This Crazy Thing Called Love

I was trying to rearrange things on my bookcase to make room for my latest treasures after last week’s trip to the Friends of the Ferguson Library book shop (stoked I found an almost pristine copy of the Mitford sisters letters in hardcover but it’s a doorstop and a half!) when I managed to knock over the knee high stack of mass market paperbacks next to my dresser. I really need to buckle down and write those V.C. Andrews reviews I’ve been planning one of these days. But instead of settling down with Clan Dollaganger, I found myself putting aside Dominick Dunne’s The Two Mrs Grenvilles. But Friday afternoon found me combing the stacks of the Avon Free Public Library and adding This Crazy Thing Called Love: The Golden World and Fatal Marriage of Ann and Billy Woodward to my armload of books.

Now given my fascination with true crime and the life of the very very rich, you would think I would have reviewed  This Crazy Thing Called Love: The Golden World and Fatal Marriage of Ann and Billy Woodward ages ago. This weekend’s reading wasn’t the first time I’ve encountered the book. Back in 1992 when This Crazy Thing Called Love was published I was right on the library reserve list behind all the old ladies who where old enough to remember the case and in one or two cases, ran in the right circles to have met the Woodwards back in the day. The old ladies in my home town? Full of surprises!  What boggles the mind is there are people out there who devoured Truman Capote’s Answered Prayers and Dominick Dunne’s The Two Mrs Grenvilles and took those embellished stories as the gospel truth. That’s like reading Jackie Collins writing about her late night soap opera diva Sugar Anderson and assuming you now know all there is too know about Joan Collins and Shirley Maclaine. The true story is so much more interesting.

For those of you who have never heard of the Capote or Dunne books or even know who the Woodwards were, here are basics. In 1955, socialite Ann Woodward shot what she thought was an intruder at her family’s country home. Only, instead of an intruder who had been targeting their neighborhood, Ann Woodward had killed her banking heir husband Billy Woodward. The Woodwards had a stormy marriage with affairs on both sides and many people thought Ann Woodward had killed Billy Woodward in cold blood to keep him from divorcing her to marry someone from his own class. Billy Woodward’s family stood by Ann Woodward but she spent the rest of her life under a cloud of suspicion and died just before Esquire magazine published part of Truman Capote’s uncompleted novel Answered Prayers that included the story of a scandalous woman who shoots her very rich husband.

Thanks to Susan Braudy, the picture of the Ann and Billy Woodward is treated with fairness and a steady hand. Ann Woodward (born Angeline Luceil Crowell) wasn’t a saint, but she wasn’t the whore that Dominick Dunne and Truman Capote paint her to be in their stories. There wasn’t a secret hick first husband she was hiding from Billy Woodward. Given the changes in Billy Woodward’s will as their marriage crumbled, Ann Woodward would have been better off financially as the former Mrs Billy Woodward vs the Widow Woodward. Believe it or not…there really was a burglar prowling in their exclusive neighborhood the fateful night Billy Woodward died. And you can’t help but feel that if Ann Eden (the stage name Angleine Crowell used before her marriage) had never meet Billy Woodward or at least if their affair had been just a passing thing versus a marriage, both parties might still be alive and thriving in their own worlds.

If you’ve read Answered Prayers and The Two Mrs Grenvilles, make an effort to track down and read This Crazy Thing Called Love. Ann and Billy Woodward and their family deserve that much.

Counting My Chickens

Out of the marvelous Mitford sisters, it’s no big secret my absolute favorite Jessica “Decca”. But Nancy? The baby sister you nicknamed “Nine” for her presumed mental age? She’s closing in on your perch as my second favorite Mitford.

Now just in case you don’t know who the Mitford sisters are (which is okay, I forgive you, not everyone’s personal book collection spans Lovecraft/King/Bloch/Jackson to Louisa May Alcott to Jacqueline Susann/Grace Metalious to the Mitford sisters) these six lovely ladies were the daughters of David Bertram Ogilvy Freeman-Mitford, 2nd Baron Redesdale and the granddaughters of Thomas Gibson Bowles (founder of The Lady and the UK Vanity Fair). Eldest sister Nancy wrote wickedly sharp novels, second sister Pamela took up the country life, third sister and family beauty Diana become a political prisoner in World War II, fourth sister Unity was entranced by Hitler and Nazi Germany, fifth sister Jessica ran away and became the infamous muckraker who made the funeral industry shake in its black boots and sixth sister Deborah aka Debo? She grew up and married a sweet young man named Andrew Cavendish and became the Duchess of Devonshire.

