Ladies of the Rachmaninoff Eyes by Henry Van Dyke

16 Replies

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)

23 Replies

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

34 Replies

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 20th 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

33 Replies

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 20th-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)

30 Replies

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.

In 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 is 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

43 Replies

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 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. 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.

The Lady Bandit by Emilia Pardo Bazán (tr. Robert M. Fedorchek)

16 Replies

Ten years ago, back in the early days of this blog, I read and loved The House of Ulloa, a feisty tale of contrasting values in which a virtuous chaplain finds himself embroiled in the exploits of a rough and ready marquis and those of his equally lively companions. The novel, a Penguin Classic, was written by Emilia Pardo Bazán, a key figure in the 19th-century Spanish literary scene. Now Penguin have issued The Lady Bandit, a collection of Pardo Bazán’s short stories, as part of their Archive series, and it’s a very welcome release, for me at least.

The House of Ulloa is an entertaining, picaresque romp, and there’s a similar feel to several of the sixteen short stories included in Bandit. Here we have darkly comic tales of fair-weather servants, trigger-happy priests and a notorious robber who finally meets her match. However, alongside the humour, Pardo Bazán also has an eye for the melancholic; many of these stories are genuinely poignant as relationships break down, lovers are parted and doting mothers are deceived. It’s an excellent collection, equally suited to new readers of this talented writer and existing fans.

The collection opens with The Pardon, a chilling story in which a mother, Antonia, fears the early release of her husband, currently in prison for the cold-blooded murder of his mother-in-law. It was Antonia’s testimony that led to her husband’s conviction; consequently, he intends to take his revenge on her whenever the opportunity arises. Pardo Bazán does a great job of dialling up the tension here; we know a reckoning is coming, but the question is when…

Such was Antonia’s absentmindedness that she didn’t even notice that the door of her ground-floor room stood ajar. Without letting go of the boy’s hand, she entered the confined area that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen, and stepped back, startled at seeing the oil lamp lit. A huge, black shape got up from the table, and the scream that was rising to the cleaning lady’s lips was stifled in her throat.

It was he. Antonia, motionless, glued to the floor, couldn’t actually see him yet, although his sinister image was mirrored in her wide-open eyes. (p. 9)

In First Prize, a wealthy marquis buys a lottery ticket, promising a share of the winnings to his faithful servants should they be lucky in the draw. However, when the servants hear they’ve scooped the top prize, all thoughts of loyalty to their employer go straight out of the window. In short, they are so eager to take advantage of their new wealth that they leave the manor immediately; only one servant remains, the cynical shepherd who scoffed at his peers for accepting a share in the ticket. It’s a poignant story in which the dismissive shepherd is ultimately rewarded for his loyalty as the narrative plays out.

In The Gravedigger, one of the most memorable tales in this collection, a young man is heartbroken when his fiancée, Puri, dies in the run-up to their wedding. Despite the doctor confirming that Puri died from natural causes, the girl’s fiancé worries that his frenzied attempts to kiss Puri during their final meeting may have triggered her decline.

On the night following Puri’s funeral, the grieving fiancé decides to visit his beloved’s grave to pray – and it is here, in the ghostly cemetery, that he encounters a shocking act of depravity, the like of which the town of Arfe has never seen.

From the moment that he got inside the cemetery to say farewell to his intended like the inamorato of Venice, he felt, without understanding the reason, a dread, a coldness, a feverish chill, a sensation that made his heart pound and brought a lump to his throat and paralyzed his legs. (pp. 42–43)

It’s an unnerving story – probably not for the fainthearted, but brilliantly portrayed.

An engagement also features in The Torn Lace, in which Micaelita, a bride-to-be, unexpectedly rejects her fiancé, Bernardo, at the altar. At the time of the aborted wedding, Micaelita declines to reveal her reasons for abandoning her fiancé, but three years later, when all the fuss has died down, she finally breaks her silence. In an unguarded moment, minutes before the wedding ceremony was due to commence, a trivial incident caused Bernando’s facade to slip and his true nature was fleetingly revealed to Micaelita.

But I also saw something else: Bernardo’s face, distorted and disfigured by the most intense anger; his eyes blazing, his mouth half-open, ready to utter reproaches and abuse…He didn’t go that far because he was surrounded by people, but in that fleeting instant a curtain was raised and a soul was laid bare.

