Tag Archives: #ReadWomen

Shame by Annie Ernaux (tr. Tanya Leslie)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Answer in the Negative by Henrietta Hamilton

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First published in 1959 and recently reissued as part of Penguin’s Mermaid Collection, which focuses on unjustly neglected novels from the mid-to-late 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.

The Battle of the Villa Fiorita by Rumer Godden

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

As the novel opens, we find Hugh and Caddie in the garden of Villa Fiorita, situated by Lake Garda in northern Italy. They have run away from their father’s flat in central London and travelled to Italy with the intention of reclaiming their mother, Fanny, to bring her home to England 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)

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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

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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

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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

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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.

Incidents in the Rue Laugier by Anita Brookner

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I love Anita Brookner. Her insights into the loneliness and isolation that characterise her protagonists’ lives are painfully acute. Every time I read her, I seem to discover a new favourite, and her superb 1995 novel, Incidents in the Rue Laugier, is no exception to that rule.

A little like its predecessor, A Private View, Incidents is somewhat different from Brookner’s trademark stories of unmarried women living quiet, unfulfilled lives while waiting for their unattainable lovers to make fleeting appearances before disappearing into the night. In this instance, she turns her attention to a young woman, the sexually inexperienced Maud Gonthier, whose life is cruelly shaped by an ill-advised love affair at an impressionable age.

The novel features an intriguing framing device in which Maud’s adult daughter, Maffy, discovers a notebook containing a few mysterious phrases after her mother’s death. Maud had always kept her cards very close to her chest, so Maffy uses these notes to imagine the story of her mother’s life – Maud’s doomed love affair with the charismatic David Tyler and her subsequent marriage to Maffy’s father, Edward, an antiquarian bookseller, now also deceased.

She had been a Maud Gonthier from Dijon, bought up to expect something better than the provincial restrictions which had stifled her as a girl. She never found it, at least not with my father. Boredom softened her slightly crossed face into a contemplated frown, as if she were puzzled, as if she had mislaid something of considerable significance. My father, a disappointed man, left her to her own devices, thinking she had brought these troubles on herself. In fact, he was jealous of her, of her silence, her composure; he even envied her melancholy, which conferred on her a distinction which nature had denied to him (p. 1)

It’s a sophisticated, exquisitely written novel featuring complex, nuanced characters that feel fully fleshed out. Although the novel begins in 1971 when Maud is eighteen, it could just as easily be set in 1951 or even 1931, partly because the worlds Brookner creates often seem suspended in time, situated in the broad realm of the early to mid-20th century.

Following her husband’s early death from TB, Maud’s mother, Nadine, pours all her energies into giving her daughter an excellent education, hoping she will marry well despite her humble beginnings. During their annual holiday at Aunt Germaine’s grand country house, Maud meets David Tyler, the dashing young friend of her cousin, Xavier, who has been studying at Cambridge. Tyler is accompanied by another university friend, Edward Harrison, who is quieter and more responsible than this serial heartbreaker. Their afternoons are spent playing tennis with two local girls, Patricia and Marie-Paule, who are much more flirtatious and sexually experienced than Maud – an aura that Tyler seizes upon as he disappears into the garden’s summer house with Patricia and Marie-Paule. Their openly sexual exploits leave Maud feeling awkward and lonely compared to these intimidating girls, who clearly see her as somewhat inferior.

Meanwhile, Edward is intrigued by Maud, even though he finds her a little aloof. To his mild disappointment, Edward has recently inherited an antiquarian bookshop in London from a godfather of sorts – a business he doesn’t know what to do with, viewing it as something of a bind. In truth, he would like to travel without the responsibility of the bookshop hanging over his head.

One afternoon, Maud is gently seduced by Tyler, whom she has fallen hopelessly in love with. Much to her aunt’s horror, Maud decides to travel to Paris with Tyler and Edward as she is shortly to visit England for an exchange-style holiday with her pen pal, Jean. While in Paris, the three youngsters stay in a comfortable flat owned by wealthy friends of Tyler’s father, and it is here in the Rue Laugier – the fateful street that gives this novel its title – that Maud and Tyler’s affair is cemented. As Edward watches the couple from the sidelines, their relationship becomes increasingly passionate and intense with far-reaching results.

