THE SCARLET NIGHTINGALE - Book review

 

The Scarlet Nightingale (published 2018) is another excellent novel from the talented Alan Titchmarsh. His output is varied, to say the least. This outing begins along similar lines to Shute’s Requiem for a Wren – in other words, the female protagonist Rosamund is dead. The post-war Rosamund was a successful novelist and she had left behind a buff folder: ‘souvenirs and accretions of a life that had mostly had its share of romance... but which had also put a young woman in danger. Rosamund might have come from a privileged background, but it was something that she had been quite prepared to sacrifice in the name of love and duty. This is her story’ (p3).

The narrative is mostly in the third person, however interspersed are small insertions from Rosamund’s notes in first person (a good writer’s ploy which brings the character to life at a deeper level).

As ever, Titchmarsh reveals his gift for short telling character descriptions: Dr Armstrong ‘wore a wing collar and his eyebrows were long and upturned, giving him the look of a rather frightening owl’ (p31). Rosamund’s French governess Celine has to break the sad news to her charge: the girl had become an orphan and was to stay with her aunt Venetia in London (in 1938).

Venetia, the sister of Rosamund’s father, had married well and was now Lady Reeves and lived in Eaton Square. When war came, her aunt was loath to hide in the nearby air-raid shelter, preferring the basement in her house. Quite a character: ‘her aunt, in a floral Hartnell creation, half reclined on a sofa so generously furnished with brocade-covered cushions that she seemed in serious danger of suffocation’ (p125). ‘She might give the impression of being unworldly and ethereal, but the razor-sharp mind was clearly in no need of a whetstone’ (p125).

Venetia’s cook, Mrs Heffer, had a helpful brother who did odd jobs: ‘He was not exactly a liveried footman, but he did wear his three-piece Sunday suit and employed a liberal amount of brilliantine to tame his unruly thatch, which, on a bad day resembled an exploded Brillo pad’ (p220).

Rosamund meets and falls in love with Harry Napier who seems to be involved in secret war work. Before long, like many socialites of the period, Rosamund joins the SOE and is dubbed the Scarlet Nightingale; she is landed in France with others to sabotage a factory...

There are details about her training and the actual mission. Naturally, the reader is aware that she will survive, even if captured, because she died at the ripe old age of ninety-three (p1); however, there is still plenty of tension concerning the other operatives involved.

Titchmarsh has a gift for creating sympathetic characters. As Aunt Venetia says, ‘If we do not approach life positively, if we succumb to the naysayers and the defeatists, then we might just as well throw in the towel now, because such negativity becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy... I cannot and will not be bowed down by a bunch of thugs who want to rule the world by bully-boy tactics. The only way to beat bullies is to stand up to them, and that – as you have discovered – is often painful and can have tragic consequences’ (p317). [That applies to any period, even today... – Ed]

A bitter-sweet tale, well told.

NOBBUT A LAD - book review

 

Alan Titchmarsh’s memoir Nobbut a Lad – A Yorkshire childhood was published in 2006.

Titchmarsh is familiar to UK television viewers through his gardening and other programmes. He was born in May 1949 – so to me he is a contemporary and many of his reminiscences echo experiences I enjoyed in childhood. His novels show that he can write as well as attend to horticulture, and this endearing and at times touching book is enlivened not only with his good writing style but also with a wry sense of humour. 

So this is his story – ‘Not that it was without incident or occasional tragedy. But that’s growing up. And growing up, even in the best of all possible worlds, is a confusing thing to have to do’ (p9). This definitely is not a 'misery memoir'.

He was brought up proper. ‘At all times men walked on the outside of the pavement, ladies on the inside. I still do, even though it does sometimes cause confusion when after crossing the road, the woman I am walking with discovers that I’m not where I was’ (p15). [I used to do the same. I suspect the courtesy stems from those days when roadways were plagued by puddles and the wheels of passing carriages were liable to splash pedestrians. I don’t do it with my wife Jen; I always walk on her right-hand side, it’s her good ear. So part of the time I’m the gentleman of old, at others, not!]

It was the time of steam trains. On one jaunt to London with his parents he found himself on the famous Mallard. He chatted with the driver and said ‘I want to be an engine driver’ to which the driver replied, ‘Aye, but you’re nobbut a lad.’ Alan said firmly, ‘When I grow up I mean’ (p141). His career path took a different turn, of course, like so many others who wanted to be train drivers or astronauts or even cowboys!

He lovingly describes many amusing anecdotes, sometimes against himself, and is never malicious. At one time the family had an upright piano in the parlour and Alan determined to learn to drive a car with the instrument’s help. He needed a walking stick and a flowerpot. He turned the flowerpot upside down and stuck the stick in the drainage hole in the pot; this served as the gear-lever. Then he’d use the three foot-pedals of the piano as the accelerator, clutch and brake. Until his father had enough of Alan’s revving sounds and suggested ‘Put the car in the garage and go to bed’ (p249).

‘Impressing my parents was more important to me than almost anything else. It seemed a way of repaying their confidence and the energy and effort they’d put into bringing us up during those tough years after the war’ (p325).

‘Since being a lad, I’ve had a love affair with horses – in paint and in the flesh. The works of George Stubbs and Sir Alfred Munnings thrill me like no other. Dogs command affection, cats command attention, but horses command respect’ (p271) [In his 2008 novel Folly he actually has Munnings as a character].

‘Collecting things was something we all felt driven to do; there was some kind of security in ownership of a collection, some kind of status. In leaner weeks we’d search through the dustbins at the back of the bus garage... We’d pull out cigarette packets and tear off the front and back covers so that each became a crude playing card. With these we’d play snap, and feel as rich as a king when we scooped a whole pile of them’ (p292).