[…]  Inside, something was cracking and breaking into pieces, and the elation with which I had crossed the threshold of the drawing room changed into profound horror. It was as if I had always seen Bernardo with that expression of wrath, harshness and contempt that I had just discovered in his face. (pp. 66-67)

An excellent story that demonstrates how seemingly trivial incidents can reveal multitudes about a person’s character, especially when they drop their guard.

Deception also plays a role in The Cuff Link, in which a widowed Countess discovers her jewellery has been stolen in advance of her niece’s wedding. As the drawers of the bureau have been forced, the Countess immediately suspects her maid, Lucia, despite her eight years of loyal service.

The traits of the kind, innocent maid, a model of self-denial, were being erased, and there appeared a cunning, astute, greedy woman who awaited, hardened by hypocrisy, the moment to stretch out her thieving hands and make off with the contents of her mistress’s jewel case. (p. 105)

The maid, however, is found to be innocent when a distinctive trinket is spotted in one of the ransacked drawers. It is not an employee or burglar who stole the Countess’ jewels, but someone much closer to home…

Elsewhere in the collection, a sharp-shooting priest puts up a valiant fight against a band of armed robbers, much to the surprise of his nephew; a couple raise their illegitimate niece to avoid a family scandal; and a shrewd female bandit loses her power when she is caught unawares.  

Finally, I must mention two touching stories that illustrate a lighter side to Pardo Bazán’s writing. In From the Beyond, a dying man worries that his two children will fall out with one another over their inheritance following his death. After all, it happened to him and his brother when their own father died. So, the dying man devises a test for his children, hoping they will reward his faith in their generosity to one another. Scissors has a similar, compassionate feel, a beautiful story in which a husband and wife love one another so much that each partner tries to protect the other by concealing the death of their wayward son. There’s a lovely note of irony here as this affectionate tale unfolds.

So, in summary then, this is a marvellous collection of stories, by turns chilling, shocking, humorous and touching. Pardo Bazán weaves a richly imagined tapestry of 19th-century Spain here, moving seamlessly from one intriguing tale to the next with elegance and verve. I’ll finish with a passage from the early pages of The Gravedigger, which will give interested readers a good feel for this author’s prose, which seems both elegant and eloquent in style.

The engagement passed quickly, a mixture of amorous conversations, innocent courtesies, and permissible pleasures, without the fiancé – a young man of tender feelings and highly noble character – ever attempting to seek, as a pledge of the arranged nuptials, even the slightest foretaste of future delights. Not because the fever of desire didn’t excite his passion, nor because he didn’t dream every night of the joy of pulling the petals off the untouched white lily one by one, breathing its perfume, but because in his fiancée he respected his wife-to-be, and the cloth that covered her statuesque beauty was as sacred to him as the trim of the Virgin’s cloak. (p. 37)

The Lady Bandit is published by Penguin Books; personal copy

A Working Mother by Agnes Owens

17 Replies

In this, her centenary year, the Scottish writer Agnes Owens is ripe for rediscovery, aided by Polygon’s brand new reissues of four of her books, with another three to follow in September. Having variously worked as a typist, a cleaner and a factory worker, while also raising seven children, Owens published her first novella, Gentlemen of the West (1984), at the age of fifty-eight. Short stories and another three novellas duly followed, of which A Working Mother (published in 1994) was the third. Beryl Bainbridge called it ‘a remarkable book, funny and sinister’ – an apt description based on Owens’ sharp, acerbic and unflinching style. It’s a prickly, slightly surreal portrait of the frustrations of marriage, work and motherhood, oscillating between barbed humour and dismal tragedy, all narrated by a woman on the edge.

In an unnamed Scottish town in the mid-1950s, Betty is a woman trapped by circumstances. Her husband, Adam, is still suffering from PTSD ten years after the end of WWII; their children, ten-year-old Robert and eight-year-old Rae, are out of control; and there is little money at hand to put food on the table. Betty, then, must find herself a job, particularly as Adam has struggled to adjust. Adam, it seems, is addicted to alcohol, having resorted to the bottle to dull the trauma of war. Unfortunately, this reliance on the demon drink has extended to Betty, who happily downs a bottle of wine a night to relieve ‘the heavy, sullen silences’ that ‘hung on the air like a thick fog’, particularly in the early months of their marriage.

