Random Jottings of a Book and Opera Lover

Demobbed - an interview with the author Alan Allport

After my recent review of Demobbed I was delighted to receive an email from Alan Allport thanking me for my 'generous' review - nothing generous about it at all, I thought it was an excellent book and a fascinating piece of social history.  I mentioned that I had adorned my copy with multiple yellow stickers as thoughts and questions went through my mind and Alan very kindly offered to respond to these in a question and answer session, an offer I gladly accepted.  Here it is below and I hope that you will find it interesting and will encourage you to get hold of a copy of this title.  You won't regret it if you do..

I see Demobbed began as a doctoral dissertation and am assuming that this followed on in turn from the taking of a history degree.  Is this particular area and period of history always been of interest to you or did you discover your preference when at University?

I grew up in the 1970s, and I think I was part of the last generation of British boys who considered the Second World War to be ‘our’ war in some sense, a war in which we had some personal connection through our grandparents and some authentic emotional investment. Like most of my friends I had Action Man dolls, Airfix model kits, and Commando and Battle! comics; I learned that Germans say ‘Teufel!’ and ‘Gott in Himmel!’ when alarmed (usually before a quick slug on the jaw from a grim-faced British commando). As I got older I picked up quite a lot of detailed, though often random, information about World War II, and read some of the classic histories like A.J.P. Taylor’s. But I have to say that when I originally began thinking about a Ph.D. topic many years later it never really occurred to me that I could or ought to study the war. My childhood fascination with that period still cast a heavy shadow and I suppose that I considered it vaguely juvenile; Proper Historians were supposed to investigate Proper Topics. It only really dawned on me that the demobbed process would be a valid and exciting area of research when I started looking through the contemporary newspapers like the Daily Mirror and the Express, trawling for ideas. It became increasingly clear that demobilisation after 1945 had been both an experience of enormous significance for the men, women, and children who had gone through it and that it had been very largely ignored by previous historians.

Why do you think the press presented the return and coming home of the demobbed soldiers as an occasion of unalloyed joy and happiness?   The answer is obvious I know, but by depicting the return in such a way must have made it difficult for those returning and their families at home to live up to this expected ideal. 

I’m not sure that the press at the time did represent the demobilisation experience as uncomplicated and benign. In fact, if you read through the popular newspapers of the 1940s you detect a continual drumbeat of concern – about unhappy marriages and families, crime, adultery, divorce, delinquency, and so on. I think the reason that the demobbed experience was subsequently erased from the national memory was a reaction to the social changes of the 1960s and 1970s. As British society became (apparently) unmoored from its traditional foundations, people harked back to a mid-century Golden Age of stability and assurance – the classic Fifties image of the happy family, dad in his armchair with his pipe and slippers, and so on. What got forgotten in this nostalgic revision was that the period immediately after the Second World War was anything but stable and reassuring for those who had to live through it. That being said, the 1940s mass media did speak very prescriptively to its audience about the right and wrong ways in which to behave towards a homecoming serviceman – Picture Post even ran a do-it-yourself article called ‘How To Welcome a Soldier Home’ – and it must have been a source of great frustration and anxiety to loved ones when reality did not match the template. I think that the demob period helped to usher in our contemporary obsession with therapy, self-improvement, self-help guides, and so on.  

In Demobbed we learn of the men who returned who found their wives and children were strangers, they could not settle, found family life restricting and, sadly, wives who had been unfaithful in their absence.  While I can understand that these make for more interesting case studies, surely this could not have been the same in all circumstances – there must have been many service men returning from the war who settled back happily and whose lives were not turned upside down. Was this the case?

