A Very Great Profession by Nicola Beauman

It was approximately four years ago that my first Persephone catalogue arrived in the mail.  Flipping through its pages there were only a handful of titles I recognized.  As someone who desperately wished to pursue higher education but was thwarted by parents who refused to entertain the idea, there were themes within these works that I gravitated towards.  Women who thought they were worth more than they were given but made the best of things.  But that internal struggle with 'is this all there is for me?' is ever present.  There are days when I would give anything to work eighteen hours a day for a museum and days when it's lovely to clean the house all morning and bake all afternoon.  Which isn't to say that some men don't have the same daydream but today this post is about a woman's perspective.

Through passages from interwar novels written by women, Nicola, brilliantly points out the way things are, the frustration which sometimes accompanies these situations, social mores from that era and what authors had to say about it.  From Dorothy Whipple's The Priory.

'Well, this has taught me one thing,' she thought wearily, picking up another paper and turning to the advertisment columns.  'If I've to scrub floors or eat the bread of dependence all my life, Angela shall be educated to earn her own living.  She shan't find herself in the hole I'm in now if I can help it.'

Dorothy Whipple picked up her pen in the thirties and expressed the thoughts I had, and still have, over sixty years later.  While I may not be in 'the hole', the lack of faith from my parents to be anything other than someone's wife and mother is something I'll never come to grips with.  The Heiress, poor thing, never stood a chance, for her university was never about 'if'.  Regardless of whatever comes from her degrees or the hours her parents have toiled to pay their cost, we never want her to doubt our faith in her ability.  But despite the strides made by women in society, she may yet experience prejudice against her sex in the job market due to the prospect of fertility.

In fascinating chapters such as War, Feminism, Sex, Psychoanalysis, Beauman highlights sections illustrating those aspects from works by various authors.  In my favourite chapter, Domesticity, she points to a hilarious section from the Diaries of Cynthia Asquith.

 'Eddie told a very good child story, about a dog called Paddy run over by motor and killed.  Mother hardly dared break the news to child.  Did so during pudding.  To her intense relief, after a second's pause, the child calmly continued pudding.  Later mother heard crying, and found child with absolutely tear-congealed face. 

'Oh Mummie, Paddy's killed.'

  Mother: 'Yes, but I told you that at lunch,darling.'

  Child: 'Oh, I thought you said it was Daddy!'

A Very Great Profession is a book to be revisited many times as my knowledge of women writers from the interwar period increases.  I'm quite proud of the education I've received through reading my favourite book blogs, as well as novels published by Virago and Persephone, which meant I could relate to quite a lot of what Nicola was writing about.  But there is still lots of reading to be done and to expand my horizons even further she has piqued my interest in May Sinclair, Vita Sackville-West, Rose Macaulay and F. M. Mayor. 

The afterword in which Nicola writes more personally about her research and plans for this book are touchingly honest.

  'So it was these chapters that went off, in the late summer of 1972, to Barley's reader.  His report was crushing.  I cannot actually say that I was devastated because I cannot remember how I felt:  I think the energy went out of me, that the criticisms, destructive rather than constructive, just made me not want to bother.  I simply stopped.  His report arrived on 23rd November.  My third baby was born on 31st August next year.  The arithmetic is neat.  And what it reveals about psychology.'

That passage reduced me to tears but I am so glad Nicola Beauman persevered.  Not just to publish a book which is both delightful and informative but to create a publishing company, Persephone Books.  An incredible and much appreciated bright spot in my reading world.

A Teasmade

Thank goodness for The Woman's Hour.  It's one of my favourite programs to listen to on my iPod while out walking with Deacon.  Jenni Murray and Jane Garvey are like having a sister, a friend, a teacher and sometimes even a Mum tell you what's what depending on the subject matter.  On the episode I listened to yesterday, Jenni mentioned a Teasmade.  I was completely ignorant!

Being one whose ears are constantly pricking up at the mention of anything social history-related I made straight for Google once I got in.  The coffeemaker is commonplace but I never realized there has been an appliance that automatically makes tea which has existed for decades.  Apparently, Victorian era versions involved an open flame with disastrous results at times.  You can't beat a cup of tea first thing in the morning but not at all costs!  So for the benefit of others who are also in the dark about this fascinating piece of equipment I'm posting a model from the 1950s and a newer version.  If you would like to read more about their history, simply click here.

At Mrs Lippincote's by Elizabeth Taylor

'How happy we are' thought Julia.  The sunlight reflected in her teacup danced on the ceiling.  Oliver looked up and smiled.  "Vanish, angel!" he said, as he had done as a baby, and from habit she placed her hand over the top of her cup.'