During her search for work, Betty strikes lucky with an employment agency run by Mrs Rossi, a Polish Jew who passed herself off as Italian to evade capture during the war. Mrs Rossi takes a shine to Betty and places her as a typist with a firm of solicitors, where she becomes embroiled in a seedy arrangement with her sixty-year-old boss, Mr Robson. The latter, it seems, is working on a study of human behaviour in animals, which Betty might be able to help him with. Consequently, he encourages Betty to discuss her marital problems during their dictation sessions, while also offering her some extra work on Sundays at his home. Mr Robson, we soon discover, is prone to sexual peccadillos, paying Betty to undress slowly while he relieves himself behind a screen. It’s all a bit sordid, but Owens manages to capture the absurdity of the situation in true Sparkian fashion. (I couldn’t help but be reminded of Spark’s Memento Mori here, in which Godfrey has a secret fetish for Mable Pettigrew’s stocking tops and thighs!)

Also of note is Brendan, ostensibly Adam’s only friend, but also Betty’s secret lover. Brendan is a near-constant presence in the family’s lives, so much so that the children call him ‘Uncle Brendan’ as he always seems to be around. Brendan, who also struggles to hold down a job for any length time, spends most of his evenings in the pub with Adam and Betty, adding to the sozzled atmosphere that characterises these people’s lives. All this makes for a chaotic homelife, which Owens captures in her characteristically sharp style, shot through with barbed, deadpan humour. In this scene, Betty has just suggested a family outing to the seaside at the weekend.

‘Is Uncle Brendan coming?’ asked Rae.

‘Uncle Brendan has no decent suit to put on. Besides he once  said he didn’t like the sea. It makes him want to drown himself.’

‘I’ll come,’ said Adam, shaking his head. ‘I’ll come and drown myself instead.’ (p. 35)

When Saturday comes, however, Betty and Adam are rather worse for wear following a heavy session in the pub the night before…

Rae burst through the door. ‘Mummy, get up. It’s all sunny and you said you would take us to the seaside.’

Adam sprung up as if he’d been spattered by grape shot. ‘What is it – what’s happening?’

‘We are going to the seaside,’ I said joylessly. I arose and shuffled downstairs to face the litter of yesterday’s unwashed dishes. It was incredible how much litter could gather in one small house in one day. It would have been simpler to burn the place down and start afresh, but the insurance policy had run out. By the time I had washed up and made toast and marmalade Adam was stumbling around the kitchenette, displaying a bleeding chin from a blunt razor blade while he searched dementedly for his tie.

‘Perhaps you strangled Mai with it,’ I suggested. (p. 40)

Mai is a work colleague of Betty’s, an unmarried mother whom Betty effectively sells out for spreading gossip amongst the typing pool. By casually mentioning that Mai has a baby, Betty  reveals her co-worker’s status as a single mother, a discovery that scandalises Mr Robson. The next thing we know, Mai is gone, having been dismissed for being careless with her work, leaving Betty neither curious nor surprised.

Good riddance, I thought. I would go and see Mrs Rossi instead. Who knows, she might be in the mood to read my cards. (p. 88)

While things happen in A Working Mother, it is not a plot-driven novel as such. Rather, Owens seems more concerned with capturing her characters’ experiences, particularly Betty’s, as she contemplates the messiness of her life.

My life seemed to be a vacuum of desperate nothingness. Surely there must be a reason why I was sitting in a floppy divan in the house of a woman I had nothing in common with, married to a man who was my enemy most of the time, and the mother of children I merely tolerated. And Brendan, yes Brendan. What was he to me? A lover? An ally? Or simply a distraction, with his vivid-blue stare which saw nothing or everything? I must break free, I thought, panicking. (p. 69)

As the novel progresses, the tone becomes darker, particularly in the closing chapters where the true extent of Betty’s psychological descent is ultimately revealed. The more we read, the more we question Betty’s reliability as a narrator, as the architect of her own story, but I’ll leave you to discover the rest for yourself, should you decide to read the book (which I very much hope you do). What’s particularly impressive here is the way Owens pulls off this manoeuvre; by destabilising us with the literary equivalent of a sly cinematic jump cut, she prompts us to reassess everything we have been told thus far. It’s a technique that elevates the novella to another level, inviting readers to reassess Betty from a different, more tragic perspective.

