Hearts Undefeated

Having pondered the wartime futures of the characters in Susan Scarlett's Babbacombe's, I picked up my old Virago copy of Hearts Undefeated, an anthology of Women's Writing of the Second World War - and, lo and behold, it fell open at a page mentioning Noel Streatfeild who, of course, was the real person behind Susan Scarlett. And if that's not serendipity, I don't know what it is!

Writing on September 11, 1939, at the very beginning of the conflict, novelist F Tennyson Jesse said:

It is a very queer war. Our little social life such as it was - quiet but pleasant -has come to a complete end. Noel Streatfeild, complete with gas mask and tin helmet, dashed in for lunch, full of stories about the firemen and ambulancemen at the station where she is an ARP warden. She was going down in the pitch black the other night, dressed in her slacks and dark blue sweater, when a voice with a French accent murmured to her: "Would you like to come home with me, pretty boy? It was one of the French Bond Street tarts. "Shut up, you fool,"said Noel.

"Mon dieu!" said the tart.

Noel Streatfeild. (Pic from Wikipedia).

Streatfeild was tall and thin, so I guess that dressed in trousers and jumper, and in the dark, she might easily have been mistaken for a boy,  and at that time it was still rare for women to wear trousers. She produced 12 light-hearted romances between 1939 and 1951, whilst continuing to write around a dozen novels under her own name, for adults and children. During WW2 she volunteered as an Air Raid Warden in the Mayfair area, and also helped provide support for people in impoverished parts of London. 

Throughout the war Fryniwyd Jesse Tennyson, novelist, playwright, journalist and criminologist, wrote to friends in America describing life in England. Afterwards, she asked for the letters to be returned for publication, Several of her pieces are included in the Virago collection including this little gem, penned on November 4, 1939.

The ARP authorities informed us that it is very important during an aerial bombardment to sit with a cork in your mouth, as the blast from a shell (even a long way off) may snap your jaws to and then, not only may your tongue be cut off, but your ear-drums are blown in. So we ordered our old man to produce us three corks for us to take upstairs, and when he served the coffee after dinner he solemnly presented Tottie with three corks on a little tray in the most correct manner imaginable, remarking: "Your corks, sir!".

The book, edited by Jenny Hartley, features writing by more than 100 women, from the Queen and Princess Elizabeth to titled ladies and MPs, through novelists and journalists, to ordinary housewives, and from service women and nurses to volunteers, as well as internees and refugees. There are excerpts from novels, newspaper reports, magazines, diaries, letters and radio broadcasts on a variety of subjects, from reflections on the humdrum and everyday to accounts of the momentous historic events taking place around the world. 

The Queue at the Fish Shop, by war artist Evelyn Dunbar, who recorded life on the Home Front 
during WW2. It is in the Imperial War Museum, Part of it is on the cover of Persephone's Good Evening, Mrs Craven, by Mollie Panter-Downes, whose work is featured in Hearts Undefeated.

You will recognise many of the names from the old green-spined Viragos and the Persephone lists. There's Mollie-Panter-Downes on rationing, Edith Olivier on a shopping bag and food queue, and Sylvia Townsend Warner on the new austerity, to name but a few. In addition you'll find Joyce Grenfell entertaining the troops, and Barbara Cart;and, who persuaded woman to donate used wedding dresses to be borrowed by service brides! Her maid, who helped press and clean the gowns, never wanted to see another white wedding dress, but Cartland was proud of what she saw as a job well done. She says:

The brides, however, were pathetically grateful. For one day at least a girl who was never meant by nature to be 'a fighting unit' could forget the war, her uniform, her duties, and be a woman. A woman lovely, glamorous, and enticing, a woman to be lost and won.

Others were equally proud of their efforts - which, it has to be said, were probably a lot more practical, even if they lacked the feel-good factor of a posh frock. Zelma Katin a quiet, well-spoken, well-educated, married, suburban woman, became a tram conductress, and in the process transformed into what she called another 'I':

... an aggressive woman in uniform who sharply orders people about, has swear words and lewd jokes thrown at her, works amid rush and noise, fumbles and stumbles about in the blackout, and has dirty hands and grimy neck.

Women bus and trolley bus conductors at the Hammersmith
depot in 1942, (Pic London Transport Museum).

And in another entry, towards the end of the war, she tells us more about her feelings, summing up the way many women must have felt:

I am glad I have done this kind of war work, proud that I still have the moral and physical energy to follow it and I hope that out of this experience I shall have gained a new understanding of life, people and marriage. Like millions of men and women in uniform I cannot pretend I am liking it. Perhaps the sacrifice and hardship are giving us a strength which will enrich us in the future and toughen us for the struggle which lies ahead. 

