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.

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.

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.

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!

Making Modernism – Royal Academy of Arts Exhibition Catalogue

Something a little different from me today, a few notes about this gorgeous exhibition catalogue from the Royal Academy’s Making Modernism Exhibition, which ran from November 2022 to February 2023.

One of my reading aims for 2024 is to actually sit down and read some of the art books I’ve accumulated over the past few years, mostly from shows I’ve visited in London. I’m also going to keep these pieces fairly brief, partly because I’m not an art expert – professional critics or art historians such as Laura Cumming and Andrew Graham-Dixon are much better placed than I am to do that! Instead, I’m treating these posts as opportunities to share a few photos taken during my trips.

Portrait of a Woman in Black with Handkerchief, 1906 – Paula Modersohn-Becker

The Making Modernism exhibition was designed to highlight the work of four brilliant female artists working in Germany during the early part of the 20th century – Paula Modersohn-Becker, Käthe Kollwitz, Gabriele Münter and Marianne Werefkin. While these women did not belong to a single artistic movement as such, their work was linked by Expressionism, an approach stemming from ‘an individualist philosophy’. In many respects, Expressionism could be thought of as an artistic style in which the artist seeks to depict the subjective responses that objects and scenes arouse in their mind rather than a purely objective reality. I don’t think I had encountered any of these artists before visiting this exhibition, and while all four had something illuminating to offer, Modersohn-Becker and Werefkin really stood out.

Portrait of a Girl, 1913 – Marianne Werefkin

Alongside the work of these four artists, the exhibition also included a small number of works by three additional women artists working in Germany at the same time – Ottilie Reylaender, Erma Bossi and Jacoba van Heemskerck. Reylaender was a particularly striking discovery for me, and I’d love to see more of her artworks in the future.

Girl with Red Blouse, c. 1907 –
Ottilie Reylaender

Some of these artists knew one another as friends or co-exhibitors, while others may have heard of one another through mutual acquaintances. Some had other interesting connections, too. For instance, Gabriele Münter was in a relationship with fellow artist Vasily Kandinsky for several years, while Modersohn-Becker was friends with the sculptor Clara Westhoff and her husband, the poet Rainer Maria Rilke.

Kandinsky and Erma Bossi at the Table, 1909-10 – Gabriele Münter

Most of these artists had to endure extremely challenging periods in their personal lives while trying to work, from bereavement in the case of Kollwitz to a partner’s infidelity for Werefkin. The social expectations placed on women at the time also proved a major constraint for some of these artists, forcing them to balance desires to paint and express themselves creatively alongside (or in place of) the traditional gender roles of wife and mother. Consequently, several of the paintings tap into these themes, sometimes reflecting loss, grief, vulnerability or erasure alongside more liberating ideas. The close bond between a mother and her child is another recurring theme, particularly for Modersohn-Becker and Kollwitz.

Girl with Child, 1902 – Paula Modersohn-Becker

Rather than grouping the artworks by artist, the exhibition was divided into sections covering various subjects, including portraits, self-portraits, children, nudes, landscapes, townscapes and still life. As one would expect, several paintings illustrate the female gaze in these areas, highlighting key themes that remain highly relevant today, from identity, migration and belonging to relationships, motherhood and ageing. I’ve included some photos of my favourites in this piece.

If you’re interested in discovering more, the catalogue (published by The Royal Academy of Arts) is still available. Alongside plates of all the paintings included in the exhibition, the book contains potted histories of each artist, a general introduction to the exhibition and a fascinating Q&A between lead curator Dorothy Price and the British-based artist Chantal Joffe, whose work often features women and children, sharing something of the spirit of Paula Modersohn-Becker’s art.

Hackenfeller’s Ape by Brigid Brophy

One of the most exciting literary developments in recent years is the emergence of new imprints specialising in rediscovered gems – lesser-known or neglected writers given a new lease of life through carefully curated reissues. The Faber Editions series is proving to be an excellent source of forgotten classics, championing voices from the past that speak to our present. I think I’ve read seven of these books now, and they’ve all had something thrilling and original to offer.

