Bassett - Stella Gibbons

When I attended a middlebrow conference last year, my friend Terri was talking about boarding house novels - and one particularly grabbed my attention.  As you'll have guessed from the title of this blog post, it was Bassett by Stella Gibbons - whose Cold Comfort Farm I, of course, love, and whose Westwood was wonderful in a very different way. Clicking on those titles will take you to reviews which explain what I loved about them... and now I can add Bassett to the fold, thanks to my friend Barbara giving it to me for my birthday last November.  Indeed, if it had just been about the boarding house, this would be on my 50 Books You Must Read list, and I'd be screaming from the rooftops.  Read on, dear reader...

Bassett (1933) kicks off with the glorious Miss Hilda Baker, and I think the best way to describe her is: imagine Paul Gallico's Mrs. 'arris if she were written by Stella Gibbons. Which, of course, she is. 'She dressed neatly and badly in ugly little hats and ugly little necklaces', works cutting patterns for a dressmakers, and her one vocation in life is identifying when other people are 'sassing' her, and reprimanding them for it. Miss Baker has managed to save some money, and is intrigued when she sees in a paper that another lady is looking to turn her home into a boarding house, and is looking for someone to run it with her.  Determined not to be cheated out of her savings, but intrigued, Miss Baker writes to The Tower, Crane Hill, Bassett - and receives this wonderful reply, which is too wonderful not to quote in full (with strong reservations about one racist sentence, of course):

Dear Miss Baker,
After much earnest thought I have decided that yours is the most suitable letter I have received as a result of the notice which appeared in Town and Country.  I am sure that the house could be made a success.  It is not damp.  Some of the letters were most unsuitable.  There was one from a Mr. Arthur Craft.  Frequent buses, but rather a long walk to them! ! !  It is so difficult, in these days, to know what to do for the best.  Mr. Craft suggested a Club.  I have a geyser and there are beautiful views.  Perhaps we could lay out the tennis court again in the field behind the house.  We are six miles from the station, but the buses run past the bottom of the hill.  I thought we might take Indians (not Negroes of course) as guests.  Is afternoon tea included do you know?  I believe not.  Perhaps you will let me know what you think.  Or perhaps it would be better if you came down one Saturday.  It is easier to go to Reading and take the bus.  I could meet you, if we decided to meet in Town, at half past three in the Clock Department.  Perhaps you would suggest a day, if Saturday doesn't suit you. (This Saturday is not good for me I am afraid, as I have my W.I.)  But of course, they close on Saturday afternoons.  Will you let me know, by return if possible, whether you will meet me as arranged.
Yours faithfully, Eleanor Amy Padsoe.
P.S. - It is on clay soil, but some of it is on chalk.  Very healthy! ! !

That, ladies and gentlemen, is Miss Padsoe - and isn't she a wonder?

As with Scoop, which I wrote about recently, incompatibility makes a great start for a comic novel.  Long story short, after going to see The Tower (and finding Miss Padsoe as barmy as the letter suggests), Miss Baker decides against the venture - but is then made redundant and can't think what else to do.  So, off on a train she hops to Bassett once more.  Here's an indication of their current assessment of each other...

And she thrust herself half out of the window again, waving vigorously and giving a false, toothy smile, and wishing Miss Padsoe looked a bit smarter.  Like a rag-bag, that's what she was, and an old-fashioned one at that.

And Miss Padsoe, greeting Miss Baker with a convulsive flutter of her umbrella-less hand and an equally false and toothy smile, found time to wish amid much mental distress that Miss Baker did not look exactly like an under-housemaid.

Miss Padsoe's mental distress is caused chiefly by her mother-and-daughter cook and maid, who have been cheating and neglecting her, and have now locked her out of her own house.  The sass of servants is like a red rag to a bull for Miss Baker, and she goes off to sort things out... It's all very funny, filled with the sort of nonsensical dialogue I love ("'Remember'? I'll give her 'Remember'!") and all rather touching too - the first signs that Miss Baker and Miss Padsoe will become friends.  It's not as rammed-down-your-throat heart-warming as that sounds (and as it might threaten to be in the hands of Paul Gallico, much as I love him!) but it's rather lovely.