I will no longer entertain the idea of feeling completely bereft upon completion of Taylor's oeuvre.  It will be my absolute pleasure to revisit each and every one of her books, gleaning ever more, time and time again.

The Davenants have arrived in a new town due to Roddy's most recent order from the RAF.  The furnished house they rent belongs to Mrs Lippincote who has made plans to stay elsewhere for the duration.  In a few eerily funny scenes her daughter, Phyllis, doesn't seem to understand that she can no longer appear unannounced and dig through her mother's belongings in the attic or closets.

While Roddy is busy being an officer, Julia Davenant fills her day running the house, looking after their son and spending a fair bit of time with the darning basket.  My image is one of Julia wearing a string of pearls and high heels while she does so.  When Roddy's spinster cousin, Eleanor, isn't busy with her fellow communists she dreams of just the sort of life Julia has.  Oh yes, she'd very much like Roddy all to herself.  Just to build in some tension, Eleanor has lived with the Davenants since her nervous breakdown. 

Usually a tedious household can be buffered somewhat by the presence of a child but a pale and sickly Oliver only adds to the strain.  His lack of robustness hardly impresses the alpha-male in Roddy and his weak frame worries Julia.  Delightfully for the reader though he loves books and there are all sorts of references to various authors and their works.

'In London, he would go every Saturday morning to the Public Library to look at a picture of Lorna Doone.  Some Saturdays it was not there, and he would go home again, wondering who had borrowed her, in what kind of house she found herself that weekend.'

While Julia may appear to be the dutiful wife she holds a bit of herself back for her own sake and I really enjoyed her character.  She ventures out the odd night rather than keep her husband company and is quite friendly with a couple of men.  One being the Wing Commander, who much to my pleasure knows his way with a ball of yarn and some knitting needles.  Julia might be guilty of the odd bout of hand-wringing but she holds her own when push comes to shove as it does during a twist towards the ending.

I've reached the midway point, this being my sixth Taylor novel from her list of twelve and she has yet to disappoint.  To celebrate the centenary of Taylor's birth there is a group of readers over at LibraryThing on the Virago Modern Classics forum reading one title per month if anyone is interested.  Up next for February, I believe, is Palladian.  Laura, from Musings is also an enthusiastic supporter of this event so keep an eye out for her posts!

Fair Stood the Wind for France by H.E. Bates

At the unbelievably young age of twenty-two, John Franklin crash lands his Wellington bomber in Occupied France during World War II.  Despite a badly injured arm, he and his four fellow airmen make their way through fields and wood under the cover of night in search of somewhere safe to shelter. 

Franklin's declining health forces the group to trust a French family who take in the airmen despite the threat of being shot for assisting the enemy.  Francoise, the daughter, is still in her teens but exudes both confidence and courage beyond her years.  She soon bonds with Franklin layering this war novel with a love story which Bates blends to perfection.  And make no mistake, the war he writes about is not romanticized and the love affair is far from sentimental.

Each new character appearing on a page brought about new twinges of suspicion.  Every decision to be made from which road to take, where to cross on the river and who to trust could be life or death.  I'm quite sure I held my breath for half of this book and cursed everything that made me have to put it down. 

If you need further convincing here is the link to Reading Matters and thank you to Kimbofo for leading me to a stellar read.

An End of Year Book Meme

Kate Greenaway's 'Christmas in Little Peopleton Manor' in Illustrated London News Christmas, 1879


A book meme I first spied on Cornflower's blog and too much fun to pass up!

My Day in Books

I began the day with Incidents in the Rue Laugier.

On my way to work I saw The Other Elizabeth Taylor

and walked by Westwood

to avoid An Episode of Sparrows

but I made sure to stop at The Carlyles at Home.

In the office, my boss said "To the North"

and sent me to research The Way Things Are.

At lunch with Mrs Miniver

I noticed The Tortoise and the Hare

under The Odd Women,

then went back to my desk As It Was.

Later, on the journey home, I bought A Wreath of Roses

because I have The Soul of Kindness,

then settling down for the evening, I picked up Nourishment

and studied The New House

before saying goodnight to The Winds of Heaven.

Mrs Miniver by Jan Struther

'She rearranged the fire a little, mostly for the pleasure of handling the steel poker, and then sat down by it.  Tea was already laid: there were honey sandwiches, brandy-snaps, and small ratafia biscuits; and there would, she knew, be crumpets.'