Hackenfeller’s Ape – the debut novel by the British writer, critic and political activist Brigid Brophy – is a recent addition to the list, and what a brilliant choice it is, too. By turns witty, playful, beautiful and sad, this highly original novella is a provocative exploration of man’s treatment of animals, particularly those closest to us on the evolutionary scale. Moreover, the book feels eerily prescient, particularly in a world where animal rights, sustainability and a variety of environmental issues have risen in importance in recent years.

‘When my species has destroyed itself, we may need yours to start it all again.’ (p. 27)

Brophy’s mischievous story revolves around Professor Clement Darrelhyde, a scientist specialising in the study of apes. As the novel opens, the professor is in the midst of a project at London Zoo where he hopes to observe the mating ritual of two Hackenfeller’s Apes, Percy and Edwina. These apes, which hail from Africa, rarely mate in captivity, and details of their courtship rituals are little known, hence Darrelhyde’s interest in the study. Percy, however, is not playing ball, spurning Edwina’s advances much to the latter’s (and the professor’s) dismay. Even Darrelhyde’s enthusiastic singing – he is a lover of Mozart’s operas – fails to do the trick.

If the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party, which sometimes took place on a nearby lawn, was a rollicking caricature of human social life, here was a satire on human marriage. Separated by the yard or two that was the extent of their cage, not looking at one another, tensed, and huffy, Percy and Edwina might have been sitting at a breakfast table. (p. 9)

The Hackenfeller, we learn, is the closest creature to man in evolutionary terms, and Brophy does an excellent job of giving us hints into Percy’s character – particularly his apparent confusion and suffering. At times, the ape seems almost human – to Darrelhyde at least.

Nonetheless, Percy’s rebuttal was more than an animal gesture. He disengaged himself with something the Professor could only call gentleness. He seemed to be perplexed by his own action, and imposed on his muscles a control and subtlety hardly proper to his kind. His own puzzling need to be fastidious appeared to distress him as much as Edwina’s importunity. After their entanglements he would turn his melancholy face towards her and seem to be breaking his heart over his inability to explain. (p. 13)

One day, the professor’s observations are rudely interrupted by the arrival of Kendrick, an ambitious, self-assured young man intent on commandeering Percy for a scientific mission. Percy, it seems, is to be propelled into space, destined to be a guinea pig for experimental purposes – a test case, if you like, for humans to follow. The professor, for his part, takes an instant dislike to Kendrick, determining to save Percy from this inhumane endeavour.

Brophy’s skills with witty, pithy dialogue are put to excellent use here, particularly in the exchanges between Darrelhyde and Kendrick, highlighting the absurdity of the situation to great effect.

‘What do you mean, Percy is going to go? Where’s he going? Who’s going to take him?’

‘Percy is being called to higher things.’

‘Called?’

‘Commandeered, if you like. Liberated.’ […]

‘And who is going to make off with Percy?’

‘The outfit I’m with.’

The Professor paused a minute, then asked: ‘By whose authority does your “outfit” propose to take Percy?’ He felt his question turned to ridicule by the mock-dignity of the animal’s name.

‘The powers that be’, Kendrick replied. ‘It’s pretty much top priority.’

‘What is?’

‘The whole project. Your Percy’s a V.I.P.’ (pp. 20–21)

What follows is a delightfully zany caper in which Darrelhyde enlists the help of a pickpocket, Gloria, in the hope of liberating Percy, thereby saving him from being blasted into space. Gloria too has experienced the cruelties of captivity, having been imprisoned for breaking and entering following an earlier spell in borstal. Furthermore, she also understands the indignities of being observed by others – in her instance, psychiatrists probing her upbringing and motives for stealing. It would be unfair of me to reveal how this unconventional story plays out, save to say that Brophy has a few surprises in store for Darrelhyde – and for Kendrick, too!

Naturally, there’s a degree of irony to all this, especially in the professor’s own motives for the project. While Darrelhyde seems to have Percy’s welfare in mind, why should his studies of animals’ mating rituals in captivity be any more acceptable than Kendrick’s space exploration plans? It’s a question that ran through my mind as I was reading this excellent, thought-provoking book.