As I said at the beginning of this review, had Bassett concentrated exclusively on these ladies setting up their boarding house, with Gibbons' delicious turn of phrase and moments of irony, this would be one of my all-time favourite novels.  Sadly, Bassett is diluted by the goings-on of another family in the village, and this takes up most of the second half of the novel...

Queenie is a 20-something girl who has come to live as a companion to Mrs. Shelling - and gets to know her children George and Bell, who are about her age.  They have progressive views about morality and romance, as does Queenie, and... well, one thing leads to another, and it becomes about Queenie falling in love with George, and the struggles this causes, involving class, morality, aspirations...

Apparently Queenie and her situation was very autobiographical, but I have to say that I found the whole thing a bit of an unnecessary addition.  It certainly wasn't awful, and my response might well only be my impatience and boredom with any novel focuses on the anxieties of youthful ardour, but it seemed such a shame to take the attention away from such interesting and amusing protagonists.  And despite some attempts to combine the two strands, Gibbons's seems to give up at one point, and from then on just writes about Queenie et al - the two storylines don't blend at all neatly.

But that is a fairly small reservation, caused chiefly by the excellence of the first half of Bassett - so not a bad fault to have, all things considered!
Vintage Books have brought Stella Gibbons' books back into print, some with absolutely glorious covers - Bassett is one of those which is only (I believe) Kindle or print on demand, so doesn't get the same beautiful cover illustrations, but I'm not going to quibble - I'm so grateful to Vintage for making this brilliant novel accessible, and to Barbara for giving me a copy!

Westwood - Stella Gibbons

Why, dear reader, why does it sometimes take me so long to review books?  I read Westwood (1946) by Stella Gibbons whilst on holiday with Colin, thought it was very good, have promised you reviews a dozen times... and only now do I get around to writing about it.

Firstly, many thanks to lovely Vintage books for sending me this copy, and super praise to Pep Montserrat who did the beautiful cover illustration.  Like everyone who has read it, I love Cold Comfort Farm and was excited when I heard that Vintage were hot on Virago's heels, in publishing more of Gibbons' work.  Then I read Lynne Truss' excellent introduction, published in the Guardian (but now not available online) and simply had to read the novel.

In her introduction, Truss writes that 'If Cold Comfort Farm is Stella Gibbons's Pride and Prejudice, then Westwood is her Persuasion.'  Those of you who know my thoughts about the relative merits of Austen's novels may be surprised to learn that this actually encouraged me to read Westwood(!)  Obviously Truss' analogy can only be taken so far, but she has a point - Westwood is not a comic novel (although it has funny moments), rather it is slightly melancholic and very contemplative.

The heroine of the piece is Margaret Steggles, a plain and uncertain type with a thirst for learning and an appetite for adventure which she keeps sensibly subdued.  She is only 23, unhappy with her job as a teacher and with her home life - her father is prone to affairs, and her mother is disappointed that Margaret is not more like her feisty good-time-gal friend Hilda.  But naturally things do not remain thus.  Margaret finds a ration book on Hampstead Heath and, when returning it, becomes embroiled in the lives of self-important playwright Gerald Challis, his spoilt, snobbish daughter Hebe, and her husband, the painter Alexander Niland.  They are an eminently fashionable set, full of ideas of Art and Beauty, and Margaret wants in.  The nearest she can get, to start off with, is the somewhat hysterical Jewish refugee Zita, who lives with the family and is not quite a housekeeper but definitely not one of the family.

"I like you, Miss Steggles."

"Thank you.  I like you too," sais Margaret, who in her present mood would have liked anyone.

"Good.  Den we are friends," announced Zita, putting out her hand while her eyes overflowed.  Margaret took it and they exchanged a solemn clasp.  "Oh, Miss Steggles - what iss your name?" she demanded, interrupting herself.

