Staying Put by Dorothy Lambert

I’m on a roll with reading the Dorothy Lambert four books Dean Street Press are republishing on 1 July. I’ve now read three and I’m tantalisingly close to finishing the last one. (Here are links to my reviews of All I Desire (1936) and Scotch Mist (1936).) Scotch Mist was such a great book and ticked so many boxes for me. I loved the Scottish setting, there were lots of lovely descriptions of nature, and to top it off there was a wonderful cast of characters, some likeable ones and some that are so awful you can only laugh at them. The problem was that I loved that book so much it was with some trepidation that I picked up Staying Put (1941). How could it possibly compare to Scotch Mist?

It had the toughest act to follow, but I really did love this one, too! In setting it is nothing like Scotch Mist. Staying Put is set in the south east coast of England at the start of the war. Broadly, this book is about how one village bears up under the strain of the war. There are the typical village events, planning meetings, fundraising events, sewing circles, church services, tea parties, but also spies, intrigue, dogfights overhead, bombs, and the damage that comes with them. But this is also a domestic novel, full of the long quiet moments between the episodes of chaos.

It is the outbreak of the Second World War, and widowed Lavinia Falcon lives close to a south coast port in a house called Beech Hill.

Beech Hill was half a mile from the village up a steep hill, and people were generally puffing a good deal when they arrived on the level gravelled square in front of the long low white house. (9)*

There, Lavinia lives with her two youngest children, 19-year-old Richard, home from Cambridge, and 17-year-old Felicity, who is sure to be a troublesome child, as she is said to be lovely. Lavinia’s eldest daughter, Rowena, is 22, living away from home, highly educated and efficient, but her most predominant characteristic is her snobbishness, something she shared with her father. 

The usual villagers who tend to get involved with Swansford events meet to discuss what they can do at home to help win the war. Lady Bulstrode, who fancies herself the lady of the manor and social benefactress, goes about taking over organising the local women for war work. From among them, she chooses Lavinia to be her deputy, not because she believes Lavinia would be the best at the job, but because Lavinia will do what she is told, won’t try to take over, or take credit for the work. Had Lady Bulstrode noticed the hint of humour in Lavinia’s “grey eyes and sensitive mouth” she wouldn’t have seen it as an asset (33). This throws Lavinia in the way of Ralph Thurston, Lady Bulstrode’s son from an earlier marriage. And we quickly see where this is going. Dorothy Lambert’s romances may be predictable, but it is no less enjoyable to see them play out. One might argue that how the couple finds their way to each other, is much more interesting than who the couple is.

There are these little clues about the characters that tell us early on who among them we should be rooting for. Take Lavinia’s daughters for instance. There is no one of Felicity’s own age and social class in Swansford, but she doesn’t want to leave home to find work that would “keep her out of mischief” (6).

[Felicity] declared herself perfectly happy, and was assured that one day something would turn up. Rowena frequently remarked that undoubtedly it would and be a shock to everyone if not actually a disgrace, as Felicity seemed to be without the proper sense of the difference in their own social position and that of common people, a sense that was so very well developed in Rowena that she was thoroughly unpopular in Swansford and enjoyed a splendid isolation when she was at home. (6)

We see a bit of this outdated belief in maintaining the separation of social classes in Lavinia, as well. But in someone older it seems much more understandable. After all, this book is set at the beginning of the Second World War. During the war people from different walks of life were being forced together in a spirit of camaraderie in a way they hadn’t been before. Lavinia is just one of many middle-aged people who are about to have their life disrupted by the war and their ideas of class disrupted, but that process hasn’t happened yet. The fact that Rowena is much more snobby than her mother, and is concerned not only with who her friends are, but how wealthy they are, really does not speak well of her when we see Felicity at the other end of the spectrum, not giving a fig what class her friends are from. By the end, Rowena does not come out well, while her mother, Lavinia, is taking small steps to change.

When Lavinia wants to ask a favour of someone, she invites them over for tea.