Along with helping turn the family seat Chatsworth House from a financial sinkhole into one of the premier stately homes to visit in the UK (all you Jane Austen fans? Chatsworth House is used as Mr Darcy’s Pemeberly in the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice), Debo has inherited the literary gene turning out charming books about her beloved Chatsworth House and memoirs. Counting My Chickens and Other Home Thoughts, is a slight book, only a 192 pages of Her Grace’s thoughts and observations of her life, family and being the mistress of Chatsworth House but what a wonderful 192 pages.

You might think a Duchess would be snotty, aloof and beyond writing a book for the masses. Maybe. But Her Grace The Dowager Duchess of Devonshire (her husband, the 11th Duke of Devonshire died in 2004) is a down to earth lady who buys her clothes at agricultural fairs and shows because they’re comfortable and wear well. She’d rather grow a lettuce by the front door than the finest rare orchid. When asked if she’d rather have tea with Elvis or Hitler, she chose Elvis. One of her favorite books of all time is Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Ginger and Pickles.

How could you not love this lady? Counting My Chickens and Other Home Thoughts makes me want to save up my pennies, go to Chatsworth House and hope I run into Her Grace in the grounds. And you know just how very much I “love” Outside. Closing Counting My Chickens and Other Home Thoughts made me very glad I’m snapped up Wait for Me!… Memoirs of the Youngest Mitford Sister and In Tearing Haste: Letters Between Deborah Devonshire and Patrick Leigh Fermor at the Friends of the Ferguson Library Book Shop to add to my Mitford collection. Now off to see if the Central Connecticut library system has any more of Her Grace’s books!

 

 

 

Special Delivery

If you’re visited the Shirley Jackson page, you might have seen me saying something along the lines of “if you’ve only read Shirley Jackson’s horror, you’re not getting the full Shirley Jackson experience”. Now I’ve read lots of Shirley Jackson but it wasn’t until I was poking around on the Central Connecticut library system’s online catalog I found a Shirley Jackson book I’ve never encountered called Special Delivery: A Useful Book for Brand-New Mothers. I did a double take right down to removing and cleaning my glasses, sticking them back on and staring at my computer monitor in slack jawed wonder. Now since I was on my lunch break, at my desk in a high traffic area of my building, imagine the lovely picture I made. But no, my brain and eyes did not fool me and inter-library loan request Special Delivery: A Useful Book for Brand-New Mothers  I did.

Along with being a master of the horror genre, Shirley Jackson was a loving mother and could craft little plays of perfect (and imperfect) motherhood. Special Delivery: A Useful Book for Brand-New Mothers is one of those hidden treasures. Even looking at Special Delivery: A Useful Book for Brand-New Mothers with 2013 (childless yes, but I have encountered people in all states of motherhood) eyes, it holds up and is a must read. Shirley Jackson provides the bulk of the essays, everything from people visiting Baby, her experiences the four times she had her children, things to bring the nurses, and the like. There are also contributions from now classic and sometimes sadly forgotten comic writers such as Mark Twain, Cornelia Otis Skinner (does anyone but me know who she is?), Robert Benchley (yes THAT Robert Benchley from the infamous Round Table and grandfather of Peter (Jaws) Benchley) and Ogden Nash. It’s also a time capsule on days when long hospital stays and baby nurses and diaper service were the norm vs our kick you out 24 hours post spawn popping, 6 weeks of paid maternity leave (if you’re lucky) and spend your entire paycheck on daycare.

