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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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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The Spring Begins by Katherine Dunning

First of all, I just want to thank everyone who visited Caro’s Bookcase last month. My views have continued to increase with each month since I started this blog a year and a half ago, which is very encouraging. But when I checked my stats on 4 May you could have knocked me over with a feather. On that single day this blog had 733 views! Which, to put it in context, is more I had in my first two months of blogging. And, yes. I do realise that my stats may sound little league to some, but as I am only competing with myself, I’m pretty thrilled. There are so many other ways that you could be spending your time, so I just want to say that I am very appreciative to all of you who carve out some of your valuable time and spend it here with me.

As I mentioned in my last post, I got completely swept away with Katherine Dunning’s 1934 novel, The Spring Begins. I meant to sit down and just read a couple of chapters, but Dunning’s writing made it necessary to keep reading. Her descriptions of setting are gorgeous. The women in this book are so well described, and you cannot help but feel for each of them. And I think Dunning does a fantastic job of capturing the tension, unease, and vulnerability of being a woman, especially—I assume—a woman in domestic service in the 1930s.

Despite the title, this book is set in the heat of summer. The spring referred to is a figurative one alluding to the awakening of three women. At least, that’s what I inferred from the title! Lottie is a young nurse maid who cares for the two Kellaway girls, and is painfully innocent and fearful of the world of men. Maggie, the Kellaways’ scullery maid, is more knowing of men, but perhaps not as experienced with them as Cook seems to think. The oldest of the three women, Hessie, is a spinster and governess to the two Benson girls at the rectory. When her younger sister gets engaged she faces a crisis. All of these women are domestic servants within two neighbouring homes. Despite their proximity to each other, these women rarely interact, and the narrative switches from one woman’s perspective to another throughout the book. 

This is the passage that told me that me I was going to get on well with this book.

On the way to the child's bed Lottie could see herself in the long mirror of the wardrobe as she went by. The glass gave her back a strange reflection, as if her white figure had sunk deep down into the mirror's dark silver, and when she paused to wave her arms up and down she looked really queer. Her nightgown floated mistily around her and, with her startled face, startled by her own appearance, she looked like a phantom figure that had blown in from the night itself, its flapping wings disturbing the pressing darkness. (5)

The image is a beautiful one, but I think it also points to Lottie’s innocence. She is not much more than a child looking after children with all of the fascination with her reflection in the dark that one would expect of her charges. But then we see an awareness of her body and a dismissal, or a covering over, of it at once.

If she just turned quickly on her toes like the children did when they were pretending to be fairies blown through the garden by the wind, her nightgown fled out away from her, leaving her body bare and light against the air. But it was not delicate or nice to think of herself as naked. It was all right from her head down to the top of her collar, and from her knees down to her toes she was flesh and blood again, but in between there was nothing at all—just a conveniently sized dummy's model on which to hang her blue gingham frock and white apron. (5)

That it is not “delicate or nice to think of herself as naked” points to the narrative about the female body she has internalised from Nurse, the woman she works under in the Kellaway home, and likely what she was taught at the orphanage where she grew up. The combination of Lottie’s innocence and Nurse’s worrying fascination with warning Lottie that all men are bad and not to be trusted, even ones that appear to be kind, makes Lottie fearful of coming into any contact with men. 

Lottie’s love of the children she cares for, especially for the younger girl, Isobel, was really sweet to read. At times Isobel clings to Lottie and seems to really respond to Lottie’s love. Although, I did worry at times that the elder girl, Anne, didn’t get the same outpouring of love from Lottie, or anyone else, and while there is not so much as a hint that this is the case, it did worry me that Anne just about fades into the background.

Maggie, the Kellaways’ scullery maid, seems to be more sure of herself than Lottie and Hessie. She may have the lowest position among the indoor servants in the Kellaway house, Cook may rag on her, and her attic bedroom may be the hottest room in the house, but she has a spirit that will not be tamped down.

