Stories for Mothers and Daughters - A British Library Women Writers Collection

I used to start reviews of short story collections saying something like, “I don’t normally gravitate towards short stories”. But I can’t make that claim anymore. In less than a year I went from someone who almost never read short stories to someone who loves them. I enjoy sitting with a short story and knowing that I will be able to find out what happens in the end without staying up past my bedtime. I love that short stories can act as a snapshot, capturing a moment in time. They aren’t required to take us on a sweeping journey, but they might. And they might just capture a woman ironing clothes, while being a million miles away in her thoughts, or a mother and daughter going to the cinema, or a woman wandering her home and missing her daughters. Stories for Mothers and Daughters is full of small moments, big emotions, and the complicated relationships between mothers and daughters. Apologies for the length of this review. I tried to be brief, but there are 16 stories in this collection, and apparently, I had a lot of things to say about them.

“Week-End” by Richmal Crompton (1931)

A woman waits in expectation for her two daughters to come home for the weekend. They bring two friends with them, and basically create chaos in their mother‘s life while they’re there. She says that neither of her daughters is like her, as she had hoped. They don’t enjoy quiet time, and they certainly aren’t bookish. They remind her of her husband, Bruce. It is clear she loves her daughters, but she gives a sigh of relief and smiles when they are gone and her home is quiet again. I can’t say I blame her. The group of four girls together sound more wild than a bunch of monkeys. They also sound very young indeed. They certainly cannot be old enough to be working in an office, but then maybe that’s because I identified with the mother!

“Maternal Devotion” by Sylvia Townsend Warner (1947)

Very amusing story about a woman, Cordelia Finch, who has all of her unwanted suitors sit with her mother. 

“I’m always alarmed when I see people plunge into gardening. Still, if your mother enjoys it ... Besides, there is the Fifth Commandment. I read right through the Ten Commandments the other day, and I was surprised to find how many of them I agreed with. But it would have saved a lot of talk, as well as being much lighter to carry, if Moses had just boiled them down to one compact little commandment—‘Thou shalt not interfere.’ I knew a Mrs Prothero who was perfectly devoted to gardening, and one day when she was being shown around a friend’s garden she saw a weed and tried to pull it up. It happened to be a tight-rooted wolfsbane, and while she was tussling with it, something snapped and she went blind in one eye. Could you have a plainer warning against meddling?” (14)

By the time her mother is through talking their ear off, they are running for the hills. Too funny! 

“The Value of Being Seen” by Inez Holden (1945)

This story is about Daphne, a reluctant debutant. Forced to go to dances night after night, by her mother with the expectation that Daphne be seen, because according Daphne’s mother being seen is the most important thing. But no one sees Daphne. 

She seemed to be seeing hundreds of eyes, which had no separate existence simply a mass of eyes like caviare among noses; they did not seem to be anyone’s specially, they were only a great number of eyes, liquid and dead. So this was her first dance. Her mother’s words about the value of being seen came into her mind, but these eyes did not seem to be looking at her. They seemed to be looking, not at anyone or anything, but only looking. (21)

It is not just that they don’t notice her, it’s as though they cannot actually see her. And eventually she becomes a shade. This interesting story has a spectacular ending, one I’ll be thinking about for some time. 

I really enjoyed the writing of this one and was wondering why the author’s name sounded so familiar, when I realised that’s because I have two of her books on my shelves, Blitz Writing and There’s No Story There. I have not read them yet, but they had been on my wishlist for a while and when I heard that Handheld Press were closing their doors, they were two of the ones I purchased. After reading this sample of her writing, I’m even more excited to get to them.

“Psalms” by Jeanette Winterson (1998)

This one is about a woman who tries to get a job as a tea-taster. Goodness! Who wouldn’t want that job?! She has to fill out a questionnaire, at the end of which she is asked to write about the experience she considers the most significant in the forming of her character. She writes about how when she was little her mother wanted to get her a pet. There’s the impression she would have liked a dog or even a ferret, she already has an imaginary bunny named, Ezra. But her mother decides a tortoise is the best choice. 