‘My pocket money amounted to one shilling. It never changed for years, it seemed. It didn’t buy much, but most of it went in Woolworths on seeds, or construction kits...’ (p295).

‘The fact that I failed my eleven-plus came as no surprise to anybody, least of all me... I can recall that feeling now – the feeling of trying to knit fog. I caught up in the years that followed; but at the age of eleven it is no consolation to know that you are a late developer’ (p300).

‘I should have been better at science, bearing in mind my future, but Miss Sutcliffe – known as “the Improper Fraction” (top-heavy) – was a loud woman who frightened the life out of me. When she bawled at you, “Acids must be respected!” you felt obliged to scatter the vinegar on to your fish and chips with particular care’ (p304).

These snippets don’t do the book justice. Alan Titchmarsh has a sharp eye for detail – also evinced in his novels – and here provides the reader with vivid recall of people and times long gone, but not forgotten. Here he shows us the various local characters and teachers who became powerful influences in his early life.

Also included are photographs of his family, which many of us can relate to in the style and composition. Plus the author has inserted several line drawings to illustrate certain events and things.

Nostalgia may not be what it used to be, but it’s here in this book in spades!

FOLLY - Book review

Alan Titchmarsh’s 2008 novel is a romantic story set across generations with a couple of twists.

He’s done this time-jumping before; it’s always a risk: maybe the reader will get confused or even lost. Here, it works well enough. The story begins in 2007 and concerns two long-established businesses in Bath – the Ballantynes and the Kings – both involved in the sale of artwork.

We fleetingly meet Jamie Ballantyne during an auction of some famous paintings, and Artemis (‘Missy’) King. He’s selling, she’s buying. They’d been friends for a long time and then she went off to the US and stayed for five years.

Then we step back into Oxford in 1949. There are four art students who go around together: the rich Honourable Leo Bedlington; John (‘Mac’) Macready, a Glaswegian; Harry Ballantyne; Richard King; and Eleanor Faraday. Both Harry and Richard desired her but neither did anything about it.

Jamie mulled about Missy and her appreciation of the painter Munnings. ‘Where dogs craved affection and cats demanded respect, horses inspired admiration and awe, and any artist who could catch their spirit seemed to her to be peerless. (p76).

In 2007 Missy’s grandfather is Richard and Jamie’s is Harry. Neither knows why, but their grandparents have been at loggerheads for almost sixty years! Nobody talks about it. Jamie’s mother has a streak of common sense to her: the feud’s ‘origins are lost in the mists of time and I think everyone would be better diverting their energies into today, rather than yesterday’ (p271). If only the ‘woke’ who want to rewrite history would listen!

Jamie and Missy reawaken their previous attraction and indeed fall in love. Yet the family feud threatens to confound them.

Skipping back and forth through time, we see how chances are lost, love is not reciprocated, and indeed the reader becomes irritated at the folly of these people who are incapable of revealing their true feelings. Except for Mac; he did just that, with disastrous results!

The descriptions of the period, the art world and the countryside sometimes verge on the poetic and at other times Titchmarsh delivers humour: ‘It seemed as if his inquisitor was in danger, at any moment, of bursting out of his clothes and sending buttons flying to the four corners of the book-lined room. All three chins wobbled as he made his point, and his cheeks were the colour and shade of Worcestor Pearmain apples… (p219).

The final twist was a mite too convenient but clearly Titchmarsh wanted to avoid an unhappy ending! An enjoyable novel, nevertheless.

I blame the editor:

When there only two characters in a scene, there is little need to constantly repeat their names to show who is speaking. In most cases, it will be obvious by what is being said. Also, ‘he said’ and ‘she said’ is adequate. There are a few instances of this issue; and one can be found on page 175.

 

THE HAUNTING - Book review

This is Alan Titchmarsh’s eighth novel (published 2011) and the first of his that I’ve read. Titchmarsh is a gardener who became a broadcaster in TV and radio. His first novel was published in 2001.

The Haunting (an over-used title) is an episodic tale alternating between two time periods: 1816 and 2010.

In 1816 a housemaid Anne Flint goes missing at the same time as the daughter of the local lord is found dead by the stream. The mysterious death is compounded by the fact that the dead girl is wearing Anne’s clothing…

In 2010 history teacher Harry Flint is nearing the end of his tenure at St Jude’s School. He is still recovering from a failed marriage and purchases Mill Cottage where he will spend his time with his many books and tracing his ancestry…

Gradually, with consummate ease, the mystery is resolved.

The book relies on several coincidences, but that’s no bad thing. Life is full of them. The same goes for the plethora of clichés – people use them all the time.

The characters, both main and subsidiary, are rounded and interesting. There’s humour and pathos, and humane warmth. Certain unsavoury aspects in the past are dealt with off-stage.

The recounting of a death is restrained and very affecting.

Titchmarsh excels in description of both place (especially evocative with his broad knowledge of plants and trees and wildlife) and character: viz.

April 16, 1816: ‘Air as clear as crystal; the sort of day when the whole world seems to sparkle and glisten – freshly laundered by a shower of rain, buffed up by the gentlest of breezes and then polished to perfection by clear sunlight.’ (p1) Then the same words are used for April 16, 2010 (p11). Emphasising parallels in time.

‘Around her shoulders lay an elaborate wrap that had seemingly once belonged to a member of the fox family blessed with three heads and five feet, and upon her head sat a collection of feathers which, had they been seen in the road, would have been identified as an unfortunate thrush who had come off badly in an argument with a coach-and-four.’ (p143)

Author intrusion is not greatly apparent until the last (ill-judged) paragraph.

I intend to read another of Alan Titchmarsh’s books – The Scarlet Nightingale (2018) soon.