She considered that it was practically impossible to return a flat refusal no matter how doubtfully the scheme might be received, when one was gorged with a superabundance of rich chocolate cake and whipped cream and pâte-de-foie sandwiches. (10)

The villagers are aware of this, but still they come to tea willing to pay the penalty of a free meal. With chocolate cake and whipped cream on the menu, I think I would, too! This time, the issue is not a “wearisome campaign about drainage or garbage or something unsanitary” which one of the women remembers preceded the chocolate cake. (Okay. That might put me off my feed.) Lavinia wants to get everyone together to discuss what they can do in the village in the event of war. The Vicar notes Lavinia is “wearing her most determined ‘deeds, not words’ expression” (11). I couldn’t help but think we are supposed to make the connection to the suffrage movement, as this was the motto of the Women’s Social and Political Union. Despite being a youngish widow, Lavinia’s eldest child is 22 years old, so she would likely have been somewhere around her daughters’ ages when the First World War broke out. Even if Lavinia wasn’t a suffragette, I believe this suggestion that she is seen to be wearing the face of suffragette, with her “‘deeds, not words’ expression”, indicates to the reader that Lavinia is a good person, who is willing to do the work to keep the home fires burning and fight the war from the home front. 

When Germany advances on Poland, and war becomes an inevitability for Britain, Lavinia feels the blow. Although, Richard would prefer to carry on at Cambridge and for there to not be a war, he and Felicity are taken up with the excitement of change. Richard soon joins the Air Force and Felicity wishing she was old enough to join one of the services, becomes a telephone operator. Lavinia satisfies herself with staying put, as the titles suggests. Even in a moment when the prospect of war is at risk of diminishing her, she finds something to hold on to.

It was difficult to believe, for the sun was still shining and below the brick steps the garden glowed with colour and scented the warm air. The valley was green and peaceful and the water by the white mill was a silver streak. “Well, at any rate,” she thought suddenly, “these things are the real things. They will remain whatever war may bring; we must remember that and hold on to it. I think it will help us to bear the rest.” (26)

It is in the simple pleasures, the real things that matter, that give Lavinia strength as the war goes on and her family and the community around her begin to feel the effects of rationing, bombing, and knowing loved ones are putting themselves in harm’s way for those at home. A year into the war, after an afternoon of heavy gunfire from battles going on in the air above, Lavinia cuts the same flowers from her garden as she did in peacetime, Michaelmas daisies and early chrysanthemums, while appreciating “the sunshine and the cloudless skies” (201). 

Lavinia is not thrilled by the excitement of being bombed, like Felicity is. But she does step up and carry on. When Beech Hill is first bombed in the middle of the night, she takes a moment to appreciate that Felicity is still young enough to be more concerned about the safety of her toy bears than her mother. It’s a sweet moment between the two. The mother admiring her daughter’s little quirks left over from childhood, even while trying find their way to safety through the rubble. 

There are moments of lightness and quiet amongst the wartime conditions of Swansford, but some of the funniest scenes happen while things are at their bleakest. I cackled at Rowena’s reaction to her fiancé having been killed. (And then I read the passage to my husband, and laughed hysterically, again.) Felicity’s bear family are lovingly carted around, and it’s delightfully fun. Mrs. Beckett, a woman in the village, reminded me of Miss Bates from Emma. She has these long monologues about the silliest things and asks advice from everyone, which of course needs to be weighed ad nauseam. As someone without humour, Lady Bulstrode is a character that is the subject of a lot of humour. What lengths she goes to in order to keep Lavinia and her son, Ralph, apart! 

But perhaps the most satisfying thing about this book is that the characters who are good and work hard are rewarded, and the real baddies meet disastrous ends. Because, don’t forget. As I mentioned at the outset, there are spies and intrigue, too! After all, Swansford is a village on the south east coast of England near a port. But a lot of that happens in the second half, and I really should save some surprises for you to discover yourself.

Thank you to Dean Street Press for kindly sending me a copy of Staying Put for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

My review of Dorothy Lambert’s Harvest Home (1950), will be posted in the next couple of days. 

In the meantime, it’s not too late to preorder your copy of Staying Put. Staying Put, All I Desire, Scotch Mist, and Harvest Home are all coming out with Dean Street Press's Furrowed Middlebrow imprint on 1 July 2026.