Oh, absolutely, and I do stress in the book that the most lurid and sensational cases of catastrophic homecoming – men murdering their wives for example – were truly exceptional. It was precisely because Britain was still a relatively non-violent country in the 1940s that such stories were so shocking. Clearly most men did eventually settle down, their marriages and families survived, and there were no hugely dramatic consequences of their demob. But one of the things that intrigued me during my research were hints of subtler but nonetheless important repercussions of the homecoming experience. It’s fascinating and a little alarming to discover, for instance, how many men were privately willing to admit that their civilian working lives were dull and disappointing after years of hectic and sometimes dangerous but often exhilarating military service. To be sure, these were men of an uncomplaining, phlegmatic generation who largely got on with their lives without complaint.  But many of them nonetheless seem to have nursed a private sense of disenchantment – that the might-have-beens that they had idly fantasized about during the war had never come to fruition.

I found it intriguing that returning servicemen had no idea of rationing or what privations their families had suffered.  The case of one soldier eating his family’s entire cheese ration without thinking really brought this home.  My father was in the army and when he left when we were children, an entire support system vanished.  So I can understand how difficult it must have been to adjust.

I think the sense to which serving men understood what was going on at home was a reflection of their age when they were called up, what stage of the war it was, and whether they spent most of their service in Britain or abroad. The soldiers who found it the hardest to readjust to the social and economic changes that took place in the wartime UK were those who had been overseas since at least 1941 (when austerity privations really began to bite) and especially those who had been prisoners of war. My heart especially goes out to one luckless airman who was shot down over Germany the day after the war broke out and who returned to a virtually different country in 1945. He had never so much as seen a ration book in his life …

Until you pointed out that many of the returning servicemen were resented as having had an ‘easy war’ while those at home were bombed and blitzed and were hungry and cold, this thought had never crossed my mind.   While some certainly did have an easy war and never engaged in combat, it must have been shattering to those returning after the most horrendous experiences, to feel this resentment.

Indeed. The problem was that for every soldier who had had a relatively comfortable existence in the Army during the war there was another one who had suffered indescribable privations and hardships. But civilians didn’t always draw sharp distinctions between them. Really, I think the problem was that the nation as a whole was tired and fed up and somewhat lacking in generosity of spirit by the end of the war. People who in other circumstances would have behaved more imaginatively and good-naturedly towards homecoming men had plenty of problems of their own, and weren’t necessarily in a mood to proffer much sympathy. Empathy was rationed in 1945 as much as sugar.

There is a sentence on page 48 “......there was an unwillingness to share basic information with the general public throughout the demob process, which augured ill for the state’s commitment to open government”and also on page 220 at the end of Demobbed “what’s our excuse now?  Britain in the twenty first century is wealthy and peaceful......yet we still do a disgracefully inadequate job of demobilising our young men and women” It seems to me that nothing has changed in the way we treat our returning troops and Government, any government, behave towards our servicemen.  I found Demobbed a very moving history and it is sad that this conclusion is reached.

I’m a historian rather than a public policy expert and so I am hesitant to make too many comments about events going on right now. I’m sure that the government today is faced with the same kind of complicated dilemmas and trade-offs that its predecessor was in 1945. But it does strike me that the present administration’s obsession with ‘spin’ and information control is leading to a sense of public distrust which was equally frustrating after the Second World War. The people need to feel that they are being told the truth. And as the citizen of a wealthy and sophisticated country it does disturb me that we find it so hard to provide even the most basic practical and emotional resources for our ex-servicemen. HM Forces today are tiny compared to what they were in 1945, and Britain is so much better prepared to receive them home. Yet stories of disillusionment and despair continue. One wonders whether any of us can really claim that enough is being done.

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My thanks to Alan for taking the time to respond to my questions.Please note that there is a companion website to the book - www.alanallport.net. Alan is compiling a day-by-day chronicle of the post war period, from June 1945 to June 1946, which contains a lot of the sort of stories found in Demobbed itself.