What exactly was the nature of this love affair? To this he [Edward] could provide no answer that made sense. He has always known Tyler as one of those romantic seducers who aroused more envy in men than loyalty in women, who greet former lovers lightly, thus challenging them to bear him ill will. (p. 89)

Tyler, however, is not the type of man to be tied down, and all too soon he tires of Maud and disappears, leaving a brief note. Suspecting she is pregnant, Maud is devastated by Tyler’s abandonment, and Edward, with his chivalrous nature and strong sense of duty, feels obliged to support her. In a selfless move, Edward agrees to marry Maud to save her reputation. In truth, marriage is the only thing that can free Maud from feeling dependent on her mother – and by turn, on her aunt, Germaine, on whose rather begrudging hospitality Nadine relies.

There was no difficulty in perceiving that Maud was in a fallen state, however little he [Edward] wanted to see this. What then was the surge of feeling that prompted him to take care of her? Was it merely conscience, a sort of moral chivalry? Or was it more a fellow feeling, a sense of pathos, the quality that separated him from Tyler and his kind? He had fallen in love with her too precipitously, and that love was conditioned by the fact that she belonged to Tyler: he had felt passion for her when he made love to her, yet beyond his desire he had felt her loneliness calling forth some loneliness of his own. (pp. 144–145)

Edward, for his part, knows that Maud does not love him – certainly not with the unbridled passion she feels for Tyler – but he hopes she will develop a form of love for him over time.

He knew that she did not love him, had known that she would never love him when he had watched her with Tyler. That had been love, blatant, shameless, the real thing. At the back of his mind, behind the sadness, was a small feeling that he was owed something. This he resolved to suppress for as long as he decently could. He would respect her; he would not act like Tyler, who took no heed of reluctance, or refusal, or any of the other reactions that indicated caution, hesitation. (p. 110)

As the novel unfolds, Brookner shows us how Maud’s life is characterised by a mismatch between her naive hopes of a lasting, passionate relationship with Tyler and the reality of a secure but loveless existence with Edward, a steady man who will never desert her. In effect, the passionate, amorous side of Maud’s life is now over, to be promptly replaced by maturity and respectability. Maud and Edward are connected by a shared sense of sadness and vulnerability rather than desire. In short, they are marrying out of a ‘helpless sense of complicity’ due to one false step that Maud cannot recover from alone. It is duty and chivalry that direct Edward’s actions here, although in time, he comes to love Maud very deeply.

…Edward would love her, but she [Maud] would never love him. His love would hardly touch her, since her thoughts would be given over entirely to other matters, principally to memory, which she saw as the appropriate repository of her desire – of her former desire – and to a loneliness which it would be heedless of her to ask him to share. (pp. 120–121)

When Maud has a miscarriage, she is tempted to cancel the proposed wedding as the pressure to act quickly has been relieved. Nadine, however, soon guesses what has happened and is adamant that the ceremony will go ahead. Having slept with Tyler, Maud’s reputation is now in ruins, and a respectable marriage to Edward is the only way ahead.

As preparations for a simple wedding get underway, Maud intuits, quite correctly as it turns out, that she is a disappointment to Edward’s mother, Polly – a disappointment that will, in time, turn to resentment.

What follows is a beautifully observed depiction of a dutiful but unfulfilling marriage with Edward pouring his energies into making a success of the bookselling business, for which he demonstrates a natural flair, while Maud spends her days reading and visiting galleries.

She knew that all was not well between them, knew that, in ways she refused to examine, the past impinged on the present. (p. 172)

Their daughter, Maffy, is the one bright spark in their lives, but like her mother before her, Maffy feels a respectful affection for Edward, not the unbridled love he so desperately craves.