*All page numbers are from the ebook and may not correspond to the paperback edition.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

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Scotch Mist by Dorothy Lambert

If you read my last review, you will know how much I loved Dorothy Lambert’s All I Desire (1936). It was such an easy book to love. The epitome of a gentle read. When I picked up Scotch Mist (1936), I was hoping for more of the same. I’m happy to report, I found Scotch Mist to be even more delightful. Not only does it contain the same sharp, witty dialogue that can be found in All I Desire, it also has many beautiful descriptions of the Scottish Highlands. In my review of All I Desire I compared Lambert’s writing to Molly Clavering, and if anything Scotch Mist is an even closer match to Clavering’s books. I’m most eager to pick up my third Lambert. But first, let me tell you about my newest favourite title from Dean Street Press, Scotch Mist. 

Thirty-four year old Alison lives with her friend Jane in a London apartment. Jane is an architect and Alison is a designer/artist. Together, they run a reasonably successful interior design company. It’s not been easy work. The women used to do the practical side of the business themselves, the painting, wallpapering, etc., but more recently they have been able to focus their efforts on the management and design side of things. 

There are only two clouds in the sky—but they are dark ones—and that is Alison’s mother and sister, who keep showing up uninvited to the women’s apartment and sponging off of Alison. Lady Caroline and her daughter Pamela fancy themselves part of the leisured class without actually having the money to carry it off. So when Alison manages to get her mother and sister off her hands, Jane encourages her to take a holiday. She loads up the car with practical clothes, brushes, paint, and canvas, and heads off to the Scottish Highlands in search of artistic inspiration and adventure.

When the mist lifts, Alison is surrounded by stunningly beautiful views, a handsome laird, who will whisk her off her feet—if she lets him—and his timeworn ancestral home turned hotel, just waiting for the right decorator to bring it back to life. 

On her first night at Glenlochart House she happens to be the only guest. To make certain that both the prickly housekeeper, Mrs. McCaig, who doesn’t approve of single ladies staying in a bachelor establishment, and the laird, Neil McPherson, know she isn’t a single lady on the lookout, she dresses accordingly.

[S]he attired herself in the form of evening dress that she and Jane had adopted when, in their professional capacity, they stayed in the houses they were engaged in decorating, or when they attended dinners or “At Homes” in the course of their career, which they took very seriously. It was something of a pose and an excellent advertisement. (34)*

When she comes down to dinner, Neil is astute enough to understand the gesture Alison is making with her outfit of “well-cut black velvet dinnerjacket and pleated white silk shirt worn with a neat black tie and straight close-fitting skirt to her ankles” (35). But if Alison is trying to disguise her femininity with a more masculine outfit than an ordinary evening dress, the outfit is a failure.

[H]e realised that with all her suggestion of masculine severity she conveyed also a feminine hint of allure that was probably quite unconscious on her part, for her intention was quite obviously to submerge the fact of her sex in a display of independence and claim for sex-equality. (35)

Ultimately, Neil decides she is more striking in this outfit than she would be in an “ordinary evening frock, and the hint of feminine vanity was provocative and disturbing” (35-36).

Neil is impressed by Alison, and she is not blind to his attractions, as she notices him from their first meeting on the misty moors, but they both keep their distance on this first evening. So perhaps Alison’s outfit has the desired effect, after all. But there is an instant connection between the two, an unsaid appreciation that gives the reader hope the two will find love despite not acknowledging to themselves they desire it. There is an occurrence early on when the housekeeper refers to Alison as “yon spinster body”, which at first Alison laughs at, but when Neil, finding it funny, casually repeats the remark, Alison is quietly hurt (40). Spinster is a name she can revel in as long as she doesn’t feel she is the butt of a joke.

Early on in the novel, Neil and Alison go for a walk over the high moors behind the house. Alison admires the views, mapping out plans for which ones she will paint, which is the purpose of her trip, to make paintings Jane and her will sell to their interior design clients, and be able to afford to stay in “this paradise” (43). Her silence provides Neil with opportunity to observe her unnoticed. 