Lady Lipton looked doubtful. ‘It seems to me you [Betty] don’t know what the truth is. From now on I won’t believe a single word you say.’

‘And you’ll be right,’ I said, finishing off the sweet, milky tea. ‘[…] everything gets so jumbled up. It’s hard to know the truth.’ (p. 149)

As Kirstin Innes states in her excellent introduction, ‘almost everyone here is hiding something and retelling a version of themselves’, Betty included. It’s a deceptively dark novella that requires readers to read between the lines to assemble a clearer picture of Betty’s life. Recommended, especially for fans of Beryl Bainbridge, Elizabeth Berridge and Muriel Spark – a discomfort read that might just get under your skin!

A Working Mother is published in the UK by Polygon; personal copy.

Other People by Celia Dale

20 Replies

Over the past few years, Celia Dale has become one of my favourite rediscovered authors, largely thanks to Daunt’s reissues of her darkly compelling stories of suburban deception, A Helping Hand, Sheep’s Clothing and A Spring of Love. Dale specialises in showing us how vulnerable individuals – particularly the elderly and those who are naïvely trusting – can be preyed upon by malicious confidence tricksters in the safety of their own homes. There is something particularly chilling about a seemingly innocent figure inveigling their way into the domestic space, and Dale leverages this type of violation to the hilt with her gripping tales of greed and duplicity.

In her 1964 novel, Other People, Dale applies her psychological skills to a classic coming-of-age story that will resonate particularly strongly with anyone who grew up in Britain in the mid-20th century. At first, the set-up might seem fairly familiar: a teenage girl’s world is turned upside down when she must share her mother’s love with a new arrival. Nevertheless, Dale’s penchant for exploring the dark corners of seemingly respectable suburbia emerges as the novel unfolds.

The story revolves around fifteen-year-old June Baxter, a bright and imaginative girl who lives with her mother in the seaside town of Havenport. June and her mother, Esther, who owns and manages a corner shop, have always enjoyed a close relationship, partly because her father, Raymond, has been in Australia since she was a toddler. As far as June is aware, Raymond went away to Australia to work, fell ill there and has been receiving treatment in a sanatorium ever since. Various letters have arrived from Raymond over the years, but June has no memories of her father and no emotional connection to him since his departure. Instead, her life revolves around cosy evenings at home with her mother – they live in the flat about the corner shop – her school days at Jervis’s, where she is on track for good exam results, and time spent with her friends. Like many teenage girls, June has an active imagination, which she channels into daydreams of becoming an actress, or a model, or maybe a fashion photographer, depending on what takes her fancy that particular day.

Everything changes for June when Esther reveals that Raymond will at last be coming back from Australia, as he is well enough to return home. However, the flat above the shop is too small to accommodate the three of them, so Esther thinks the family should move elsewhere. In fact, she’s already sold the Havenport shop and found a new house in Bristol. Naturally, June is horrified at the prospect of her life changing so radically, especially at such a crucial stage in her development. It will mean leaving her familiar school a year before the exams, breaking ties with her existing friends, and most disconcertingly of all, sharing her mum with her father – a man who is virtually a stranger to her due to his absence for the past twelve years. Nevertheless, when June sees their new home in Bristol, she brightens somewhat, buoyed by the prospect of choosing decorations for her bedroom and the opportunities a lively city will present.

While her mother manages the move to Bristol, coupled with Raymond’s arrival, June stays with her godmother, Auntie Norah, in London. Norah, a longstanding friend of Esther’s, is only too happy to welcome her goddaughter, and Dale does a great job of evoking the excitement and bewildering nature of the capital city for June, who is becoming increasingly aware of her own body and developing sexuality, especially in this lively environment.

But when June moves to Bristol, everything falls apart.  Before her father’s return, June was the sole recipient of Esther’s love, but now she must share her mother with Raymond. Moreover, the fact that Esther blossoms in Raymond’s presence only adds to June’s jealousy. It’s as if Esther is radiating light from within, a luminosity June has never been able to ignite.