This was, moreover, the only species which imprisoned other species not for any motive of economic parasitism, but for the dispassionate parasitism of indulging its curiosity. (p. 4)

Brophy was an active animal rights campaigner herself, championing pacifism, humanism and vegetarianism amongst other causes. As noted in the Faber Editions reissue, her 1965 Sunday Times manifesto, The Rights of Animals, catalysed the modern animal rights movement, establishing Brophy as a trailblazer in this respect. Central to the novel are questions about which species is more absurd: the human or the ape? And conversely, which of the two is more deserving of our sympathy? I doubt it will surprise you to hear that Brophy, through her razor-sharp intelligence and playful wit, shows man to be more dysfunctional, foolish and mercenary than his animal counterparts by quite some distance. It is the ape that emerges from this story with humanity and dignity, not the supposedly more evolved homo sapiens.

I love how this nimble, playful novella touches on some big themes in an amusing and engaging way. There’s a skill to achieving this feat without the story feeling preachy or heavy-handed, and Brophy manages this tension beautifully. There’s also some lovely descriptive writing here, with Brophy conjuring up the scorching, arid atmosphere of early September in a suitably evocative way. I’ll finish with a passage from the opening page, a scene-setter for this highly creative story, which I can thoroughly recommend. 

In the central meadow they were playing cricket. Westward, the shouts and splashes of the boating lake lingered, like gentle explosions, above the expense of shallow water. North-west, the canals stood black and transparent, like Indian Ink, between banks, mottled by sun. (p. 3)

(My thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy. This review also contributes to Karen and Lizzy’s #ReadIndies project, which runs to the end of Feb.)

After the Funeral by Tessa Hadley

Tessa Hadley is fast becoming one of my favourite short story writers. She writes beautifully and perceptively about relationships, particularly those between mothers and daughters, siblings, lovers and other complex, inescapable bonds. The middle classes are her focus, replete with their affectations, aspirations and frustrations. It’s a world that Hadley knows well, and she unpicks it with insight, elegance and intelligence, laying bare the vagaries of human nature for her readers to see.

Seven of the twelve stories in this collection were first published in the New Yorker and are still available to read online. Nevertheless, by experiencing them together in this volume, certain patterns begin to appear – common threads and themes, similar structural patterns or motifs, adding texture and depth.

In Dido’s Lament, my favourite story in the collection, Hadley uses a chance encounter to excellent effect when Lynnette, a woman in her late thirties, is literally knocked off her feet by a man hurrying towards the Underground on a busy London street. Determined to chastise the man for his reckless behaviour, Lynnette chases after him, only to discover that he is in fact her former partner, Toby, whom she hasn’t seen for nine years. A reconciliation of sorts follows, with Lynnette accepting Toby’s invitation to go back to his place for a drink.

As this excellent story unfolds, we see how Toby has changed since the split with Lynnette. Now married with two children, he seems more comfortable in his own skin – no longer the puppyish man who suffocated Lynnette with his eagerness to please.

In the old days, he was always searching anxiously in her face to see whether she liked things or didn’t like them; his subordination to her will had dragged at her, making her resentful. Now she couldn’t see past some new barrier in his eyes, as if behind it he were placid and settled… (p. 38)

It’s a fabulous scenario with a range of potential outcomes – Toby’s wife and children are away for the night, opening up a multitude of possibilities for how the evening might progress. Nevertheless, there’s a wonderful sense of ambiguity here, which Hadley leverages to wrong-foot us towards the end, introducing a twist that I simply didn’t see coming. It’s a masterclass in exploring the complexities of human nature, wrapped in an atmosphere that feels relatable and true. 

How could they be strangers now, when they’d been so intimate once? They had belonged to each other in their youth. Her eyes filled with tears unexpectedly, at the idea of it. The wine was very cold, delicious; her body was relaxing in the thickening warmth of the room, while the clarifying alcohol flashed through her blood like ice. (p. 40)

In Funny Little Snake, another standout story, Valerie must look after Robyn – her husband’s young daughter from a previous marriage – just for a few days while the girl is visiting her father. Robyn, however, seems unwilling to engage in any activity Valerie proposes. Not out of resentment or annoyance, as such; instead she seems blank, almost as though she doesn’t know how to reciprocate or behave. The story really gets going when Valerie travels down to Chelsea to return Robyn to her mother, Marise, a chaotic free spirit straight out of the ‘60s. With her mind preoccupied elsewhere – most likely on her current lover, Jamie – Marise has forgotten that Robyn is due back that day. So, when Valerie arrives, Jamie comes to the door with a distinctly dishevelled look, dressed in a skimpy T-shirt and satin hipster trousers.