It was rough going, steep glens to scramble down and climb up, rocks to surmount, and finally the long slope down to the road again. Alison was a good walker. She had a swinging stride that crossed the moorland with ease. She was part of it all. Her tweed skirt was sensible, and she wore a gay Fair Isle jumper, for the wind was keen in spite of the sunshine. The sun glinted on her red-gold hair, ruffled by the wind, and she was flushed and eager-looking and feminine, and more attractive than Neil thought possible. (44)

I believe it is in this moment that Neil falls in love with Alison. She moves across the moors “with ease” and she is “part of it all”. She fits. With her sensible clothes and flushed face, she suits the place. I think the deeper meaning behind this passage is that Neil not only finds her attractive in this setting, but as we are first introduced to him on the moors “coming out of the mist so suddenly”, he is part of the landscape, too (29). They both fit. And if they both fit the landscape belonging to Neil’s ancestral home, it isn’t much of a stretch to see that the two will fit each other, too.

But as Shakespeare so aptly wrote, “the course of true love never did run smooth”, and there are a number of misunderstandings and distractions to keep the two apart. This book is full of characters that are intended to make you laugh and to highlight how much of a catch both Alison and Neil are. 

On Alison’s second day at Glenlochart House, a father and son arrive for the fishing, as the clientele at this hotel generally do. Andrew Tosh and his son Roddy are so abysmal that when they showed up I knew Alison’s mother and sister were bound to descend on Glenlochart House eventually, too. In a letter to Jane, Alison describes the Toshes as such:

‘Two simply dreadful people arrived this afternoon, father and son. I’ve hardly spoken to the old man, but he offered me champagne, unless I could suggest something better. By that time, however, I had had more than enough of Roddy (the son), a terrible young man who tells one about all his wealth and what he does with it.’ (71) 

They sound like the perfect pair for Lady Caroline and Pamela. Pamela’s cruise has fallen through when she is forced to quarantine because one of her party contracts measles and she winds up destitute at Jane and Alison’s apartment. Lo and behold, Pamela winds up reading the letter Alison has written to Jane. The Highlands sound like the perfect place to quarantine, not that Pamela has any other option, but to follow Alison to Scotland, when Jane throws her out. I won’t go into how Lady Caroline winds up on the doorstep of Glenlochart House too, as the circumstances are much too crazy to be explained succinctly. Besides, experiencing the whole insane situation first hand as it plays out is much more fun. Lambert’s flair for situational humour is just one of the aspects of her writing that make this book a delight from start to finish.

To close, I want to share what is my favourite passage from the book. More than the descriptions of nature, the witty banter, the funny situations, I love this part because it captures something I have felt myself. 

The wonder of the hours on the loch would be the most beautiful memory of her life, so beautiful to be almost a pain. That was how she always felt about beauty. The possibility of happiness she had never considered. (208)

Thank you to Dean Street Press for kindly sending me a copy of Scotch Mist for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

My review of Dorothy Lampert’s Staying Put (1941), will be posted in a couple of days. Hope to see you then! In the meantime, it’s not too late to preorder your copy of Scotch Mist. Scotch Mist, All I Desire, Staying Put, and Harvest Home are being republished under Dean Street Press's Furrowed Middlebrow imprint on 1 July 2026.

*All page numbers are from the ebook and may not correspond to the paperback edition.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. Thank you for your support!

All I Desire by Dorothy Lambert

It’s been a long time since I’ve read a book that was as easy to enjoy as Dorothy Lambert’s All I Desire (1936). Hermia Carlisle retreats to a small village in southern England with the mistaken belief she will be able to lead a quiet life where she can get on with her writing career. But how could she have known that there she would come across not one, but two, people from her past. With the help of her daughter Jeremy—yes, you read that correctly—Hermia has a successful writing career, but one thing after another seems to distract her from her writing. In amongst the chaos, she still manages to get swept away by the current “situation” she is working out in her head. Hermia’s writing is inspired by these “situations”. It’s no wonder. Her life seems to always have been full of the most unbelievable situations, which lend well to her stories.