I will confess that I am thinking not only of a future for humanity, but a future for myself. I want to lie in bed until eight o'clock, to eat a meal slowly, to sweep the floors when they are dirty, to sit in front of the fire, to walk on the hills, to go shopping of an afternoon, to gossip at odd moments.

The war turned women's lives upside down, and the pieces in this book show how they coped, setting to and doing what had to be done without complaint, taking from the experience any small joy they could to keep positive and keep going. You'll find laughter, sadness and anger here - and tremendous resilience and courage. 

When I was a child, the war still was still a recent memory. Now it has become history. But it's worth remembering that these women were writing in the moment, as the war was happening. We know the outcome, but they didn't, so there is an immediacy to the writing - especially the pieces in the final section about the end of the war. I've seen newsreel footage, watched TV programmes, read accounts by historians, but nothing prepared me for the horrors of the written word, put down on paper by those who were there. War artist Mary Kessell's description of the sights and smells of derelict, defeated Berlin will haunt me for a long time. And Martha Gellhorn's report on the living skeletons released from Dachau, and the atrocities committed there, is the stuff of nightmares. How did she, and the soldiers, and the various other people who went in, live with what they had seen and heard? And how did the survivors ever manage to lead a normal life? 

*I've referenced this to the LibraryThing Virago Group's December the - which is a book not fitting any of the previous themes this year!

Babbacombe's

It's December, so it's time for the Dean Street Press Challenge! For those who don't know, Dean Street Press is an indie publisher bringing 'forgotten' books back to life. The company's catalogue includes a lot of Golden Age crime, as well as the Furrowed Middlebrow imprint, which features some wonderful novels that have fallen from popularity over the years, but are well worth rediscovering. Anyway, Liz Dexter at Adventures in reading, running and working from home is hosting a celebration of all things Dean Street, which runs until Christmas Eve.

I've read (and enjoyed) a lot of DSP books over the last few years - they've provided perfect, light-hearted reading to while the time away during the Darling Husband's many hospital visits. So here are some thoughts on Babbacombe's, by Susan Scarlett (aka Noel Streatfeild). Babbacombe's is a department store, where Beth Carson is just starting work as the junior in Gowns, at everyone's beck and call. Her father George is a salesman in Hardware, and her or[haned cousin Dulcie, who has come to live with the family, becomes a lift girl, and gets to wear a green suit 'in huntsman style' (comprising breeches and a many collared-coat), as well as top boots and a tricorne hat. I'm not too sure what huntsman style or top boots are, but if you imagine a pantomime principal boy (as traditionally played by a girl) you're probably not too far off the mark.

Like all the other lift girls, Dulcie has to learn the lists of departments on the various floors, which sounds a lot like the voice reciting the goods on offer in the TV show Are You Being Served:

Ground floor: confectionery, cooked meats, hardware, food market, ribbons, flowers, haberdashery, lampshades, linen, lace, handbags. First floor: boyswear, menswear, inexpensive millinery, perfumery, gloves, post office, library, rest rook. Second floor: model millinery, furs, artificial flowers, knitwear, blouses, coats, inexpensive gowns, clothes for misses. Third floor: costumes, gowns, inexpensive coats, skirts, outsize department, juvenile, baby linen, lingerie, beachwear, corsets. Fourth floor: sports, toys, sports-wear, furniture, furnishings. Fifth floor: restaurants only.

The Carsons remind me a lot of the Stevens family in RC Sherriff's The Fortnight in September. George, his wife Janet, and their five children (Beth is the oldest) live in a small, cramped Victorian house, with a narrow garden leading down to the railway embankment. They don't have much money, but they are happy with what they have, and with their place in the world. They are decent, honest, hard-working, and loving, always ready to support each other and to help others. Dulcie's looks, values and character are completely alien to their way of life - and she can't understand them any more than they can understand her. 

Beth is shocked when she meets her blonde-haired cousin at the station:

Dulcie had a black crepe-de-Chine dress with white collars and cuffs; it had a little white lace at the hem to look like a petticoat. On the back of her head was a black straw hat tied under her chin with black ribbons. Her skirt barely covered her knees, her stockings were so sheer her legs looked bare. She had on exaggeratedly high-heeled shoes with no toes. Through her stockings her toenails showed painted with the same enamel as her fingers.

Janet recognises the 'cheap pseudo-smartness' of Dulcie's appearance, and feels nothing but pity for the girl, whose talk is as cheap as her clothes, full of smutty innuendo and 'knowing' glances  She is only interested in men - and herself. And she seems to take pleasure in upsetting other people. Actually, Dulcie seems to be taking over here, when the main protagonist is Beth. We watch her at home, and at work, getting grips with her job, making her first sale, falling victim to a shoplifter... And falling in love with a man she meets at Paddington Station when she trips over his dachshund! 

