The Spring House by Cynthia Asquith

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Part war-torn love story, part character study, part portrayal of a young woman’s life on the home front, The Spring House is another brilliant entry in the British Library Women Writers series – in fact, I think it’s one of the most absorbing and accomplished novels in the collection so far.

First published in 1936, The Spring House is one of only two novels by Lady Cynthia Asquith, whose writing encompassed diaries, royal biographies and children’s books. She was also the daughter-in-law of the Liberal politician Herbert Henry Asquith, Britain’s Prime Minister from 1908 to 1916. While the book came out at a time of rising political tensions across Europe, it takes as its setting an earlier conflict – that of WWI and its impact on those who remained in Britain. The novel deftly combines social comedy with emotional perceptiveness, and we also see how war changes people, focusing predominantly on the upper-class milieu. There are also some excellent insights into the traumatic fallout from conflict on the battlefield, touching on loss, crippling grief and debilitating shell shock. It’s an excellent and immersive story, elegantly expressed.

Opening in May 1915 and closing in April 1919, The Spring House spans four years in the life of its central protagonist, Miranda Gray, a twenty-two-year-old British woman from a privileged background. Before the war, Miranda and her husband, Leonard, had been living in Canada, where Leonard remained stationed following the outbreak. However, when the war began, Miranda, accompanied by her four-year-old son, Pat, happened to be visiting her mother at Star Cross, the family’s grand country home in England. Now Miranda and Pat have been in Britain for ten months, ostensibly because Leonard is worried about the risk of them being attacked by submarines during their return crossing to Canada. Meanwhile, Star Cross has been turned into an auxiliary hospital, and Miranda’s mother, Mrs Moore, is heavily involved in its day-to-day management.

On the surface, Miranda comes across as rather self-absorbed, someone who thrives on admiration as confirmation of her value to others. Her feelings towards Leonard are those of loyalty and affection, not passion and desire. At seventeen, she had fallen in love with the idea of love rather than Leonard himself. Now the thought of him clouds her, draining her mind of vivacity and ideas.

Consequently, Miranda keeps a string of eligible men dangling from her fingertips, ready to ensure she is suitably entertained. A sequence of flirtations has already taken place, none of which lasted for very long. Rather, Miranda favours superficial relationships based on admiration without the complications of deepening emotions. Her closest friend, Gloria, who is nursing at Star Cross, considers these men to be ‘occupations’ or playthings for Miranda, there to provide the admiration she relies on. In effect, each admirer is a looking-glass in which Miranda can preen herself. Perhaps they are little more than ‘a succession of shifting illusions’, a thought Miranda chafes against, even though she realises it might well be true.

What did she really feel towards Richard? At present she felt in a state of emotional catalepsy. How tired she was of finding the exhilaration of a new friendship evaporate! As familiarity grew, glimpses of a rare intimacy faded like a mirage, and she had to admit that once again she had been attracted by a fabrication of her own mind—a sort of projection of herself. Objectivity sudden suddenly returned, leaving her with a sense of disenchantment. (p. 13)

Also of relevance to the story are Miranda’s brothers, Robin and Stephen. At the tender age of twenty, Robin has just finished his military training and is about to leave for the front as an officer in the war, which has interrupted his studies at Oxford. Young in spirit but mature in understanding, Robin is amiable, charming and intensely alive; his mere presence tends to enliven others. He also writes poetry; in fact, he lives poetry. Stephen, on the other hand, is four years older than Miranda, whom he loves in a protective way. His demeanour leans towards droll self-criticism, punctuated by periods of depression and a tendency to turn in on himself. The war has cut short his promising House of Commons career, while also quickly compromising his mental health. Naturally, Miranda adores both brothers, while also recognising their individual needs.

At first, despite all this activity around her at Star Cross, Miranda remains rather detached from the emotional reality of war. It still feels rather remote and unreal to her, and she oscillates between embracing social situations and the vivacity they provide and admonishing herself for pursuing frivolity at such a sensitive time.

For the moment her hurried, entangled life was too full to allow of much introspection. She was carried on from one thing to another. It was only in moments (frequent enough) of despondency, due to intense physical fatigue, that she had violent, what she called ‘downs’ with herself and condemned her present existence as trivial. At other times she saw herself and her life through a haze of glamour and felt a sense of momentous purpose in all her actions and concerns, however trivial. Each new friendship seemed an enthralling adventure; and embarkation on uncharted seas. (p. 111)

In time, though, Miranda is drawn into war work by volunteering as a VAD nurse at a Red Cross hospital in the South Downs. Following a period of turbulence, she welcomes the structure, order and immense satisfaction this activity provides, at least for a while. It’s also an opportunity for Asquith to offer us some moving insights into the realities of working life as a voluntary nurse during WWI.

Everything changes for Miranda when Stephen – back at Star Cross and experiencing what we would now term shell shock – invites a wounded fellow officer, John Marlowe, to stay for a week. At first, Miranda is a little disappointed at the prospect of not having Stephen to herself, but as soon as she meets John, all concerns about his presence go straight out the window. John reveals himself to be charming, bright and quick-witted, so much so that Miranda falls rapidly under his spell. She feels utterly enlivened by him as her mind dances with love and fizzes with ideas.

She had become someone else—an entirely different being, Leonard’s Miranda no longer existed. It was over two years since she had even seen him, and his letters were those of a private schoolboy.

Leonard? Leonard? She reiterated her husband’s name, but the sound evoked only a dim and fading picture. If they have been together through these crucial years, no doubt their marriage would have been cemented by all the little daily sharings, which, if there is any kindliness, create and preserve a sort of love. But the long separation had been fatal to every feeling except a strained loyalty. And yet through that restraining loyalty, she could see no loophole. (p. 183)

With her loveless marriage to Leonard thrown into sharp relief, Miranda must wrestle with her love for John and her familial obligations – but I’ll leave you to discover just how the drama plays out, should you read the book. It’s a story that encompasses loss, grief, deceptions and family secrets – and for Miranda there are moral choices and sacrifices to be negotiated, some of which she may come to regret at a later time.

Something Asquith does so well here is to elicit the reader’s sympathies for a privileged young woman who, at first sight, appears rather self-absorbed and emotionally disconnected from the reality of the outside world. The more we read, however, the more we warm to Miranda, largely due to Asquith’s skill in deepening her character. As the novel unfolds, we become increasingly aware of Miranda’s fears, regrets and dashed dreams, alongside her hopes and expectations for the future, all of which provide insights into the maelstrom of emotions that assail her. It’s a hugely impressive character study, highlighting the conflicting feelings and motivations many of us experience in our youth, particularly when we lose a loved one. Asquith’s razor-sharp pen portraits of minor characters also deserve a mention here, particularly that of Miranda’s frosty mother-in-law, Mrs Gray.

It was over two years since Miranda had seen her mother-in-law. She had almost forgotten her eyes were quite so narrow, her lips so thin, but how well she remembered that sort of sterilized look, like some material that has been dry-cleaned once too often. As always, she was irreproachably dressed, no—not dressed, ‘turned out’ was the word, in a perfectly cut tailor-made of neutral tint. […] Her daughter-in-law had the old uncomfortable feeling of being on approval; also that there was not enough air in the room. (pp. 192–193)

The novel also touches on differing attitudes towards war, from the overly romantic to the moralistic and dutiful to committed pacifists, such as Miranda’s intellectual friend and poet, L. D. Harvest. The latter even considers Miranda’s nursing work to be in sympathy with the romantic and heroic notions of war, such is his abhorrence of anything connected to the conflict, war poetry included.

As series consultant Simon Thomas explains in the novel’s afterword, Cynthia Asquith was no stranger to loss. In October 1915, her younger brother, Yvo, died in WWI at the age of nineteen, and then six months later, her older brother, Hugo, was killed in battle aged thirty-one. It is these experiences which feed into the portrayal of Miranda’s grief, insightfully conveyed through Asquith’s exquisite prose.

How soon might the memory […] cease to be a rapturous pain; fade into a subdued ache; gradually become uninsistent as the scent of a dying flower? She searched the emptied future. When someone very young died, it was like losing two people. All that he was and all that he might become. How much she had hoped—guessed—expected for […]. All this was now ended. She sickened at the blank stretching before her. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. (p. 88)

On a lighter note, there are also some lovely moments of social comedy here, particularly in the various gatherings and dinners at Star Cross, with Miranda’s Aunt Madge and charming family friend, Sir Horace Wetherby, providing much of the humour. Sir Horace is another of Miranda’s suitors, but while she comes to depend on his generous affection and companionship, anything deeper would be out of the question. Their interactions add another layer to the novel, highlighting once again the complexity of Miranda’s character. In truth, she is so far removed from the self-interested young woman we assume her to be in those initial chapters that it’s a very impressive transformation indeed. Asquith also has a flair for descriptive writing, peppering the novel with vivid scenes, from her atmospheric descriptions of wartime London to various trysts in the Spring House (Miranda’s refuge in the grounds of Star Cross).

In summary, then, The Spring House is an excellent, richly textured novel about loss, grief, compromises, the complications of love and familial obligations at a time of war. It’s also a fascinating character study that shows just how complex and layered human beings can be, even those who might initially appear shallow and self-absorbed. A very impressive novel, and I’m delighted to see it back in print! (My thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy.)

The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer

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Raw, unflinching and razor-sharp are just some of the descriptions that come to mind when I think of Penelope Mortimer’s fiction. Mortimer has an innate ability to portray how easy it is for an intelligent woman to descend into a downward spiral or emotional collapse, especially if she is isolated in a stifling, unfulfilling marriage to a self-absorbed husband. It’s a subject she explored with great skill in her excellent 1958 novel Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting, which delves into the horrors of a soulless suburban life. But if anything, her semi-autobiographical novel The Pumpkin Eater, which was published in 1962, is even more penetrating in its depiction of a mother’s slide into an inescapable mental abyss. It’s probably the best novel I’ve read so far this year, which makes it a shoo-in for my 2026 highlights, unless something unexpected happens between now and then.