This book was light and frothy, without being annoyingly so. The little world of Holm Street was such a delightful and idyllic place to spend time. It was such fun to get swept up in all the drama that seems to arise out of almost nothing. Although, it did make me wonder why anyone would think a small little community would be the right place to go looking for peace and quiet! In Holm Street, there is always something going on. Between teas, the cricket, meetings of the women’s institute, village fêtes, plays, and neighbours stopping by at any odd hour, not to mention people from one’s past dropping in—as if out of the sky—to stir things up, it’s a wonder Hermia manages to get any writing done.

Not that she writes the books herself, exactly. We find out early on that Jeremy, who acts as her mother’s secretary/personal assistant/housekeeper cleans her mother’s books up, rewriting them to help them land with a more modern readership. Jeremy just drops that truth bomb into a conversation with her mother, and Hermia is shocked. She believed Jeremy was simply typing her novels up for her. Meanwhile, Jeremy has been rewriting Hermia’s books without her knowledge! Hermia isn’t entirely pleased to hear that she essentially writes situations which her daughter reworks, but she must admit, book sales have risen significantly since Jeremy started working with her.

Mother and daughter cause quite the stir amongst their fellow villagers. When Jeremy shows up to watch the village cricket match, she is snubbed by one of the other young women for not wearing a hat or stockings and looking “so common, just like a beachcomber”.

It was cricket that Jeremy came to watch, and the spectators did not interest her in the slightest degree. Being an astute young person she was perfectly aware of the interest she had created. Mrs. Fenwick’s disapproval made her chuckle. Mrs. Marsh’s share of curiosity, Alberta’s indifference, Chrissie’s deliberate rudeness and Daphne Fenwick’s hostility were all noted and dismissed. “Washed out!” Jeremy’s shoulder twitched in a faint shrug, and she turned her back on Holm Street society. (39)*

This village community which is inhabited by an eclectic array of characters is described with a wonderful sense of humour. Dorothy Lambert’s writing reminded me a lot of another Furrowed Middlebrow author I love, Molly Clavering. If you enjoy Clavering’s writing, I feel sure you will appreciate Lambert’s. I think Clavering’s writing is a bit more descriptive in terms of scene setting, while Lambert’s prose has such ease that it feels deceptively simple. I have no doubt it takes a lot of effort and skill to write a book that flows as well as this one does.

That isn’t to say that Lambert doesn’t write beautiful descriptions, as well as sharp dialogue. The following passage provides a positively delicious description of the landscape when Ian, a mechanic at the local garage, drops Jeremy’s car off.

Later that evening lan cleaned and polished the baby car and drove it to the Manor. The rain had ceased and the mass of storm clouds was dispersing in feathery trails over a clear greeny-blue sky, while the evening sunshine was pale and watery. The road was covered with wide pools of water here and there, and Ian drove carefully to avoid getting the nicely- cleaned car mud-splashed. The gate was open and he drove straight in and up the drive, which was still weed-grown and untidy. The old red-brick house had climbing roses hanging on its walls, and a straggling mass of yellow honeysuckle grew round the hall door, scenting the air with its lovely fragrance. The big trees on the lawn dripped heavily from their rain-soaked foliage, and the grass was sodden. The long shadows lay across the green grass, and Ian, who was susceptible to atmosphere, felt oddly thrilled at the beauty of the quiet scene—almost, he thought, one of enchantment, the tall trees so dark against the clear, pale sky, the grass in the deserted garden so vividly green with the fingers of yellow sunlight slanting across the masses of untidy rambler-roses and making them uncannily bright and colourful.” (69)

Isn’t that lovely?! Lambert beautifully sets the scene for a meaningful moment between Ian and Jeremy. 

But as I said, Lambert is great at writing sharp, witty dialogue, too. There is a particularly funny interaction between the judgmental Mrs. Marsh and the vicar, which looks as though it could last indefinitely, as Mrs. Marsh is too interested in talking about Holm Street’s newest inhabitants to pick up on social cues. Thank goodness, Mr. Bunyard, the local carpenter, comes to the vicar’s rescue.

“There!” said Mr. Bunyard suddenly, pointing. “Over there in that car, ma’am—that’s her.” [meaning Hermia]

A car was travelling slowly along the road across the Green, and Mrs. Marsh turned and scuttled away to the corner in order to see the occupant as it passed.

“Oh,” remarked the Vicar, “so that really is the person who is causing so much excitement.” Mr. Bunyard made a gesture of indifference.