Then she gets stuck in a lift with him when the lift breaks down between floors. He turns out to be David Babbacombe, son of the owner, who doesn't work but lives off his father. It's a short novel, and the plot, such as it is, is slight and predictable. There are misunderstandings (engineered, of course, by Dulcie), but this is a fairy tale, and all ends happily, just as you know it will.

Although this was published in 1941 there is no mention of the war, and I suspect people relished the opportunity to immerse themselves in a book where there were no bombs, and no shortages, and where life carried on just as it had always done. It begs comparison with Business as Usual, by Jane Oliver and Ann Stafford, which I reviewed here. I have to admit, I rather like books set in shops - they're a bit like novels featuring boarding houses or hotels, where all kinds of disparate people meet and move on. Here, even the bit part characters have some kind of back story, and Streatfeild (writing as Susan Scarlett). brings them to life in very few words. Portraying family dynamics is one of her strengths, and the Carsons and the way they react with each other are utterly credible. 

Streatfeild is also good on clothes. She knew how important they can be, and that you need the right outfit for the right occasion - think about the m'audition dresses in Ballet Shoes. Take Beth's work frock:

It was an amusing yet simple garment. It had about it a faint remembrance of the days of the bustle. It had buttons all down the back, and what seemed to be a sash but was really a length of moire silk let in to the front breadth; the silk finished behind a stiff bow. The moss green suited Beth's colouring, it brought out the lights in her hair, and enhanced the peach-off-the-wall colouring of her cheeks.

And there's Beth's first sale, with a mousy looking girl who has £30 to s[end om clothes so she can stay with her aunt who lives in a castle:

The blue flannel was a success, and so was a grey with a scarlet belt. For the afternoon, in case there were a flower show or anything like that, Beth persuaded the girl into a most becoming patterned crepe-de-Chine, with a coat to tone, For the evening she wanted a bright yellow taffeta. but Beth urged against it. The taffeta was cheap. and she thought it looked it, Instead she pushed the claims of a very simple black chiffon  which had been expensive but was now marked down.

I stole this crepe-de-Chine dress and matching
coat from Moira's Clothes in Books blog because 
it looks like the sort of thing Beth might have sold,
(Pic courtesy of NYPL) 

Beth also recommends gold evening sandals, black high-heeled court shoes, white suede shoes (to go with the flannel dresses), a white hat with two different coloured hat bands, a black hat, a gold bag and a brown net bag. Such riches, and all for £30! Clothes rationing was introduced in June 1941, and the Government urged people to make do and mend, so for many women a spending spree like this must have been something they could only dream of. And what about the women in the book? How would they have survived the vicissitudes of wartime clothing shortages? Dulcie, I am sure, would have found a man to keep her in fashionable garments acquired on the black market. But Beth and her mother Janet would have got the sewing machine out, and considered themselves lucky to have the means of making new garments.

Looking Back at Summer!

Edward Potthast, The Beach at Brighton. Potthast was an
American impressionist. I like the way these children look as
if they've rushed into the sea for a cooling paddle.

I was going to post this way back in the summer, when we were having a heat wave and it was hot, hot. hot - far too hot for me!!! However, life got in the way, and now it's winter, and the temperatures have dropped, which suits me fine, and I can look at the heatwave a little more fondly than I did at the time, so here's a summer anthology, which is a bit of a mish-mash of prose, poetry and pictures. 

First up is the opening from one of my favourites, The Summer Book, by Tove Jansson. It's a delightful book, following the daily lives of six-year-old Sophia and her grandmother as they spend a summer on an island in the Gulf of Finland. Its's full of wisdom and wonder and, as author Robert Robert MacFarlane says, it 'distills the essence of summer'. This bit always reminds me of holidays spent in a caravan at Walney Island, in Cumbria,  when my daughters were small, and we would get up very early, walk through a field of cows, and scramble down to the beach for a couple of hours or so, before making our way back to the caravan for breakfast. Not, I hasten to add, that the vegetation on Walney (or anywhere else in and around Barrow) could be described as lush, but there is a kind of connection, honestly! And we were always dropping things in the field, or leaving them on the sand, and having to go back and hunt for them.

It was an early, very warm morning in July. and it had rained during the night. The bare granite steamed, the moss and crevices were drenched with moisture, and all the colours everywhere had deepened. Below the verandah the vegetation in the morning shade was like a rain forest of lush, evil leaves and flowers, which she had to be careful not to break as she searched. She held one hand in front of her mouth and was constantly afraid of losing her balance.