Hadley excels at conveying the sense of a character – their aura, personality and physical appearance – through a brief but telling description, enabling the reader to visualise them instantly, both clearly and distinctly. Marise’s entrance into the story is an excellent example, but there are many more across the body of Hadley’s work. Her character details and dialogue are always impeccably judged.

A woman [Marise] came clattering downstairs behind him, loomed across his [Jamie’s] shoulder; she was taller than he was, statuesque, tremendous in the shadows, glittering eyes black with make-up and diamonds glinting in the piled-up mass of her dark hair, in the middle of the afternoon. […] Marise was spectacular in a long low-cut white dress and white patent leather boots; she had an exaggerated coarse beauty, like a film star blurred from being too much seen. –Oh Christ, is it today? Shit! Is that the kid? Marise wailed, pushing past the young man, her devouring eyes seeming to snatch an impression of Valerie in one scouring instant and then dismiss it. –I forgot all about it. It can’t be Wednesday already! Welcome home, honeypot. Give Mummy a million, million kisses. Give Jamie kisses. This is Jamie. Say hello. Isn’t he sweet? Don’t you remember him? He’s in a band. (pp. 95-96)

Like Dido’s Lament, this is another story that upends the reader’s expectations, eschewing the obvious resolution for something more interesting and complex. It also finishes at the ideal point, allowing us the space to imagine what the future might hold for Robyn – and for Valerie as well.

As signalled by its title, Cecilia Awakens features a coming-of-age of sorts – an unsettling awakening for a teenage girl during a family holiday in Florence – a city they have all visited before. Disturbed by a troubling response to what should be familiar surroundings, fifteen-year-old Cecilia begins to see herself – and her parents – anew. In short, the sight of Italian girls with their fashionable clothes and poised self-assurance throws Cecilia’s dowdy appearance into sharp relief, highlighting the family’s awkwardness and fastidious habits. 

The Italian girls at the next table, about her own age or younger, looked right: with their Lycra shorts and white crop-tops, their dancing bare midriffs so flat and brown, veils of shining hair flying behind them as they turned. Cecilia had liked her own clothes when she packed them, but overnight they had transformed into a torment, their wrongness burning against her skin – which wasn’t flawlessly golden. (p. 138)

Until now, Cecilia has shown little interest in clothes and the like, preferring reading and visiting galleries to parties or meeting boys. But here in the sophisticated city of Florence, she realises how others look down on her slightly fusty, bookish family, viewing their behaviour with a whiff of disdain. It’s a rude awakening of sorts, as is so often the case in adolescence when even the smallest issue can feel like a catastrophe. Once again, Hadley finishes this story at just the right point, carefully inviting us to consider what might happen as the trip draws to a close.

Mother-daughter relationships feature in several of these stories. In the titular piece, nine-year-old Charlotte must keep an eye on her vulnerable mother, Marlene, and playful younger sister, Lulu, when her father dies unexpectedly. While Charlotte and Lulu are largely unperturbed by their father’s death – he was away a lot for work and not much liked by the girls when at home – Marlene is shattered, ultimately relying on her brother-in-law for practical and emotional support. It’s another subtle story that doesn’t take the obvious route, charting the family’s progress as the years pass by. 

A mother’s dependency on her daughter is also the focus of Coda, the final piece in the collection, in which a sixty-year-old woman, Diane, is staying with her elderly widowed mother during the COVID lockdown. One day, while gazing from the window, Diane becomes intrigued by a woman she sees smoking in the adjacent garden. As it turns out, this stocky, coarse-looking woman is a professional carer tasked with looking after the elderly next-door neighbour.

There are so many layers to this nuanced story, from the exploration of the mother’s relationship with her third husband, Dickie (now deceased), to Diane’s fascination with the carer next door, to the challenges of looking after an aged relative, especially during lockdown. Moreover, there are subtle references to Madame Bovary, the novel Diane is reading while staying with her mother.

As ever with Hadley, there is some gorgeous descriptive writing here, from settings, locations and interiors to hair, clothes and food. These stories are full of distinctive details, perfectly executed and judged. I love this image of Marise’s sofa, its worn, dishevelled image mirroring the chaotic nature of her life and neglectful approach to parenting.