This morning had been the first Christmas with him here, breaking the tradition of Christmases June and her mother had always had together, the getting into Mum’s bed to open the parcels, the slopping round in dressing gowns, the laying of the table while the goose grew tender in the oven. This morning they had all got up and dressed, and the presents had been opened after breakfast, in a room as yet hardly warm. (p. 116)

The situation is equally bleak for June at school, where she fails to settle in despite its positive reputation. Her grades plummet due to a lack of interest in studying, and she struggles to make new friends. In short, the halcyon days of Havenport are long gone, all because he – the father she now detests – decided to come back.

Where was Havenport, sunny and fresh, where Mum’s pretty shop with the china animals and the anniversary cards, where the familiar buildings of Jervis’s, as known as her own home, and Miss Chatham’s firm bosom and her voice making announcements? And her friends, her social life, going out to tea, playing tennis, parties in pretty frocks and the furniture all pushed back in the lounge, the radiogram, the prize for the best hat made out of newspaper, and brothers in blue suits or blazers from the grammar school? Where the dignity, the comfort of belonging? All, all gone because he had come home. (pp. 154–155)

The only bright spot in June’s new life is the occasional appearance of Tony Townsend, the forty-year-old son of the Baxters’ next-door neighbour, Mrs Townsend, a formidable, intensely private woman who keeps close tabs on the Baxters’ movements as they go about their business. With his Air Force background and bachelor lifestyle in London, Tony seems rather glamorous to June, and the pair strike up a friendship when Tony visits his mother at weekends. Tony, who is old enough to be the girl’s father, sees June as a bright, rather lonely kid in need of someone to talk to. While he is conscious of her burgeoning sexuality, there is never any question of him taking advantage of it – he knows that would be too foolish to contemplate.

In her deeply discontented state, June begins to fantasise that Raymond is not her father but some kind of impostor. If only she could find proof of his duplicity, then life could go back to how it was before, when it was just her and Esther in their cosy Havenport flat…

But that Raymond was not her father was a fantasy which took hold and grew in the darkness until, wilfully, she half believed it. […]

Between herself and this middle-aged, baldish little man she could see no similarity; and more significant than all this was the fact that she hated him. Yes, hated him, hated him! […] That he loved her there was no doubt; he had shown it in a hundred ways since his arrival, wooing her, sucking up to her, cringing to her. He longed for her to love him back, and because he needed it so much he feared her, was afraid of losing what she, looking at him with hard eyes, knew she would never give him. (p. 135)

This imposter hypothesis is given weight when June finds her birth certificate hidden away in Esther’s secret box. It turns out that June’s real surname is Banks, not Baxter. Moreover, she finds another document confirming that Esther changed her surname and June’s from Banks to Baxter when June was three years old. Naturally, these findings spark a multitude of questions in June’s mind, especially given her active imagination…

With June deep in the midst of adolescent rebellion, these shattering discoveries about Raymond’s past come just at the right time to fuel her discontent. In short, they provide all the ammunition she needs to break away from Esther and Raymond in a desperate bid to demonstrate some independence. Somewhat inevitably, one discovery leads to another, and when June learns the true reason for her father’s absence, she does what every self-respecting teenage girl would do – she runs away to London in search of the only adult friend who can help her, Tony Townsend.

I won’t reveal how the remainder of the story plays out, save to say there is drama ahead, both for June, who discovers Tony has a girlfriend of his own (something she has never even considered), and for her parents, who fear the terrible truth about Raymond’s past has finally come out…

‘…These things never die out. You can pay and pay but you never get rid of it. You think you’ve buried it all in the past but there’s someone knows somewhere, there’s a record kept somewhere, nothing’s ever wiped out.’ (p. 262)

Dale has always been skilled at creating realistic, fully fleshed-out characters, but her insights into the psychology of a teenage girl – one who discovers she has been lied to by her parents, albeit for her own protection – are very acute. She also nails the demeanour of a stroppy teenager, caught between the desire to be treated like an adult and the restrictive constraints of childhood safeguards.

Turn the radio full on, answer back, plaster your eyelids with green shadow, stare at the boys going home from the Grammar School, wiggling your bottom, laugh so the whole roof of your mouth showed in the middle of Scripture and take a detention with a flounce and a shrug, four out of ten, twelve out of twenty. ‘This is shoddy work’ in red ink, run up the stairs and slam the door on the uncleared table, the half-eaten meal, the baffled faces that did not tell the truth. (pp. 196–197)

As always with Dale, there are some wonderful moments of humour to balance the darkness, not least in her portrayal of the Baxters’ prim neighbour, Mrs Townsend, who disapproves of Tony’s friendship with June.