What differentiates Brookner’s fiction from many explorations of stagnant relationships is the precision and depth of insight she brings to her work. Incidents in the Rue Laugier is in effect the dissection of a mismatched marriage, the forensic examination of how two lives have been fatally compromised by a foolish dalliance with a feckless man. While Maud is initially the one who is devastated by Tyler’s actions, it is Edward who seems to suffer the most in the long run, diminished by unvoiced disappointments and regrets over what might have been. Once again, Brookner proves herself to be ruthlessly precise and perceptive in her portrayal of human nature, complete with all the flaws and failings this condition encompasses. Before the novel ends, Maud re-encounters Tyler at a wedding in Paris, which she attends without Edward, but I’ll leave you to discover the outcome of their meeting for yourselves, should you decide to read the book…

Alongside the depiction of Maud and Edward’s lifeless marriage, Brookner presents a scalpel-like critique of Nadine’s fraught relationship with her sister, Germaine, who occupies the higher social position of the two women. We also gain some surprising insights into Nadine’s motivations for letting Maud go to Paris with Edward and Tyler, knowing full well that her naïve daughter has fallen for the latter.

This then was the dilemma: not her own condition, though that was dilemma enough, but the fact that she had discovered a profound moral failing in her mother, and that she was about to commit a moral fault herself. Somehow the former served to make the latter unacceptable. She had thought to reinforce her mother’s values by this marriage, only to be given to understand that her mother’s values were more subversive than she had ever imagined. She would never have dreamt that her mother could countenance an irregular love affair, let alone promote one. (pp. 126–127)

As is often the case with Brookner, there are some wonderful moments of dark humour here. I loved this description of Polly Harrison’s friends, whom Maud meets during a visit to Edward’s family.

She [Maud] was introduced to eight people whom she would never see again, four husbands and four wives, the wives well built, combative, who gave the appearance of having put on all their jewellery for the occasion, the husbands shy, smelling already of whisky, two of them wearing blazers with an identical crest on the breast-pocket. (p. 163)

In summary, then, this is another superb novel by one of my favourite writers. A tale of passionate, youthful love and its disastrous consequences in the style of Henry James. Very highly recommended indeed, as are Brookner’s earlier novels, which I’ve reviewed here.

New York books – some favourites from my shelves

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Following the popularity of previous posts on my favourite London novels (which you can find here and here), I thought it might be fun to do something similar for New York, a location with an atmosphere all of its own. This time, I’m expanding things a little by also including a couple of non-fiction choices: Vivian Gornick’s The Odd Woman and the City, surely one of the most vivid and evocative books ever written about this bustling metropolis, and Olivia Laing’s The Lonely City, a thoughtful meditation on what it means to feel lonely and exposed in a fast-moving city. Naturally, New York has changed radically over the past hundred years, but hopefully these books will give you a flavour of this fascinating place and its diverse inhabitants. Here are my picks!

The New York Stories of Edith Wharton

A fabulous collection of Edith Wharton’s New York stories, published by NYRB Classics. The twenty pieces included here span the period from 1891 to 1934, virtually the whole of Wharton’s career as a writer. Several are in the style of her much-loved society novels, exploring the tensions between restraint and passion, sincerity and hypocrisy, respectability and disgrace. In short, they are sharp, nuanced and incisive. Here we see life as it was in the upper echelons of New York society, with its traditional social mores and codes, frequently suppressing freedom of action in favour of compliance and conformity.

Autres Temps…, one of the standouts here, explores the social scandal surrounding divorce, particularly in the late 19th century. Interestingly, the story also illustrates how attitudes were beginning to change, highlighting the contrast between Old New York and a younger, more liberal society starting to emerge.

Also worthy of a mention is A Journey, in which a respectable woman is escorting her husband home to New York following a spell in warmer climes. The husband is chronically ill and unlikely to recover, but for now appears to be well enough to make the trip. With the train journey underway, the wife proceeds to reflect on the past. There is a sense that the couple’s marriage has deteriorated in line with (or possibly even ahead of) the husband’s decline in health, such is the extent of the change in his character. This superb story is steeped in mood and emotion, giving it the feel of a nightmare or hallucination. Wharton excels in her portrayal of a woman on the edge, with the rhythm of her prose mirroring the relentless momentum of the train as it hurtles onwards to its final destination. A tour de force in miniature with some very memorable imagery.

The Odd Woman and the City by Vivian Gornick

First published in 2015 and reissued by Daunt Books in 2025, The Odd Woman and the City is Gornick’s ode to New York, a book that captures the rhythms and idiosyncrasies of this vibrant metropolis in sharp, insightful prose. Presented as a sequence of beguiling vignettes, the book delves into Gornick’s reflections on friendship, romantic love, childhood memories, ageing, navigating life alone in a busy city and the kaleidoscopic nature of New York itself. The relationships other writers enjoy with major cities also feature briefly. The vignettes are not grouped chronologically or by topic; rather, Gornick moves seamlessly backwards and forwards in time and from one theme to the next, sharing insights and confidences on a variety of different subjects as she goes. In fact, the book’s rhythm – vibrant, fast-moving and constantly changing in nature – reflects the city’s character itself.