Maggie leant farther out of the window. Gazing down at the garden and sea and up at the sky she felt as if she owned them all by virtue of the fact that she alone was looking at them. Her arms were damp with dew. Nothing stirred anywhere. No sound came from the sea, or from the birds either. Maggie ran her hands up through her hair. It was dark and shiny and waved naturally, thank God. She felt the back of her strong round neck. Yes, but for her hands and feet she was a girl well worth looking at, and Cook could say what she liked. (63)

Maggie flirts with whom she likes, from the hired waiter to the head gardener, propriety be damned. Although I worried about her less than the other women, I still had a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that perhaps she was not as capable of looking after herself around men as she might think.

Hessie, the governess at the rectory, spends a lot of time playing out scenarios in her head. At one point I had to go back and reread a section because I thought, “Wait. How would she have been privy to that conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Kellaway?” only to discover that Hessie was simply fantasising about what the couple might have said in a certain circumstance. Of all of the women in this book it took me the longest to warm up to Hessie. While holding the place of governess, she thinks of herself as a lady, and looks down on others. At times she is downright cruel, making herself come off poorly in the process. 

At the annual summer fête that the Kellaways host, she bullies a little boy, who does not know her, into joining in on “Here We Go Gathering Nuts in May”. She picks him up, despite him urging, “Let me go—let me go—”. So painfully awkward. All through the game she is fantasising about what game she will organise once this one is over. She imagines Mr. Saul, the curate, alongside, because of course she is doing all of this to get his attention and show she would make an ideal clergyman’s wife.

Panting a little, Hessie dropped the child, who glowered at her ungratefully and ran away. Now what should she suggest? A tug-o’-war? With her on one side and Mr. Saul on the other. That would be fine! His side would win, of course. A man was always gallant to a defeated woman. Besides, men were the stronger sex, they should domineer and win, and then be gentle towards the conquered. Strength and gentleness combined, and when it was over he would say, “That was a splendid game! Your little team fought gallantly but you need a rest now, Miss Price. Come—let me get you an ice.” Then side by side they would walk off, he glancing down at her, she up at him, admiringly, intimately. (132)

But it becomes increasingly apparent that Hessie lives in her imagination as a way to escape reality. The scene continues,

The game was ending now. Hessie ran forward and clapped her hands. But Mr. Saul was not there! He was threading his way through the outer fringe of children. The smile died from Hessie's lips. She put her hand to her head. (132)

As the book goes on I found myself empathising with Hessie more. I think she shows the most growth over the course of the summer, and she has the furthest to go to even recognise what is happening to her.

Supposing she screamed now. Just dropped the plates and opened her mouth and screamed. Hessie bit her under lip as she ran out into the kitchen. She laid the plates with a clatter onto the draining-board by the sink, and pressed her hands to her head. How could she live through Hilda's wedding, and afterwards, too? Evenings alone with Mother, while Hilda sat with her husband, and afterwards Hilda and Albert went, upstairs together. Hilda would be a wife, a married woman. Hilda would come back to see them, and she'd talk about ‘my husband’ and Mother and she would exchange meaning glances, leaving Hessie outside the fraternity of married women. (146)

From the start, Hessie is on the outside, standing apart in her keenness to be seen as a lady, or at least not expose herself as not being one. She is one of the surplus women left over from the First World War, and with each year it becomes increasingly unlikely that she will ever get married. I won’t spoil how her story progresses, but it is not the only aspect of this book that took me by surprise.

Well, if the length of this review is any indicator, I loved this book. It is not a plot-y book, but how the narrative alternates between these three women’s perspectives kept me glued to the page. I wouldn’t be surprised if this makes it on my top ten books of the year. There is usually at least one book from the British Library Women Writers series to be found there. I expect The Spring Begins will be on many other readers’ lists too.

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

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Stories for Christmas and the Festive Season by Various

I have been wanting to read Stories for Christmas and the Festive Season for ages. Published in 2022, this book is part of the British Library Women Writers series. A series that I am a huge fan of, as I'm sure you are aware if you've been on this blog for more than five minutes. I had been planning to save Stories for Christmas to enjoy closer to the end of the month. But after looking through the stack of Christmas books I had put aside to read in December, I found myself selecting this one. I’m sure having just finished another of the British Library Publishing’s short story collections, Who Killed Father Christmas? had something to do with it. I was craving another collection chock full of Christmas and festive cheer, and I was not disappointed.