Simon's Cat - Simon Totfield

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A couple of years ago I was sent an email with a video attached.  This video turned out to be all about Simon's Cat and within ten seconds of it starting, I was reduced to helpless laughter.  Simon Totfield, who  obviously is in thrall to a cat of great character (in fact, I understand he has three), posted three separate films on You Tube all about his cat and they have had, to date, 25 million hits.   I have watched them over and over again and if you have not seen them, then I urge you to check out the links below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rb8aOzy9t4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0ffwDYo00Q

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s13dLaTIHSg

http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=simonscat#p/u/1/I1qHVVbYG8Y

And now we have, Simon's Cat - in his very own book and Canongate very kindly sent this to me a couple of weeks ago.  The cartoons inside are witty and funny and beautifully drawn in black and white, the same as the videos.  It has been published in time for Christmas and I can only say that if you have any cat lovers who are friends, this is the purrfect ideal gift. 

Or you can always keep it for yourself....

Monday Monday, Strictly Strictly and The Back

This is going to be one of my meandering posts - be warned so log out if you want to.

Took myself off to the doctor today re The Back.  Decided that it might be time to go as it took me ten minutes to get out of bed this morning and this process was accompanied by indrawn breaths of pain and lots of swearing.  Managed to fit me in but, as I suspected, it was a waste of time.  I knew I had a painful lower back, I knew it is one of the most common ailments known to man/woman, I knew I had to take painkillers and rest and move in equal proportions, all of which I was already doing.  Just seemed to be lasting longer this time, the pain that is, so was hoping for a Dr House moment. Silly really.

I staggered out of there with enough pills to keep me going for all eternity and was told in no uncertain terms that one set of painkillers would make me drowsy and I was not to operate machinery while taking them.  The fleeting thought I had had that day of getting out the chainsaw was dismissed instantly - I need all my fingers for the writing of posts.  I was also told that if I had come to them straight away when it first happened, they would have given me Diazapan to relax the spasmed muscle but as it was last week it was far too late now.  With a display of self restraint which amazed even me, I did not point out that the reason I could not get to them when it first happened was because I was rolling around the floor in agony....

So have been resting it all afternoon, but also nipped out for a walk to feed the ducks because if I remain seated or in the same position for two long, the back locks and getting it moving again is a tad uncomfortable. 

Now I have not mentioned Strictly Come Dancing on Random so far this year, mainly because I did not want to bore my overseas visitors to tears, but really because it is total mayhem and a farce and all sorts of potty things going on and it is all too much to bear.  But I will now.   We are in Week 7 and we have Sargantgate all over again, wherein we have a dancer who has all the charisma of a damp prawn, three left feet and a total inability to register any expression on his face and, and here is the clincher, he cannot dance.  That would be enough for anybody, BUT this guy does not realise he cannot dance. He keeps moaning that the judges are under marking him, are nasty to him and he really is rather wonderful.  He just cannot face up to the fact he is total crap.

BY the way - this picture does not show the dancer in question

Next week the show is coming from Blackpool.  This has been gone on and on about for weeks because Blackpool is the Home of Ballroom Dancing.  Could have fooled me but there you go. Now this dancer comes from Blackpool (well, Lytham st Annes actually) and he kept on and on about how he really really really wants to get there because it will make his mum happy and last Saturday it was his birthday and how he would really really like to go to Blackpool, and Tess and Bruce kept saying oh he really really wants to go to Blackpool and Claudia on It take Two said oh he really really wants to go to Blackpool.

Ok point understood?  Well, he is now going to Blackpool because the Great British Public, never backward in supporting the under dog (think Eddie the Eagle, Tim Henman etc etc) have put him through with the result that two couples were in the dance off last night, neither of whom should have been there, and there has been mayhem at one of the top pairings being voted off.  I take part in the Forums on the Strictly website (tragic I know...) and the vitriol that is being displayed makes Prime Minister's Question time in the House of Commons sound like a walk in the park.

The whole thing is totally and entirely over the top and wonderful and, as always, I love it.

And while we are discussing all things intellectual, should also mention that I have finished watching House Series 5 (wonderful) and NCIS Series 5 (wonderful) and last night started 24 Series 7 and made myself stop after the fist DVD else I would be up all night.   So off to the sofa with painkillers and remote control.

