The Woman in the Hall by G.B. Stern

It happens every year at about this time. I get on such a roll of reading books and enjoying my summer that I fall so far behind with writing reviews that I consider not doing it at all. There was a stack of books waiting to be reviewed on my desk, but it got so out of control that it was blocking the on/off switch for my desk lamp, and making me feel more than a little overwhelmed, if I’m being honest.  I have since put the stack away and started a new one, and now this one is growing out of control. “How much do I want to share these books with other people?” and “Can’t they just be mine for a little while longer?” are things I ask myself. In many cases I give in, and put the book away, telling myself I can always review it at a latter date. But some books must be shared, immediately, and Gladys Bronwyn Stern’s 1939 novel, The Woman in the Hall is one of them.

When this chunky book arrived at my door I was a little put off. The books published in the British Library Women Writers series tend to be slimmer volumes, somewhere between 200 and 250 pages. Of course there are outliers, Chatterton Square by E.H. Young is one that sits on my shelf unread, which if it were not so chunky I am certain I would have done so by now. After all, it comes highly recommended from my dear friend, Gina (@babsbelovedbooks), who as it happens gave me the lovely card that appears in some of this post’s photos. Goodness! I have yet to find a book in this series that isn’t a favourite. Rose Macaulay’s Dangerous Ages is the only one I’ve felt lukewarm about, but I’m sure I was in a mood when I was reading it and have decided to give it another go before writing a review. Which, by the way, is a classic Caro avoidance tactic in action. For the record, The Love Child by Edith Olivier is one I adored, but read while on holiday and didn’t get around to reviewing when I returned home. That one happens to be very slim, indeed, at under 140 pages. The remainder of British Library edition is taken up by supplementary material and extracts from other writing by Olivier. Coming in at 336 pages, The Woman in the Hall stands out as being more of a time investment. But I am thrilled to report that it is worth every bit of it. Not one page would I want to be denied of this compelling novel. I read this book off and on over the course of a couple of weeks—unusual behaviour for me, but I was keen not to rush through it. Despite its length it didn’t feel overly long, and I was satisfied to sit back as the story was slowly spun.

The title, The Woman in the Hall, refers to Lorna Blake, a professional beggar, who solicits money from the select rich by calling on them at home and spinning a story that all but ensures she has money in hand by the time she walks out the door. Lorna’s life of crime begins innocently enough when her daughter, Jay, winds up in hospital and Lorna is unable to afford the treatment. She tells a tale with some embellishments to a receptive woman of means, and ends up with enough cash to keep them afloat, and then some. But instead of vowing never to be in the position to ask for charity from a stranger again, Lorna develops a taste for it. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that she gets a thrill out of spinning a story and relying on her wits to anticipate the next move of the person she is supplicating. The rush of swindling promises excitement that is lacking in the rest of Lorna’s life. Like a gambler who cannot kick the habit, Lorna goes out again, and again, dragging one or the other of her daughters with her. Molly soon dreads hearing that they are going out “Visiting”, but Jay develops her own fascination with the task while also seeming to abhor aspects of it. 

G.B. Stern addresses the problems that would arise for two distinctly different children who have been brought up by a mother who swindles money out of the wealthy. Going “Visiting with Mummy” is how the girls refer to these begging calls, where they would knock on a stranger’s door, handpicked by their mother, and wait while the servant announces that there is “a woman in the hall”. Apparently, begging at the door was a common enough occurrence at the time that the man or woman of the house would immediately understand this euphemistic phrase. We see Molly and Jay as young girls accompanying their mother, through to young women when their mother is still pulling the same stunts.

On a rare holiday to the seaside, we see the difference between the two girls’ attitudes after a few days in peaceful surroundings, as seen from Molly’s perspective.

“I can’t have you mooching about, Jay, it gets on my nerves.”

“I’m sorry, Mummy darling.” Jay hugged her impulsively. “It’s only that I wish something would happen.” She did not even remember to stipulate for something nice.

Dull. They could actually find it dull. But Molly worshipped dullness. If only it could be dull for ever and ever; if only nothing need happen, for ever and ever.

Lorna talked perpetually about being short of cash: “I don’t know where to turn.” And: “We simply can’t go on like this.”