"What arer you doing?" asked little Sophia.
"Nothing," her grandmother answered. "That is to say," she added angrily, "I'm looking for my false teeth."

One of Tove Jansson's illustrations for her iconic Moomin books.
It looks suitably summery I think,

And here's Rumer Godden's classic coming-of-age novel,  The Greengage Summer, where a family of English children are stranded in a French hotel while their mother is ill. The novel, like much of Goddden's work, has a dark side, but this excerpt is full of light.  And it evokes more memories -when I was young there was a greengage tree in the garden, and every year my brother and I would get hot and sticky as we fought off angry wasps to pick (and eat) the luscious, greeny gold fruit so Mum could make jam.

On and off, all that hot French August, we made ourselves ill from eating the greengages [...] In the orchard we had not even to pick fruit — it fell off the trees into our hands. The greengages had a pale-blue bloom, especially in the shade, but in the sun the flesh showed amber through the clear-green skin; if it were cracked the juice was doubly warm and sweet. Coming from the streets and small front gardens of Southstone, we had not been let loose in an orchard before; it was no wonder we ate too much.

Orchard in Bloom, by Vincent van Gogh. These, apparently, are
plum trees, in an orchard near Arles, but greengages are a type of
plum, so I like to think the orchard in The Greengage Summer
may have looked something like this. Anyway, I love these 
twisty old trees.

I've included a brief quote from Elizabeth von Arnim's enchanting The Solitary Summer because I never can resist the opportunity to reproduce one of Cicely Mary Barker's flower fairies! 

A garden might be made beautiful with sweet-peas alone, and, with hardly any labour, except the sweet labour of picking to prolong the bloom, be turned into a fairy bower of delicacy and refinement.

The Sweet Pea Fairies, by Cicely Mary Barker.

And here's more flowers from Shakespeare's The Midsummer Night's Dream (what else!) To be honest, these flowers don't all grow in the same place at the same time, as any gardener will tell you, but the magical words conjure up the sights and perfumes of summer.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in, 

Titania Lying  Asleep, by Arthur Rackham.

Laurie Lee, in Cider With Rosie, recalls the hot, dry June days of his childhood: 

Outdoors, one scarcely knew what had happened or remembered any other time. There had never been rain, or frost, or cloud, it had always been like this. The heat from the ground climbed up one;s legs and smote one under the skin. The garden, dizzy with scent and bees, burned all over with hot white flowers , each one so blinding an incandescence that it hurt one's eyes to look at them.

The Poppy Field, by Monet. When Laurie Lee was young, it was
common to see scarlet poppies growing in fields of golden corn.

There's more corn and poppies in Penelope Lively's Heat Wave, as a daughter's life falls apart during a long, hot summer, echoing the long-ago disintegration of her mother's marriage. The heat seems to permeate every page of the book, fuelling passions and bringing hidden memories to light, and there are some wonderful descriptions of the rural landscape.  

July has slid over into August. And the place is burnt up. The verges are bleached now - buff plumes of grass and the brown candelabra of hogweed, The blue lakes of flax have drained away. Instead there are the poppies -scarlet threads on a field of  ripe wheat, or a brilliant flush along the roadside. And much of the wheat is down - there are sweeps of golden stubble dotted with bales of straw.

Hidden secrets are also revealed in Instructions for a Heatwave by Maggie O'Farrell, which is set in 1976, when temperatures broke previous records and the  water levels of rivers, lakes, streams, ponds and reservoirs dropped to never-before-seen lows as the drought stretched on and on. 

It is the third month of the drought. For ten days now the heat has passed 90F. There has been no rain - not for days, not for weeks, not for months. No clouds pass, slow and stately as ships, over the roofs of these houses.

Despite the heat, Gretta Riordan bakes soda bread, just as she has done three times a week throughout her married life,and her husband Robert sets out to buy his morning newspaper, just as he has done throughout their married life. But this time he doesn't return... he vanishes without a trace...

During the 1976 drought standpipes provided water for many people
throughout the UK. Note that despite the heat these women were still
dressed very respectably in cardigans, jumpers etc! (Mirrorpix)

Finally, a poem: Adlestrop, by Edward Thomas, which paints a picture of a long ago hot summer day, when a train unexpectedly stopped at a deserted country station. 

Yes. I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

The station is no more, but the sign and bench are a bus shelter.

A New Chapter

I abandoned my WordPress blog (The Book Trunk) a while ago, because I found it more and more difficult to use those wretched 'blocks' they introduced, and adverts that I don't want have appeared on the site, and I can't get rid of them. I tried exporting the content to Blogger, which I used before WordPress, but I couldn't do that either, so I'm starting from scratch with a new blog, which is a work in progress. Some summery thoughts on books will follow tomorrow - or maybe later today.