I don't just sit reading books you know.  You cannot accuse me of not being eclectic...

An Affair of the Heart - Dilys Powell

"The path was fringed with the purple and golden flowers of early heat, stone crop, broom, clematis, cistus......thistles held out ribbon petaled flat blossoms, blossom like yellow and green starts ...the path took me downwards, out of sight of the sea and across a plain through olives and fields of ripe corn"

As I write this paragraph, this description of a hillside in Greece, it is a grey November day.  The sunshine of the last week has departed, the wind has blown the leaves off the trees and they now lie scattered all round, and it is a miserable afternoon. The Indian summer has gone and we are left in no doubt that, mild though it may be, winter is now upon us.  So to read the above is not to make one feel miserable and fed up at the thought of the winter and the dark nights ahead, but rather to think what there is to look forward to when the sunshine comes back in the spring.  At the moment, after reading this simply fascinating book, Greece is high on the agenda - I have not visited for a while.

I only knew Dilys Powell as a film critic, who I used to read years ago in the papers and see occasionally on television.  Acerbic, razor sharp and rather daunting I thought as well as being supremely elegant, I had no idea that she had written any books other than those connected with films, until Souvenir Press very kindly sent me this title, An Affair of the Heart, when I spotted it in their catalogue.  This is not one of those How I Renovated a Greek wreck in Corinth and turned myself into an Olive Oil Producer and Very annoying Person style books which still jostle for space in the travel sections of the book chains. I always found them acutely irritating and thought yeh well, if I had money I would swan off to Tuscany or Ithaca or somewhere and live with the peasants and become a native and then write patronisingly about it too. 

This is different.  Dilys Powell spent many years in Greece before the Second World War, when her husband was director of the British School of Archeology in Athens.  He died, tragically young, and she came back to Britain.   At the start of the book we hear of the 'dig' in the small, isolated village of Perachora, in Corinth where nobody visits and poverty is rife.   All the findings at this dig were sent to a museum in Athens but the villagers were told that if they built a Museum of their own, some of the artifacts would be sent to them to display.  When it came to nothing "we could not hide a shade of English censoriousness...the simple truth is that there was no money, all there had been was spent on that naked plot of ground....once, trudging up the path to the village 'Is that the museum?' I asked pointing to a waste lot where the goats were tethered 'yes yes the museum' came the reply. Soon we accepted defeat'.

An Affair of the Heart is Dilys Powell's personal odyssey, her attempt to renew her love affair with Greece and the people she had known.  At first she is saddened and disillusioned by the changes and left, vowing never to return.  However, her love of the country keeps drawing her back and 'although Greece, like an absent lover, had grown and moved on, its spirit was immortal and still the country of my heart"

This book was originally published in 1955 so the descriptions of Dily's Powell's travels by bus around Greece and her return to Perachora are suitably hair raising and ramshackle. I am always a huge admirer of indomitable travellers who get off and on buses with their rucksacks, a bottle of water and little else, and who then tramp miles over hillsides in search of a lighthouse or a church.  Not my sort of travel at all, I am afraid.  Any bus I get on has to be air conditioned with comfortable seats, and the knowledge that at the end of my journey I have a nice hotel room waiting for me and a cool drink to hand.  So my admiration for Dilys as she makes her perilous way back to Perachora is boundless.  On each return trip she meets the same villagers, the same friendliness, stoicism and dignity of the Greek people and I found it very moving in places.  I wondered what this village was like now some 50 years after this book was originally written so I resorted to Google and this is what I came up with:

 

 

Just look at that sea and the whiteness of the little church in the top photograph.  I remember when I was in Crete many moons ago, marvelling at the whiteness of the buildings against the bluest sky I had ever seen.  Nothing has changed it seems.  