The only dud in this collection, as far as I’m concerned, is the first story. I’ll explain why, and then we can get on with all the delights this collection has to offer.

“The Turkey Season” by Alice Munro

Even without the gross bits which were to be expected given this one is set in a slaughterhouse, I was not likely going to enjoy this one. Typically, I find Alice Munro’s stories to be a bit of a drag. There may be uplifting moments, but they tend to be few and far between. I studied many of her stories during my degree, and there is no denying there is plenty to discuss in her work, but I just could not warm to it then and I still cannot. This story was exactly as I expected it to be, though it does end on a festive and positive note, thought it is undermined by the rest of the story. If you want to skip to the happy festive part, turn to the last page of this one. 

“This Year It Will Be Different” by Maeve Binchy

Only in movies did a happily married mother of three suddenly call a family conference and say that this year she was tired of the whole thing, weary of coming home after work and cleaning the house and buying the Christmas decorations and putting them up, buying the Christmas cards, writing them and posting them so that they would keep the few friends they had. (23)

An overworked wife and mother of three quietly doesn’t prepare for Christmas, and, eventually, her family notices. I found this one very funny. Perhaps, because it was so true to life!

“General Impressions of a Christmas Shopping Centre” by E.M. Delafield 

Written in the vein of Diary of a Provincial Lady, and just as witty. I opens, “Christmas comes but once a year . . . General Impression, waxing stronger every hour, that even this is rather overdoing it.” (33) It made me want to pick up Provincial Lady, despite having only just reread it in November. 

“The Christmas Pageant” by Barbara Robinson

The Sunday school is getting together their annual Christmas pageant. It’s posed to be the same old thing they do every year. Nothing wrong with that. Only this year, the family of children who are infamous at Woodrow School for their bullying and general bad behaviour, have shocked everyone when they seem interested in taking part in the pageant. They only showed up to Sunday school once in a while after hearing from one boy that they got refreshments. 

Announcements were made in Sunday school, and Imogene Herdman dug me in the ribs with her elbow and demanded, “What’s a pageant?”

“It’s a play,” I said, and Imogene looked interested. All the Herdmans were avid filmgoers. One or two of them would create a disturbance at the front of the cinema while the others slipped in. Like professional criminals, they had the good sense to split up once they got inside, so the manager could never locate all of them and throw them out before the picture was over.

“What’s the play about?” Imogene asked.

“It’s about Jesus,” I told her.

“Everything here is,” she said. (41)

It’s just too funny! I love the snappy understated dialogue between the children. The whole time I was reading this one I felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Ticket for a Carol Concert” by Audrey Burton

“Mrs. Lorimer thought it would be easy to sell tickets for the carol concert in the village hall” (53). So begins Audrey Burton’s short story. We get the perspective of the villagers that are victims of Mrs. Lorimer’s sales pitch. This one was humorous and heartwarming.

“Snow” by Olive Wadsley

Olive Wadsley perfectly captures the magic snow in the moonlight can work on an unlikely couple. I read this one first thing in the morning, when I was very groggy and at my least impressionable and I was absolutely captivated. I see myself rereading this one just so I can luxuriate in its atmosphere again.

“’Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Kate Nivison

We get the perspective of a mouse in this one, and I am so here for it!

Round the tree, a few fallen pine needles were sticking in the carpet. The mouse avoided them. They smelt odd and tasted worse. Last night she'd climbed to the first branch, but there were only more needles and some kind of silver straw hanging all over it. It was no good for a nest, and there wasn’t a berry anywhere. But in the kitchen, there’d been a real feast—fatty crumbs of pastry, a currant or two and a half-eaten cream biscuit between the oven and the cupboard. Just thinking about it made her sit up and clean her whiskers. (81)

I have a soft spot for any book that has a mouse in it, so this story was such a joy to discover. I had to tamp down my squeals of joy when I was reading though, as at the time I was sitting in a waiting room. I just loved this one so much and if I was even a smidge more outgoing it would have been story hour at the medical practice!