"Margaret."

"Zo.  I shall call you Margaret.  You will call me Zita?"

"I'd love to, Zita."

"Margaret, I haf a many sadness.  I tell you about it."

Margaret was so inexperienced as a confidante that no feeling of dismay overcame her on hearing this threat; indeed she hardly heard what Zita said, so overjoyed was she at the prospect of frequent visits to Westwood as Zita's friend.

As you can see from the 'iss' and 'Zo' used so liberally, Zita does border a little on stereotype - but she is the liveliest inclusion to the novel, and that which most demonstrates Gibbons' comic touch.  I am guilty of that which Truss does in the introduction, presumably as inadvertently as I am, of quoting the sections which amused me most.  For, as I said, this isn't, broadly, a comic novel.  At its heart is Margaret's awkward attempts to become part of a society which only tolerates her.  There is a desperately sad moment where Margaret overhears Hebe's opinion of her - it's in the same area as 'consciously naive' and 'you will be limited as to number - only three at once.'  (Ten points if you recognise those references!)

She especially wants to be involved in Challis' life, and falls rather in love with him - although from the reader's perspective it is a trifle difficult to see why.  He is pompous, with high-blown ideas about Beauty which would make Keats seem like a materialist.

"A landscape without hills," he suddenly pronounced, "is like a woman without mystery."

There simply was not any answer to this, especially as his unhappy audience realized that whatever she said would be wrong, so she replied feebly:

"Oh - do you think so?"

"The monotony of an endless plain," continued Mr. Challis disparagingly surveying the mild meadows on every side, "drives men mad."

But Challis' Achilles' heel (and one of the other funny threads through the novel - although funniness laced with tragedy) is his belief in the Beauty of the common innocent girl, provided she be physically attractive, of course.  And the one he sets his eye on is Hilda - remember her?  Margaret's feisty friend who would, in contemporary soap parlance, undoubtedly be described as a tart with a heart.  Challis bumps into her walking home from the train ("I have been sent by Providence especially to escort you") and he decides to call himself Marcus Antonius, and she Daphne.  Hilda's good-natured willingness to put up with him until she is bored, and his slavish (would-be adulterous) devotion to a girl whose nature he has so completely misunderstood, is both farcical and saddening.

Indeed (sweeping generalisation alert) that is how Gibbons treats a lot of the material in Westwood.  It is the kind of plot and the (large) cast of characters which could easily be tragic or comic, and Gibbons treads a path between the two - lingering, perhaps, on the tragic, but never fully abandoning the comic.  Being asked to empathise with Margaret, rather than laugh at or with her, takes Westwood away from the hilarious tour de force of Cold Comfort Farm, but also creates a more thoughtful, thought-provoking work.  Both novels introduce a whirlwind of characters, but while Cold Comfort Farm can rely upon the witty epithet to describe someone, Westwood delves deeper - which does, at times, make the novel feel a bit overcrowded and perhaps overlong - but is also ultimately perhaps more satisfying.  If I were one of these novels to reread next, I must admit it would be Cold Comfort Farm - for an uproarious escapade - but I doubt I would gain as much, and I certainly wouldn't think as much.  The novels are so different that it is nigh on impossible to say one is better than the other, but what is obvious is that Westwood should never have gone out of print, and Vintage are to be commended for rectifying whosever oversight that was.

Others who got Stuck into this...
I'm going to copy Jackie's lovely idea of quoting other bloggers who have reviewed the book, and point you in the direction of their reviews.  I think it's a great addition to Jackie's blogposts - I'm all about the blogging community.  I'll just pick two or three each time, so as to feel more like I'm including people in a selective list rather than accidentally excluding people from an exhaustive list!