A sagging leather sofa, cushions cracked and pale with wear, spilled its horsehair innards in front of the fire. (p. 98)

In summary then, these are excellent, perceptive stories, beautifully executed in Hadley’s trademark elegant prose. She has an innate ability to catch her characters in their most private moments, revealing hidden truths to the reader – and in some instances to the characters themselves – while also creating space for ambiguity and interpretation. Highly recommended, especially for fans of well-crafted short stories – she’s probably the closest contemporary writer I’ve found to Elizabeth Taylor in subject matter and style. 

After the Funeral is published by Jonathan Cape; personal copy.

A Green Equinox by Elizabeth Mavor

First published in 1973 and shortlisted for the Booker Prize, Elizabeth Mavor’s marvellous novel A Green Equinox captivated me from its opening pages. It’s a rich exploration of female sexuality and love in all its various manifestations, from the passionate and the sensual to the companionable and spiritual – not to mention the intellectual. In a quote on the cover of my Virago edition, the novelist Charlotte Mendelson calls it ‘funny and brave and moving and absolutely bonkers’ – a description that captures the novel’s untethered spirit to a T. I adored this erudite, unpredictable book and hope to find a place for it in my 2024 highlights – it really is that good!

The story revolves around an unconventional love triangle of sorts, with the marvellously named Hero Kinoull, an antiquarian bookseller, placed tantalisingly at its centre. Hero, who lives in the small English town of Beaudesert, is having an affair with Hugh Shafto (what a name!), a married curator specialising in Rococo art. United by a shared interest in preserving the past, Hero and Hugh have slightly different reasons for shunning the present. While Hugh’s motives are somewhat snobbish and intellectual, Hero’s lack of interest stems more from frustration.

Hero’s world is upended when she meets Hugh’s wife, Belle, an earnest, serious woman who supports assorted good causes ranging from pressing social issues to preserving a longstanding tree. While Hugh is bored by his wife’s views, Hero finds Belle intriguing and mysterious. So, despite Hugh’s discomfort with this development, Hero finds herself increasingly drawn to Belle – a friendship which soon blossoms into an infatuation.

I also continued to see Belle Shafto. If you’d ask me why, I have found it hard to say. A kind of fascinated guilt played some part in it, I think. There was also that illusion, which I always had when I was with her, of normality and innocence, and the combination of this, together with my knowledge of how matters really stood, was, for some reason, irresistible. It was like living in two dimensions at once… (p. 67)

Mavor excels at portraying Hero’s inner life, eloquently capturing these desires in lush, ornate prose – she also blends sections narrated from Hero’s perspective with other passages in the third person, offering readers a broader view. Alone at the bookshop, Hero allows her imagination to run riot, indulging in wild fantasies independent of her daily routine. As a consequence of these reveries, Hero’s inner life and outer existence remain divided unless she is with Belle – only then can her mind and body be united in blissful harmony. In effect, Belle is changing Hero from a romantic with a passion for the past into someone who is engaging with the present – a progressive of sorts, someone with a modern moral conscience, a conscience akin to Belle’s. Meanwhile, Belle herself remains blissfully unaware of Hero’s feelings, at least at first, and equally blind to Hugo’s affair with Hero, which continues in the background.

It seemed that he and I [Hero] between us were safeguarding Belle’s happy innocence, enabling her, by our own rough, anguished love, to play, unimpeded, like a child in a butterfly world. […] We three became unspeakably close, and there seemed no bounds to Belle’s happy innocence, or unawareness, or what some people might have called her stupidity, and I straddled over their marriage, it seemed, like a victorious colossus. Yet, I was also a victim. (p. 69)

In a delicious twist of fate, Hero then meets and falls in love with Hugh’s mother, Kate Shafto, an impulsive, energetic woman with several strings to her bow. Gardening is a vital passion for Kate, and her work on landscaping the estate has transformed it from an unsightly gravel pit into a wonderfully lush archipelago. Hugh, however, feels smothered by his mother’s endless energy – a drive that leaves him feeling inadequate and guilty.

