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Friday, 24 October 2014

The Book Case by Nelson DeMille

published 2012





I walked to the staircase, which had a sign saying PRIVATE, and began the corkscrew climb. On the way, I tried to recall the two or three times I’d interacted with Mr. Otis Parker here in his store. He was a bearded guy in his early sixties, but could have looked younger if he’d bought a bottle of Grecian Formula. He dressed well, and I remember thinking— the way cops do— that he must have had another source of income. Maybe this store was a front for something. Or maybe I read too many crime novels. I also recalled that Mr. Parker was a bit churlish—though I’d heard him once talking enthusiastically to a customer about collector’s editions, which he sold in the back of the store. I’d sized him up as a man who liked his books more than he liked the people who bought them. In short, a typical bookstore owner.




observations: This short story – a Kindle Single – was recommended to me by my friend Prashant C Trikkanad, of the Chess Comics Crosswords blog. He read my recent entry on the book Miss by LE Usher, set in a London bookshop, and told me of this one, set in a NY bookstore. I’m a fan of Nelson DeMille, and of stories set in bookshops, and a 99p short story doesn’t break my current book-buying embargo, so I was good to go.

It is short and very funny, and tells a fair enough tale of murder in a NY crime bookstore, investigated by one of DeMille’s regular characters, John Corey. DeMille has fun with the whole trope of crime books, shops and publishing – this is typical:
The window on the right featured contemporary bestselling authors like Brad Meltzer, James Patterson, David Baldacci, Nelson DeMille, and others who make more money writing about what I do than I make doing what I do.
I don’t read many of the big best-selling thriller writers, but I make an exception for DeMille - I have enjoyed several of his books, and I really like his humour. I like Lee Child’s Jack Reacher books too, but DeMille is much funnier and more light-hearted: he doesn’t take himself too seriously. I have seen occasional complaints of misogyny in DeMille and that always surprises me - his heroes are somewhat unreconstructed, but I find the women characters good, and his attitudes (not quite all the time, but mostly) very real and pro-women.

The photograph, from Flickr, is from the Nantucket Historical Association.

Thursday, 23 October 2014

The Judas Window by John Dickson Carr

author aka Carter Dickson

published 1938






Mary Hume looked momentarily at the back of Captain Reginald’s head as she went up to the witness box. With the exception of Inspector Mottram, she was (or so it seemed on the surface) the calmest person who had yet testified. She wore sables: a flamboyant display, Evelyn assured me, but she may have been feeling in that mood with defiance. And she wore no hat. Her yellow hair, parted and drawn back sleekly, emphasized the essential softness and odd sensuality of the face, dominated by those wide-spaced blue eyes. Her method of putting her hands on the edge of the box was to grasp it with both arms extended, as though she were on an aqua-plane. In her manner there was no longer any of that hard docility I had seen before.




observations: The Judas Window is generally agreed to be one of John Dickson Carr’s best books (it first appeared under his pseudonym, more in this entry) - and thus one of the best locked room mysteries ever. It is not my favourite of his works, because the explanation seems so unlikely - I do see that’s not something to worry about with JDC, but there is a range… But it is still a great read: tense, and almost entirely in a court-room setting. The best of his books keep you reading simply because you HAVE to find out the explanation for some extraordinary setup, and The Judas Window is definitely in that category.

There is another very odd aspect to it. I have floated the idea before that JDC wished he could write more about sex, and that his young women were quite sexually adventurous. The young woman above (a highly-respectable heroine) is about to give evidence of being blackmailed, by a former lover who has compromising photographs of her:

Mary Hume [said] clearly, ‘without any clothes on, and in certain postures.’
‘What postures?’ asked Mr Justice Rankin.
[The barrister says:] ‘I’ve got one of those photographs here. Across the back of it is written: “One of the best things she ever did for me”’
The photograph is then shown to judge and jury.