The Pumpkin Eater is narrated by Mrs Armitage, a woman defined from the outset by her marriage to the successful screenwriter and filmmaker, Jake Armitage. Jake is the narrator’s fourth husband, and they have amassed a large brood of children – some from her earlier marriages and others fathered by Jake, but the narrator gave birth to them all. With the exception of the eldest girl, Dinah, the children are not differentiated as individuals; instead, they are either part of the older group or one of Jake’s children.

Much of the novel is related through Mrs Armitage’s discussions with her doctor in their regular therapy sessions, which Jake, her husband of thirteen years, has arranged. As she talks to this doctor about her feelings and current situation, the narrator’s backstory emerges through these reflections. Jake, we soon learn, is a particularly complex character, chameleonic in certain respects. The side he presents to the external world is that of an amiable, gregarious, ambitious man, sometimes lazy but often fun-loving. In reality though, he is selfish, insensitive, aggressive, violent and cruel – qualities that make him hard to live with as a husband and father.

After a modest start, Jake is now working and travelling on a near-continuous basis, rubbing shoulders with demanding producers and glamorous, temperamental film stars. While Jake has furnished his wife with every material possession and service she might need, from a large house in London to a nurse to help with the children and all manner of other worldly goods, he has completely neglected her emotional needs. Consequently, the narrator’s life is hollow and meaningless, and the only solution she can think of to fill this vacuum is to have another child. Jake, however, is vehemently opposed to this idea, creating immense friction between them, which often leads to intense outbursts and rows.

As far as Jake sees it, he has worked like a demon to support the whole family, taking on terrible scripts he wanted nothing to do with, simply to earn enough money to keep the family afloat. And just when some breathing space appears to be in sight, the narrator gets herself pregnant again, prompting Jake’s anger at the prospect of another child…

[Jake:] “…You don’t care about me, all you care about is the bills being paid and the bloody children, that great fucking army of children that I’m supposed to support and work my guts out for, so I can’t even take a bath in peace, I can’t eat a bloody meal without them whining and slobbering all over the table, I can’t even go to bed with you without one of them barging in in the middle. If you cared about me you’d try to understand me, wouldn’t you? All right, I’m a bastard! All right, I’m no good to you! But what joy do you think I get out of this god-awful boring family life of yours? Where do I come in? (p. 40)

As the narrator lies on the doctor’s couch, revealing her thoughts in a candid, unguarded manner, a harrowing picture begins to emerge. We learn how every aspect of her life has been dictated by men, from her upbringing to her choices of husbands and the nature of their marriages to the control of her physical and mental health. For instance, I was struck by how often men discuss the narrator in her presence while acting as if she isn’t there, as in this scene before her marriage to Jake.

“If I’d had a son,” my father said, “I’d have known how to bring him up. No problem. We failed with this girl here. There’s no question of it, we failed. It’s time she had a firm hand on her tiller, and I’ve got a strong notion that you’re the chap to put it there.”

“I’m here!” I said. “Why can’t you talk to me?”

My father leant over and patted Jake’s shoulder.

“Good luck,” he said. “Good luck, my boy, you need it.” (pp. 24-25)

The sections detailing the narrator’s father are especially revealing as we can see how her life was moulded by him from an early age. When she married Jake, her father dictated where the newlyweds should live, insisting that her older children be sent to boarding school to give Jake some breathing space at home. All this despite the fact that she was a grown woman in her late twenties with several children under her belt. Incidents from the narrator’s teenage years may also have played a role in shaping her current frustrations and emotional isolation. Mortimer reveals these brilliantly through memories without labouring her points, thereby allowing readers to reflect on these experiences themselves.

We also see how easily Jake slips into affairs with other women – often younger or more desirable than his wife – when these opportunities arise. At first, he lies to the narrator when confronted, but all too soon the truth comes tumbling out.

All this precipitates an emotional collapse that engulfs Mrs Armitage, culminating in a breakdown in Harrods’ linen department, of all places, which is heartbreaking to observe.

What did I come here for? Why did I walk, in the spring, along a mile of pavement? Do I want a bed rest, a barbecue, a clock like a plate or a satin stole or a pepper mill or a dozen Irish linen tea towels printed, most beautifully, with the months of the year? April brings the primrose sweet, scatters daisies at our feet. I am beginning to cry. I stand in the bloody great linen department and cry and cry quite soundlessly, sprinkling the stiff cloths with extraordinarily large tears. Oh, what has happened to you, Mrs. Enterprise, dear? Are your productions limited, your trusts faithless, and what of the company you keep? Think of all those lovely children, dear, and don’t cry as the world turns round holding you on its shoulders like a mouse. (pp. 47–48)

Jake’s response to his wife’s breakdown is typically self-absorbed and unsympathetic: “Do you think you’re going to get over this period of your life, because I find it awfully depressing?” (p. 48)

Unsurprisingly, the narrator’s doctor is a rather patronising man, someone who makes assumptions and posits hypotheses on his patient’s obsession with having children. For instance, at one point, he suggests Mrs Armitage fears sex as a means of experiencing pleasure; in other words, she finds sex without the aim of procreation disgusting, something that can only be sanctified by ‘incessant reproduction’. It’s an accusation she denies, but we wonder whether he believes her.

What emerges as the novel unfolds is a vivid picture of a woman in crisis, lonely and isolated in a tumultuous marriage in which her only viable role is to produce children and care for them – it’s all she seems to know how to do. Mrs Armitage is consumed by motherhood – and yet, she loves her children and misses them hugely when separated from them. There’s also a strong sense of her bristling against the cards life has dealt her and the lack of say she has had in these matters. In short, the narrator doesn’t know who she is anymore. She wants to be happy, to find a way to be happy, if only she knew how.

At one point, there is a crucial realisation. For the narrator’s marriage to survive, there needs to be a fundamental change; but the trouble is, Jake is highly unlikely to alter his ways, making it impossible for his wife to see a viable escape from her position. Instead, the cycle of arguments and Jake’s affairs continues, further isolating the narrator in her loneliness and fear.

So we were back at the beginning again. There was no end. You learn nothing by hurting others; you only learn by being hurt. Where I had been viable, ignorant, rash and loving I was now an accomplished bitch, creating an emptiness in which my own emptiness might survive. We should have been locked up while it lasted, or allowed to kill each other physically. But if the choice had been given, it would not have been each other we would have killed, it would have been ourselves. (p. 171)

In her excellent introduction to the NYRB Classics edition of The Pumpkin Eater, the writer and critic Daphne Merkin outlines just how much Mortimer drew from her own experiences – particularly her turbulent marriage to the writer and barrister John Mortimer – in writing this novel. Their early years together were vigorous and full of life, often punctuated by blazing rows and passionate reconciliations. John embarked on a series of love affairs, leaving Penelope heartbroken and robbed of her self-esteem – frequent bouts of severe depression duly followed. Like Mrs Armitage in the book, Penelope fell pregnant for the eighth time and ultimately agreed, at the behest of her husband and doctor, to an abortion and sterilisation procedure. These experiences also make their way into The Pumpkin Eater as Jake persuades the narrator to agree to an abortion and sterilisation to end her run of pregnancies. Naturally, there will be no problem in gaining the necessary medical authorisations for these interventions as she is being treated for depression.

As this brilliant, brutally honest novel draws to a close, the countryside tower being built for the family is finally completed, but we sense that it will not provide the idyllic future the Armitages originally anticipated. Instead, it looks ‘bleak and foolish, like a monument to a disgraced hero, a folly built for some cancelled celebration’.

I’ll finish with a final quote from this beautifully written novel, one that seems fitting as a passage to close with. I’ll be thinking about Mrs Armitage and her entrapment for many months to come…

I seemed to be alone in the world. My past, at last, was over. I had given it up; set it free; sent it back where it belonged, to fit into other people’s lives. […] I had found, or had created, a neutrality between the past that I had lost and the future that I feared: an interminable hour which passed under my feet like the shadow of moving stairs, each stair recurring again and again, flattening to meet the next, a perfect circle of isolation captive between yesterday and tomorrow, between two illusions. Yesterday had never been. Tomorrow would never come. (p. 212)

Lucian Freud: Drawing Into Painting

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Time for another of my occasional posts on art exhibitions and accompanying catalogues – in this instance, the fascinating Lucian Freud ‘Drawing into Painting’ exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery (NPG) in London, one of my favourites in recent months. The show closed at the beginning of May 2026, but the beautifully produced catalogue, pictured below, is still available to buy from the gallery and other outlets.

Freud is widely considered one of Britain’s leading figurative artists of the 20^th century, specialising in raw, intensely observed portraits and nude studies that shed light on the inner lives of his sitters. Many of his paintings are infused with a penetrating quality, an uncanny ability to capture (and possibly expose) a person’s vulnerabilities for the world to see.

I find them fascinating to look at, especially up close, mostly due to Freud’s excellent use of colour and form to craft these portraits, many of which were new to me.

The exhibition showcased Freud’s lifelong fascination with human faces and figures, covering several different types of drawings – from pencil, pen, and ink portraits to charcoal works and etchings. In addition, several paintings were also included in the exhibition to illustrate the relationship between Freud’s works on paper and those on canvas. Interestingly, Freud rarely used drawings as preparatory sketches for paintings; instead, he often produced them in parallel or afterwards, almost as another way of capturing an individual. He liked the spontaneity of life and how embracing its unpredictability can heighten the intensity. This probably explains the edginess and forceful nature of some of his works, and probably their directness, too.