And the truly amazing thing? Around the time Special Delivery: A Useful Book for Brand-New Mothers was published (1960), Shirley Jackson was ending her days of  semi charmed motherhood, her children were no longer the cute kiddies from Life Among the Savages, she was a pariah in town over defending her youngest daughter from an abusive teacher and a few years her first grandchild would be born. Yet her pieces make you (okay…me) almost want a little pink, sleeping bundle of baby wrapped in a soft blanket and smelling of soap and baby powder of your very own to coo over. (Blacklight: “NO! Besides aren’t you too old for babies? Me: “I’m 40!” Blacklight: “But you just said you were old enough to be grandmother last night!”)

With publishers discovering just how popular the retro market is, wouldn’t it be awesome if Little, Brown and Company (and their parent group Hachette Book Group USA) reprinted Special Delivery: A Useful Book for Brand-New Mothers? I would so buy a copy and the only thing I’m a mother to is a betta fish and stuffed dragons. <waves to Little, Brown and Company and Hachette Book Group USA> Maybe there’s still time for a Mothers Day 2014 re-release?

The Winds Of Heaven

There are times when I’m quite grateful I was born in late 20th century. And yes, this even holds true after working a very challenging day at Company X, enduring the commute back to Moderate Income Apartments and knowing that once I walk through my apartment door there’s a stack of dishes to wash, Blacklight and Miss Susan Fish to be fed and laundry to be done. If I grumble and forget, someone please go to the East Hartford/Raymond Library, find Monica Dickens’ The Winds of Heaven and wave it in my face. Or save yourself the drive and just whisper “Remember Louise Bickford” in my ear.

Now just who the devil is Louise Bickford? Good question. Louise Bickford is a fifty-something widow, who thanks to being crushed by life and a jackass of a late husband, exists on on tiny allowance and spends her time shuffling between staying with one of her three daughters and at a hotel an old school friend runs. I know you’re thinking, well why doesn’t she just get a darn job already, get a little service flat of her own and the heck with her daughters charity and hospitality. Excellent points and I for one rather want to shake some sense into Louise and her daughters but that would rather defeat the plot our dear Monica Dickens has concocted. Besides, you have to remember the times and that Louise was gently raised and a gentlewoman. Her children won’t let her starve except for emotionally.

One day while out with her oldest daughter who I have dubbed Eldest Bitch and grandchildren on an outing, Louise makes an unlikely friend of sorts, a heavyset older man who works in a department store and writers lurid thrillers in his spare time, the exact kind Louise has to smuggle into her bitchy oldest daughter’s house to read in private. Now this oldest daughter would certainly think Mother’s new “friend” is simply not their kind-I mean he WORKS-in trade! The horror (goes to clutch pearls but remembers took them off when came home from work). Oh yes, and Eldest Bitch (government name: Miriam) really is not so lovely herself. Girl has a secret! Middle Bitch (government name: Eva) is an struggling actress and might care if she could only tear her attention away from Totally Unsuitable Married Dude. Youngest Bitch (government name: Anne)? Oh Great Tulu, you just want to shake her until her teeth rattles-how did she snag herself a hot stud monkey husband who DOES ALL THE WORK? (Blacklight: “Maybe she’s awesome in bed?”).

Louise changes households every season and all it normal (emotional starvation) in her narrow world until part of her support network shatters. Is this when Louise finally puts some starch in her girdle and gets a job at a society for gentlewomen, a lovely little service flat complete with a sweet grey cat and screws her gentleman friend until the bed breaks? Umm…sadly this particular scenario is only in my head. Monica Dickens wouldn’t have nice Louise do that. Middle Bitch? Heck yeah. What happens is Louise gets a quiet interlude of happiness and peace in a tiny caravan/camper/travel trailer with her beloved eldest grandchild. But then hey…PLOT TWIST and the end.