When I first read this book as a young teenager I was shocked witless by this, forming my own conclusions as to what the photo must have shown. I’m still quite surprised that it pops up like that in a traditional Golden Age mystery. It is stressed in the book that this is not a court of morals, and no judgement should be passed on Mary for having an affair outside marriage and (presumably) consenting to the photos being taken. Unexpected all round.

Another pressing matter of great importance: what on earth does gripping an aqua-plane look like? And here we can help you, with a startling photograph from the very year of 1938:





-- if you look closely you can see that she has not had her legs sliced off at the knee (that would be a quite different JDC book…), it’s just a trick of the angle.

Normally an aquaplane is, apparently ‘a board on which a standing rider is towed behind a speeding motorboat’ – so perhaps like a single waterski, a monoski? The one above seems to have its own power supply.

****ADDED LATER: Blog readers have helped out with information on aquaplaning. JS found this newsclip of the sport from Pathe, called Skidding Along. And Bill Selnes from the Mysteries and More blog found this helpful article on the history of aquaplaning.  Looking at both would convince you even more that the picture above is wholly posed.****


The main picture is by Glyn Warren Philpot, the sitter was Mary Borden. Now, those probably aren’t sables in the picture, and I’m hoping that one of my most helpful and knowledgeable blog commentators, Ken Nye, will be able to give me more info on that (see Ken's helpful input on insertion kisses below yesterday's entry)


*****ADDED LATER: Yes, Ken did come to help, see below in the comments *****

But I did like this picture, she seemed to look how Mary should.

My friend Sergio over at the Tipping My Fedora blog is a huge fan of John Dickson Carr, and his blog contains informative pages on him, a review of this book, and links to other relevant websites – anyone with any interest in the author should definitely go over there.

For more of and about JDC on Clothes in Books, click on his name below

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

Patricia Brent, Spinster by Hubert Jenkins

published 1918









[Patricia] recalled a remark of Miss Wangle's that no really nice-minded woman ever dressed in black and white unless she had some ulterior motive. Upon the subject of sex-attraction Miss Wangle posed as an authority…

With great deliberation Patricia selected a black charmeuse costume that Miss Wangle had already confided to the whole of Galvin House was at least two and a half inches too short; but as Patricia had explained to Mrs. Hamilton, if you possess exquisitely fitting patent boots that come high up the leg, it's a sin for the skirt to be too long. She selected a black velvet hat with a large white water-lily on the upper brim. "You look bad enough for a vicar's daughter," she said, surveying herself in the glass as she fastened a bunch of red carnations in her belt. "White at the wrists and on the hat, yes, it looks most improper.”




observations: In a low-key way, I am attempting the Books of the Century challenge this year. The rules, and bloggers’ takes on it, vary, but in my case I am hoping to read during 2014 a book first published in each of the years from 1900-2000.

This won’t get really exciting till the very end of the year, when I am trying to fill in some gaps, but it is obvious already where the difficulties will lie: 1900-1920, and the 1970s and 80s. (So far I have read 70 books for the challenge.) So this book helps in that respect, and it looked like a promising concept for a light romantic read. Patricia Brent lives in a boarding house, and overhears other residents bitching about her loneliness, lack of a husband and so on. Furious, she proclaims that the next night she will be dining with her fiancĂ© at a smart hotel restaurant. Sensation. Above, she is getting ready for her imaginary date – she has decided to go and eat alone that evening. But when she gets there, 3 of the boarding-house residents have turned up to stalk her. So she looks round for a man dining alone, sits herself down at his table and urgently whispers to him to play along. He does.

This is a good start, and takes up the first section of the book. The problem for Mr Jenkins is then to spin out the story for a lot more pages, and unfortunately he does it by making Patricia act in a ridiculous and tiresome way – her chance-met young soldier is obviously the man for her, but that’s not going to fill the book. So Patricia has to have weird qualms, and be incredibly rude and hurtful to many people who are very nice to her. I could have strangled her by the end. So I fear I am too hard-hearted for this book, but it was a cheerful quick read, and had some nice details about life at the end of WW1 in London – a detailed description of an air raid for example. One resident of the boarding-house puts down their escaping from the bomb to the prayers of her uncle the bishop, but another character is:

frankly sceptical. If the august prelate was out to save Galvin House, he suggested, it wasn't quite cricket to let them drop a bomb in the next street.
A very proper response.