As Victoria Siddall, Director of the NPG, explains in her introduction to the exhibition catalogue, Freud ‘steadfastly swam against the tide in the 20^th century. He never made an abstract work, instead choosing a frank representational approach drawn from life, which encourages the viewer to scrutinise the details of his sitter’s flesh, hair and anatomies, often with discomfiting intimacy’.

Works from all stages of Freud’s career were on show, including childhood drawings and early pieces from his student days. I loved some of his drawings from the mid-1940s, such as Drawing of a Young Man (1944) and Boy in Red and Blue Jacket (1945).

I was especially struck by Freud’s paintings of his wives and lovers, from his first wife, fellow artist Kitty Garman, to his second wife, the writer Caroline Blackwood (author of the excellent novel The Fate of Mary Rose), to his lover, the socialite Jacquetta Eliot. The artworks featuring Garman pay close attention to minute details, from her hair and eyes to the textures of her clothing.

Girl in a Dark Jacket (1947), oil on canvas

They are bold and unsettling, as are Freud’s portraits of Caroline Blackwood, with their disconcertingly large eyes and their aura of vulnerability.

Girl in a Green Dress (1954), tempera on board

Hotel Bedroom (1954) is particularly disturbing, depicting Freud shrouded in darkness, staring down at Caroline, lying in bed looking distressed. Although both are in the same room, the two lovers appear physically and emotionally distanced from one another, and it is this sense of separateness that gives the painting its disquieting mood.

Suzy Boyt and Celia Paul were also represented in Freud’s portraits, including one of his most ambitious works, Large Interior, W11 (after Watteau), 1981, which riffs on Watteau’s 18^th-century painting Pierrot Content, in which Pierrot sits near the centre of the picture, flanked by a man and two women, one of whom is playing a guitar.

Jaen-Antoine Watteau: Pierrot Content (c. 1712), oil on canvas

In Freud’s equivalent, his daughter, Bella, plays the mandolin, alongside his former lover, Suzy Boyt, their son, Kai, and Freud’s lover at the time, the artist Celia Paul. Sadly, this painting wasn’t on show, just the reproduction shown below, but it was enough to see what Fraud produced.

Some of the most touching and tender works in the exhibition were those depicting Freud’s mother, Lucie, in the twilight of her life. As a young man, Freud had a challenging relationship with Lucie, whom he found overbearing; however, following her husband’s death, Lucie experienced severe depression and her relationship with Lucian somehow improved, thus enabling the artist to complete an intimate series of paintings before her death.

The Painter’s Mother Reading (1975), oil on canvas

Freud’s self-portraits were also strongly represented – particularly fascinating as a means of illustrating his evolving style from the 1940s to the mid-2000s.

Man at Night (Self-Portrait) (1947-8), ink on paper

Self-Portrait, Reflection (2002), oil on canvas

The exhibition closed with portraits of Freud’s friends, family members and acquaintances, including fellow artist David Hockney, the restaurateur Jeremy King, and Lucian’s son, Frank Paul. The portrait of Hockney, painted in 2002, feels particularly poignant in light of his recent death.

All in all, a fascinating exhibition of Lucian Freud’s artwork, expertly curated by Sarah Howgate, Senior Curator of Contemporary Collections at the NPG, and David Dawson, artist and Director of the Lucian Freud Archive. The accompanying catalogue (published by National Portrait Gallery Publications) is well worth the investment if you’re a fan of Freud’s work.

Portrait of a Young Man (1944), black crayon and chalk on paper

Operation Heartbreak by Duff Cooper

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What a beautiful, bittersweet novella this is, the heartbreaking story of a man whose moment appeared to have passed, only for providence to intervene to grant him another chance. First published in 1950, when the losses suffered in WWII were still fresh in people’s minds, Operation Heartbreak was inspired by real events, but the less you know about those beforehand the better. It’s a deeply moving story about hopes and expectations, disappointments and dashed dreams, and the emotional pull of love and war.

Cooper’s protagonist is Willie Maryngton, who wants nothing more than to fight for his country in the cut and thrust of war. Born into a military family at the dawn of the 20^th century, Willie loses his mother in childbirth, leaving his father, a career soldier, as his only living relative. When his father and nominated guardian, Osborne, are both killed in the Great War, Willie is taken in by Osborne’s wife, who integrates the boy into her family home. Willie bonds well with the three Osborne children, Garnet, Felicity and Horatio (Horry), who are fairly close to him in age.

Even after his father’s death, Willie retains a romantic view of the Cavalry regiment and the powerful allure of war. His good nature, strong work ethic and steadfast reliability make him popular with the other cadets in training; nevertheless, despite entering Sandhurst at seventeen, Willie just misses out on being drafted to the front. Three days before he is due to leave, the end of the war is declared, dashing all his dreams.

What Willie feared was not defeat but that the war should end before he crossed the Channel. It was not unnatural. During the four most formative years of his life he had had only one ambition. To go into battle with his regiment had been for him the summit of human desire. (p. 16)

Meanwhile, the Osborne siblings are getting on with their respective lives. After training to be a doctor, Garnet joined the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC), where he has already been awarded two Victoria Crosses. Horry, on the other hand, abhors the idea of war and just wants to have fun, preferably as an actor, while Felicity’s aims are harder to pin down.

With little to keep him in England, Willie leaves for the continent to join his regiment two days after the Armistice is signed, but his time with the army of occupation is all rather dispiriting. Many of his fellow soldiers are restless and discontented, eager to return to Britain to resume their civilian lives. The enemy also proves something of a disappointment to Willie. In place of the fierce, brutal foes of his imagination, he finds them clumsy, sullen and often too anxious to please in defeat. It’s a far cry from the romantic visions of his dreams, and he soon returns home. Hunting and horse riding prove pleasant enough distractions, but the hunger for military service and battle remains steadfast.

During these years, although it may be said that he had found his place in the world and was occupying it with confidence, he never forgot what he had missed, or ceased to regret it. A chance question from a neighbour at a dinner-party, ‘Where were you in the war?’ a chance remark from an old member in the club, ‘You young fellows who’ve been through the war,’ would bring back a pang of the anguish he had felt when he was first told of the Armistice. And now that he was beginning to meet, as grown men, those who had been still at school on that day, he felt that they also had an advantage over him. (p. 30)

In time, Willie is sent to India with his regiment, and while it’s not quite the cut and thrust of battle he was hoping for, this posting is a fairly happy one. Moreover, it is here in India that Willie falls in love, but in the end, his romantic endeavours prove just as ill-fated as his military ones. In his naivety and innocence, Willie is enchanted by Daisy, an attractive, fluffy girl who was at school with Felicity Osborne. Nevertheless, following their swift engagement, Daisy does a runner, suddenly absconding with Coper Caffin, an officer in her father’s regiment, leaving Willie lonely and disappointed. With the benefit of hindsight, however, the warning signs were there to see.

She [Daisy] had given him something that he had not possessed before, and now that it was gone, he missed it. He had come to look forward to life with a companion. Now the companion has vanished and he was feeling lonelier than he had felt before. (p. 52)

A similar, albeit less enjoyable spell in Egypt duly follows, but the Army seems less important here, leaving Willie somewhat out on a limb. In truth, England seems to suit him best, and after many years away, he finally re-establishes contact with the Osborne siblings, who remain his surrogate family.

Willie’s days revolve around horses (both training and riding), spending time at his club and catching up with the Osbornes, particularly Horry and Felicity. Horry has carved out a relatively successful career as an actor, while Felicity proves to be as fickle and hard to pin down as ever. Once again, Willie finds himself falling in love with the wrong woman as Felicity’s free-spirited lifestyle has no room for the commitment and constraints of marriage.

[Felicity:] ‘Willie, I refuse to be cross-questioned. You might make me angry, which I have no wish to be. You ought to know me better by now. You love me and you must try to understand me. I know it’s hard, I am unreliable. I am wanton. I am ruled by my moods. I suppose that I am very selfish, and that alone would make me a bad wife. But I can’t change and I don’t want to. You must take me or leave me as I am.’ (p. 112)

As the years pass, one disappointment after another take its toll on Willie as his once amiable nature gives way to feelings of resentment, bitterness and suspicion. Having been passed over for promotion on several occasions, he has remained a Captain, while other, younger but possibly less eager Officers have whizzed past him in rank and direct military experience. The final straw comes with the advent of WWII, when Willie is deemed too old for military action in the initial phase of the campaign. Instead, he must remain behind in Britain to help train new recruits before they leave for battle. In fact, things spiral downwards so quickly that Garnet Osborne, now working as a doctor at military hospitals in Britain, is worried about his friend’s physical and mental health.

Willie was determined not to be sensitive. He fought against it, but he was like a man with some physical blemish at which he feels that others must always be looking. He felt that these young officers must despise him – a dreary old dug-out who had never seen a shot fired in battle. And feeling so, he began to imagine things and to detect sneers where none were intended. He became suspicious and distrustful. He took unreasonable dislikes and began to find pleasure in exerting his authority and snubbing his juniors. He lost the happy gift of inspiring affection which he had unconsciously enjoyed all his life. He was no longer popular, and he knew it. (p. 113)

Somewhat ironically, everyone Willie encounters seems to have had more experience of the war than he has, from Garnet, with his role in the RAMC, to Felicity, who has joined the Auxiliary Fire Service. Even Horry has now signed up to fight on the front.