I just have to share this sweet exchange between a wife and husband as they are preparing to sneak their children’s stockings into their rooms.

“Pass me up the mug and plate, love.” The woman gave a yawn.

“If I bend down once more today, my back will go.”

“Oh, leave them down there. We’ll have a good clear up in the morning.” He picked up the crackling stockings and felt their weight. “You’re good at this, you know,” he said. “I’m glad I married someone who’s good at Christmas.”

“Suppose we’ve got mice?”

 “A house like this wouldn't be complete without a moose loose aboot it. M’mm, you smell of warm milk and brandy and mince pie. Give us a kiss.” (83-83)

This whole story was so cute and cosy. A real delight!

“Christmas Fugue” by Muriel Spark

You can always trust Muriel Spark to turn things upside down and leave you sideways. I wrote my thoughts on this one right after I read it, only to discover that I couldn’t share any of it because it much too spoiler-y. What I can say is that this one will leave you with so many questions, and as many theories! One of mine was, ‘what did I just read?’. And you know, what? Whatever it was, I loved it. 

“The Little Christmas Tree” by Stella Gibbons

This one had all the magic of Rosamunde Pilcher’s “Miss Cameron at Christmas”. Rhoda, or Miss Harting as she has referred to by everyone in the story, moves to a cottage in Buckinghamshire and plans to spend Christmas alone, despite multiple invitations to spend the day with friends.

But when she had nibbled her breakfast, played Debussy's Footsteps in the Snow twice on the gramophone, stuffed her chicken and glanced more than once at her Christmas tree, whose bells glittered darkly against the snow, she found herself trying to feel happy, rather than feeling happy. (99)

That is, until, she gets a knock at the door and three children appear out with the snow with a story about a wicked stepmother that they are running away from. It’s lovely and it has all the makings of a fairytale. This was just the sweetest story of a woman living in a little cottage with a little tree in her window and the three children who appear at her door on Christmas Day, just as she is feeling her most lonely.

“The Christmas Present” by Richmal Crompton

This one is hilarious. It’s very short, so I don’t want to ruin anything, but it is so surprising and cute, and it ends on the funniest note.

“Christmas Bread” by Kathleen Norris

This one may just be the best, or at least, my most favourite story in the collection. It was made even more special by the fact that I have been hearing my dear friend, Gina, sing this author’s praises for a while now. After reading this story, I absolutely understand why!

Doctor Madison has plans to be preforming a surgery on Christmas Day. Her daughter, Merle, is to be left alone with the doctor’s secretary/governess for the day, as the doctor is a widow and a rift has come between her and her brother. But then a trip up to the attic to look for items to give to charity alters the doctor and her daughter’s Christmas. 

So then it was all Christmas magic, and just what Christmas Eve should be. Saunders brought the little closed car to the door, to be sure, but there he vanished from the scene, and it was only mother and Merle.

The streets were snowy, and snow frosted the wind-shield, and lights and people and the bright windows of shops were all mixed up together, in a pink and blue and gold dazzle of colour. (137)

It’s a beautiful and touching story about nostalgia, memory, and the power of forgiveness. Read it on Christmas Eve and perhaps you’ll experience your own Christmas transformation.

“Christmas in a Bavarian Village” by Elizabeth von Arnim

An English woman comes to Germany to visit her daughter and her family for Christmas.

A little subdued, I was led out of the station into a world of Christmas trees. In front of most of the houses stood a tree lit by electric light, and in the middle of the one wide street was a huge one, a pyramid of solemn radiance.

I felt as if I had walked into a Christmas card glittering snow, steep-roofed old houses, and the complete windlessness, too, of a Christmas card.  (151-152)

As the story progresses there a hint that times have changed since 1909 when the woman last spent Christmas in Germany. In Simon Thomas's informative and spoiler-free introduction we find out that this one is set in 1937, providing us with insight into why and how things have changed since the narrator last visited the country.