There is so much insight, honesty and intelligence in these snippets, and Gornick is a delightful companion – smart, curious and ever-observant. If, like me, you enjoy exploring cities on foot, soaking up the atmosphere of the urban streets, you will likely love this book.

Ex-Wife by Ursula Parrott

When Ex-Wife was published anonymously in 1929, it quickly became a literary sensation, selling 100,000 copies in its first year. Its author, Ursula Parrott, worked as a newspaper reporter in New York in the 1920s, and her experiences of divorce and life as an ex-wife inspired this novel, which I found thoroughly captivating to read.

In short, Ex-Wife is an evocative portrayal of the lives of bright working women in the Roaring Twenties as they navigate the challenges of open marriages, societal double standards, independence and career advancement. While much has changed since the book first caused such a stir, many of its themes remain relevant. In Patricia, Parrott has created a candid, vulnerable, utterly charming narrator, an intelligent young woman who lives in the moment, willing to embrace the freedoms of a changing society while also craving love and a degree of stability.

The novel also paints a wonderfully evocative portrait of New York in the Jazz Age era, a world of Martinis, Manhattans and glamorous dresses, lunch at the Algonquin, evenings at speakeasies and nights at the Harlem dance halls. Highly recommended, a very modern novel for its time.  

Ladies’ Lunch and Other Stories by Lore Segal

The Austrian-American writer Lore Segal, who sadly passed away in late 2024, was born into a middle-class Jewish family in Vienna in 1928. Ten years later, she was evacuated to Britain in the first wave of the Kindertransport rescue mission and placed with a sequence of English foster families for the early part of the Second World War. Unsurprisingly, some of these experiences have inspired Segal’s body of work, including novels, short story collections, children’s books and pieces for The New Yorker.

Published in 2023, Ladies’ Lunch and Other Stories comprises sixteen poignant stories/vignettes, including six previously unpublished pieces, some of which seem autobiographical in style. The collection begins with a sequence of nine stories in which five elderly ladies have lunch together every month – the ‘Ladies’ Lunch’ referred to in the book’s title. During these gatherings, which have been taking place in New York for over thirty years, Ruth, Bridget, Farah, Lotte and Bessie reminisce and share anecdotes, often touching on the challenges of ageing, the loss of friendship, family and independence, alongside other related concerns.

On the surface, these vignettes might seem deceptively slight and sketchy; however, the more we read, the more glimpses into the characters’ histories are revealed. Hints of loss, displacement, dislocation and isolation emerge, adding more flesh to the bones. Segal invests these ‘Ladies Lunch’ stories with a lovely blend of warmth, wit, wisdom and compassion, while her ear for dialogue adds sharpness to the mix.

Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin

Back in 2020, during one of the COVID lockdowns, I received a lovely handwritten letter from Dorian (at Eiger, Mönch & Jungfrau), which contained a personalised recommendation for the writer Laurie Colwin. In his letter, Dorian described Colwin’s books as being very New Yorkey: wry rather than funny, bittersweet but not sentimental, and Jewish, albeit in a low-key kind of way. He made them sound right up my street; a little Woody Allen-ish in style, back in the days when his films were good. In particular, Dorian mentioned Colwin’s 1982 novel Family Happiness, a beautifully observed story of familial obligations and our need to feel loved and valued, especially by those we are closest to.

Central to the novel is Polly, relatively happily married with two children and an interesting job. However, her kindness and accepting nature mean that she is taken for granted by her family. Everything is thrown into sharp relief when Polly meets and falls in love with Lincoln Bennett, a talented painter who values her for who she is, not for what she can do for those around her. Complications and questions soon ensue in this wry, acutely observed novel.  