However, just when the outlook is at its bleakest for Willie, the hand of providence intervenes, granting him an opportunity like never before. After a lifetime of crushed hopes and dashed dreams, now Willie’s time has come, but only if everything goes to plan…

I don’t want to reveal anything more about the story, save to say that the ending, when it comes, is poignant, fitting and hugely satisfying. Duff Cooper has crafted a beautiful novella here, eliciting the reader’s sympathy for Willie, despite his naiveté, bitterness and misplaced passions. He is a man caught between two generations, too young for WWI yet too old for WWII until fate intervenes. With his literary skill and flair, Cooper paints Willie as a decent man battling against the weight of his own expectations in a world where events around him have moved on.

It was a strange love affair, but Willie was beginning to become reconciled to it, as he was beginning to become reconciled to his existence. It seemed to be his fate, he sometimes thought, to be a soldier who never went to war, and a lover who never lay with his mistress. (p. 76)

It’s a sensitive depiction, as are the portraits of the Osborne siblings, especially Felicity, who has a few secrets of her own. Very highly recommended indeed, and another possible contender for my books of the year list!

Operation Heartbreak is published by Penguin Books and McNally Editions; personal copy.

Ladies of the Rachmaninoff Eyes by Henry Van Dyke

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First published in 1965, Henry Van Dyke’s fabulous novella Ladies of the Rachmaninoff Eyes is another exhilarating addition to the Faber Editions series, an expertly curated selection of rediscovered gems dedicated to showcasing radical literary voices from the past that still have much to say to us today. Its author, the black American writer and musician Henry Van Dyke, was born in Michigan in 1928, grew up in Montgomery, Alabama, and then progressed to the University of Michigan in the 1950s. Having abandoned his initial aspirations to become a concert pianist, Van Dyke began to write, producing his first novella in the early 1960s. In 1965, the novella was published under the exuberant title of Ladies of the Rachmaninoff Eyes, a glorious tragicomedy that also functions as a black, queer coming-of-age story. It is by turns witty, barbed, tender and poignant – think Truman Capote crossed with the drawing-room satire of Nancy Mitford or Ivy Compton-Burnett. I loved it and hope to find a place for it in my end-of-year highlights!

The novella is narrated by Oliver, a precocious sixteen-year-old boy, who lives in a grand house with his wealthy patron, an elderly Jewish widow named Etta Klein, and her longstanding black housekeeper/companion/sparring partner, Harriet (Harry) Gibbs, who also happens to be Oliver’s aunt.

Black, queer and as bright as a button, Oliver has grown up in a rarefied atmosphere, an eccentric hothouse in which he serves as a kind of stand-in for Etta’s deceased son, Sargeant, who committed suicide five years earlier. Oliver’s days are spent reading Baudelaire, composing poetry, lolling around the grounds at Green Acorns, and fighting off Della, the black housemaid who seems determined to seduce him.

Etta and Harriet enjoy a co-dependent love-hate relationship that frequently oscillates from one extreme of the emotional spectrum to the other. There’s a pithy bitchiness to many of their competitive exchanges, with Oliver acting as an outlet for their heightened emotions.

I was by now used to their chameleonic behaviour: they could clash swords one minute and the next they would be kissing; they could compose poison letters to each other one minute and request papal dispensations for each other the next. I’d learned not to try to keep track. […] They could not be separated for very long, not seriously separated at any rate, and they would use any means, no matter how outlandish, to get back together–-as long as they could save face. Yet, one day, one would have to die, die before the other. What would the surviving one do? They had woven a bickering, bantering tapestry together that was stronger than husband and wife, or sisters or cousins. And this bickering and bantering, this arguing, I was beginning to learn, was not to be made light of; it was a high seriousness, their arguing; it was the way they made love. (pp. 131–132)

Sargeant, we discover, was loved and mothered by both Etta and Harriet – the former by virtue of her flesh and blood, the latter in spirit. In some respects, the reasons for Sargeant’s death remain suppressed, by Etta at least. As such, the two women project all their love and attention onto Oliver, whom they plan to sponsor through college in the coming fall. Interestingly, Etta has another (older) son, Jerome, who is married to Patricia Jo, a rather shrill non-Jewish woman we meet briefly in the story.

The action really gets going when Etta invites the warlock/medium Maurice LeFleur to Green Acorns to make contact with Sargeant’s spirit. As soon as Maurice arrives, Oliver takes him for a confidence trickster, dead set on fleecing Etta for every penny he can get – her stash of jewellery is particularly at risk here. Meanwhile, Etta and Hariet are in thrall to Maurice, each competing for his attention like a flirtatious teenager.

Aunt Harry and Mrs. Klein did everything but turn somersaults to amuse him [Maurice], to coax him back into communication. In fact, they began vying for his attention, almost as though he were a suitor faced with a choice of selecting one or the other to woo. At first I thought my ladies were merely dressing up and putting on their guest manners, but towards the end of the week…there was no question that Mrs. Klein and Aunt Harry had gone way beyond the point of hospitality. Mrs Klein wore her jewels: ruby clips, zircon rings, brooches, earrings of white gold, yellow gold, and once she put on her most prized piece–-a cluster of assorted stones shaped in a huge teardrop, which she wore around her neck on a chain. (pp. 39–40)

Fearing they have a charlatan in their midst, Oliver approaches Etta’s son, Jerome, and his wife, Patricia Jo, for help in stopping the séance. However, much to Oliver’s surprise, they too seem eager to hear more about Sargeant’s death. Patricia Jo, in particular, feels that Etta will never be able to fully embrace Jerome until Sargeant’s ghostly presence has been banished from her mind.

It took Mrs. Klein several minutes and a sip of rum before she could readjust to the approaching ritual of Jerome for tea. Her satin frock seemed cold and its black sheen caught in her white hair for moments at a time. A dull brooch on her flat bosom looked at me, and sometimes her blue eyes looked at me, too. But she was thinking of—of what. Sargeant? Jerome? Huge baby-faced Jerome with his reddish hair and his dirty jokes. Jerome and his laughing. I wondered what Sargeant was like, what magic he held, even in death, to wedge such distance between his mother and the living son. (pp. 17–18)

Naturally, once the séance gets underway, chaos swiftly ensues, but I’ll leave you to discover that for yourself, should you read the book…

While Ladies was written and published in an era when the Civil Rights movement was gaining traction in the US, Van Dyke’s style and themes are somewhat different from those of his contemporaries, such as James Baldwin and Diane Oliver (also reissued by Faber Editions). Nevertheless, the novella illustrates that even a seemingly progressive environment, one that appears to accept individuals irrespective of their race, class and sexual identity, is not immune to casual slurs and prejudices, which can slip out during arguments or moments of stress. And once these smears are unleashed, the damage they create may prove difficult to repair. Interestingly, it is the black maid, Della – acutely conscious of her lowly status in the household and the wider world in general – who is the most attuned to racial differences and prejudices in the broader world, more so than other members of the household. For instance, Della believes that Etta is trying to make a ‘white boy’ out of Oliver, giving him ideas above his station that can only come to no good.

“…You don’t know a thing about living, kid, and you never will at the rate you’re going. Your soul’s going to be white but your skin’ll stay black, and Lord help you when you go out into that world out there”–-she pointed a long finger towards the acorns and oak trees, out, out, determinedly out where the world was–-“where no one’ll see how white your soul is. Poor thing. You’re so dumb about life it hurts.” (p. 32)

The novella is beautifully structured in a circular fashion, beginning with a pivotal scene after the séance, then spiralling back to show how the characters arrived at this point. Moreover, the ending, when it comes, is wonderfully poignant, managing to feel heartbreaking, hopeful and a touch humorous all at once.

There is a wonderful fluidity to Van Dyke’s writing, a kind of exuberant flamboyance that works beautifully with the scenario being explored here. The dialogue sparkles with barbed exchanges and acerbic subtext, while the author’s pen portraits of minor characters are sharp and insightfully constructed.

I sat across from Jerome’s wife. She was tall. Her hair looked enormously beauty parlored, but it had, for all of its intricacy of design, a good measure of dowdiness. If she had beauty, it was a cautious and polite beauty; and if it was not beauty she had, then her plainness was expensively disguised. (p. 52)

All in all, Ladies of the Rachmaninoff Eyes is a brilliant addition to the Faber Editions stable and the coming-of-age genre, which seems to hold an enduring appeal for many readers. Oliver is a wonderfully engaging narrator to spend time with, an intelligent young man with a distinctive, erudite tone of voice. Ultimately, the book is also an elegiac reflection on death, the passing of time and the loss of youth in a changing world.

Very highly recommended indeed – my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy of this thrilling rediscovery. (You can find my thoughts on some other favourites from the Faber Editions series here.)

Shame by Annie Ernaux (tr. Tanya Leslie)

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The Nobel Prize-winning French author Annie Ernaux (neé Duchesne) is definitely an author who intrigues me. She writes, with great candour, clarity and vulnerability, about various aspects of the female experience, including adolescence, sex, abortion and family, as her work demonstrates a keen interest in broader society, from aspects of social development and progression to the relationship between the personal and the universal.

First published in France in 1997, Shame is another illuminating entry in Ernaux’s broader project to examine various aspects of her life – an ethnological study of sorts, in which she homes in on various experiences, bringing them out of the darkness and into the light. The book, which is classified as autofiction, takes as its jumping-off point a terrifying incident that took place in the Duchesne family home shortly before Annie’s twelfth birthday. One Sunday afternoon, an argument broke out between Annie’s parents over lunch, a disagreement that quickly escalated into what we would now term domestic abuse.

