feature in several columns, especially those revolving around holidays and other family celebrations. There’s a lovely piece about the three Miniver children opening their stockings on Christmas morning, especially as their personalities are reflected in how they play with the gifts. While Vin carefully examines each present in turn before moving on to the next, Judy piles all her treasures in a heap, making a beeline for the one she likes best. Toby, on the other hand, puts his favourite gift to one side, then plays with all the others, saving the chosen one till last.
In one of my favourite columns, Mrs Miniver heads off to the stationer’s shop to buy a new engagement book – a significant purchase for the year ahead. It’s well into January, and there are only three diaries left in the week-to-view style she favours. At first, Mrs M. settles on a sensible brown calfskin diary, ‘an honest and sturdy companion’ for practical reasons. But then, while travelling home on the bus, she has a sudden change of heart and heads back to the shop, hoping the more stylish lizard-skin diary will still be available to buy.
At this very moment, perhaps, the green lizard-skin diary was being bought by somebody else–some wholly unsuitable person who merely wanted to get one in a hurry; a rich, earnest woman who would fill it with committee meetings, or a business man who would not even glance at the binding when he opened it to jot down the words “Dine George”. While she herself, with all her dearest activities soberly confined in brown calf, would be thinking about it in an agony of regret. (p. 23)
Elsewhere in the collection, Struther offers her insightful reflections on a variety of topics, including the joys of Guy Fawkes’ Night, the first day of spring, and the folly of trying to do one’s Christmas shopping too early – ‘the feeling of temporal urgency cannot be artificially produced, any more than the feeling of financial distress.’ She is especially perceptive on human behaviour and social conventions – for instance, how to handle political differences during dinner parties and trips away, especially when hunting is involved. I couldn’t help but laugh at her comments on mismatched married couples, where one partner is utterly delightful and the other an incessant chatterbox – or worse still, a crashing bore.
Really, it was lamentable, the unevenness of most married couples. Like those gramophone records with a superb tune on one side and a negligible fill-up on the other which you had to take whether you wanted it or not. (p. 46)
While Struther’s tone feels light and bright initially, the mood darkens somewhat in the book’s second half. WW2 looms large on the horizon as the Minivers head off to collect their gas masks, joining a long queue. Elsewhere, Mrs M. calls out the snobbery of the upper classes, some of whom baulk at doing their bit for the common good.
“And, of course, I said to her before she left: ‘Even if the worst does come to the worst, you must make it quite clear to the authorities that I can only accept Really Nice Children.’”
“And where,” Mrs. Miniver could not restrain herself from asking, “are the other ones to go?”
“There are sure to be camps,” said Lady Constance firmly. (p. 88)
The book closes with four letters Mrs Miniver writes to her sister-in-law, Susan, and these are easily the most moving vignettes in the collection. (The book ends in December 1939, three months after war is declared.) With the children and Nannie safely holed up at Starlings alongside a clutch of evacuees, Mrs M. returns to London to join the war effort, signing up as an ambulance driver and helping with related duties where she can. An eternal optimist at heart, she hopes something positive can be preserved once the conflict is over, a camaraderie and a shared sense of purpose to carry the nation through.
I wonder whether it’s too much to hope that afterwards, when all the horrors are over, we shall be able to conjure up again the feelings of these first few weeks, and somehow rebuild our peace-time world so as to preserve everything of war which is worth preserving? (p. 123)
What’s so impressive about these columns is how well we feel we know Mrs Miniver, just from a handful of vignettes. It’s a testament to Struther’s skills as a writer, presenting us with a character that feels knowable and believable right from the start. This is a charming, eminently readable book, a wonderful insight into a bygone age, light on its feet and laced with gentle humour. Highly recommended, especially for readers with an interest in this era.
Mrs Miniver is published by Virago Press; personal copy.
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