The picture above is a 1917 fashion plate from the NY Public Library – I was going to just show the left-hand outfit, but it seemed a shame to lose the others (and particularly the hat on the right). If I hadn’t already used the picture for another entry I might have put Patricia in this excellent outfit:





--though it’s probably too racy. Later on Patricia goes on holiday, and makes this mysterious remark to a woman friend:

‘One thing I won't do, that is wear openwork frocks. The sun shall not print cheap insertion kisses upon Patricia Brent.’
That will make a valuable addition to my list of completely incomprehensible sentences.

Or will it?  In Little Lies by Liane Moriarty, on the blog a while back, there is this: ‘the woman’s dress had an intricately embroidered cutout pattern of flowers all along the neckline. Jane could see tanned freckly skin through the petals.’ Were these cheap insertion kisses?
 
*****ADDED LATER: Clothes in Books readers are, as often demonstrated, very knowledgeable, and if you scroll down to the comments below you can read their valuable input, as they explain and look at the phenomenon of insertion kisses. Don't miss it. ******

Leaves and Pages also looked at this book, and had a similar reaction to mine (even choosing the same passage to quote…), while Simon at Stuck in a Book was very enthusiastic about it.


Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Golden Pavements by Pamela Brown

published 1947






[The Blue Door group has just saved the day in a college theatre production, and now they are going dancing]

Their friends plied them with lemonade, ices and strawberries, and they soon felt restored enough to go over to the Academy wardrobe and remove their Edwardian finery.

In the square the radiogram was playing dance tunes, and, soft-footed on the grass, the students danced. Most of the celebrities had departed, and the fairy lights were lit as dusk fell. All the windows in the square were alight, and dark figures leaned out, watching the dancers. The Blue Doors were the heroes of the hour, and were danced off their feet, until the square and the plane trees and the tall grey houses reeled round them, and the evening breeze blew through their hair.

At last the radiogram played Goodnight, Sweetheart. The fairy lights were extinguished, and it was time to wander home through the darkening streets, tired, yet unwilling to end a golden day.





observations: This is the sequel to the glorious Swish of the Curtain, and is in some ways better, though it will never win hearts the way the schoolchildren-putting-on-a-play plot does. Here the young people of the Blue Door Theatre Company have gone to a RADA-esque drama school in London, and the book follows them through their training: they live in digs & have no money, the girls borrow each other’s stockings (stocking theme week! See Sunday's Guardian entry), they all eat cheap food. It’s a lovely picture of life for a starving student in the late 1940s, and the description of the outdoor dance above struck me as being beautifully done, amid the rather slapdash prose. Of course Brown couldn’t resist the dramatic setup to this – their play wasn’t selected for the Public Show, but at the last minute the original winners got food poisoning, so the Blue Doors had to go on and do Importance of Being Earnest (scenes from) at a moment’s notice. A classic plot turn for this writer.

There are plenty of enjoyable details – I complained of the lack of these in the comparable Lark on the Wing by Elfrida Vipont. Golden Pavements is much less high-minded and more convincing.

I’m always interested in the rise of trouser-wearing by women, and in this book the two young teenage women ‘bought their first pairs of slacks’ to go on a theatrical tour, and face some teasing. Working as Assistant Stage Managers one summer, they wear trousers all the time, and notice as they go back to college that they are dressing ‘more soberly than they had for weeks. “Don’t skirts seem funny after slacks.”’ [It is while in seaside rep that there is a performance of The Constant Nymph - see the relevant entry from this book here, and from the actual Margaret Kennedy Constant Nymph here.]

When a younger sister starts as a student a year or two later, she gets red slacks as part of her going-away outfit, and ends up living ‘in a pair of shabby corduroys, sandals that were always coming to pieces... and shapeless jumpers that came down almost to her knees.’