“Freedom” by Nancy Morrison

This one is not explicitly Christmassy. Set in a Swiss ski resort during a winter holiday, this story has the feel of a really good vintage Harlequin about it. Sylvia Grey is a beginner skier, and there is a scene that recalls to mind the skiing scene in The Bell Jar. This story is not at all like Sylvia Plath’s book. However, Esther and Sylvia do share one thing in common. You will have to read it to find out what that is. (It’s a bit fun that the heroine from “Freedom” and the author of The Bell Jar share the same first name. A coincidence I hadn’t realised until writing this review.) 

“On Skating” by Cornelia Otis Skinner

This is also not a Christmas story, but it is another winter sports story. The narrator and her friend are notoriously bad at sports, all sports, and have been since they were girls. One day, they pass a group of people skating on an outdoor rink, and think ‘that looks fun’, and the rest of the story is about their humorous efforts learning to skate. 

“Clap Hands, Here Comes Charlie” by Beryl Bainbridge

Instead of a Christmas bonus, Mrs. Henderson gets tickets to the theatre from her employer. She takes the family and the neighbours to see Peter Pan, and they have a very dramatic time of it.

“Pantomime” by Stella Margetson

Set during World War II, the wife of a lieutenant who is stationed in the area directs a pantomime with the aid of a local boy acting as assistant stage manager. The show is preformed at a recreation hut, for the enjoyment of the officers and local residents. It’s a touching and sweet coming of age story. And as most coming of age stories are, it’s also a bit sad.

“On Leavin’ Notes” by Alice Childress

A short and funny one concludes this collection. It’s about making, and keeping, one’s New Year’s resolutions.

What else can I say about this collection? I loved it! Skip the first story if you’re vegan/vegetarian/squeamish, and then enjoy! I will absolutely be returning to this one next Christmas. And let’s be honest, I’ve already read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” a.k.a. ‘the mouse one’, twice! 

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

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War Among Ladies by Eleanor Scott

Expectation is a powerful thing. It alters your perspective, often imperceptibly. If reality does not match up with the figment you created, it can take some getting used to. Reality might even feel a tad disappointing, if only at first. That, I am afraid to say, was my experience reading Eleanor Scott’s 1928 novel, War Among Ladies. 

I had heard this book described as a school story told from the perspective of the teachers. And while this sums up the novel accurately, it misleads one into thinking this is going to be a bit of fun. Sure, it’s called War Among Ladies, but there are always feuds in school stories, with lots of fun to be had in between the tiffs, with field hockey or lacrosse practice, girl guides meets, midnight feasts, etc. I expected to find much of the same in this book, only with teachers having misunderstandings and disagreements on teaching methods and whatnot, but, overall, having a lovely time. Boy, was I wrong! Thankfully, once I managed my expectations, I started to appreciate this book for what it is, which is a novel that is a whole lot smarter than the one I had envisioned.

Besley High School for girls works on a graduation system, which means that the failure of a student in one subject makes for a fail overall. When even Miss Cullen’s best student fails the public examination, the other teachers are out for blood. Because it is not just the girls of this school that are judged harshly. The future of the teachers and the school itself, is at risk, if the girls fail their end of year exams.

"Oh, I don't expect it's as bad as you think, you know," she said with her nervous half-laugh. "May I keep this just for to-night, Nellie? I have a collection of papers, and I should like to copy this out to add to it." Nellie handed it over, quite willingly, but without enthusiasm. Miss Cullen recognised the difference from her usual manner and sighed.

"Well, cheer up, girls. I'm sure you've all done better than you think," she said as she turned away.

But it was a lie, and she knew it was; and the girls knew it too, and she knew that they did. For the paper was a modern one, and Miss Cullen taught by the methods of thirty years ago. The collection of papers was a myth, too; she wanted time, time to study those conundrums that demanded original thought and not the reproduction of textbooks. Not that it mattered now. Nothing could help her. She had failed, and she knew it; and she also knew that, for her, failure meant—the end. (42)

Things go downhill from here for Miss Cullen. Because there is nothing to be done. There is no retraining plan in place for teachers to update their methods, and there is no option for most of these women to do anything besides teaching. Certainly not for Miss Cullen, who is so close to retirement, but not close enough to retire early as that would mean losing everything she has put into her pension. Getting another placement is not an option for many of the other teachers either. For what school will hire them if their last job was at a school so notorious for its poor performance it had to be closed?