My father tried to kill my mother one Sunday in June, in the early afternoon. (p. 13)

[…] He stood up and I saw him grab hold of my mother and drag her through the café, shouting in a hoarse, unfamiliar voice. I rushed upstairs and threw myself on to the bed, my face buried in a cushion, Then I heard my mother scream: “My daughter!” Her voice came from the cellar adjoining the café. I rushed downstairs, shouting “Help!” as loud as I could. In the poorly-lit cellar, my father had grabbed my mother by the shoulders, or maybe the neck. In his other hand, he was holding the scythe for cutting firewood which he had wrenched away from the block where it belonged. At this point all I can remember are sobs and screams. Then the three of us are back in the kitchen again. My father is sitting by the window, my mother is standing near the cooker and I am crouching at the foot of the stairs. I can’t stop crying. (p. 14)

By the evening, Annie’s parents had resumed their normal routines. The café they run was reopened as usual, and the incident was never mentioned again. Nevertheless, this sudden eruption of violence had a profound impact on Annie, precipitating a feeling of shame that remained through much of her adult life. Having never written about this incident before, Annie decides to examine it in detail, casting her mind back to 1952 and that extraordinary day in June.

To convey what her life was like back then, Ernaux examines the social context that shaped her upbringing in Yvetot in the early ‘50s, from her family’s social class and the behavioural codes in the local neighbourhood to the rules and regulations dictated by the private Catholic school she attended at the time. In short, it’s a way of situating the abusive incident in a broader context. Not as a means of excusing it or lessening its seriousness; rather, Ernaux seems more interested in exploring how social conditions – class, religion and various associated behavioural codes feed into the feeling of shame she has carried with her for forty-five years.

Revealing the moral precepts of the world I knew as a twelve-year-old conjures up, albeit briefly, the indescribable oppressiveness and sense of confinement which I experience in my dreams. (p. 57)

What emerges is a vivid portrayal of Annie’s home life in a working-class neighbourhood of Yvetot, Normandy, in the early 1950s, with all its routines and restrictions. Having lived through the war, Annie’s parents worked hard to make a success of their grocery store and café while also being acutely conscious of the prevailing social codes in place within the town. As we read, it becomes increasingly apparent that some of the shame Ernaux feels stems from being raised in a community that demanded conformity and acceptance. Fitting in with everyone else was the main aim here, while individuality and points of difference were often seized upon as failings. After all, no one wanted to be the subject of idle gossip in the neighbourhood!

People were continually spying on each other. It was essential to learn about other people’s lives, so that they could be talked about, and to protect one’s own, so that it couldn’t be. It was a tricky balance, “worming information out of someone” but not letting them do the same in return, or else just “saying what you could afford to reveal.” (p. 52)

People’s conduct was scrutinized and their behaviour analysed in minute detail, including the most personal traits; these signs were gathered and interpreted, shaping the history of other people. (pp. 52–53)

People were judged by their ability to socialise and mix with others. Those who were straightforward and polite were considered ‘good,’ while those who kept to themselves were looked down on and pigeonholed as odd or undignified. Politeness in public was valued above almost anything else; but inside the privacy of the family home, these external behavioural codes could be relaxed. In fact, continuing them in private might have been viewed as deliberately hypocritical or malevolent. Those succumbing to immoral acts were also widely derided.

There was an outright condemnation of divorcees, Communists, unmarried couples, single mothers, women who drank, who got an abortion, whose heads were shaved at the Liberation, who didn’t keep their house tidy and so on. (p. 53)

School also had a significant impact on Annie’s life. She was the first and only member of her family to receive a private education, which was seen as an acceptable badge of honour within the community. Religion and education shaped the guiding principles at Annie’s Catholic school. Consequently, pupils had to adhere to strict codes of conduct, covering everything from acceptable books and films to socialising outside school. For instance, mixing with girls from the town’s public school was actively discouraged.

For the most part, Annie was considered an excellent student – someone who performed well in class but was also talkative enough to avoid being ostracised by her classmates. However, another incident contributed to Annie’s feelings of shame that summer, and this time, there were implications for how she was perceived at school. Late one night, at the end of a long school trip, Annie’s teacher and a few of her classmates happened to see her mother in a soiled nightgown – not the kind of garment that should ever have been viewed in public, even in an unguarded moment while opening the front door. Although much less serious than the abusive outburst in June, this slip-up created a shameful impression of Annie’s homelife, suggesting something sordid and improper about her family and their values.

In my memory, this scene, although barely comparable to the one in which my father tried to kill my mother, is seen as its sequel. As if the sight of my mother’s loose, unsupported flesh and suspect nightgown had exposed the way we lived in who we truly were. (p. 93)

It was another pivotal moment in Annie’s development, which, together with the event in June, had a profound impact on her outlook and sense of self. Consequently, shame became a way of life for Annie, a part of her internal make-up and psyche that proved impossible to shake. Everything about her existence felt synonymous with shame, from the bedroom she had to share with her parents due to their lack of space, to the drunken customers at the café and those who could not afford to pay.

Something that Ernaux does particularly well here is to use the personal to highlight something universal – a sensation or insight we can all relate to in one form or another. Who among us hasn’t experienced something akin to the soiled nightgown moment, particularly where a parent or other family member is concerned? Very few, I suspect. Moreover, the fact that Ernaux attended a Catholic school feels particularly significant here, tapping into the ways in which guilt might be leveraged to ensure conformity with strict religious precepts.

In writing this book, Ernaux uses these incidents as a springboard for examining how shame was embedded in the society she was raised in, encompassing the links to social class, religion and the dominant social codes of the day. Like Happening and Simple Passion, Shame benefits from the combination of objectivity, clarity and precision that defines much of Ernaux’s autofictional work, making it a thought-provoking read for anyone interested in the social history of this period. Definitely recommended, especially for fans of creative non-fiction.

Answer in the Negative by Henrietta Hamilton

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First published in 1959 and recently reissued as part of Penguin’s Mermaid Collection, which focuses on unjustly neglected novels from the mid-to-late 20^th century, Answer in the Negative is an enjoyable vintage mystery featuring two amateur sleuths, Johnny and Sally Heldar. It’s the fourth in a short series of crime novels featuring the Heldars, a young married couple living in Bloomsbury with their three young children and an uber-efficient nanny. Written by Henrietta Hamilton – a pen name for the author Hester Denne Shepherd – Answer in the Negative is an intriguing whodunnit is set in the world of the National Press Archives (NPA) on London’s Fleet Street, giving Hamilton plenty of scope for exploring class tensions between dyed-in-the-wool newspaper men, fussy archivists and public school types. I liked it a lot and hope to see more reissues of Hamilton’s work in the future!

As the novel opens, the Heldars receive a visit from their friend, Toby Lorn, who heads up one of the divisions in the NPA. He knows the Heldars of old as his brother, Peter, who died in WWII, was at school and university with Johnny. Now, however, it is Toby who needs Johnny’s help as someone appears to be targeting one of his archivists, Frank Morningside, with a series of poison pen letters and nasty pranks. At first, the jokes were fairly harmless – prep school larks, dirty rhymes and such – but now they seem to be escalating into more sinister territory, leaving Toby fearful of what might happen next. With a view to avoiding any adverse publicity (always a risk when the police are called in), Frank and Toby decide to approach Johnny, who has form as an amateur sleuth. Somewhat reluctantly, Johnny, an antiquarian bookseller by trade, agrees to take the case, much to Toby’s relief.

With Johnny and Sally posing as researchers visiting the archives, Hamilton quickly introduces us to the main players in the office, most of whom are suspects. Firstly, there’s Michael Knox, the seasoned Fleet Street man who heads up the other division in the NPA. With his tough, no-nonsense manner and fondness for drink, Michael considers Frank Morningside rather smug, priggish and unable to take a joke, which has led to ongoing tension between the two men.

‘…[Frank] Morningside is’ – Toby frowned searching for phrases that would be scrupulously fair – ‘he’s a narrow man – a typical suburbanite without any experience of the world – a good man because he’s never really come into contact with evil, and from Michael’s point of view quite unjustifiably smug about it. That’s probably,’ said Toby parenthetically and half to himself, ‘why he sees evil where there isn’t any, and probably wouldn’t know it if he really did see it. Sorry; I’m wandering. Michael, on the other hand, has seen ten times more of the world than any of us, and knows more about human nature in all its aspects than ten slum padres and ten policeman put together. He’s extremely tough, in the real sense of that misused word, and he has many faults – selfishness, of a kind, among them. And he has no patience with – with untried virtue. So they’re at daggers drawn all the time.’ (p. 32)

Selina Marvell, Toby Lorn’s chief assistant, is also of great interest, particularly as her engagement to Frank was recently called off. Could she be out for revenge? It’s a possibility worth considering, especially given her public school background and educational record – the poisonous letters are becoming increasingly sophisticated, suggesting someone with a talent for writing, possibly someone like Selina. Michael Knox also fancies his chances with Selina, which probably adds to his dislike of Frank.

‘…And then there’s Michael Knox, who is probably unhampered by conscience, has some sort of record of violence, and had been drinking yesterday afternoon, when he had a quite serious quarrel with [Frank] Morningside. He seems to be in love with Selina, and justifiably or not, to have been jealous of Morningside. There’s also a history of friction over pictures for his book. Then we have Selina herself, who was engaged to Morningside, and was on at least irritable terms with him […]. We don’t know how bad the terms were, or why; there’s a lot that needs explaining there.’ (pp. 63-64)

Then there is Miss Quimper, a rather emotional middle-aged woman who looks after the photographic negatives. Frank, she believes, has been messing with her files, causing further friction in the office. Also of note are two typists, Pat and Pam, both of whom enjoy a joke, and the messenger boys, particularly Teddy, who skirts close to the line where rules and regulations are concerned. Completing the picture are the management team: Toby’s boss, Silcutt, who knows Johnny and Sally have been called in to observe everyone’s movements, and Sir James Camberley, another higher-up who seems to be conducting some research at the office.