The Lonely City by Olivia Laing

This is a terrific read – a compassionate, multifaceted discourse on what it means to feel lonely and exposed in a fast-moving city, a place that feels at once both alienating and alive. At the time of writing this book, Laing was living in New York, recently separated from her former partner, an experience that had left her feeling somewhat adrift and alone. During the months that followed, Laing found herself drawn to the work of several visual and creative artists who captured something of the inner loneliness of NYC, a sense of urban isolation or alienation.  

Through a combination of investigation, cultural commentary and memoir, Laing explores the nature of loneliness, how it manifests itself both in the creative arts and in our lives. While this is clearly a very personal and well-researched book, the author uses this wealth of information very carefully, weaving it seamlessly into the body of the text in a way that feels thoughtful and engaging. It’s a fascinating book, beautifully written and constructed – a contemporary classic in the making.

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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 New York books of your own – if so, feel free to mention them in the comments below, especially those from the 20th century. (I’m saving some for a second post of this topic, hopefully later this year!)

The Sundial by Shirley Jackson

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Over the past few years, Shirley Jackson has become one of my favourite writers, partly because she excels at exposing the darker sides of domestic life. Like David Lynch with his seminal film Blue Velvet, Jackson seems fascinated by the horrors lurking behind the picket fence and other seemingly innocuous suburban settings, tapping into our fears of danger within the home.

First published in 1958, The Sundial is less well known than some of Jackson’s other novels, but I’m not sure why. With its beguiling blend of Gothic horror, suspenseful ambiguity and caustic humour, I found it utterly compelling – up there with The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle in terms of enjoyment for me. There are shades of Barbara Comyns and Ivy Compton-Burnett at work here – an English eccentricity that acts as an interesting counterpoint to the story’s American setting. In short, I loved this book and hope to find a place for it in my 2026 highlights.

Like The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle, The Sundial features a large, oddly unsettling house that seems to sit apart from its surroundings in terms of stature and mood. Here, the estate is ‘distinguished from the rest of the world by a stone wall’, which encircles the grounds, such that everything inside this barrier represents the Halloran family, while the outside world does not. When we first meet the Hallorans, who have a long history with the property, they have just returned from a funeral – that of Lionel Halloran, who was pushed down the stairs by his mother, Orianna.

Before the day is out, the formidable Orianna seems intent on making sweeping changes to the house, which she duly shares with the group. Lionel’s widow, Maryjane, is to be packed off to her former home, but her daughter, Fancy (Orianna’s granddaughter), can stay. The girl’s governess, Miss Ogilvie, would suit a genteel boarding house, somewhere in keeping with her sheltered lifestyle, leaving Aunt Fanny (Orianna’s sister-in-law) in the house’s tower, well out of Orianna’s way. Jackson’s mischievous streak is very much in evidence here as she blurs the margins between barbed humour and wicked savagery. As with Ivy Compton Burnett and Barbara Comyns, the dialogue is priceless throughout.

[Orianna:] “…I think I shall send Maryjane home again. Lionel found her in a public library in the city, so that is where she is going. She had a little apartment at the time, and I shall arrange for her to have her little apartment back again. She will not absolutely have to go back to work in the library, because of course I will be generous. She may even take up again with her old friends as though no time had passed; I am afraid, however, that she must not hope to find a second Lionel. One Lionel in a lifetime is, I believe, quite enough for anyone.” (pp. 15–16)

A little like Merricat from We Have Always Lived in the Castle, ten-year-old Fancy is a rather unsettling child; whether in truth or in jest, she is already hinting at pushing Orianna down the stairs, thereby mirroring her father’s fate, should her mother desire it.

“Shall I push her?” Fancy asked. “Like she pushed my daddy?”

“Fancy!” said Miss Ogilvie.

“Let her say it if she wants,” young Mrs. Halloran said. ”I want her to remember it, anyway. Say it again, Fancy baby.”

“Granny killed my daddy,” said Fancy obediently. “She pushed him down the stairs and killed him. Granny did it. Didn’t she?

Miss Ogilvie raised her eyes to heaven… (pp. 1-2)

Also currently living at the house are Orianna’s husband, Richard (Aunt Fanny’s brother), who seems to be experiencing the early stages of dementia while also being confined to a wheelchair. Finally, there is Essex, one of Orianna’s young protégés, ostensibly there to catalogue the library, but in reality, more Orianna’s pet.  