Coincidentally I've just laid a fire myself but something tells me that Mrs Miniver wouldn't have had to wash the black from her hands twice, pull splinters from her t-shirt or had a dizzy spell from huffing and puffing to get things going.  I digress.

Like so many others I connected Mrs Miniver with the film starring Greer Garson but this book isn't that at all.  It's better.  The character was created when Jan Struther was asked to write a series of articles about an ordinary woman for The Times.  Despite Struther's claims that the episodes she wrote about bore no resemblance to her own family life her followers weren't buying it.

There is a poignant story about the whole family arriving at the Town Hall to be fitted for gas masks at the outbreak of war.

 '...a very small child bursting into a wail of dismay on catching sight of its mother disguised in a black snout; the mother's muffled reassurances - "It's on'y Mum, duck."...'

 There were equally touching stories but with a humourous touch such as the story about her daughter, Judy, choosing which doll in the shop she liked best. 

"You see, it would be so awful to pick the wrong one.  I mean, suppose you could have gone and bought me in the shop instead of just having me; you might have made a mistake and chose Marigold Thompson instead."
Mrs Miniver's mouth twitched.  She couldn't somehow imagine herself choosing Marigold Thompson.  A nice child, but pudding-faced.
"Well," she said, "I like Marigold."
"Oh, so do I.  But what I mean is, she wouldn't have done for you.  And what's more," pursued Judy, "Marigold's mother wouldn't have done for me.  At all," she added with conviction.

Each vignette sparkles in its own way but the ones surrounding the Christmas season were timely and so charming.  And some things never change...

'At intervals she tried to pretend that Christmas Day fell on the 5th of December, or alternatively, that all her friends and relations lived in South Africa and that she had to catch an early mail; but it was no use.'

There is no doubt about Jan Struther's sense of humour or that she would have been just the sort of person people gravitated towards.  I don't think I've ever laughed out loud while reading an introduction before but the description of her family dressing up a mannequin to surprise unsuspecting guests in the loo was hilarious!

With headings such as London in August, A Country House Visit, On Hampstead Heath or A Drive to Scotland, Mrs Miniver is the quintessential 'lovely' book.  I only wished it had four times as many pages.

The Slaves of Solitude by Patrick Hamilton

Reading The Slaves of Solitude was a bit like playing with a jack-in-the-box.  The plot kept me on edge, some of the characters upset me, but I kept turning the pages to see how it would all turn out. 

The Rosamund Tea Rooms is the boarding house in Thames Lockdon where Miss Roach resides to escape the bombs falling in London.  It also houses the obnoxious Mr Thwaites, a relentless bully.  At least in London the bombs were hit or miss.

'Miss Roach now tried to dodge his fury, to apologize, in so far as it was possible, for the present state of affairs on the Eastern Front, by smiling, making a vaguely assenting and agreeable noise in her throat, and looking hard and giddily at her soup.  But Mr Thwaites was not the sort of man who would permit you to look at your soup when he was anxious to talk about the Russians.'

It was excruciating to enter the gladiator's arena that was the dining room.  Peripheral characters would either sit in silence or try to appease the bully with soft snippets while waiting to see how uncomfortable things got before a retreat was in order.  When an American Lieutenant takes an interest in Miss Roach I thought perhaps he would provide a refuge or at least a lovely distraction.  The reality wasn't nearly as appealing and his idea of showing a woman a good time involved propping up the bar.  Her most toxic relationship wasn't with either of the aforementioned men though, it was with a German woman she befriends who ends up moving into the boarding house.  Vicki Kugelmann laughs and flirts her way into a threesome with the Lieutenant and Miss Roach which can only end badly.  Worse still, Vicki entertains the bully, Mr Thwaites, in the dining room.

So many people have described The Slaves of Solitude as an enjoyable read but I found it uncomfortable.  Which I suppose is all down to Patrick Hamilton's writing skill.  From a personal perspective, as someone who was raised in an atmosphere of alcohol and bullying he nailed the tension in that dining room.  But on a cheerier note there are a couple of scenes involving the etiquette faux pas of using someone else's comb that had me laughing out loud.  The last twenty or so pages were the most satisfying for me and made me really glad to have hung in there.

As far as books set in boarding houses go I preferred London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins, accidental murder and all.  But it's good to step outside of your comfort zone when you're reading for pleasure.  It can't all be about pots of tea and slices of cake!  I just don't know what I was thinking when I also bought Hamilton's Hangover Square but no doubt I'll get through that as well.