One of the most interesting aspects of the novel is how Mavor differentiates between the forms of love Hero experiences with each of her three ‘lovers’. For instance, Hero’s relationship with Hugh seems superficial compared to the other two, driven by sex and convenience but lacking in deeper feelings. Belle, on the other hand, fuels Hero’s passionate side, allowing her to indulge in fantasies, some of which bear fruit. Nevertheless, it is Kate who represents the most lasting form of love for Hero, fuelling a mutual affection that feels harmonious and true. There is passion here too, but it’s a different, quieter form of desire that ultimately proves more satisfying for Hero, albeit tinged with pain as the story approaches its end.

In many respects, the novel feels quite progressive for its time, particularly in its exploration of gender and female sexuality. For instance, it recognises that at times ‘men can get shut up in women’s bodies and women in men’s bodies’, challenging the rigid boundaries between the genders. By embracing Hero’s affections, Kate Shafto is willing to disregard and disengage from the constraints of conventional society, valuing happiness and fulfilment above adherence to societal norms. Moreover, these personal stories are set against a nation in flux where the societal conventions of the past are giving way to more liberal, progressive ideas. There is humour to be found in Mavor’s sharp, acidic portraits of snobbish intellectuals bemoaning the opening up of art and other cultural treasures to the masses for them to be misunderstood or commercialised in a rapidly changing world. At one point, the town is engulfed by a typhoid epidemic, a metaphor perhaps for the challenge to time-honoured institutions, outmoded social structures and ways of life.

The characterisation is excellent here, especially Mavor’s skills in portraying women with depth and complexity. All three women – Hero, Belle and Kate – feel fully fleshed out. Complex, flawed individuals with distinct inner lives. I especially enjoyed Kate’s rather scathing views on Belle, a woman she finds rather irritating despite being good for Hugh in a dull, clinical way, like medicine or a pill.

Mrs Shafto had not fallen in love with Belle. The clear, direct, and to her ineffably limited personality of her grandchildren’s mother gritted even upon her strong nerves. There were no interesting corners in Belle’s nature for Mrs Shafto to dwell on or explore… (p. 103)

Moreover, the novel is not short on action, taking in a variety of surprising incidents, including a near-fatal accident, a mysterious typhoid epidemic, a destructive fire and a highly amusing all-night vigil to save an endangered tree.

Mavor also has a wonderful eye for detail, frequently employing unusual, vivid details, sometimes underscored with humour, to fabulous effect.

‘I don’t suppose,’ she [Belle] was asking with her frank gaze, and she smiled, cleanly and whitely, in a way that was snow and sharp-cut fir trees, whilst I by comparison was a messy Neapolitan back street… (p. 8)

Her bruises made her look like Charles Laughton playing the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Simply hideous. (p. 98)

There’s some gorgeous descriptive writing here too, especially in the passages narrated by Hero, from her wild, erotic dreams to drives through the countryside with Belle, conjuring up evocative images for the reader to savour.

We were tearing through a landscape which was the reflection of my love for her; those beautiful slow green rivers, pike deep in their weed; hills banked in opening leaves, threaded with ferny paths. Above us, because the car roof was open, the fire-tongued larks spread a light canopy of sound. (p. 81)

Mavor has been compared to her friend and former tutor at Oxford, Iris Murdoch, and on the strength of this novel I can totally understand why. (There are several references to poetry and classic literature throughout.) This is an eloquent, erudite novel, shot through with intelligence and wit – a progressive exploration of love and female sexuality in all their attendant forms. Very highly recommended indeed – I hope we see more reissues of Mavor’s work in the future!

A Green Equinox is published by Virago Press in the UK and McNally Editions in the US. Personal copy.  

Winter Love by Han Suyin

The Chinese-born Eurasian writer Han Suyin is probably best known for her 1952 novel A Many Splendored Thing, adapted for the screen in 1955 as Love is a Many Splendored Thing. Following its success, Suyin – who started her working life as a doctor in London and Hong Kong – went on to write several books, including the evocative novella Winter Love. First published in 1962, it is a story of sapphic love, the agony and ecstasy of an illicit relationship frowned upon by society, played out against the backdrop of a bitterly cold British winter in 1944. Fans of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair and Rosamond Lehmann’s The Weather in the Streets will find much to admire here.