“Why don’t I call it Ebenezer?” (I was thinking that would match Ezra.)

“We’re calling it Psalms because I want you to praise the Lord.”

“I can praise the Lord if it’s called Ebenezer.”

“But you won’t, will you? You’ll say you forgot. What about the time I bought you that 3-D postcard of the garden of Gethsemane? You said that would help you think about the Lord and I caught you singing ‘On Ilkley Moor Baht ’at’”

“Alright then,” I sulked. “We’ll call it Psalms.” (31)

And the girl reads to the tortoise from the Psalms everyday. The tortoise seems to be fulfilling its purpose. She learns large chunks of the Bible and she wins all the competitions in Sunday School. This is a funny, odd story and another one that I don’t quite know what to make of. It’s also another one where the mother and daughter seem to be, if not entirely at odds with each other, there is a lack of understanding between them. But as you can tell from the bit of dialogue, it is a very humorous story, indeed. If you are unfamiliar with the song “On Ilkley Moor Baht ’at”, you can listen to it here, and find the lyrics here. By the time worms part of the picture, I was in stitches. 

“The End of the Fairy Tale” by Maude Egerton King (1911)

A normally absent and neglectful mother, who usually leaves the care of her five-year-old daughter to her nurse, ends up putting her daughter to bed when her evening plans get cancelled at the last minute. The daughter is clearly starved for motherly attention, which made me think that the mother was selfish and self involved, but as the story goes on, there’s a suggestion that there is more to it than that. There is perhaps some sort of societal expectation that she has allowed herself to be caught up with instead of investing herself in her daughter’s life. Her husband is away in South Africa, and there is the suggestion of an affair, which takes up her attention, as a man calls at the house, interrupting her time with her daughter. I found this one both touching and sad.

“The Pictures” by Janet Frame (1951)

A mother and daughter go to the pictures. While they’re watching the film, they seem to be on the same plane, both enjoying themselves. “The little girl laughed. She clapped her hands and giggled and the woman laughed with her. They were the happiest people in the world” (50). But when they leave, the mother is thinking about having to return home to the boarding house where she lives alone with her daughter.

And the woman thought of going up stairs and putting the little girl to bed and then touching and looking at the daffodil in the window-box, it was a lovely daffodil. And looking about her and thinking the woman felt sad.

But the little girl in the pixie-cap didn’t feel sad, she was eating a paper lolly, it was greeny-blue and it tasted like peppermints. (53)

There is something so heartbreaking about this one. The disconnect between the mother and daughter in this last snapshot, compared to when they are laughing in the cinema is poignant.

“The Silver Cloak” by Winifred Holtby (1937)

A seamstress, Annie Moorcroft is given a silver cloak from one of her clients. On her way home, she imagines the effect the dress will have on her life. As a young woman of 36, who still looks young, she feels the dress will help her look good for when men come to court her daughter, Katie, who is just coming of age. But when Annie shows the garment to her daughter, Katie seems downcast and sulky, and isn’t nearly as excited as Annie expected her to be. It occurs to Annie that her daughter is jealous of her. Jealous of the dress.

I have mixed feelings about this story, because I just think of all the times that mother sacrifice more than they should. The incident with the garment could have been a learning experience for the daughter, who in my opinion is a bit of a brat. Mothers deserve to have nice clothes too! The daughter is always well dressed, in clothes her mother has made for her. She does not need another dress, and the silver cloak was given to the mother, after all. But I think the story is meant to point to the small sacrifices mothers make for their children every day. 