There are some goods bits about The Winds of Heaven. (Blacklight: “You mean it wasn’t that one were you thought the dude was gay?” Me: “The Nightingales Are Singing! Yes! That one! The Winds of Heaven is SO MUCH BETTER!”). There’s Youngest Bitch’s hot husband. Eldest Bitch’s big secret (which is rather obvious if you are paying attention). You’ll definitely want to hop in a time machine with a wad of pound notes and hit the Portobello Road Market. (If you see any dresser sets marked with G? Hands off! MINE!). And The Winds of Heaven would make an interesting UK period series. Now to pop The Winds of Heaven in the library book and come up with my dream casting. How about Cate Blanchett in high brittle mode for Eldest Bitch, Kate Winslet in sloppy mode as Youngest Bitch…

 

 

Flowers On The Grass

It might seem like I have gone down a rabbit hole of horror the last few weeks. I mean I did start reading Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (Blacklight <pointing to Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy lying on the couch> : “Gwen! That is the scariest thing I have EVER SEEN! PLEASE GET RID OF IT!”) . But fear not, I have also been reading things like my beloved Monica Dickens too. No need to race to the store, snatch up a bundle of sage and march through Moderate Income Apartments cleansing the rooms of Chez Gwen and Blacklight.

Flowers on the Grass is the story of a man who loses his wife and unborn child in a tragic incident in their little country cottage and drifts all over England, maybe just drinking a wee bit too much and wallowing in his downward spiral vs pulling himself up by the bootstraps and going on with life. Although, when you consider it closely, Monica Dickens’ Flowers On The Grass has horror elements to it. And once again, in a small way, a Monica Dickens novel written in the late 1940s reminds me of the 1966 Patrick Dennis novel Tony. The chaos Patrick Dennis’ Tony causes is greater (it’s rather hard to top Tony’s adventures including his stint serving in World War II and his destruction of a Mary McCarthy like writer) than Monica Dickens’ Daniel but it’s joy and destruction all the same. After all, Daniel slips through the lives of several people causing chaos and destruction where ever he goes on his downward spiral. No place is safe or no one is safe from Daniel. Daniel flits through lives starting with his wife/ first cousin Jane, yearning to not be tied down to anyone or anything, slipping away to start again somewhere else. He pops up in boardinghouses with permanent guests, rooms for rent, private schools, a tutor in a wealthy family. You would think there would be something that repulses people and keeps them safe from an encounter with Daniel. But there is just something about Daniel which keeps attracting people to him and coming to his aid even as he causes more trouble then he’s worth. Families protect and shelter him even though his actions could send them to prison. Women risk everything for him including their very livelihoods. And at the end, even when he actually trying to do the right thing, he’s still causing pain and sorrow. And I ended the novel very glad my only interaction with Daniel was through the pages of a book.

 

The House Next Door

I’m at the library circulation desk, picking up my usual stack of inter library loans when the Jan the Librarian pauses and asks “so what’s this?” because the book in her hand isn’t one of the Monica Dickens novels trickling in from all over our library system. “I never heard of this one”,  Jan continues, passing it through the security scanner, “And I read all of her books.”

At this point am a bit stumped. Just how do you explain a book that Uncle Stevie King himself states in Danse Macabre is one of the best genre novels of the 20th century? Especially when you’ve just come the from fall library book sale you can find tons of Anne Rivers Siddons books with soft focus covers and titles that make you want to head South? “Oh…it’s about a house that might be haunted or possessed or something and the people who live in it”. Lame explanation I know but I was tired and there was a line behind me and telling Jan the Librarian about Uncle Stevie’s ravings about The House Next Door was just a little too much for me.

On the surface, The House Next Door, published in 1976, is a novel of it’s time. There’s the horror angle. The modern haunted house angle (The Amityville Horror is published just a year later), the Me decade lifestyle and it’s trappings. Our narrator is Colquitt (which my brain keeps translating to Clicquot like the champagne) Kennedy who lives an idyllic child-free life with her devoted husband Walter in a very nice and upscale Southern neighborhood in a lovely older home. She works part-time in PR, has cats, can wear painted on Levis and knows she’s hot. In real life? I would loathe her. The neighbors could be the daughters of Mary McCarthy’s The Group or Clare Boothe Luce’s The Women. All is fine and dandy in Clicqout Colquitt’s little slice of heaven until she finds out the wild and gorgeous empty lot next door is going to have a house  built on it. And with that news, heaven acquires it’s first hairline cracks.

