While thinking about writing about the book, suddenly the village of Brigadoon came to mind. Do you remember that story where a small village would only appear every 100 years and then would disappear. At that point, I was thinking, well, I might read one of the series, say, every 100 years or so? Seriously, it is set back before most of us now living was born and the setting is of a small village or town. If I tell you that the school room only has two rooms, does that explain my trepidation? Even "my" grade school had four rooms! LOL
But, once started, it is rare that I don't finish a book. And I was certainly glad I did. Remember that I had just spent considerable time reading, thinking and writing about three non-fiction books. I needed a break and could not find any cat cozy mystery books on my Kindle which I usually use to escape from reality... And, frankly, I needed to do just that! Do any of you use books to escape your reality? I find it the best solution to clear my mind about what is happening in today's world of chaos, prejudice and violence.
And one of the most amazing attributes of the series is the fine-line sketches of everyday life for Miss Read...Here she is in school...
‘Look at it in the peace of your own home,’ advised the vicar. Perhaps my consternation was writ large upon my face. In any case, Gerald Partridge, though vague in many ways, is remarkably sensitive to other people’s feelings. I stuffed it into my jacket pocket. ‘I always think,’ said the vicar, changing the subject with aplomb, ‘that you have one of the finest views in Fairacre.’ He gazed across Mr Roberts’ young corn to the massive bulk of the downs on the sky-line. ‘So do I,’ I told him.
‘“I will lift up my eyes unto the hills: from whence cometh my help,”’ quoted Mr Partridge. ‘You know I find them as much comfort as the psalmist did. They put our own petty affairs into perspective.’ ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘Like ducks.’ ‘Ducks?’ ‘“From troubles of the world I turn to ducks, Beautiful, comical things, sleeping or curled . . .” The rest escapes me but I’ll look it up for you.’ ‘I should appreciate that,’ said the vicar gravely. ‘Ducks or downs, we all need to gather comfort where we can, and I find a great deal in remembered fragments of writing.’
A breathless five-year-old rushed up to us. ‘Miss, one of them Coggs kids has been to the lavatory on the lobby floor.’ ‘That,’ I told her, ‘is what is known as a contradiction of terms, but I’ll come at once.’ ‘In that case,’ said the vicar, ‘I must let you return to your duties.’
He departed, I thought, with unnecessary haste, and I went to find the floor cloth. What with one thing and another, I had forgotten Mrs Partridge’s missive until I was rummaging for a handkerchief in my jacket pocket, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil in my peaceful kitchen. Out fell the envelope and up surged my misgivings again. I read it while I sipped my tea. After suitable greetings the letter continued: ‘My dear friend Hazel Smith is trying to raise some money for the Save The Children Fund in Caxley, and is organising an evening meeting which is going to be billed as “Our Children”. ‘She is asking several speakers to say a few words and then to answer questions from the floor. I know she has a local magistrate who will talk about the juvenile court, and a most eminent educationalist, as well as a local doctor who specialises in children’s ailments—a paediatrician, I believe is the correct word unless I am confusing it with something to do with feet, or even worse—but a very nice man indeed who once was on TV in one of those upsetting medical series. ‘I took the liberty of mentioning your name to her and she may get in touch to see if you would be a member of the panel.
Perhaps you could talk on young children in school? Or children’s literature? Anyway, I do so hope you don’t mind my mentioning you to her. You would be so good, and I know you would love Hazel. ‘There would be a cold buffet and wine after the meeting, and a chance to get to know a great many people who are really caring about the young, just as you are.’ She was mine affectionately after three pages.
‘Oh lor’, Tibby,’ I said to the cat. ‘Now what do I do?’ But that unfeeling animal continued to wash his face vigorously, callous to the sufferings of his mistress. With this awful prospect before me I spent the evening in a fine state of dithering. My first instinct was to turn down the proposal with a flat refusal. I had no wish to turn out for an evening in Caxley, and a downright antipathy to my unknown panel members...