The dancing students are from the Library of Congress. The second picture is a social sciences student at LSE from the right era, but I thought she looked just like Lynette studying a script in their poky digs.

Monday, 20 October 2014

1000th entry: A Game of Hide and Seek by Elizabeth Taylor

published 1951

Section set in the mid-1920s









[A group of children and young people are out buying shoes]


All three of them were united in their praise of Vesey’s choice and as the shoes were only eighteen and elevenpence there would be two shillings left which Vesey said he could quite justifiably spend on ice-cream. Harriet admired the way in which he took his time, discussed his plans, and had shoes lying about all over the floor. The assistant, who had begun with tan Oxfords, now withdrew from the discussion, wearing the look of aloof distaste Vesey had grown so used to seeing on the faces of schoolmasters.

[Later, back at the house]

‘Vesey bought some nice shoes,’ Harriet interposed.

‘Yes, we must look at them after tea.’

‘They are grey,’ Deirdre said.

[Vesey's aunt] Caroline frowned. ‘How do you mean – grey?’

‘They are grey suede,’ Vesey said quietly. He looked down sideways at the tablecloth, leaning back in his chair as if fatigued.

‘Grey suede,’ said Caroline.


‘Yes.’

A little silence fell; or rather, was drawn down. Caroline picked up her cup and drank tea steadily. Her cheekbones were scarlet.

‘Aren’t grey shoes nice?’ Joseph asked. Caroline smiled as she replaced the cup very quietly in its saucer.

‘Nice?’ she repeated in her amused, indulgent voice. ‘I don’t think “nice” or “nasty” enter into it.’



observations: This is certainly the funniest description of shoe-buying I have ever read – the excruciating snobbery and fear of vulgarity (or gayness?) is wonderful – ‘grey suede shoes! What will his mother think?’ Caroline says later. Poor Vesey, doomed forever to rebel in the wrong way. He can’t seem either to conform, or be dashing when he doesn’t. 


As I find to my surprise that I am up to my 1000th entry on this blog, the extract is perfect for several reasons. It is a great book, one I only heard of through blogging, and shows exactly why I like to record clothes (and, of course, accessories) in books - explaining character & social aspirations, and making us laugh, via how people look and what they wear and choose, and how we can or cannot imagine doing the same.

The book is quite fragmentary – the first section has Harriet and Vesey as teenagers visiting and staying in the same house in the country, making clumsy attempts to form a relationship. Vesey isn’t particularly nice to Harriet, and she seems doomed to hopeless passion. Her mother and his aunt are great friends, both were suffragettes years before – they reminded me of Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End, recently much on the blog, and Valentine Wannop grown up. 

After a hilarious section where she works in a gown shop (nicer than a dress shop), Harriet meets Charles, a kind, older man with a hilariously awful mother, Julia (the explanation for why she wants a male doctor: "‘A man is half the battle,’ she added mysteriously.")

They marry.

The next section is around 20 years later – some time after WW2, when Harriet is the mother of a teenage girl, living a satisfactory suburban life. Vesey turns up again – a not-particularly-successful actor. And now the book seems to combine the best bits of Barbara Pym, Elizabeth Bowen and Madame Bovary, as the pair realize what they should have known long ago: they love each other. Harriet does not want to hurt her husband, or desert her daughter. There seems no way out. 

The #bookadayuk meme on Twitter is a great way to hear about other people’s favourite books, and this recommendation came from Ali Hope Book Addict: she reviewed the book on her blog a while back – one of the nice things about the meme is that it doesn’t have to be this week’s book or blogpost, you get to hear about old favourites and past reviews. I had read a couple of other books by Taylor, but I am going to agree with Ali that this is the best one so far, and I am endlessly grateful to her for pointing it out.

FYI, in case anyone isn't sure, this is  not Elizabeth Taylor the filmstar, who has popped up on the blog a few times as an actress.

A Game of Hide and Seek is an absolute masterpiece, a really stunning piece of writing. There will  be another entry on this book.