Things come to a head when one of the key players is killed when a heavy box of negatives falls on their head. I won’t reveal who to avoid any spoilers, but the box seems to have been primed as a booby-trap for the victim, suggesting a premeditated murder. Thus, Scotland Yard are brought in to investigate, as the Heldars continue their sleuthing on the side.

While Johnny takes their lead in the couple’s investigations, Sally proves an invaluable asset, occasionally striking out on her own to follow an emerging lead when her husband is occupied elsewhere. Naturally, there are various red herrings and false leads that turn out to be peripheral to the core case, but they’re all part of the fun in this type of story. Much of the investigation rests on establishing the suspects’ movements over a crucial two-hour period, and a detailed timeline, with supporting alibis, helps to narrow down the possibilities.

The resolution, when it comes, is satisfying and convincing, which ticks one of the main boxes for this type of mystery for me. I had my suspicions about the murderer’s identity from an early stage, but it didn’t detract from my enjoyment of the book – quite the opposite in fact, as there’s a late twist in the mix.

The characters are distinctive and well-drawn, while the world of press archivists that Hamilton creates feels both immersive and believable, full of simmering tensions primed to boil over. The London atmosphere is also nicely conveyed, with the Heldars’ comfortable home providing a welcome refuge from the foggy weather and the fractious mood at the NPA. And although we only glimpse her now and again, the Heldars’ nanny is vividly portrayed – very much an old-school disciplinarian, but fair with it and well used to dealing with whatever life decides to throw at her.

Nanny came down, stout and comfortable and starched, and collected her supper. She was of the old-fashioned type, and a little apt to treat Johnny and Sally as if they have been her charges too, and not so long ago, either, but they reckoned her one of their greatest blessings. They suspected that she found the shop to be a slight stigma, but otherwise they seemed to measure up to her rigid standards. (pp. 48–49)

All in all then, Answer in the Negative is an absorbing and enjoyable vintage mystery – the novel’s title, as it turns out, is very apt! It’s another welcome reissue in Penguin’s Mermaid Collection, which also contains the excellent psychological mystery, Through a Glass, Darkly by Helen McCloy. I can recommend both – my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy of the Hamilton.

Coming-of-age novels – some favourites from my shelves

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This is a post I’ve been meaning to put together for a while, a celebration of some of my favourite novels in which the dark realities of the adult world begin to impinge on the innocence of childhood and the maelstrom of emotions this transition can trigger. It’s one of my favourite themes in literature, particularly during the summer months when everything feels heightened in the blistering heat.

There are several book recommendations here, some focusing on the advent of adolescence and a growing awareness of sexual desires, others more concerned with the loss, mortality and the challenges of survival in the face of political turmoil. Irrespective of the facet of coming-of-age being explored, each of these novels is a compelling read. Hopefully you’ll find some old favourites in the mix alongside some inspiration for the future!

The Island by Ana Maria Matute (1959), tr. Laura Lonsdale

Set on the island of Mallorca, shortly after the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, The Island is a darkly evocative coming-of-age narrative with a creeping sense of oppression. With her mother no longer alive and her father away in the war, Matia has been taken to the island to live with her grandmother (or ‘abuela’), Aunt Emilia and cousin Borja – not a situation she relishes. Matute excels in her depiction of Mallorca as an alluring yet malevolent setting, drawing on striking descriptions of the natural world to reinforce the impression of danger. It’s a brutal and oppressive place, torn apart by familial tensions and longstanding political divisions. As this visceral novella draws to a close, Matia is left with few illusions about the adult world. The beloved fables and fairy tales of her childhood are revealed to be fallacies, in stark contrast to the duplicity, betrayal and cruelty playing out around her. An unsettling but highly evocative summer read that deserves to be much better known.

The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley (1953)

No self-respecting list of coming-of-age novels would be complete without The Go-Between, a compelling story of secrets, betrayals and the power of persuasion, set against the heady backdrop of the English countryside in July. Leo Colston (now in his sixties) recalls a fateful summer he spent at a school friend’s house in Norfolk some fifty years earlier, a trip that would mark his life forever. The novel captures the pain of a young boy’s initiation into the workings of the adult world as Leo is caught between the innocence and subservience of childhood and the complexities of adulthood. Fully deserving of its status as an evocative modern classic – Joseph Losey’s 1971 film adaptation is terrific, too, largely due to excellent performances by Julie Christie and Alan Bates, who are ably supported by Michel Legrand’s lavish score!

Agostino by Alberto Moravia (1944), tr. Michael F. Moore

Another excellent novel about a young boy’s coming-of-age and loss of innocence – in this instance, the setting is an Italian seaside resort in the mid-1940s. Moravia’s protagonist is Agostino, a thirteen-year-old boy who is devoted to his widowed mother. When his mother falls into a dalliance with a handsome young man, Agostino feels uncomfortable and confused by her behaviour, emotions that quickly turn to revulsion as the summer unfolds. This short but powerful novel is full of strong, sometimes brutal imagery, with the murky, mysterious waters of the setting mirroring the cloudy undercurrent of emotions in Agostino’s mind. Ultimately, this is a story of a young boy’s transition from the innocence of boyhood to a new phase in his life. While this should be a happy and exciting time of discovery for Agostino, the summer is marked by a deep sense of pain and confusion. It’s another striking, evocative novella that deserves to be much better known – see also Stefan Zweig’s excellent story Burning Secret (tr. Anthea Bell), which explores similar territory in early 20^th-century Austria.

The Battle of the Villa Fiorita by Rumer Godden (1963)

I loved this evocative, immersive read, a psychologically astute exploration of the impact of a woman’s adulterous affair and subsequent divorce on her two adolescent children, fourteen-year-old Hugh Clavering and his younger sister Caddie, who is almost twelve. As the novel opens, we find Hugh and Caddie in the garden of Villa Fiorita, situated by Lake Garda in northern Italy. They have run away from their father’s flat in central London and travelled to Italy with the intention of reclaiming their mother, Fanny, to bring her home to England to reunite the family. The Villa is Fanny’s current home, which she is sharing with her lover, the successful film director, Rob Quillet, while he writes his next film.

Godden excels at portraying the emotional blackmail Fanny and Rob are subjected to as the children refuse to accept this new reality. At close to twelve, Caddie is too young to truly understand the depth of feeling and desire her mother feels for Rob, and yet she cannot deny that something powerful has happened to draw her mother away from their former life in the English countryside. It’s a wonderful summer read with plenty of drama and a vivid sense of place, reminding readers that there are rarely any winners in broken families, especially when children are involved.

Child of All Nations by Irmgard Keun (1938), tr. Michael Hofmann

Narrated by ten-year-old Kully, whose voice I found highly engaging from the start, Child of All Nations provides an eye-opening window into the uncertain existence of a small family of German refugees, forced to leave their homeland due to the father’s criticism of the Nazi’s political beliefs. Headed by Peter/Pierre, a dynamic, outspoken writer, Kully’s family left Germany in 1936 in search of freedom. In practice, however, true liberty is rather difficult to achieve, especially for Kully and her mother, Annie. As the novella unfolds, we see how the family continually lives on credit in well-to-do hotels, racking up expenses they can ill afford to settle. When Peter goes off on his travels, attempting to conjure up some money from nowhere, Kully and Annie remain behind at their latest establishment, effectively acting as collateral in lieu of payment for their stay.

With her beguiling blend of streetwise intelligence, natural curiosity and moments of innocence, Kully is a marvellous creation, hardy and adaptable in a myriad of situations. Her instincts are sharp, ever alert to the unwritten principles and rules, even when the logic behind them remains somewhat mysterious. The use of a child narrator, especially one as curious and thoughtful as Kully, enables Keun to subtly criticise the German authorities more easily than if her novella were being told from the perspective of an adult. While undoubtedly streetwise and intelligent, Kully remains a ten-year-old girl at heart, complete with the suggestion of innocence this age implies – a technique that allows Keun to highlight the poignancy and absurdity of the situations Kully must face. It’s an engaging coming-of-age story with a protagonist at the younger end of the spectrum.

A Wreath for the Enemy by Pamela Frankau (1954)

Some of my favourite coming-of-age novels feature a defining moment, a life-changing event where the innocence or simplicity of youth is shattered, ushering in a new, more profound understanding of the wider world. That’s certainly the case in Pamela Frankau’s glorious 1954 novel A Wreath for the Enemy, brilliantly described on Backlisted as the love child of Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night. Elements of Brideshead Revisited and Bonjour Tristesse also spring to mind, especially in terms of atmosphere and mood. It’s a wonderfully immersive coming-of-age story in which the central protagonist must navigate the tricky transition from adolescence to adulthood and all the attendant complexities this brings. Daunt Books reissued this novel a few years ago, and its hot, passionate emotions and lush, sun-drenched mood make an ideal summer read. A story that will almost certainly resonate with anyone who recalls the turmoil of this stage in life, from the passions, tragedies and shattered illusions of youth to the emotional growth that ultimately follows.

Voyage in the Dark by Jean Rhys (1934)

Turning to something bleaker for a moment, Voyage in the Dark is narrated by eighteen-year-old Anna Morgan, brought to England from her former home in the West Indies by her stepmother, a selfish woman who all but abandons Anna to survive on her own following her father’s death. What follows is Anna’s unravelling as she drifts around in a state of depression, moving from one down-at-heel rented room to another, slipping unconsciously into a state of dependency, turning to drink and sleeping with men in the hope of some much-needed comfort and warmth.

What is so impressive about Voyage is the way Rhys immerses the reader in Anna’s thoughts and emotions; we are completely inside this young girl’s mind, sensing everything with her, feeling her pain and desperation, her hopes and expectations as she is exploited by those around her. The novella is written in a modernist style, moving seamlessly from Anna’s thoughts to her memories of life in the West Indies to events happening around her in England. It’s a cruel, stark coming-of-age story – a painful, devastating book, brilliantly expressed in Rhys’ piercing prose.