Dilys Powell's first husband, Humfry, died in Greece and was buried in Mycenae.  On her last visit she returns to his grave: "The wind had dropped, the cypress behind the headstone stood like a statue. Far away in the plain on whose rim I stood, a train went by with caterpillar-crawl on its way to Argos. In the last brightness, the landscape wore the look of immortality. Space, solitude, silence and looking at the grave at my feet, I asked myself once again after all these years whether I had been right to choose Mycenae.  And once again I thought that once could not have wished for a nobler grave"

Beautiful.

Painful Friday

Well I have done it again.  A few months ago I was crawling about my flat looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and now I am in exactly the same position with the same problem. My back. Getting ready to go up to London yesterday when Snap it just went into spasm and I let out a yell as the pain hit me. Spent most of the night on the floor and got up in the morning and it wasn't too bad so off I went - foolishly really as today it is worse.

However, I was meeting a friend and did not want to let him down and a good time was had by all and I managed to survive by throwing pain killers down my throat and drinking lots of tea and smiling. Stayed overnight and when I tried to get up this morning could not move - could only get out of bed by falling out onto my hands and knees and climbing up the wall.  How I managed to get on the train and get home I do not know, but managed it.  There was a nice parcel awaiting me and inside two more of the Daisy Dalrymple books that I enjoyed so much last week, so that cheered me up no end.  Since then I have managed to have a hot bath, getting out with difficulty and am sitting here reeking of embrocation which is strong enough to repel all borders.  In a few minutes BBC4 is repeating a Prom shown earlier this year which featured music from the MGM musicals and which I really enjoyed so that will take my mind off my aches and pains.  It transpires that it is being shown because the BBC received so many requests. When I read this my back nearly had another spasm - the BBC actually listening to its viewers and giving them what they want?  I may need a lie down.

So apologies for rabbiting - normal service re book reviews will be resumed over the weekend.

One lovely thing I must share with you all. Around 5.30 am I was awakened in my hotel room by the sound of clattering hooves and managed to get out of bed and go to the window. There to my astonishment was a cavalcade of horses - ten rows, three across with one rider in the middle of each three and guiding them along. They were obviously from the Queen's Mews some ten minutes ride away and were being taken out for exercise before the traffic got too heavy. This was down one of the main streets of London and there was something magical about seeing them in the early morning, all so elegant and beautiful trotting through the City.

Really made my day.

Agatha Christie's Secret Notebooks - John Curran

This book is manna for all Christie aficionados, of which I count myself as one.  First read her when I was about 13 and have been reading and re-reading ever since.  Last year I read and reviewed an excellent biography by Laura Thompson and really thought that just covered everything about and by her. Then up pops John Curran, an uber-fan of Dame Agatha, who has spent years deciphering an undiscovered cache of notebooks in a tiny room at her family home, Greenway.  There were 73 of these notebooks, with scribbling and plots interspersed with list of Christmas presents and birthday dates, and were largely ignored because Agatha's writing was so difficult to make out.

However, John Curran tackled this task and found that the more he deciphered and the more he became used to the dreadful writing, the easier it became to read it and he found a treasure trove of information.  Plots scribbled down, character's names changed and altered, discarded ideas which turn up later in another novel, different titles, all pure delight to somebody who knows the books well.  I was interested to see that Sleeping Murder, one of the later Miss Marple books, was originally going to be titled, Cover her face or Murder in Retrospect.  Then her American publishers appropriated the latter for The Five Little Pigs so that had to go by the board.  The manuscript was put away for awhile and in the meantime PD James published her Adam Dalgleish novel which  she called Cover her Face so that had to be abandoned as well, and Sleeping Murder was the eventual choice.  Really, this is all trivia but I found it fascinating.