“History Again Repeats Itself” by E.M. Delafield (1929)

Theodosia invites her friend Alex, and two others to her parents’ house for Christmas. While Alex is not her boyfriend, they have been going around together for the past year. Theodosia has come to think of him as more than a friend though, she has not yet admitted it to herself. Upset at seeing Alex get along so well with Marjorie, one of the other friends invited for Christmas, Theodosia confronts him. She accuses him of being in love with Marjorie, and she surprises both of them when she ends up in tears. Her mother saves Theodosia from embarrassment. Theodosia and her mother do not quite understand each other, they are not quite at odds, but Theodosia does think she knows better than dear mummy. Theodosia is young and perhaps not quite so worldly, or superior, as she had thought. I appreciated how her mother quietly, and firmly guided her daughter when she saw she needed help, but otherwise leaves Theodosia to figure things out for herself. E.M. Delafield’s writing is always a treat. Full of humour and observant of her characters’ flaws, while displaying the foibles that often result with wit and understanding.

“Mothers and Daughters” by Frances Gray Patton (1952) 

Emily and her sister, Belle, chat by the fire one cold March evening while waiting for Emily’s daughter, Laura, to come home. Feeling comfortable, Emily confesses that her daughter is remote, cold, and hostile towards her (84). She immediately regrets saying something so horrible about her own daughter. But Belle brushes it off. Then Laura comes home and Belle sees firsthand how Laura is with her mother. Once Laura has left the room, Belle admits,

“I see what you mean. She doesn’t care for you very much at the moment. You’ll have to trust to time.” She smiled ruefully. “It’s like Mama used to say when we were broken up about something that couldn’t be helped. ‘Don’t struggle, lie down and let the waves beat over you.” (96)

Not bad advice, but Emily feels the need to confront her daughter and what results is enlightening. I had to share this quotation, because I think the author does a great job of showing the gap in sentiment that mothers of teenage daughters must bridge.

“As soon as the conversation gets meaningful you make a wisecrack. You retreat. Why, you haven’t even noticed how beautiful the world is tonight.” She took her mother by the arm and drew her to the window. “Look!”

Emily looked. Her house was on a hill, and across the road, where, the land began to fall away, stood an elm tree, large and symmetrical. Below the tree were rooftops of houses that seemed to form a flight of giant steps going down in the darkness. Tonight, in the ice storm, the elm was a great sequined fan and the ridgepoles were penciled silver lines.

“Doesn’t it make you want to cry?” asked Laura.

“No,” said Emily. She felt too tired and baffled for anything but the simple truth. “Not except when I think how slick the roads will be in the morning.” (99)

This one ends on a surprisingly light note, with Emily understanding Laura’s “problem”.

“The Shadow of Kindness” by Maeve Brennan (1965)

I found this one to be touching, and a bit sad. Mrs. Bagot has sent her children off to a relatives farm for a month. 

[T]here were other things she was going to do, but these preparations, which she had already memorized and timed to the minute, still left her with nothing to do for a month but look forward, and she knew a grown woman should have more life of her own. Even if she had children, a woman should have a life of her own that would stand up when the children were out of the house for any length of time. She knew that. It was not right to let yourself get so lost in your children that you could find no trace of yourself when they were gone. What would she do when they grew up? Of course, it was silly to think of it; not silly—morbid. She was letting her imagination run away with her. She would make herself a cup of tea and cheer herself up. The tea would cheer her up. Still, she did not move. She continued to stand by the big window looking out into her garden. (103-104)

It’s the first day without her children and she is at a loss, and more than a little lonely, but she finds comfort in an unexpected place.

I especially enjoyed the beautiful descriptions of the garden and the interiors of Mrs. Bagot’s house. The children’s bedroom come alive when Mrs. Bagot is confronted with the unfamiliar, or should I say, she sees the familiar from a different perspective. And there is a dear dog, a white terrier named Bennie, a big orange cat named Rupert, and small black cat named Minnie. We know Bennie is a very good dog, because he doesn’t kick up a fuss when greedy Rupert checks Bennie’s bowl for stray morsels of food. A story with a dog is just about guaranteed to be a favourite of mine, as this one is.

“Rose-Coloured Teacups” by A.S. Byatt (1987)

This story is like a snapshot in time, or times. I normally love description, but the large chunk at the beginning of this one was a bit much for me. I felt my attention wain by the second page, and I fear if I had come across this story in a magazine I would have moved on. However, I did appreciate how Byatt showed how people see their experience of a place as being the definitive one. Again, pointing out the disconnect between the generations and the gaps that must be bridged for understanding to be realised. 