There’s No Turning Back by Alba de Céspedes, 1938 (tr. Ann Goldstein)

Groundbreaking on its initial publication in 1938, There’s No Turning Back can now be viewed as a prescient, transgressive exploration of women’s desires for independence, autonomy and self-expression. By weaving together the stories of eight young female students living in the Grimaldi, a convent-style boarding house in Rome, de Céspedes presents the reader with a variety of experiences as each of these women must find a way to live, to shape her future direction for the better.

In essence, each student is trying to bridge the gap between the role society has deemed for her and the one she herself wishes to adopt. Moreover, she must consider what challenges must be overcome and what sacrifices need to be made to achieve her aspirations. With many of these women looking to branch out beyond the traditional gender-based roles of wife and mother, the novel explores themes such as female friendship, agency, independence, autonomy, ambition, desire, and fulfilment in a wonderfully engaging way. By focusing on the choices these individuals make to break free from their constraints, de Céspedes explores the upsides and downsides of progression through education vs work, love vs independence and personal desires vs familial duty. I’ve included this book because the protagonists are just on the cusp of adulthood, which presents different challenges from those explored in many of the other stories featured here. It’s an immersive, richly imagined novel that deserves to be widely read.

Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them or are thinking of doing so. Or maybe you have some favourite coming-of-age novels of your own – if so, feel free to mention them in the comments below, especially those from the 20th century.

The Passenger by Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz (tr. Philip Boehm)

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For a novel written in the immediate aftermath of Kristallnacht, a state-sponsored wave of violence, vandalism and imprisonment of Jews that took place in November 1938, The Passenger feels remarkably timely, charting as it does an ordinary Jewish businessman’s attempts to evade the Nazis in a Germany whose fundamental codes of decency have been superseded by the poisonous rhetoric of Fascism. Moreover, the book’s history and path to rediscovery are almost as fascinating as the narrative itself.

Born into a comfortable middle-class German family of Jewish heritage, Ulrich Boschwitz and his widowed mother emigrated to Sweden after the Nuremberg Race Laws were announced in 1935. He wrote Der Reisende (the novel that became The Passenger) in a breathless four-week stint following the Kristallnacht atrocities, securing publication in England in 1939 under the title The Man Who Took Trains.

On his move to England in 1939, Boschwitz, alongside many other refugees, was classified as an enemy alien by the British authorities and transferred to an internment camp on the Isle of Man. From there, he was deported to a similar camp in Australia, where he worked on revising Der Reisende to improve the story. However, tragedy struck in 1942, when Boschwitz, by then a free man, was killed when the ship he was travelling on was torpedoed by a German submarine during its voyage to Britain. While the author’s intended revisions could not be recovered at the time, we are now able to read an English translation of a revised copy of the novel, retitled as The Passenger, edited by the writer Peter Graf, with the support of Boschwitz’s family.

By writing The Passenger, Boschwitz has given us a searing insight into life as a respectable, middle-class German Jew in 1938, just months before the outbreak of World War II. It’s novel that finds the universal in the personal, highlighting how any of us could be plunged into a similar nightmare by virtue of our religion, heritage or race, should the political tides happen to turn in a particular direction.

The novel’s premise is a relatively straightforward one, but Boschwitz invests his narrative with an urgency that mirrors his protagonist’s fears as his right to exist is seriously threatened.

Don’t turn around, he told himself. Don’t walk too fast or too slow. Because if you stick out precisely when you’re trying so hard not to, if you look suspicious because you’re trying to look as unsuspicious as you can…My God what do these people want from me? (p. 24)

The story revolves around Otto Silbermann, a successful Jewish businessman who has lived in Berlin with his wife, Elfride, an Aryan German, for many years. Otto, who does not look Jewish, considers himself a good German citizen. In fact, he fought in World War I and has always been loyal to his country.

However, as the Kristallnacht atrocities begin to bite, Otto realises his life is in mortal danger, prompting him to flee his home when the Nazis start battering down the door. Armed with a few hundred marks, Otto goes on the run, disappearing down the back stairs as the Stormtroopers break in. Outside in the streets, violence is erupting everywhere; Jews are being rounded up while their businesses and places of worship are under attack. Shunned by his former friends and work colleagues, Otto must try to conceal his Jewish identity, leaving him little option but to keep moving; alternatively, if he tries to rent a room or stay in a hotel, his surname, Silberman, will mark him out as a Jew, as will his passport, which is branded with the letter ‘J’.

Should I even sign the registry with my real name? Silberman wondered. If there’s an inspection, they’ll haul me in right away, but if I give a false name I’d be breaking the law. It’s terrible. The state is practically forcing a person to commit an offense. (p. 39)

Boschwitz excels at showing how the tide has turned against the Jews – a gradual process over many years, now accelerated by the assassination of a minor German Embassy official in Paris by a Polish Jew. Essentially, it gives Otto’s business partner, Becker, licence to secure more lucrative deals for the company by fleecing their Jewish contacts, something Otto is angry and distressed to hear. In short, Becker’s greed, selfishness and inherent hatred of Jews come tumbling out, much to Otto’s disgust.

Knowing that Otto is vulnerable – that being Jewish in the current environment gives him no chance of consulting lawyers – Becker exploits his partner’s position by effectively dissolving their business contract. Consequently, he pays Otto off, giving him half the cash from their latest deals, despite the fact that the business was founded solely on Otto’s investment.

Becker had known. And it suited him this way. Now he has me at his mercy. He can rob me of my entire fortune in one fell swoop. The truth is I never fully trusted him. Maybe he’s just as much a scoundrel as Findler! Here he’s already pocketing half the revenue, but that’s not enough for him. He wants the capital. He’s already hinted at that. […]

And he’s a Nazi, too. He’s never made any secret about that. Maybe he just wanted to wait for the right moment so he could grab everything at once. A gambler. How could I have ever trusted a gambler? But these days it takes a gambler to do business with a Jew—no one else dares. (p. 46)

Otto has no option but to accept. At least, it will give him enough money to start a new life somewhere else, but will he be able to smuggle this money out of Germany? And if so, where could he and Elfrida go? Will any nation be prepared to accept them in these prejudiced and volatile times? Without a valid visa or permit, the passage to another land is fraught with danger…

I have to get out of Germany! Only there’s no place to go! To make it out of here you have to leave your money behind, and to be let in elsewhere you have to show you still have it. It’s enough to drive a person mad! If you dare do anything, you risk getting punished, and if you do nothing, you’ll be punished all the more. (p. 81)

In effect, Otto’s comfortable life as a respectable German citizen and businessman has been taken away from him overnight. Becker’s exploitation of his position illustrates that loyalty to the Nazi Party comes before any allegiance to one’s friend and business partner, even after twenty years.

Through a note left in their apartment, Otto discovers that Elfrida has gone to stay with her brother, Ernst, in Küstrin; but while Ernst, a member of the Nazi Party, is happy to provide a home for his sister, a fellow Aryan, he will not extend that hospitality to Otto, despite the latter having acting as his financial guarantor in the past. To shelter a Jew would compromise Ernst’s position in the Party, so Otto can expect no support from that quarter should he attempt to join Elfrida.

Throughout the novel, Otto is constantly on the move, shuttling by train from one German city to the next, his mood oscillating fitfully between hope and despair. Every choice he makes involves some level of risk, but to stay still is perhaps the most precarious position of all. As long as he keeps moving, there is at least some momentum to his existence, a sense of propulsion to drive him onward, albeit riddled with fear and anxiety. Nevertheless, every journey presents its own particular challenges, particularly as Otto is suspicious of everyone he meets. Are they a member of the Nazi Party? Might they realise he is Jewish, especially if his anxious behaviour gives him away? Will he be rounded up or betrayed to the authorities? The risks are enormous and sadly inescapable…

I can sense how closely death is nipping at my heels. It’s just a matter of being faster. If I stop, I’ll go under, I’ll sink into the mire. I simply have to run, run, run. When I think about it, I’ve been running all my life. But then why is it so difficult all of a sudden, now that it’s more necessary than before? Greater danger ought to bring greater strength, but instead it’s paralysing, if the first attempts to save yourself fall through. (p. 146)

As Otto ricochets from one city to another, he comes into contact with a variety of other travellers. Firstly, another Jew who knows someone who can smuggle people across the border into Belgium, should Otto decide to take that risk. Then there is, Gertrud, a sympathetic German girl, saving up to marry her fiancé. Would her fiancé be able to help Otto across the border in exchange for the money the couple needs to get married? Once again, is Otto prepared to take the risk? And finally, a sophisticated German woman who seems sympathetic to Otto’s cause. Could she and her influential husband be of use to him? She might, but it’s hard to be sure…

Something Boschwitz does particularly well here is to show how the prejudices ordinary Germans feel towards the Jews can ripple down and infiltrate the Jewish people themselves. For instance, when Otto runs into a Jewish friend in Berlin, one who clearly looks Jewish, he makes it clear that this man is putting him in danger merely by association. By being seen with someone who is recognisably Jewish, Otto can no longer pass unnoticed as an Aryan, and his desire to distance himself from this former friend makes him realise that he is little better than the Nazis themselves. There are other instances of this lack of tolerance too, not least when Otto finds himself travelling alongside other Jews on a train.