Lots of other snippets of information that I also found intriguing: Death is Folly became Dead Man's Folly; Tragic Weekend became The Hollow; Viper's Point became Ordeal by Innocence and a myriad more examples of minutiae that have come to light in these Notebooks.  Wonderful sentences dashed down as the thought occurred to Dame Agatha: 'Disappearance of actress - strange behaviour of head gardener'. That idea was never used, I wonder why?  'Blonde Millionaire's daughter kidnaps herself so as to get away to marry a young man' - again never used and then the three words 'Infra red photograph'.  There was doubt sometimes who was going to be the detective in a particular title.  Death on the Nile was originally going to be Miss Marple, but Agatha Christie thought this was rather an exotic location for her and turned it over to Hercule Poirot instead.  It was not till A Caribbean Murder that Miss Marple was given an exotic location.

The notebooks were in no order at all - references to different titles are spread out all over the place. John Curran has tried to put them in order by title and as he discusses the various stories, he warns the reader that endings are revealed and the murderer identified.  He makes this very clear so if you don't want to know, then you don't read.  As I have mentioned before, I know the identity of every murderer in every Agatha Christie story (though not all of the short stories) so I had the luxury of being able to read this book through without worrying. 

Of course, the main selling point of this book, although the notebooks are enough to capture the imagination of every Christie enthusiast, is the two 'new' stories discovered, featuring Hercule Poirot.  One of them The Dog's Ball is easily explained - it was never published because, as John Curran says, it is rather trite and instead the theme was expanded later and became Dumb Witness.  The other story, The Capture of Cerebus, is much more interesting.  This was due for inclusion in the Labours of Hercules, eleven short stories all linked, though in some cases somewhat tenuously, with the labours of the Greek Warrior. 

This story features a poorly disguised portrait of Adolf Hitler and in 1940 this was deemed tooo sensitive to publish:

"August Hertzlen was the dictator of dictators. His warlike utterances had rallied the youth of his country and of allied countries.  It was he who had set Central Europe ablaze" and just in case there was any doubt he is later described as "having a bullet head and a little dark moustache".

I must admit that the idea of an Agatha story which I had never read was my main reason for wanting to read this book and I resisted temptation not to turn to it first, but to read the Secret Notebooks first, and save this treat up to the end. 

John Curran is a lifelong devotee of Dame Agatha Christie and is working with her grandson, Matthew Pritchard to set up the Agatha Christie Archive.  This has obviously been a labour of love for him and I, and countless other fans of the Queen of Crime, are immensely grateful to him for carrying this out. I am also delighted to see from his book and from this video, here, that he views Five Little Pigs as her best book as I do too.  Always good when somebody agrees with you!

Totally fascinating and a must for all the Christie fans around the world.

Only problem is, as happens every time I read a biography of a writer, is that I immediately want to re-read the books of the subject and look at them with a new eye.  At the time of writing this means that I have to add Dame Agatha to my list of re-reads which stands at Charles Dickens, L M Montgomery and Edith Wharton. Something tells me I am going to have my work cut out....

Tuesday pic

 
  

Sleepless night, migraine, and then taking my mother shopping so no post today I am afraid. Shattered. Here is a pretty pic instead.

Also, have spent rather a lot of time watching House, Series 6.

Ahem

New Girl on the Coach

As regular visitors know, as well as reviewing books and chatting about opera and music, I also delight and thrill you all with forays into my life, what I am doing, where I am going, weddings, births etc etc and I am always so pleased when I receive comments, both on and offblog, about these posts.

You know that I retired earlier this year, rather forced upon me by the recession, but now very happy about it all and what a relief it is not to get up in the morning and commute any more.  I now have the freedom to do what I like, pension permitting and it is a wonderful feeling.  However, an opportunity has turned up which I am delighted about and though I have mentioned it in passing, thought I would expand a bit further.

I have a good friend, Lynette Allen. I first met her ten years ago when she was training to be a reflexologist and came along to practice on my tootsies.  That was the beginning of a lovely friendship and it is with great admiration I have watched her train as a Life Coach, set up her own business and become a highly successful businesswoman, as well as writing three books (yes I know, makes you want to go stick your head in the oven doesn't it....).  Lynette received her training from Life Coach Meg Reid and a few years ago, as well as maintaining their own companies, they decided to join forces and form the UK Coaching Partnership, for the purpose of training new life coaches.