They went back to London, to Huntingdon Terrace. (44)

The girls’ reactions to returning to London, and thus to Visiting, are complicated. When faced with it, Jay is “genuinely frightened”, while Molly, with the aim of protecting her sister, who she takes to be weaker than herself and less able to withstand these visits, conceals her displeasure in having to go out. What I found interesting about this dynamic is that Molly is not wrong about Jay. While Jay arrives home in a sort of feverish excitement after a first successful outing with their mother, she is also fearful of these visits. It is as though Jay is unconsciously aware that she is not strong enough to withstand her mother’s influence. This dichotomy of excitement and fear, aligns with the complex feelings she has towards her mother in adulthood. Meanwhile, Molly carves out a successful career acting on the stage. Even for someone who craves a dull, predicable, and normal life, this is perhaps not such a surprising vocation for Molly as she has been developing her acting skills throughout her childhood as a means of survival in her mother’s house. 

This next passage provides a glimpse at the inner workings of Jay’s mind as a child. It is both dear and heartbreaking, extremely self-aware, and just a piece of really well imagined writing, especially when considered after you have finished the book.

[S]he let her mind escape into an imaginary place which she called "the house of jeopardy." Jeopardy meant danger, but it was more dangerous even than danger. This reverie was not all pleasure, though she could not always stop herself from doing it:

. . . She and Mummy and Molly had to live in the house of jeopardy. It had doors and windows, and when they were open, the view was lovely, but if they were all closed, it would be prison. Sometimes while they were Visiting, Mummy made an awful mistake and they were nearly found out. But she, Jay, thought of something just in time to save them. Or, ultimate thrill, she did not succeed in saving them, and the doors and windows slowly swung and clanged, and they were shut up where there was no more light. Jay never told Molly that she enjoyed frightening herself, for she suspected, when put into words, that Molly knew about real plain fear, and played no tricks with it. (90-91)

Farther along, Jay addresses the issue of moral ambiguity, though she does not refer as such, instead she quotes her mother, “it was what you did things for, which made them right or wrong” (91). Jay recognises a connection with her mother that does not require words.

Yet now Jay knew without telling that her mother felt just as she did herself, that icy tingle of expectation waiting outside a strange front door, yet already committed by bell and knocker: What is it going to be like, this time? Can we manage it? Shall we get out safely? She believed that Mummy didn’t mind the thanking part, but that was the only difference between them. (91)

Recognising this similarity with her mother might be sweet, even heartwarming, if Jay was talking about something else, instead, it fills the reader with foreboding for the future ahead of this young girl.

Besides Jay’s take on her mother’s proclivity for it, we do not get a real sense of Lorna’s perspective on why she swindles money from people. Lorna has a woman who keeps house for her, Susan, who has been with her for years, and one assumes Lorna could leave her children with Susan if she were to go about some more honest work, which for a woman at the time would likely mean domestic service. Again and again, Lorna claims she does it “for the sake of her children”, and that there is nothing she wouldn’t do for them. But near the end, in a moment of honestly to Susan, we do get a glimpse of how getting money out of people makes Lorna feel. I do not think this falls into spoiler territory, as it seems pretty clear from the start that Lorna’s means of getting money is not all about her girls, despite her claims. However, in her defence, this book is set before the National Health Service came into being in 1948—as Simon Thomas discusses in his insightful afterward—so when Jay winds up in hospital and the bills start mounting up, it puts the family in a truly dire situation. What it does not account for is why Lorna keeps on conning people, instead of finding more traditional employment.

The back cover copy of this stunning British Library Women Writers edition hints at Lorna’s victims closing in on her, and throughout this book we watch as the net pulls tighter around Lorna. Will she ultimately slip through, or will Lorna finally find she has taken one risk too many?

I thought I had a good idea of where this one was going. It turns out, I didn’t have a clue. There was no doubt in my mind when I sat down to write this review that I enjoyed this book immensely. But now I realise that I absolutely loved it. There is so much going on in this book, so much to unpick. The relationship between mothers and daughters, and between sisters, and again, with sisters and their mother is already a rich topic. When you add to it a mother who is a professional beggar, swindler, con-artist—whatever you want to call it, they are all correct—it adds another layer that is rich with complexity. I applaud both British Library Publishing and the series consultant, Simon Thomas, for bringing another important text, and a damn good read, back into print. 

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of The Woman in the Hall for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

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