Mrs Townsend took a ginger-nut and cracked it between her teeth like a squirrel with an acorn – crack, snap, crack, toss the husk away, turning the nut in avid paws, nibble, nibble, crack, crack. Mrs Townsend did not actually toss anything away but she brushed crumbs off her chest in much the same manner, and June felt she would have been quite happy to toss June away if she could. She did not see how somebody like Mrs Townsend, old and dried up and sharp, could possibly be the mother of somebody like Mr Townsend. Perhaps he was adopted… (p. 112)

In summary, this is another excellent novel by Celia Dale in which she probes the darkness lurking beneath the seemingly respectable veneer of suburban society. Eagle-eyed readers may also figure out that Other People is in fact a kind of sequel to Dale’s earlier novel A Spring of Love, and while each novel can be read independently as a standalone, a knowledge of the latter adds another level of horror to June’s situation in Other People. I highly recommend both, preferably in the appropriate order!

A Beautiful Loan by Mary Costello

20 Replies

I have long been a fan of Mary Costello’s fiction, from her award-winning first novel, Academy Street, which charts the deeply affecting story of a quiet woman’s life, to Barcelona, an excellent collection of short stories exploring the distances between people and the emergence of fault lines in the closest relationships. In her ambitious (and somewhat underrated) novel The River Capture, Costello looks to James Joyce’s Ulysses as a touchstone, and there are literary influences too in her latest book, A Beautiful Loan, in which the protagonist, Anna, is deeply moved by the life and work of the French-Algerian writer and philosopher Albert Camus.

Like much of Costello’s work, A Beautiful Loan (the title comes from a passage in the Qur’an), is concerned with its protagonist’s inner life. When we first meet Anna in the novel’s brief prologue, she is looking back on her life as a forty-five-year-old woman, trying to ‘understand why we do what we do, or tolerate what we tolerate, or love who we love’.

…I am trying to understand what went on in my mind over two decades – the miasma of thought, of appetites and instincts, the little tremors of fear or shame; all those inner movements and emanations, those dimly perceived undercurrents that have agency over external actions and events. (p. ix)

What follows is a first-person account of Anna’s adult life in which she is drawn to, and ultimately distances herself from, two very different men, neither of whom provides what she truly needs to flourish. The novel is, in many respects, a journey of self-discovery for Anna, an extended search for the things that will give her life meaning, whether it be religion, literature, art or love for another creature – human or animal.

Having enjoyed a loving, sheltered upbringing on her family’s farm in Galway, nineteen-year-old Anna (now working in Dublin as a teacher), meets Peter in a nightclub, and her attraction to him is instantaneous. Despite the fact that Peter takes advantage of Anna’s drunken state to have non-consensual sex with her, Anna is consumed by love for this man and often remains at home, hoping he will call. Peter, however, is older and more self-sufficient than Anna, and his cruel, selfish nature soon begins to show.

And this is how it goes, this oscillating life. There is seldom a week when I do not experience some lurch, some punch of rejection, followed, a few days later, by a surge of elation. I am never free of him – he has taken over my mind. Alone, I cry. But he does not suffer, he is immune from suffering. Still, I am addicted to him and to these extreme feelings. I have never lived so deeply, so gravely, so intensely, and I may never do so again. (p. 36)

As their relationship develops, Peter proves increasingly evasive and unwilling to accommodate Anna’s needs. For instance, he refuses to have anything to do with her family in Galway and often spends his weekends climbing and hiking, leaving Anna unsure of when she will see him next.

–I’m not going to Galway at Christmas, he says.

I look at him, alarmed.

–Why not? I ask.

–I’m staying here – in my own home.

–But I always go home for Christmas.

–This is your home…You’re twenty-three years old, Anna, a married woman. You have to cut the umbilical cord with your family sometime. It’s not healthy, this…enmeshment with them.