“Bless you, sir, I don’t know who it is, but it seemed a good way to escape. Mrs. Marsh, she’s a bit of a sticker.”

“Oh, good egg!” exclaimed the Vicar delightedly. “You’re a man of resource, Bunyard, a man of resource!” (23)

There are too many funny interactions in this book to count. It was a joy to be immersed in all of the little tiffs and squabbles between these characters.

I always enjoy learning more about the authors Dean Street Press republishes through reading the introductions they publish alongside. Elizabeth Crawford provides this insight into Lambert,

We know nothing of Dorothy’s life with her parents, sister, one surviving brother and three servants in the ‘big house’ of Roskeen, nor anything of her education. However, from her Irish novels one might deduce that she relished an outdoor life, felt comfortable with neighbours from all levels of society, and had a hearty appetite for life’s possibilities. (8)

The other tidbit I gleaned from Crawford’s introduction is that Lambert, whose life spanned the years 1884 to 1967, published her first book, Redfern M.F.H. (1929), when she was forty-five years old. I always find it encouraging when I hear about a writer publishing their first book in the second half of their life. (It means there is still hope for the rest of us who desire to see their stories in print, but haven’t yet accomplished the feat!) Lambert went on to publish twenty-seven books over twenty-four years. 

This is the first Dorothy Lambert book I have read and it won’t be my last. Thankfully, it is among four of this author’s books which are being republished on 1 July 2026 by Dean Street Press under their Furrowed Middlebrow imprint. The other titles are Scotch Mist (1936), Staying Put (1941), and Harvest Home (1950), all of which I will be reviewing in upcoming posts. Back in 2020 Dean Street Press republished another of Lambert’s novels, Much Dithering (1938), which I have yet to get my hands on, but I will no doubt want to read if her other books are anything like All I Desire.

Thank you to Dean Street Press for kindly sending me a copy of All I Desire for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

My review of Dorothy Lambert’s Scotch Mist will be posted tomorrow. Hope to see you then!

*All page numbers are from the ebook and may not correspond to the paperback edition.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. Thank you for your support!

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

Last Sunday night I picked up Virginia Evans’ The Correspondent. I’ve seen this book everywhere. It is a book that everyone seems to be raving about. It just came out last year, and yet it has been receiving the kind of hype that makes you feel like you’re late to the party if you haven’t already read it. I have to admit, I don’t normally gravitate towards the book everyone is talking about. Part of me thinks, “Everyone else is reading it. I don’t have to.” For whatever reason, if a book sees this kind of popularity I am less inclined to read it. In normal circumstances, I would have given The Correspondent a miss, or else waited a decade before picking it up. But my friend Leslie, who goes by the handle @readerlyjoy over on Instagram, gave this book a glowing review back when it first came out. I trust Leslie’s judgment. If she loves a book, then it is more than likely I will too. And so I started reading this book on Sunday night, just expecting to dip into it before bed, and ended up reading most of it in one sitting. I’m a slow reader. It was a late night. But from the moment I started reading, it was as though I had entered some sort of fugue state. I came to on page 153 to realise I had left a candle burning that should have been extinguished hours ago. Whoops! Perhaps, make sure all open flames have been extinguished before you start reading this book. 

The Correspondent tells the story of Sybil Van Antwerp through letters, mostly ones that she has sent herself, but we are privy to a few of the replies she receives, as well. The letters start 2 June 2012 and end on 15 January 2022, though she has been writing letters her entire life. I have the same hesitancy over epistolary novels as I do short story collections. I seem to think that with each letter I have to recommit to the book. I’m not sure I’ve ever read an epistolary novel that actually made me feel that way. (I guess I must have done. Because how else could I have gotten this crazy idea in my head?) But this most assuredly was not my experience with The Correspondent. See the candle incident.