I don’t know if I hold with Uncle Stevie on the whole “one of the best genre novels of the 20th century” thing. On the surface, The House Next Door, published in 1976, is a novel of it’s time. There’s the horror angle. The modern haunted house angle (The Amityville Horror is published just a year later), the Me decade lifestyle and it’s trappings.

Remember the Dead List I created for The Nightingales Are Singing? That list is nothing compared to whatever lurks in the Lot Next Door. Like Renfield collecting souls, at first the victims are small and then get bigger and bigger and BIGGER. The House Next Door, whose very blueprints take your breath away and makes you think the house is almost alive, chomps through three families in a matter of two years leaving confusion and a new real estate agency’s FOR SALE sign on the front lawn after each family has gone. Our first set of victims family are the Harralsons, a couple from a very small city strong taints of New Money that decide the Lot Next Door is going to be their entry and showplace. Oh do they get theirs. After the tragic departure of the Harralson clan, the Sheehans from New Jersey buy the House Next Door. More tragedy strikes, leaving the neighborhood reeling and fractured. Next to our House Next Door of Horrors are the Greenes, Yankee newcomers or sad victims who give the neighborhood it’s death blow. Finally, Clicqout Colquitt and Walter rouse themselves from the cosy groove of their lives and decide to take action. They break the Old South codes of gentility and keeping things hush and go to People magazine, that bastion of the everyman and spill as much of the story as Joe and Jane Average could handle even though it means their end.

Like Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, The House Next Door has it’s chills but is most fascinating to me as a social document or a snapshot of when it was written. The House Next Door is a fascinating look at the outsider in the New South. Everything about the House Next Door, from it’s contemporary design to it’s occupants are the New South breaking across old barriers. What’s more terrifying to the neighbors? The house itself and the changing times or what happens to the people who live inside it’s walls? And The House Next Door will leave you wanting just that little bit more when you close the covers. Did Pie and her daddy…no…they couldn’t have? How did a particular character go from having drinks and listening to records to their…end? It there really such a thing as “bad blood”? What happens after the book ends, Walter and Clicqout Colquitt sitting in chairs and waiting…a lower novelist (coughcoughJohnSaulDeanKoontzcoughcough) would have told me in endless detail. Maybe the true genius of Anne Rivers Siddons’ The House Next Door is leaving me wanting and wondering…

One of the Family

Like Monica Dickens herself, the bulk of the people in One of the Family are descended from a popular Victorian author. If I need to explain which popular Victorian author Monica DICKENS descends from a) we have a problem b) you have never read my blog before or c) you are my husband Blacklight and he doesn’t pay attention to what I read because playing Minecraft is his secret job. Most of the late E.A. Morley’s descendants lead the average upper-class Edwardian life. They’re not titled but are comfortable and have solid jobs. One brother is more posh then the other, one sister is modern and free and the other emotionally tied to their mother even as a married adult.

At the center of this cozy little world is brother Leonard (works for a posh department store) and his family. Leonard and his delightful but vague wife Gwen have three children, eldest married son Austin, unmarried daughter Madge and beloved afterthought and all around scamp Dicky. Their ungainly niece Bella, regards their family and house as a sanctuary from her own posh and cold home. Now the tales of this cozy family in it’s own cozy little world are all well and good but happy families can be deadly dull, so enter mysterious stranger Toby Taylor.

Now this is where my lizard brain starts working. And drawing literary conclusions that not might be then truly correct but please bear with me. As I read One of the Family, it’s cozy center family, the mysterious interloper who isn’t exactly who he seems, tragedy and joy Mr Interloper brings to our cozy family group against the background of a changing Edwardian world…how could I not be reminded of Howard’s End? Okay, so England in transition isn’t represented by the property Howard’s End. And the Morley clan isn’t the Schlegel clan. But we do have our Mr Interloper (Howard’s End Leonard Bast/One of the Family Toby Taylor) coming into the core family, causing happiness and longing and death and leaving behind an illegitimate child to a young mother who decides to go it alone. Bear with me a little more please? And the excellent film version of Howard’s End came out in 1992 and One of the Family was published in 1993.