“Love is Not a Pie” by Amy Bloom (1993)

I stood and looked and then backed out of the bedroom. They hadn’t moved, the three of them breathing deeply, in unison. What was that, I thought, what did I see? I wanted to go back and take another look, to see it again, to make it disappear, to watch them carefully, until I understood. (139)

The story begins with the funeral of Ellen and Lizzie’s mother, but much of it is set during summers past spent at their cabin. Told from Ellen’s perspective as a young girl, I think Bloom does a great job of capturing the thought process of a child when they have seen something they don’t quite understand. This one is sad, but also really lovely.

“The Battle-Field” by Phyllis Bottome (1934)

Thirty-five-year old, Madeline Writtle has always been delicate, but after her sister’s death she becomes worryingly ill. Eventually, she winds up in a sanatorium for consumption, where the doctor works as much on her worryingly co-dependent relationship with her mother, as he does on building up her physical health. The writing remains fairly light throughout, but the undertone is quite dark. 

“I Stand Here Ironing” by Tillie Olsen (1961)

A woman ruminates about her daughter Emily’s upbringing after receiving a call from the girl’s school. The mother has to go out to work when Emily is eight months old, the father has left, and the mother is 19. Later, Emily gets the measles and the mother is encouraged to send her daughter to a place where she can recuperate, which sounds more like a prison for disadvantaged children than a rest home.

It took us eight months to get her released home, and only the fact that she gained back so little of her seven lost pounds convinced the social worker. 

 I used to try to hold and love her after she came back, but her body would stay stiff, and after a while she'd push away. She ate little. Food sickened her, and I think much of life too. Oh she had physical lightness and brightness, twinkling by on skates, bouncing like a ball up and down up and down over the jump rope, skimming over the hill; but these were momentary. (173-174)

Heartbreaking. Moving. And I can imagine that a lot of single mothers at this time without independent means were forced to make similarly heart-wrenching choices. 

“The Stepmother” by Mary Arden (1928)

A teacher at a boarding school for girls becomes engaged. She settles down to her new life with her husband, and all seems well enough. But life is complicated by her stepdaughter, who she only meets after she has married the girl’s father, and does not want to have anything to do with her stepmother. Then a little girl who was a favourite of hers at the boarding school writes asking if she can stay for part of the school holiday. This story is about the complicated role of being a stepmother.

“My Mother” by Jamaica Kincaid (1983)

Short, poetic, and figurative. The mother-daughter relationship is mythologised in this powerful collection of vignettes. At first, I thought this was going to be my least favourite story in the collection. And then I read this…

My mother reached out to pass a hand over my head, a pacifying gesture, but I laughed and, with great agility, stepped aside. I let out a horrible roar, then a self-pitying whine. I had grown big, but my mother was bigger, and that would always be so. (201)

How well Kincaid has captured the complicated struggle between the urge to have agency over one’s own life and the power of one’s mother. Then this part just about bowled me over…

My mother, while caressing my chin and cheeks, said some words of comfort to me because we had never been apart before. She kissed me on the forehead and turned and walked away. I cried so much my chest heaved up and down, my whole body shook at the sight of her back turned towards me, as if I had never seen her back turned towards me before. I started to make plans to get off the boat, but when I saw that the boat was encased in a large green bottle, as if it were about to decorate a mantelpiece, I fell asleep, until I reached my destination, the new island. When the boat stopped, I got off and I saw a woman with feet exactly like mine, especially around the arch of the instep. Even though the face was completely different from what I was used to, I recognised this woman as my mother. We greeted each other at first with great caution and politeness, but as we walked along, our steps became one, and as we talked, our voices became one voice, and we were in complete union in every other way. What peace came over me then, for I could not see where she left off and I began, or where I left off and she began. (203-204)

She does not tell how she trusted this mother with a changed face, after her mother turned her back on her. Alas, there is hope here. Hope of new beginnings, understanding, and love, despite all the hurt that gets intertwined over time.