On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings Sybil sits down to write her letters. She writes for an hour or two at a time, and if she hasn’t finished her correspondence by the end of the week, she writes on Saturdays, too. She writes to her brother, her best friend, her daughter (sporadically), the president of the university where she wants to audit courses, the customer service representative of a DNA testing company, the authors of her favourite books, and she writes an ongoing letter to an unknown person which is never sent. In her professional life Sybil was the clerk to a judge who has recently died. She has been retired for some time, but it’s clear she still misses this part of her life. Long divorced from her husband, she lives alone and rarely sees her two children. Letter writing has always been her preferred way of communicating, helping her to make sense of the world. She reaches out to people many of us would never consider writing to, like Joan Didion, Ann Patchett, and Larry McMurtry.

In a letter to a young girl who interviews Sybil for a school project, she writes, “I write to anyone that strikes me. Friends, lawmakers, editors, teachers, diplomats, authors. Authors are my favorite.” (122)

What I love about this book is that Sybil, who is in her early seventies at the start, is still in the process of becoming the best version of herself. She grows as a person, as a mother, she finds her way to forgiving others, and, so importantly, she finds a path to forgiving herself for something that she has spent decades punishing herself for. This is a book about grief, friendship, falling in love, community, and family, complicated relationships and all the things we try to tell ourselves “don’t really matter”, but in fact matter very much indeed. Sybil isn’t always a likeable person—who is?—but throughout the course of this book she grows. Her life gets bigger. The other lovely thing is that she is surrounded by all of these beautifully flawed people who are figuring it out, too. No one has it all figured out. Not in real life, and not in this book. Communicating, however we can, is a start to forming relationships, but to build bridges sometimes we have to meet people halfway, and be willing to get the words wrong once in a while.

I write slowly. A letter might take me an hour or more. I do not rush. I think through each sentence. My hand does not get tired. You mustn’t rush. When you rush you pen things you didn’t mean and you tire. It takes patience to say exactly what one means, to think of the right word. Sometimes I write a draft and mark it up, then write a clean copy to send. I believe one ought to be precious with communication. Remember: words, especially those written, are immortal. Sometimes, Caroline, the easiest inroad is to begin with a thank you, for a gift or a kindness or a letter, you know, and then take it from there. Answer every question they’ve asked, and ask your own, and you will have created a never-ending circuit of curiosity and learning. (123)

It’s an undeniably romantic way of looking at letter writing, but in some cases Sybil’s preference for writing over other forms of communication keeps people at a distance, as she finds out at the book goes on. We aren’t meant to always find the right word. Being able to communicate is undeniably precious, but we shouldn’t be precious with our communication. Holding our words close is problematic. As someone who can obsess over being properly understood, I can sympathise with Sybil. I also know that keeping my words close has only ever led to greater misunderstanding, in part, because even when you find the right words there is nothing to say that they will be understood in the way you intended them. But that is, perhaps, a conversation for another time. 

A year or so ago when I was considering starting a YouTube channel I heard another creative give some advice that resonated with me. I’ve since heard the same idea put a number of different ways, but the gist is, “If your first try is perfect, you waited too long.” I think the same holds true for communication. It’s always lovely to feel you expressed yourself clearly the first time. But if you are constantly seeking perfection in yourself, chances are you are going to expecting it from others, too. And you have got to think, if your primary means of communicating with your friends and loved ones is through letter writing, not just the written word, but letters sent through the post, then it is going to be really hard to get at the deeper issues, as they come up. When one is curating their thoughts into such a tidy narrative, how much is getting left out? Likely all the difficult, messy bits. In the mess lies a certain beauty and quite often the truth of ourselves can be found buried deep below. If we aren’t exposing the mess, we might never find the treasure hiding underneath. At the end of the book, Virginia Evans beautifully handles what this looks like. And it wasn’t until I sat down to write this review that I got that. So yeah, I appreciate this book even more now.

I’ve been away from social media for about five months now to grieve the death of my dog Clark, so I’ve only just discovered The Correspondent won the Women’s Prize for Fiction this year. Unlike some years, I haven’t read all of the titles on the Women’s Prize for Fiction Longlist this year, nor the Shortlist, so I cannot weigh-in on the other books, but I will say that I'm not at all surprised The Correspondent won such a prestigious award. It is a remarkable book.

Now, I must hurry off to the library because there are about 103 people queued up for this book. I will be adding The Correspondent to my list of books I want to add to my personal library, because this is one I’ll be returning to, for sure. 

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