Even if my slight deranged theory of possible inspiration from Howard’s End isn’t true and it’s just the fact there are limited plots and plot devices, One of the Family is still an good read. You have Leonard and his siblings adjusting to the changing world. Their daughters are exploring different roles then how their own mothers were raised. Madge, who the servants think is a lesbian, has cut her hair short and throws herself into settlement work and turns down the chance of marriage until late in the story. In fact, I really wish Madge had never married since marriage depletes her. Bella chafes against her parents rules and disappointments and when she turns up pregnant decides to keep her child and raise it openly to the shock of her family until she chooses a most unsuitable man over her child.

And then you have Toby Taylor. Failed doctor, would be healer, son substitute, confessor and seducer. He is Chaos, Death and Life all rolled up into one. Monica Dickens wisely doesn’t turn the entire narrative over to him. It’s much more compelling and interesting to have snippets of Toby, his relationship with an actress mistress, interactions with patients and visits to his ailing mother in a hospital. We know a little more about Toby then the Morley who encounter him in various facets but not the whole picture. Would Bella swoon as much over Toby if she knew the truth about encounters with his mistress and her cousin Sophie? Would Gwen and Leonard trust Toby with Dicky’s fate if they knew exactly how solid his medical credentials were?

it wasn’t until I finished the book and read the back flap of the dust jacket I realized One of the Family was Monica Dickens’ final novel. Until then I had been caught up in the story of an extended well to do family in Edwardian England. There’s something sad about reading an author’s last book or story. Sometimes you weep because that final work is only a ghost of what the author was capable of (Dominick Dunne’s Too Much Money) or they died too soon (Shirley Jackson’s Come Along With Me). Other times, you sit down with the last book, read it and are happy the author lived a long and productive life. Luckily Monica Dickens’ One of the Family falls in the last category.

Am I glad One of the Family is Monica Dickens last book? No. I would have loved to have more books from her. But life isn’t. And to end her career on a solid novel is a good thing, there’s no regrets or whys. And One of the Family should be one of your Monica Dickens reads.

 

 

Nightingales Are Singing

Let the Monica Dickens book binge continue!

Nightingales Are Singing starts in post-war England. Thirty something Christine Cope is a spinster who runs the book department at a London department store. She’s plump and lonely and leads a narrow life with her father and aunt and their animals. Occasionally she goes out with her jerk-ass cousin Geoffrey who treats her like dirt. Geoffrey is from the rich side of the family and my brain imagines him as sneering and pompous as Vincent Price in Leave Her to Heaven. Christine meets a US Navy officer, Vinson Gaegler, who seems nice enough but all the food parcels, cigarettes and nylons and steaks in the world can’t replace Christine’s dead love Jimmy. My brain Vinson is played by the early 1950s Kirk Douglas.

But Vincent persists and Christine (played in my brain by Jeanne Crain using her best MGM British accent) goes to America to marry him. And if Christine didn’t like her life in England, well, America is going to be just as and possibly more challenging. Vinson may love the US Navy even more than Christine. The Admiral coming to their wedding party seems to mean more to Vinson then his new life with Christine. But the fault doesn’t lay entirely with Vinson. Sure he has a hard-on (Blacklight: “do you have to be so crude?” Me: “yes”) for the Navy and could have given Christine the damn ‘How to be a Navy wife book” BEFORE they got married,  but Christine has her faults too. She is used to be taken care of by her Aunt Josephine, being a career woman and not realizing that married life is more than a pretty dress and fresh lipstick when Hubby comes home. And she is still carrying a torch for the dead Jimmy.  Add that to culture clashes and of course things will go dark. At one point, I started making a “dead” checklist (baby, car, marriage, dog, lover, another dog…), but I kept reading.