Over my supper of scrambled eggs I had pored over the television programmes for the evening. I was offered a nice half-hour or so of open heart surgery, in glorious technicolour, no doubt, an interview with survivors from a pit disaster, a discussion by drug addicts about their problems, or another on the subject of abortions. ‘Well, Tibby,’ I had said, putting aside the paper, ‘I think we’ll play that old record of Jack Buchanan’s, and get on with the P. G. Wodehouse book from the library.’ All in all, we had a splendid evening.
Very soon I began to pick up points which suggested to me that Miss Read and I could have been very good friends! LOL In writing of a visit from the vicar, my own most favorite scripture was used during the conversation... Plus, as we see Miss Read remembering a letter she recently received, she was quite sure that she had no desire to be a part of the panel. Yes, as an introvert, I do tend not to enjoy having to speak in public. And, also like Miss Read, she does it anyway because it would be worse to try to figure out some excuse that really would be some version of truth...
And then there is the fact that she has a cat who she talks to and even talks back when the cat ignores her. Only to continue to talk on...aloud, as if the cat needed to know what she was thinking... Consider then, in this book and maybe others, her friends are always trying to marry her off, while Miss Read also continues to profess that she is really not concerned about it...
The plot? Well, everybody is all adither because Mrs. Pringle, who is the very efficient school cleaner, who is always complaining about this or that, has taken off, claiming that, perhaps, she might not return... And everybody in the little village is trying to help Miss Read in finding somebody, at least temporarily... Characters are added as interviews and trials take place for the position. Oh yes, there is another reason Miss Read and I are alike...Miss Read cares little about how her house looks but does have the money to pay for cleaning services which had, unfortunately, been done by Mrs. Pringle... What was Miss Read to do about her own cleaning!? I could put myself in her shoes as she forced herself to get some things done...
In the meantime, readers hear alot about her garden, where, of course, she also talked about her favorites of peonies and irises, both of which are mine also! Indeed comparing what flowers she had in her garden versus mine was an ongoing bit of trivia that I found quite enjoyable.
Time is spent reading poetry or listening to the phonograph
‘They’ve completely vanished in the mists of time for me,’ I confessed. ‘But which poems did they recommend for sheer desperate longing of the beloved?’ ‘One plumped for that little sixteenth-century verse: Western wind, when wilt thou blow, The small rain down can rain? Christ, if my love were in my arms And I in my bed again!
It is harrowing, isn’t it?’ ‘Hits the nail on the head,’ I agreed. ‘But what did the other one suggest?’ ‘He was all for “Night and Day” by Cole Porter, and after we’d played it on their portable gramophone about ten times that afternoon we were inclined to agree.’ She tapped ash from her cigarette and rose. ‘Well, I must be off...
Well I did enjoy Cole Porter and Night and Day that continued to be popular as big band music! And actually found a hymn that I'd never heard before
The earth was warm and friable, just right for scattering poppy and marigold and larkspur seeds to take their chance of providing summer colour in the gaps in the border. The air from the downs was soft and soporific, so different from the usual fresh breezes that buffet us, in all seasons, in this area. I had my tea in the garden, relishing all these delights, and watching Tibby rolling on the gravel nearby. If only one could have more of this blessed solitude, I pondered, just enjoying the simplejoys about one, when ‘every prospect pleases’, how good and loving and noble one would be! But the hymn continues: ‘And only man is vile’, I recalled, which reminded me that I must tear myself away from my miniature Eden, and go to visit Mrs Pringle, my personal serpent, and get the interview over.
The lady opened the door a matter of two inches, and from what I could see of her stern visage, I fully expected her to slam the door in my face. However, she pulled it open and invited me to step inside. I felt like Daniel entering the lions’ den, but tried to appear calm.
~~~
I admit that I thoroughly enjoyed how the issue with Mrs. Pringle was solved. And, all in all, it was a pleasant time to spend several hours. I even went out to buy another (I think I found this one sale) and saw the price for the ebook was about the same as we pay for top nonfiction and fiction writers... I then decided, Nah...I didn't enjoy it "that much..." But if you are pining for the historical life in good ole' England, well, you decide...look around, costs range from $1 up...
God Bless
Gabbie
No comments:
Post a Comment