Events take a dramatic turn when Aunt Fanny receives a visitation from her late father’s spirit, warning her of a forthcoming apocalyptic event; but, despite this harbinger of doom, everyone within the walls of the Halloran estate will be saved as long as they remain inside the house.

When Orianna hears the news, she has little option but to believe Fanny, despite harbouring doubts about her sanity. If Fanny and Richard are going to be present at the dawn of the New World, then Orianna must be there too!

While The Sundial is not a plot-driven novel as such, the family’s preparations for the end of the world drive the story forward as the summer unfolds. Before long, the group is joined by Orianna’s longstanding friend, Mrs Willow, and her two adult daughters, Arabella and Julia, both of marriageable age; a distant cousin, Gloria, who also has the ability to see into the future; and a random hanger-on named ‘the Captain’, who might prove a valuable asset when disaster strikes. Meanwhile, Fanny is busy stockpiling useful supplies for the new world, from candles and survival manuals to food and other provisions.

With her powers to see into the future, Gloria predicts that the estate will be plunged into darkness by 31st August, which convinces Orianna that the world will end on the previous night. As one last hurrah before the new age dawns, Orianna decides to throw a farewell party for the villagers at the end of August, suitably disguised as a Golden Wedding celebration to avoid announcing the forthcoming apocalypse to all and sundry. Naturally, Orianna also sees this as an opportunity to strengthen her authority over the house’s inhabitants in all her queenly glory!

[Orianna:] “…I have also given some considerable thought to my own costume for the occasion; it is going to be in shocking bad taste, but of course it is for my last public appearance. I think to sit on the terrace under a gold canopy.”

“Disgraceful,” Aunt Fanny said.

“I want my people to have their last remembrance of me—if they have time to give me a thought at all—as truly regal, Aunt Fanny; I plan to wear a crown.” (p. 153)

Alongside the caustic humour, Jackson excels at investing the novel with an unnerving atmosphere and an ominous mood. For instance, as the apocalypse approaches, various sinister events occur: a large picture window suddenly shatters for no discernible reason; a doll that once belonged to Orianna is found on the estate’s sundial with several pins sticking into it; Julia endures a night of terror after being locked out of the grounds in a bid to escape; and Aunt Fanny gets completely lost in the garden maze, a route she knows like the back of her hand. We also learn of the village’s dark history through the story of Harriet Stuart, a young girl who was accused of murdering her parents and two younger brothers with a hammer. Nevertheless, insufficient evidence was found to justify a guilty verdict at the time, and Harriet was duly acquitted. While these events took place shortly before the first Mr Halloran built the family home, their legacy adds another macabre touch to this destabilising novel.

I don’t want to reveal how the story plays out, save to say that I really like the degree of ambiguity Jackson introduces here, as it places the reader in that liminal space between the real and the unimaginable, which might be the most unnerving position of all.

As always with Jackson, the characterisation is vivid and distinctive, perfectly in keeping with the novel’s Gothic mood. Even the minor characters are memorably sketched, from Orianna’s husband, Richard, locked in a dream world of his very own, to her buxom friend, Augusta Willow.

Mrs. Willow was a large and overwhelmingly vocal woman, with a great bosom and an indefinable air of having lost some vital possession down the front of it, for she shook and trembled and regarded herself with such enthusiasm, that it was all the casual observer could do at first to keep from offering to help. (pp. 44–45)

There’s also a hilarious scene in which Orianna meets with the leaders of the True Believers, a religious group that has long believed in the coming of a new dawn – their chief spokeswoman, Edna, is brilliantly drawn. The True Believers, it seems, are convinced that spacemen are on their way from Saturn, ready to bring about a higher state of consciousness, a theory Orianna roundly rejects as nonsensical!

All in all, then, The Sundial is a marvellous novel about a highly dysfunctional family, an irresistible blend of Gothic horror, suspenseful ambiguity and barbed humour in the dying days of an era. With the exception of the titular sundial, which occupies an off-centre position in the garden, the Holloran house and estate have been constructed to follow symmetrical patterns throughout. In essence, the ornament is a metaphor of sorts, a disquieting, off-kilter presence in a seemingly ordered world, just like Jackson’s fiction itself!

The Sundial is published by Penguin Books; personal copy.