Admittedly, I was unable to enjoy this collection with the same abandon as I did Stories for Summer and Days By the Pool, which came out last year in the British Library Women Writers collection. The mother-daughter relationship is too fraught with landmines to really get comfortable for any extended period of time. But, perhaps, I am bringing too much of my own experience to my reading, and to this review. As a whole Stories for Mothers and Daughters was less fraught with emotion than I was expecting, I held my tears until the final story, but I suspect if you are a mother or a daughter you will find these stories either more or less relatable than I did. There is some fabulous writing in this collection. I suspect Jamaica Kincaid’s “My Mother” is one that will take up residence in my thoughts and the depths of my heart for some time.

Come to this book for the writing. Stay for the emotional exorcism. And if you are not a mother or a daughter, this book provides a glimpse of the many complexities of mother-daughter relationships. 

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of Stories for Mothers and Daughters for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

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London Particular by Christianna Brand

London Particular by Christianna Brand may just be my new favourite book among the British Library Crime Classics. While, as Martin Edwards suggests in his introduction, it is up for debate whether Brand strictly follows the rules of a ‘fair play’ puzzle in this book, this was the author’s own favourite among her books for good reason. I do think the murder is solvable for the reader, but it would take someone who is exceptional at discarding the superfluous. And apparently, I do not fit into this category. But I’m fine with that, because this one kept me guessing right to the last sentence.

Dr. Edwin Robert Edwards, lovingly referred to as Tedward, and Rosie Evans, the younger sister of his colleague, are out on a typically foggy November night in London, trying to find their way to a dying man. After receiving a strange phone call from Rosie’s house by Raoul Vernet, a dinner guest visiting from Switzerland, urging the doctor to come quick, he has been hit by a mastoid mallet. They arrive to find Raoul Vernet is dead.

Rosie enlists the help of family friend, Inspector Cockrill, to aid the police in their investigations, because as dear Cockie is soon to find out, there are only seven suspects and all belong to the Evans family or are close friends of theirs.

There are so many things about this book that I enjoyed. Let’s talk about the setting first. As suggested by its title, this novel begins on a night ravaged by the soot laden fog that was typical of London in the 1950s. In December of 1952, the same year this book was published, London experienced severe air pollution from the combination of cold weather, an anticyclone (high pressure air close to a land mass with lower pressure air surrounding), and windless conditions which trapped airborne pollutants, creating a deadly smog, which killed as many as 4,000 people and made thousands more sick. Coal was mainly to blame for the great quantity of pollutants in the air and the Clean Air Act of 1956 came about in direct response to the event that came to be known as the Great Smog of 1952. All of this is to say that the fog described in this book would have been thick yellow, green, or black fog often referred to as a ‘pea-souper’.

It may be hard for today’s readers to imagine how dense London fog would have been during this time period. The title London Particular, is a reference to chapter three in Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. A character says, “This is a London particular” in response to a new-comer to London asking if there was a fire, because “the streets were so full of dense brown smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen”. By referencing a novel published one hundred years earlier, Brand suggests that this is the same dense, pollution-filled, fog that Londoners had been suffering since Dickens’ time, and no doubt even earlier than that. (Here's my short and sweet review of Bleak House.)

Earlier this month I read another book set during the 1950s, Patti Callahan Henry’s The Story She Left Behind. In it the Great Smog of 1952 is well-described from the perspective of an American tourist who is not accustomed to a London particular and is unaware that the London air is not always so toxic. This novel is not entirely set in London, the characters quickly flee to the Lake District for their health, but if you enjoy historical fiction I cannot recommend this one enough. The brief description of London’s landmarks veiled in thick fog were of particular interest to me, as I have not read anything else set during this historical event. (You can find my review of that book on Instagram and Goodreads, if you are interested.)

But back to London Particular… Brand describes the family dynamics with vigour and humour, breathing such life into the house that it seems a shame to sully it with the ugliness of a murder.