Nightingales Are Singing didn’t grip me in the same way as Kate and Emma. Once Christine hits America, I started wondering how many pages until her nervous breakdown or the revelation Vinson is gay. Apparently he’s straight but I have my doubts. Either that or Vinson, scarred by his trying mother, is just Navy-sexual. Because I only see him being able to impregnate Christine if he pretend she was the Admiral. (Blacklight: “You think everyone is gay.” Me: “No, just Vinson.”) What is fascinating besides playing “Is Vinson Gay?” was the look at being an English woman transplanted to America as a bride. Learning to deal with shops, America’s “classless” class system, the surreal world of being a military spouse (I’ve seen actual How to be a Military spouse guides and wow…the regulations when you’re not the one in uniform), and being an older bride. The tragedies mounting on Christine at a certain point seem like something you would have heard on “Queen For A Day”. The only thing that doesn’t die are the poor goldfish trapped in a weird tank in the kitchen. Wait, did anyone remember to feed them when Christine goes off for the week with her doomed lover?

If you want to be a Monica Dickens completest or are interesting in seeing how she might have used her own experiences as a military spouse (I really hope she didn’t endure everything Christine goes through), then track down Nightingales Are Singing. Otherwise, you may wish to stick with the true memoirs.

Kate and Emma

You know it’s a good writer’s biography when after you shut the book you scamper-damper to get all the author’s books through inter-library loans. And it’s like Christmas when the inter-library loans come in.

Now if you’ve read my review of Monica Dicken’s An Open Book, you know that the section where she discusses her researches into child welfare with the “Cruelty Man” had me choking back the tears. So of course the moment a whole lovely stack of Monica Dickens novels got lugged home from the library, I was digging out Kate and Emma, the book inspired by the “Cruelty Man”. If you haven’t read An Open Book, the “Cruelty Man” (or lady) is a child welfare officer. And the parents usually loathe the “Cruelty Man” and assumed their children are going to be snatched away and stuffed in a home.

But let’s talk about Kate and Emma shall we?

In the simplest of terms, Kate and Emma is the story of two teenage girls, Kate (unloved and unwanted girl from the lower class) and Emma (a judge’s daughter). But one day while Emma is visiting her father’s court in the Juvenile system, sixteen year old Kate is one of the cases. Kate has run away from home and her parents don’t want her back. Just another case in the hundreds or thousands that Emma’s father has seen. But something about Kate stirs an interest in Emma. And the two become unlikely friends.

Now at this point, a novel where the lower class Kate and upper class Emma could go a few ways. The easy way is to have Emma take Kate under her wing, tidy her up, educate her and have Kate find Mr Right and her and Emma could live next door to each other and everything would be tea and scones and lovely forever and ever. That would be a very boring book. And yes this is coming from someone who adores Cinderella/makeover stories like Jutland Cottage and The Thing About Jane Spring. But what makes those books different from the very boring but would certainly sell to a certain market book is a certain bite and wit.

Luckily, Monica Dickens doesn’t take the easy way. In fact, the alternating voices of Kate and Emma took a few chapters to get used to but give it those few chapters and you’ll find it hard to put down Kate and Emma.

Kate is fortunate enough to land in a loving foster home with run by Mollyarthur who wouldn’t be out of place as a character in a Maeve Binchy novel. She loses some of her hard shell and starts her unlikely friendship with Emma. In the warm safety of Mollyarthur’s house, both Kate and Emma bloom. Only Kate gets pregnant. It’s not that surprising.

What is a surprise is Emma’s response to the situation. She wants to live with Kate and have the two of them raise the baby on their own. Emma’s even willing to have people think Kate’s baby is her own. Kate has her own plans. But what Kate ultimately does (marriage to the baby’s father) sets her on a doomed path. It doesn’t take a crystal ball to see that Kate will follow her mother’s path of an unfortunate marriage with too many children too fast and not enough money.

But as Kate marches towards her fate, Emma’s life isn’t all cream. In fact, it’s never been perfect as it seems from the outside. Emma is the oddball of her three siblings. Her family is haunted by the tragic drowning death of her younger brother. Her parents have distant relationship that is just barely holding on. She’s fortunate enough to come from a well-connected family and can find a job and rise in the ranks of her uncle’s supermarket business. She’s not popping out a baby every year by a dim-witted husband in slum rooms and dodging the landlord. But she has her own tragedies including her part in the one that nearly destroys both her and Kate.