This has gone from strength to strength and has now reached the stage where they really need help on the admin side.  This is where I come in and where my phone call to Lynette a few months ago and my airy comment 'if you know anybody who wants some part time help do let me know'has now born fruit.   I am taking on the maintenance of their blog (which I can do quite easily as it is also on Typepad), their Newsletter, marketing their courses, keeping databases up to date and a myriad other little bits and pieces that have to be done, but take up an enormous amount of time.

I have only met Meg on a couple of occasions, but when she and Lynette came round to my flat a few weeks ago and Meg homed in on my Persephone books (she loves them and has just written about Miss Pettigrew on her own brand new blog), my DVD collection - Foyle (she loves him); Miss Marple (she loves her), just to name a few, I knew I had found a kindred spirit and could work with her and Lynette.

 
  

I have written and posted on the UK Coaching Partnership blog so do nip over to see what I thought of my attendance at one of their course and what an eye opener I found it. Click here.   Also, do please do check out the other links which are now in my right side bar under the astoundingly original heading, Get a Life!

I have worked in banks, in planning offices, with architects, as a Legal PA in various disciplines, run my own business, been a cook, run a music festival, been (well still am) a mother, soon to be a grandmother, a reviewer and blogger and now it is good to apply my skills to an entirely new area of life about which I know very little.  I am finding it fascinating and hope you will take the time to see what you think about it too.

And, in closing, if you happen to know of anybody who wishes to be a life coach, well....you know where to send them.......

Daisy to the Rescue

In yesterday's post I mentioned 'cosy murders' and how good it was to snuggle up, nice and warm and read books in this category. Well, this is what I did yesterday afternoon, I was indoors, chores done, including sanding down and undercoating a piece of furniture, so aglow with virtue I made a cup of tea and repaired to the sofa with two delightful books by Carola Dunn sent to me by Constable Robinson, and featuring the Honorouble Daisy Dalrymple. I had spotted these in their catalogue, knew nothing about them, but was rather taken with the covers (I am easily pleased) and they very kindly popped a couple of them in the post.

I loved them and now want to read the others in the series and, while they are never likely to feature on the Booker lists, they are perfect reading for a relaxing afternoon. The heroine is Daisy Dalrymple, it is just after the First World War, she has lost a brother and fiance in the conflict and has decided she cannot stay at home, bored and unhappy, but wants to be independent and to make her way in the world.  She is not encouraged in this by her mother who feels that as a daughter of a Viscountess, Daisy should not be lowering herself and mixing with the 'lower orders'.  Despite opposition Daisy has a stint as a secretary and then turns her hand to journalism, obtaining an assignment from a magazine to visit and write about stately homes and, at the beginning of Death at Wentwater Court, we find our heroine on the train nervously anticipating her arrival and wondering what she will find when she gets there.

What she does find is Lord Wentwater, a widower for many years who has recently remarried to a woman much younger than him, Annabel. This is resented by his children, particularly his elder son and heir, James who has set himself up against his stepmother.  Lord Stephen Astwick, a 'cad and a bounder' has a hold over the younger son, Wilfred, and has extracted an invitation to the Court in order to revenge himself upon Annabel who rejected him prior to her marriage. He is aided and abetted in this endeavour by James and Lord Wentwater's daughter, Margery who is fascinated by Lord Stephen and resents his attentions to her step mother.  Daisy picks up on these emotions seething beneath the surface and feels an instant liking for Annabel who is clearly in need of a friend.

So the scene is set: a country house, a collection of suspects, tension abounding and, yes you have guessed it, Lord Stephen is found dead - face down in a freezing lake where he has gone to skate. The ice has clearly given way - but has it?