It would have been good if I had read the back cover copy of this one before reading the book. It would certainly have set me straight on my whole “fun school story” expectation. The last line on the back cover of the newly republished edition best describes this novel, “This is a quietly devastating novel about the realities of life for single working women in the 1920s and the systems that failed them”.

The devastation may be quiet, but it is all but relentless. It was the relentlessness of this book that made it a difficult read for me. I don’t intend that to be a criticism. Although, it does sound like one. What I mean is that it is hard to be in the mood to read about someone who has reached the end of the line and is out of options. You cannot really hold it against them when they are willing to do what they have to to ensure their own survival, but it does not exactly endear them to you either.

Miss Cullen’s colleagues go to the Head to request her dismissal and Miss Cullen feels as thought it is only a matter of time before she is asked to leave. So she writes a letter to the school inspector. 

She signed it with a distinct feeling of pleasure. It was, she told herself, true—true in every word. No one could deny what she had written. All she wanted was justice, impartial justice, and that she would never get, either from her colleagues or the Head... And she liked the tone of the letter, it seemed to her to be both independent and courteous, warm and yet restrained.

She felt a glow of triumph, almost of virtue, as she dropped that epistle, heavy with the fate of the school, into a pillar-box. (116)

It is difficult to feel that an injustice is really being done to Miss Cullen. Her students are doing abysmally in her subject. Still, I found myself feeling very sorry for her, as does one of her fellow teachers. Viola Kennedy, who is in her first year of teaching, approaches the start of school with all of the naive optimism that one would expect of someone who is eager to educate and inspire their students. However, before too long teaching, and all the profession entails, begins to wear on her. Her head is a sea of questions concerning things she has no control over.

Like most of her profession, Viola was fast losing her sense of humour and proportion. She felt that these questions filled the whole horizon, so that nothing else, no question of State or religion or personal relationship or anything whatever, was of the smallest importance in comparison. […] Suddenly she realised, for one sickening second, the tortures that a bad disciplinarian (Miss Cullen, for instance) must feel when she dreads, not for an instant, but for hours every day, the coming of a new day. ... How perfectly horrible. ... (153)

Viola Kennedy and Miss Cullen are in contrast to each other. For one, as Simon Thomas points out in the Afterword, Viola is never diminished to “Miss”. She retains her first name throughout the book. Viola, who is young and is just starting out in teaching, still has options. One of her fellow teachers recommends that she get out, before teaching has left its mark on her, and while she still has the option to marry, and, as we might imagine, before Viola's identity has been completely overshadowed by "Miss Kennedy" and she is Viola no longer. In comparison, we are lead to believe that Miss Cullen, even as a young woman, never had the option of marriage, or a life outside of teaching.

Still, this book is not without glimmers of light, and my favourites are those moments of optimism that Viola finds while in the natural world.

Viola felt that touch of excitement that the romantic young often know with the coming of misty evenings—that sense of adventure, of suspense almost, of a dream coming true, as if something were suddenly to be revealed....

She turned into the wet grass. How still it was in the hushed, dewy field, shrouded in the autumn mist. How remote it was from the lights and sounds of the town. How real, how true, it was in its chill aloof silence. She stood and listened to her own hushed breathing. Softly, like a magic bell, the church clock sounded. It was like the prelude to adventure. ... 

With a sigh she realised that that note of enchantment was no more than a call back to the world of duty. She walked on up to the school. (180)

Viola is able to find some respite in nature, and contemplate the possibilities of her future, because she is of the “romantic young” who still have adventures and dreams within their grasp. While at the end of this quotation, Viola is brought back to the “world of duty” by the church bell reminding her of the time, there is the suggestion that she could travel along the line of wherever those tantalising asterisks are headed, instead of answering the call to go back to school.

It is these glimpses of future possibilities for Viola that kept me reading, despite how much Miss Cullen’s narrowing future was causing me worry. 

I am so thankful I pushed through my discomfort! This book provided a perspective of what teaching was like for women in 1920s that I had not been exposed to before. The throughly researched Afterword provides a helpful explanation of the systems women would have been up against at this point in history.

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