Tedward strolled out after her, laughing. ‘Never mind, Til! You cope with the old girl, I'll see myself out.’ Gabriel followed him, barking gaily, under the chronic delusion that anyone in an overcoat was necessarily about to take him walkie-palkies, and Annaran, the Siamese cat, who was very sillily called after the film Annaran the King of Siam, poised ready to dart out to certain death under the traffic wheels of Maida Vale. ‘Gabriel! Annaran!’ shouted Matilda in despair above the din. The telephone rang, Emma reached boiling-point, Rosie screamed out from her attic that if that was Damien on the phone she would come down and speak to him, and out of a first-floor window flew a long-sleeved woollen nightie. A strong smell of burning pastry arose from the basement. ‘My God, what a house!’ said Tilda. From the hall came a last shrill yelp of disappointment as Tedward shut the door in Gabriel’s face; followed by a squall as it closed upon Annaran’s shining tail. The fall of the nightgown had been followed by a heavy silence in Mrs Evans’ room. Today of all days! — Granny was always at her most impossible, after Worse than Death. (45-46)

I had to include that hilarious glimpse into the Evans’ household at its most chaotic. It actually made me laugh out loud while reading, which is something I rarely do.

The other thing I really enjoy about this book is Brand’s writing. The plot is so finely tuned that she continues to play with reader expectation throughout. She even teases the reader by foreshadowing events to come. 

In the long, white firelit drawing-room the victim bowed and smiled and reeled off his devoirs before the serious work of the evening should begin; within the radius of one fog-bound mile, were these seven people, one of whom was very shortly going to murder him. (56)

Again, she teases what is to come when early on in the investigation, Cockie is questioning some suspects for the first time.

A little fish of doubt swam into Cockie's consciousness and hung about there for a moment waggling its fins at him; but he was more interested in Thomas than in Melissa Weeks and so he passed on and never knew how much trouble and tragedy might have been saved if he had noticed it. (77)

Although, I usually find this type of blatant foreshadowing is too heavy-handed for my liking, I think Brand makes the technique work because it is both carefully placed, and used sparingly.

Despite Brand’s skill at creating finely-tuned plots full of twists, this does not feel like a plot-driven novel. Everything that happens in this book is driven by believable decisions made by the characters. Even with a number of characters confessing to the crime, it does not feel like some sort of ploy to confuse the reader. It does of course add confusion, but each of the confessions are believable in the moment because there is some truth behind each confession, and because all of the suspects are so closely linked, there is always someone who is trying to protect someone else. 

Speaking of characters, Cockie appears in six other novels by Brand, five of which have been republished by the British Library, including Green for Danger, Suddenly at His Residence, Death of Jezebel, and Tour de Force. London Particular is the fifth book in the series and Tour de Force, which I read before reading this one, is the sixth. (Here's a link to my review of Tour de Force.) Although, an earlier case is mentioned in this one in which Inspector Cockrill crosses paths with Inspector Charlesworth, the police inspector who is officially working on the case in this book, there are no spoilers for that novel. I had no problem enjoying the books in this series out of order.

While there are some aspects of this novel that date it, there are other aspects that make it feel ahead of its time. We find out early on that Rosie is pregnant and is very open about seeking an abortion. Abortion was not legalised in England until 1967. I’m willing to bet that Rosie referring to her unwanted pregnancy as “a most frightful muddle” and seeking an abortion from the family doctor, while continuing to unashamedly give in to her passion for men, must have shocked some readers when this book was first published. Perhaps all the more so because Rosie is a delightful and charming character, who is living her life unapologetically, and is more intelligent than she makes herself out to be. After all, it was her idea to ask Cockie to investigate, and you cannot help but like and approve of Cockie. 

I cannot recommend this one enough! It has an atmospheric setting, twist, after twist, likeable characters—all of which you will be rooting for, even though one of them has to be the murderer—and some really solid writing. Oh, and no clunky explanation at the end. Thank heavens!

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

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. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!