There are too many Jews on the train, Silberman thought. And that puts every one of us in danger. As it is I have all of you to thank for this: if you didn’t exist I could live in peace. But because you do, I’m forced to share your misfortune! I’m no different from anybody else, but maybe you truly are different and I don’t belong in your group. I’m not one of you. Indeed, if it weren’t for you, they wouldn’t be persecuting me. I could remain a normal citizen. But because you exist, I will be annihilated along with you. And yet we really have nothing to do with one another! (p. 172–173)

As this propulsive novel hurtles towards its chilling denouement, Otto finds himself trapped in a Catch-22 situation when his money is stolen. If he reports the theft, his surname will out him as a Jew, leaving him open to capture by the Nazis; however, without the cash, Otto has little chance of either bribing his way out of the country or buying some time in the hope that the current crackdown will ease. Faced with an impossible choice, Otto seems to abandon all hope and reason as he plunges inexorably into a vortex of despair…

In light of the recent rise in antisemitism, The Passenger is an extremely timely read – propulsive, urgent and utterly terrifying. There are echoes of other stories of fear, discrimination and displacement here, from Anna Seghers’ novel Transit, Sally Carson’s Crooked Cross and Emeric Pressburger’s The Glass Pearls (all excellent) to classic Hitchcock thrillers such as The 39 Steps, Notorious and The Lady Vanishes. Like many of these works, there’s an existential dimension to Boschwitz’s novel, the feeling of being trapped in a bureaucratic nightmare from which there is no apparent escape. Nevertheless, this is a nuanced story in which the characters are fleshed out in shades of grey, rather than feeling stereotypical black or white.

It’s a very prescient release from Pushkin Press, a testament to the importance of demonstrating compassion and humanity in the darkest of times when all codes of human decency and moral values are on the brink of being abandoned. My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

The Battle of the Villa Fiorita by Rumer Godden

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The transition from childhood to adulthood is one of my favourite themes in literature, partly because takes a particular type of writer to capture the awkwardness of adolescence, when a character is becoming conscious of the sexual desires and tensions of the adult world without fully understanding them. It’s a rich seam for powerful fiction, and Rumer Godden mines it with great insight and skill in her excellent novel The Battle of the Villa Fiorita, first published in 1963. In short, I loved this evocative, immersive read, a psychologically astute exploration of the impact of a woman’s adulterous affair and subsequent divorce on her two adolescent children, fourteen-year-old Hugh Clavering and his younger sister Caddie, who is almost twelve.

As the novel opens, we find Hugh and Caddie in the garden of Villa Fiorita, situated by Lake Garda in northern Italy. They have run away from their father’s flat in central London and travelled to Italy with the intention of reclaiming their mother, Fanny, to bring her home to England, where the family can be reunited. The Villa is Fanny’s current home, which she is sharing with her lover, the successful film director Rob Quillet, while he writes his next film. The children have not met Rob before; nevertheless, they are aware of their mother’s divorce from their father, Darrell, the broad reasons for the split, and her intention to marry Rob. When the children see Fanny and Rob together for the first time, it is Hugh who begins to see the former in a new light. Until now, she has simply been his mother, someone to comfort him and attend to his needs. But here, in the sun-drenched surroundings of the Villa Fiorita, Fanny is one half of a loving couple, while her partner is a very different man from Hugh’s father.

Hugh could not see them clearly; the whole garden and the lake had become a blur, but, standing in that flood of evening light, framed against the green leaves and the spirals of mauve flowers, they looked illuminated, glorified. ‘A couple,’ Hugh thought before he could stifle the thought, not his mother and Rob Quillet but a man and a woman close together.

As Hugh and Caddie watched she looked up at him and laughed; his arm was round her shoulders, now his hand touched her neck, caressing it.

Hugh and Caddie had seen their father kiss Fanny’s cheek or forehead often enough, pat her head or shoulder, but this was the first time they had surprised a grown-up person in a moment of real tenderness. And a tenderness of ownership, Hugh could have said. (p. 26)

Godden is very adept at moving seamlessly between the novel’s past and present, showing the reader how Fanny and Rob got to this point in their relationship, which has shattered the Clavering family into pieces. Through flashbacks, we see Fanny’s comfortable but dull marriage to Darrell, who is frequently away for long periods of time with his job, leaving Fanny to manage the children, Hugh, Caddie and their older sister, Philippa (now seventeen) and Stebbings, the Claverings’ substantial home in Whitcross.

Everything changes for Fanny with the arrival of Rob, who has come to Whitcross to shoot his latest film. A chance meeting in the village shop is soon followed by a dinner party, during which Rob is mesmerised by this slightly gauche, innocent married woman. He peruses Fanny avidly, and despite trying to fight her feelings of desire for this passionate newcomer, Fanny ultimately succumbs.

Godden makes these flashbacks feel vivid and utterly believable, including a scene in which Fanny comes close to being forced to have sex with Darrell – what we would now term marital rape – when he detects that something is amiss in their marriage. It’s probably one of the tensest, most terrifying passages I can recall reading, mostly because it feels so authentic and might still happen today.

He bent his head to kiss her again. She tried not to shrink, but she shrank. He held her firmly, closer. ‘Darrell, please don’t.’

‘Why, what’s the matter?’

This, thought Fanny to herself, is where you use control. Other women…but it was no use thinking of other women. He was holding her closer still, and before she could stop herself she had cried out, ‘Darrell! Please don’t touch me.’

‘Don’t touch you?’ The blue eyes looked so astonished and hurt that Fanny fought again to control herself. This was not Darrell’s fault and she did not want him to be hurt, any more than Danny, she thought, and caught herself back, but there was something as simple and noble as an animal about Darrell. ‘Not touch you? I’m your husband.’ She tried to be still, but when that possessive hold tightened, the panic came up again.

‘I can’t.’ Now the struggling was growing frantic. ‘I can’t. Perhaps never again.’ (pp. 93–94)

When Darrell is granted custody of Hugh and Caddie in the divorce settlement, he decides they will live in his central London flat during the school holidays. But while Darrell thinks he has come up with the perfect solution for children, appointing their former nanny, Gwyneth, as a housekeeper to replace Fanny, Hugh and Caddie have other ideas. This new existence will be so different to the warmth and familiarity of their lives at Stebbings that they refuse to comply. So they sell Caddie’s beloved pony, Topaz, give Gwyneth the slip, and use the proceeds to buy their train tickets to Italy with the aim of winning Fanny back.

Back in Italy, Fanny is astonished to see Caddie and Hugh at the Villa, while also being impressed by their determination and resourcefulness in coming so far on their own. Rob, however, is unsettled by the children’s arrival, sensing trouble ahead and a battle for Fanny’s heart. Consequently, he arranges for the children to be flown back to London on a flight from Milan that very evening, as they have travelled without their father’s permission. Nevertheless, he can sense in Caddie a deep feeling of grief for everything she has lost – not least because the young girl reminds him so much of Fanny, the woman he truly loves.

Rob knew real grief when he saw it, and watching Caddie, he began to sense what this journey had been and what lay behind it. Caddie had not a glance to spare for him, or for Celestina or Giulietta, and in that torrent of feeling there was no anger or jealousy, only grief. What was more, he saw Fanny in Caddie; in the brown eyes, the hair whose ginger held a promise of Fanny’s bronze, and just so had Fanny often wept. (pp. 29–30)

Needless to say, complications ensue, and the children’s stay at the Villa is unavoidably extended to a fortnight, giving Caddie and Hugh more time to work their magic on Fanny. As the days slip by, Fanny finds herself increasingly torn between her passionate desire for Rob and her maternal love for the children.

The situation is exacerbated when Rob sends for his ten-year-old daughter, Pia, whom he hopes will be company for Fanny’s children. Pia, poised, beautiful and immaculately dressed, immediately dismisses Caddie as insignificant, despite Caddie’s fascination with Pia’s life in Rome with her Italian Nonna. Pia, Caddie soon discovers, is also horrified by the prospect of Rob marrying Fanny, whom she considers neither chic nor elegant, and therefore unsuitable for her father. When Pia strikes up a friendship with Hugh, who finds himself drawn to this aloof girl, this alienates Caddie further, culminating in significant drama as a meteorological storm sweeps across the lake, mirroring the emotional turmoil within the Villa itself.

Godden excels at portraying the emotional blackmail Fanny and Rob are subjected to as the children refuse to accept this new reality. At close to twelve, Caddie is too young to truly understand the depth of feeling and desire her mother feels for Rob, and yet she cannot deny that something powerful has happened to draw her mother away from their former life at Stebbings. Hugh, meanwhile – that little bit older at fourteen – is becoming increasingly conscious of sex, fuelled by the boastful taunting of Raymond, a rather coarse older boy at his boarding school. Nevertheless, Hugh is unsure as to what girls expect from a boy his age – Kisses? Touching? Something more? – and an unguarded encounter with Giulietta, the friendly, curvaceous housemaid, leaves him burning with embarrassment.

Godden is, of course, best known for Black Narcissus, her evocative story of nuns, misguided actions and repressed female desire, famously filmed by Powell and Pressburger in 1947, but I was knocked out by the emotional depth and complexity of Villa Fiorita – it really is spectacularly good!. As with Narcissus, the sense of place is also remarkably strong here, underscored by Godden’s evocative descriptions of the Villa’s gardens and surroundings, Celestina’s delicious cooking, and descriptions of the children’s gruelling journey from Victoria to rural Italy.

There was a spluttering, now and then, from an outboard motor, the grander rush of a speedboat and, every hour or so, the distant churning of the steamers on their way from Riva to Limone, Limone to Malcesine. Sometimes greetings were called across the water; Celestina’s voice rang out as she shouted to Giacomino or Giulietta, or the postwoman, or the butcher in his white apron with his napkin-covered basket, or to the old milkwoman who wore the black and brown striped skirt, black shawl, and kerchief of the peasant women and brought the milk in old wine-bottles… (p. 62)

It’s a wonderful summer read with plenty of drama, reminding readers that there are rarely any winners in broken families, especially when children are involved.

The Battle of the Villa Fiorita is published by Virago; personal copy.