It’s not healthy – this has become his mantra lately. You’ve been too sheltered always, he told me during a row last week, too mollycoddled all your life. It’s the reason you’re so gullible. You’ve never known hardship… (p. 49)

While Anna values having some time to herself, the flexibility to delve into the worlds of literature and philosophy that give her solace, Peter’s lack of emotion and commitment is concerning to say the least. (We are in 1985 here, which may account in part for Anna’s passivity when coupled with her lack of life experience. Anna also has a close relationship with her father, seeing him as the protector and provider for the family, and there is a sense that this might be influencing her perceptions of Peter. Alongside literature, Jungian psychology is also an important touchstone in the novel, particularly for Anna.)

I recognise in myself a certain contentment in submitting to Peter’s authority, and a comfort in the confidence  and certainty with which he makes decisions – all of which relieves me of responsibility, leaving my mind free to mull and wander. (p. 52)

Eventually, Peter and Anna marry, try for children and experience two emotionally shattering miscarriages, each of which take its toll on Anna. Costello excels at capturing the pain – both physical and emotional – Anna experiences here, while also highlighting Peter’s selfishness in dropping Anna by the hospital door but refusing to accompany her inside during the first of these emergencies. By now, of course, the reader is screaming at Anna, urging her to leave this man who continues to put his own needs before those of his wife, even when she is in acute pain. He also undermines Anna’s confidence and belief in her own abilities on multiple occasions, another alarm bell for toxic masculinity, if only Anna could heed it. Sometimes, the extent of his coldness scares her, destabilising her all the more…

–You have this notion that you’re different, he says then, that you’re somehow special. He looks me in the eye. You’re not special, Anna. You’re average, and ordinary, like everyone else. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll stop dreaming and grow up. (p. 53)

After eight years of marriage, the relationship breaks down completely when the true extent of Peter’s duplicity is finally revealed. Following the split, which is cemented by a separation  agreement (a necessary precursor to divorce in Ireland at the time), Anna moves house and finds a new teaching job to give herself a fresh start.

Five years later, Anna enters into her second major relationship, which also begins through a chance encounter in a club. Karim, however, is completely different to Peter, showing himself to be kind and courteous, initially at least. Through her relationship with Karim, a Muslim born in Algeria, Anna grows more interested in Islam, which, for a time, gives her the structure and meaning she needs following the trauma of her broken marriage and miscarriages. Camus also proves an important touchstone during this period of Anna’s life, particularly given his Algerian heritage. Nevertheless, as the months pass, the requirements of strictly adhering to the Islamic faith prove increasingly constraining for Anna, and she longs to break free. Karim, too, is changing, becoming stricter and more controlling over what Anna is permitted to do under the tenets of Islam.

I wanted to ask where in the Qur’an it states that a dog in the house is haram. I wanted to say, It is you, Karim, and not Islam, who made this rule. You and other men like you. (p. 167)

Finally, Anna consults a therapist, and it is here, during these counselling sessions which draw on the principles of Jungian philosophy, that she begins to see a way through. It is only by reconnecting with some of the pleasures she has been denying herself – literature, art, music, her family in Galway and her beloved dog, Boo – that Anna can find solace and a true sense of self.

A Beautiful Loan is a thoughtful, contemplative portrait of an introverted woman’s life, highlighting how sometimes it can take us many years – decades even – to find contentment and meaning. There will be mistakes along the way, things we will struggle to make sense of, even with the benefit of hindsight; nevertheless, by the time the novel concludes, there is a sense that Anna has much to look forward to. There is a genuine sense of character development here as Anna moves from being easily influenced by other people’s opinions and ideas (often considering them superior to her own) to becoming more independent and resilient. At forty-five, she is more experienced than the nineteen-year-old girl who allowed herself to be controlled by Peter, and more self-aware than the thirty-seven-year-old woman who was swayed by Karim’s initial charm and the beliefs of the Islamic faith.

Love and loss are recurring themes, as are self-examination and the shift from passivity to taking responsibility. Without wishing it to sound a bit woo-woo, this is an accomplished novel about individuation and inner growth, about a woman coming to terms with who she is, the choices she has made, and what she needs from life to give it meaning. It is at times an emotionally intense read that might be best suited to readers with an interest in psychology. Moreover, some readers might find Anna’s passivity somewhat frustrating; nevertheless, it’s an excellent, closely-observed, character-driven novel, very much in line with Costello’s other work. .

A Beautiful Loan is published by Canongate; my thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.