The book begins with the arrival of Mara Daniels – a well-heeled married woman – at the Horsham Science College in London. She is there to study Zoology and immediately catches the eye of another student, the impressionable Bettina Jones, whom everyone calls ‘Red’. Red narrates the novel, so we see everything from her perspective, sensing her immediate attraction to Mara, whom she partners in the lab. Unlike most other female students, Mara is married, and her wealth, sophistication and good clothes mark her out as different from the norm.

As the winter unfolds, the two women spend more time together, with Mara inviting Red to her cosy Maybury Street flat after class. It’s a world away from Red’s damp, grim bedsit with its frozen pipes and dusting of cat hair. Here in the Maybury flat, a close relationship between the two women gradually develops, helped by the absence of Mara’s Swiss husband Karl – a brusque man who disappears for weeks on the continent.

The London winter deepened. It was bitterly cold all the time; and dark, the sun never there, round-the-clock glumness, dim to dark and back again. Yet this was my enthralled time, such as I had never had, such as would not recur…Only when my mind goes back to that London winter do I feel alive, instead of merely knowing as a fact that I live. (pp. 29-30)

While Mara does not love her husband, she remains financially dependent on him, a tie that ultimately complicates her blossoming relationship with Red. Nevertheless, with Karl away in Europe on business, Mara is free to spend her evenings with Red, the pair ultimately renting a double bedsit together to retreat from the world.

Our little world of trust and tenderness, world enough. Everything and everybody else receded, hazy ghosts in a shadowy play we watched, but nothing they did or said really concerned us. We were happy, and people left us alone…

We wrapped ourselves closer in our love for each other and felt protected, safe from that other hunger which drove the women to Piccadilly Circus and to the GIs. Yet it was when we felt most immune to change that change came. (pp. 85–86)

For Red, there is no security with Mara, only the constant fear of losing her, especially when Karl reappears from his trips. Neither woman feels any degree of attraction for the opposite sex; but because sapphic love is frowned upon by society, their feelings must remain hidden from others.

We know upfront that the relationship is doomed, mostly because Red is narrating her story from a point of distance, looking back to ‘Mara’s winter’, the winter of 1944. It soon becomes clear that Red and Mara are no longer together – the fault lines are there from an early stage, only to be cleaved open as the narrative unfolds, the stifling pain of destruction tainting the joy of love.  

But about this winter, Mara’s winter, I continue to feel its substance, the wrench of its happiness, like a pain, an ecstasy which flares up, despite what we did to each other; even when I was trying to kill it…

I was already in love with her. Right from the first moment.

Yet at times, I felt that Mara was a bad spell cast upon me, something I must break away from. I was enchanted, but also terrified. She had dominion over me, and I resented it. Writing this now, the old exaltation is back, and also the old hatred and desire to hurt. (pp. 31-32)

Suyin does a great job of fleshing out Red, revealing how an earlier painful experience of thwarted desire has shaped her mindset. At sixteen, Red developed a crush on Rhoda, her games mistress at school – a woman ten years her senior, who ultimately flip-flopped between Red and various men, almost as if Red was someone to fill a gap. Consequently, Red has little time for Rhoda when she reappears at Christmas, especially when faced with jealousy over Mara. Red’s Aunt Muriel is another well-drawn character. With her conventional outlook and old-fashioned values, Muriel is horrified by Red’s relationship with Mara. A particularly tense discussion between Muriel and her niece swiftly ensues, brilliantly played out in silks, pearls and tweeds at a London hotel.

The atmosphere of wartime London is also vividly evoked from the ‘sweaty, smoky little café, where taxi-men and the like ate fish and chips’ to the melancholy beauty of a winter’s afternoon.

There seemed no other sound on that Sunday afternoon: a cold and silent river, a languid flow of hours about us. London was all beautiful pictures, grey and silver: delicate airy buildings traced against silver sky, the balloons anchored puffs swaying in a sprightly wind. Even the sunlight was silvery. Mara’s footsteps tuned with mine; her heels tapped the stones, my flat soles an accompaniment to their neat tap. (pp. 14–15)

In summary then, Winter Love is an achingly melancholy novel of doomed love, thwarted desire and the pain of loving in secret. This beautifully written book is wonderfully evocative, immersing the reader in the wintry vistas of wartime London, complete with mean little boarding houses, illicit evenings in flats and chilly walks on the Embankment. I loved it – a very welcome reissue from McNally Editions, also recently published in the UK by Fox, Finch and Tepper.