Emma means well. She has a core of caring and compassion that with care and training would make her a wonderful child welfare worker like her mentor and father figure Johnny Jordan. But Emma hasn’t trained as child welfare worker, she blinded by guilt, money, privilege and friendship. Deep in her heart of hearts, Emma knows Kate is on the same path as her mother, turning the child who forced her into an ill-considered and ill-fated marriage into a whipping boy. The point when Emma sees a burn on Kate’s son made with a poker by Kate and doesn’t scoop that little boy up is the moment you want to smack Emma upside the head for not saving him. You want to tell her that betraying the bonds of friendship with Kate is worth it if it means saving Kate’s son. Or Kate herself.

Kate and Emma is not an easy read. It’s not a fun frolic with comic episodes. If you want that sort of Monica Dickens’ book, pick up One Pair of Hands. There are parts that will make you cry. You’ll wish the horrors of Kate’s life would end. If you’re me, you’d want to know more about Mollyarthur and Johnny Jordan. And you’ll want to thank the person who whined about Monica being so obsessed with the welfare of horses over children and sent her down the path to writing Kate and Emma.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tigers In Red Weather

Ever pick up a book because of cool cover art, read the inside flap and added it to your book bag, crawled onto your bed and read said book and then closed the covers after you’ve finished and asked “Why the bleep did I read this?”

Or is it just me? It can’t be just me…

This afternoon, a book with cover showing a retro siren in red beach togs with a slash of matching red lipstick lured it’s way into my stack of library books. I could blame the general awfulness of the day (unexpected mission critical car repairs for Mr Saturn that drained my NecronomiCon 2015 savings and a big chunk out of our personal checking accounts, headache from dealing with said car repairs, feelings of failure for not being able to pay for everything myself and having to ask Blacklight to pay his share, etc) for picking up Liza Klaussmann’s Tigers in Red Weather. I could blame PMS. I could blame my brain being addled by finding the brand new Margaret Atwood just sitting in the general fiction stacks unmarked as brand spanking new vs in New Fiction where it truly belonged. Or I could blame the Agent of the Random because sometimes books just aren’t awesome or the right book for a reader. I firmly believe every book has it’s reader and Great Tulu knows I’m not going to love every book.

I’m sure for the right person (IE not me) Tigers in Red Weather would be a treat. It’s the tale of two cousins, the darkly handsome Nick (a lady) and lush (in more ways than one if you get my meaning hic hic hic) Helena. Nick is rich, bored, and non traditional lovely with flashing green eyes. The men just love themselves some Nick. Helena is the lovely blonde cousin who feels second best from their childhood days on Martha’s Vineyard (her mother didn’t marry as well as Nick’s mother). We first meet the cousins in fall 1945 as they break up house (Nick to head south to her Navy husband, Helena to Hollywood and a second marriage). We then skip to the late 1950s, meet their children (Nick’s daughter Daisy and Helena’s son Ed), bad stuff goes down one magic summer and then we skip-a-doodle to through the 1960s, learn some secrets (I would have totally pegged Nick’s husband Hughes as a deeply closeted homosexual vs the true secret) and then the book mercifully ends.

I plugged along through everything, wanting to shake Nick and Helena by the shoulders until their brains rattled. I also pictured Helena’s son, the not quite “right” Ed as a budding Norman Bates. The most shocking and interesting thing about the book was turning to the author info and discovering Liza Klaussmann is descendant of Herman Melville. Does my loathing of Melville extend to his distant family? If so, is my love of Monica Dickens, descendant of the dreaded Charles Dickens an aberration? These questions compel me more than the fates of Nick and Helena, Ed and Daisy.

In the right hands, again NOT MINE,  I firmly believe someone will adore Tigers in Red Weather. I imagine the right reader (NOT ME) to be someone who loves Downtown Abbey, cupcakes, wines and Martha Stewart. I can totally see Jen Lancaster reading Tigers in Red Weather on her Kindle by the pool and loving it to death.

In these undead raccoon paws?Eh…but kudos to the fine marketing geniuses at the Hachette Book Group and jacket designer Lindsey Andrews because I would have never picked up this book if it wasn’t for the cover, not even if I found it at the Simsbury Public Library book sale on $8 bag day.