The second title which I had to hand and read as soon as I had finished this one, was The Winter Garden Mystery and, once again, we find Daisy on her way to write about yet another stately house, this time Occles Hall.  Another cast of mixed characters, Bobbie an old school friend of Daisy's and the daughter of the house, Sebastian her devastatingly good looking brother, the secretary Ben Bradshaw home from the war and suffering from the after effects of mustard gas, his overbearing mother, Lady Valeria and her ineffectual husband, Sir Reginald who spends most of his time safe in his model dairy producing cheese  (this odd couple put me in mind of Lord Emsworth at Blandings and his obsession with his pigs and his fear of his redoubtable sister, Lady  Constance).

Lady Valeria bemoans the fact that finding a decent parlour maid is almost impossible nowadays and that the last one they had ran off with a commercial traveller.  It will come as no surprise to the reader that the very next day, while out on a guided tour of the gardens, Daisy spots a dying bush that has been disturbed and when the gardener investigates, the dead boy of the parlour maid, Gladys, is discovered burried underneath the dying shrub.

I am going to make no attempt to go into all the intricacies and ins and outs of the plots, not sure that I could actually, but these books are enormous fun. Rather too many uses of 'spiffing' and 'good egg' in my humble, but their use all helps to ensure that there is a slightly dotty, frenetic, flapperish atmosphere which makes these stories so agreeable.

But we have to have a detective in a murder story and here we have a lovely one.  Bit of a mixture between Roderick Alleyn and Peter Wimsey, in that they are not the normal clod hopping inspector so despised by the aristocracy, but more of a gentleman.  And so we are introduced to Inspector Alec Fletcher:

"...he rose to his feet. Gentleman or not, he was well dressed in a charcoal suit with the tie of the Royal Flying Corps.  Of middle height, broad shouldered, he impressed Daisy as vigorous and resolute, an impression reinforced by rather intimidating, dark heavy eyebrows over piercing grey eyes.....he smiled, his eyes warming and she noticed that his dark, crisp hair sprang from his temples in the most delicious way.  Altogether he was rather gorgeous, she decided"

There you have it - the attraction between the two of them is mutual, but of course he feels that she is far above him and Daisy doesn't think he will want to bother with someone like her.  Thus, the incipient relationship is set up for forthcoming books.

I am now intent on reading the rest of these as I enjoyed them so much.  Perhaps a nice grovelling email to the publishers is called for.............

Autumn Saturday

The clocks go back this evening and the nights will be getting dark very early and, though I dislike the winter, there is something rather warm and comforting about snuggling down indoors with the curtains drawn and a good book.  I have mentioned earlier that I always want to read Dickens in the winter, never the summer, and I also find that I like reading crime novels as well at this time of the year.  They have to be a certain type, not too blood and guts, but 'cosy' which is a word used to describe some detective novels and which sounds totally contradictory, but there you go.

Have discovered the perfect series which fits this description beautifully and I have just read two and will review tomorrow, but in the meantime I leave you with a photograph taken locally last week - just look at those leaves.  The countryside is looking quite wonderful at the moment.

 

So, nice chicken casserole in the oven, curtains will be drawn soon and then settle down to watch Strictly Come Dancing.  Last week we had the usual dramatic boring walk out by Brendon and Bruce Forsyth losing his temper with one of the judges and telling him off for making personal remarks (this from a man who had just done exactly that about one of the other couples as they were about to dance, and the previous week had made a very dubious joke about another celebrity) and all hell was let loose.  Should be fun - I do have the mute button handy however, which I use extensively, usually when Brucie is telling his appalling ageist, sexist and any other -ist jokes, and also when Alesha Dixon, the new judge, stuns us with her penetrating insight  (You was wicked and You was fierce being but two examples) and her laugh which would shatter glass.  And anybody who knows me and my cackle, yes I know, pot and kettle but I am not inflicting it on millions of viewers each week, nor getting paid £100,000 to do so.....