"[...Margaret] is a masterpiece and definitely earns Gibbons the right to be compared with Austen.[...]" - Hayley, Desperate Reader

"[...] do read this if you love a warm, witty, beautifully written and leisurely novel [...]" - Hilary, Vulpes Libris

More Cold Comfort Farm

I'm just back from a very enjoyable meet-up in London with some bookish people, more on that in the near future. Today, I just couldn't leave you mystified as to my opinions concerning Ms. Gibbons and her Farm of Cold Comfort. So interesting to read the views of others before I throw my own out there, must try that again some time.

And what an interesting disparity there is amongst you! Some love; some loathe; some fairly indifferent. Well, it's time to nail my colours to the mast - I love, love, love Cold Comfort Farm and think it's in the top ten funniest books I've ever read. Quite a bold statement to make, and knowing that lots of you have already read it, I probaly have to justify my position... I'll do my best. But I think humour in a book is the most difficult thing to define, encapsulate or explain. Why do I find something funny? Goodness knows. And trying to work out why something is funny kills the humour. Oh well. I'll do my best...

I read Cold Comfort Farm in January 2004, and re-read it last week for Book Group - what had been enjoyed at 18 was delighted in at 22. Perhaps my pleasure will go up in four-yearly increments, leaving me in delirium by the time I'm 98. What made the most difference, I think, is that I have read some Lawrence, some Hardy, some interwar psychoanalytical novels in the interrim. For Cold Comfort Farm is pastiche on every page - mostly, apparently, of Mary Webb, whom I have not read - and not a word is intended to be taken seriously.

Ironically, Cold Comfort Farm is both pastiche and wholly unlike any other book in the world. It couldn't be. Flora Poste, the chic London 'heroine', finds herself orphaned and decides to live with a relative. She tries several, including the Starkadders of Cold Comfort Farm, albeit reluctantly: ' "because highly sexed young men living on farms are always called Seth or Reuben, and it would be such a nuisance. And my cousin's name, remember, is Judith. That in itself is most ominous. Her husband is almost certain to be called Amos; and if he is, it will be a typical farm, and you know what they are like." ' It is this sense that Flora is walking into a cliche - which is evident even if one has never touched a rural novel of the type being satirised - which characterises the whole situation, and the rest of the novel. She breezes into Cold Comfort Farm, and encounters every type of absurd, farcical and outlandish character imaginable. And I loved every one of 'em.

90 year old Adam, who cares only for his cows Feckless, Aimless, Graceless and Pointless; over-sexed Seth who is perpetually undoing shirt buttons and believes women only want "yer blood and yer breath"; Mr. Mybug who sees Flora's revulsion towards him as 'inhibitions' and claims Branwell Bronte wrote Wuthering Heights; preacher Amos who doesn't plan his sermons but "I allus knows 'twill be summat about burnin'..."; most famously Aunt Ada Doom, confined to her room, who once "saw something nasty in the woodshed". And a host of others, all of whom are keen to impress on Flora that "there have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort".

In response to Angela's comment yesterday, I do think the characters are supposed to be cartoonish - or absurd, anyway. It is the clash of their melodramatic sayings and Flora's unflustered sense which gave me the moments of greatest mirth. For example, this exchange between Flora and Cousin Judith:

...
Judith had sunk into a reverie.
'Curtains?' she asked, vacantly, lifting her magnificent head. 'Child, child, it is many years since such trifles broke across the web of my solitude.'
'I'm sure it is; but do you think I might have them washed, all the same?'

Flora's tidy dismissal of the rural histrionics would be callous and arrogant in real life, but real life is not something which impinges on Cold Comfort Farm. Self-confidence propels Flora through solving all the Starkadder dilemmas, even the domineering matriach Ada Doom, whose only defence tactics are thwacking people with Cowkeepers' Weekly Bulletin and Milk Producers' Guide.

I find Cold Comfort Farm a hilarious romp from beginning to end, as well as an example of brilliantly measured and controlled writing, but I can quite see it's a novel which is either hit or miss. Those who haven't read it, do give it a go - if, after 40 pages, you don't love it then you never will. If you do, you always will.