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Dress Down Sunday: Guardian Books Blog & Stockings in Books







Today’s post appears on the Guardian books blog and is about stockings, nylons and tights in literature – and my theory that the coming of nylon took out legwear as a class marker. The lovely Samantha Ellis - who is much admired on this blog for her book How to be a Heroine - described the piece as combining
 'impeccable research & epic frivolity', which is about the nicest compliment I could have. 

The article is here at the Guardian.

This is part of it:



In his final Narnia book, The Last Battle, published in 1956, CS Lewis betrayed every teenage girl with the line: “Oh Susan! She’s interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations.” With those words, Susan was gone, a lost cause, condemned by her legwear.

This month marks the 75th anniversary of the first limited production by DuPont of nylon stockings, and though Lewis has his fuddy duddy disdain for them, I’m going to claim a bigger and better significance. Nylons (and later tights) meant the democratisation of women’s legs. Until they became widely available in the 1940s, there had always been a sharp division between silk stockings and cheaper, more hard-wearing ones, made from cotton and lisle (respectable) or fake silk (dubious).





In Ulysses (set in 1904, published 1922), either James Joyce or Leopold Bloom has a lot to say: there’s Gertie and her stockings, Zoe and her garters, the display of “rays of flat silk stockings” in the department store and Molly Bloom’s “silkette stockings”. This was a silk-effect material, which AA Milne noted as inferior in his 1922 crime story The Red House Mystery, when a shopping trip to buy silk stockings for his sister throws the jovial narrator into a fret: “Could I be sure I was getting silk and not silkette … ?”

In her memoir The Laughing Torso, Nina Hamnett has brightly coloured stockings in pre-first-world-war Paris, and some with chessboard squares. But she tells us that Gertrude Stein wears grey woollen stockings (she was a bohemian, you see). And Hamnett herself lamented to a market seller that she couldn’t afford silk. He said it would be “an investment”, and she was “flattered that he mistook me for a lady of loose morals”.

“Art silk” stockings are much mentioned in books of the era, and I can’t be the only reader who initially thought they were particularly fancy ones – perhaps with a nice design on them. But actually it was short for “artificial silk”…

READ ON AT THE GUARDIAN BOOKS BLOG



Naturally Agatha Christie features in the piece – she’s always my go-to author for sociological distinctions – in particular the stockings in this entry on The Moving Finger. Also there’s blog favourite Noel Streatfeild, and Viv Albertine coming right up to date.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

My Friend the Swallow by Jane Duncan

published 1970








[Percy is a young woman staying with narrator Janet and her husband Twice on the Caribbean island where they live]

On the morning of the regatta, Percy came down in navy slacks, white shirt and navy canvas shoes, her pony tail tied back with a fluttering bow of navy blue ribbon.

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ Twice said to me on the veranda steps.

‘Very pretty,’ I agreed and added: ‘That hair ribbon is what Monica would call a Suivez-moi-jeune-homme and some young man is going to obey it one of these days.’…

He and Percy watched the sailing from the Peak Cliff in the grounds of the hotel, but the sailing was a secondary consideration for the regatta… was first of all a break in the routine, an opportunity to talk to people… Percy herself resembled a butterfly, swooping and loitering over a flowerbed, as she moved from one group of people to the next.



observations: This marathon series of books is lumbering towards a conclusion: I read them as a teenager and have been re-reading them all over the past 15 months. They drive me mad, but I also enjoy them greatly – though now I can’t imagine what I saw in them as a young person, they seem designed much more to appeal to someone of my current age.

The last one – The Hungry Generation – was a weaker entry and marked time somewhat. This one I remember very well from first time around, because something very dramatic happens in it, and the final pages of the book are startling (even on a second read). Given a storyline where a beautiful young woman has made friends with an older, childless couple, there are many directions in which the plot might predictably go. And as the book bumbles along with the usual picture of life on the island of St Jago, Twice and Janet benignly watching the goings-on of the young people, you do wonder what will happen. There is some love and romance and every so often a fill-in of someone’s backstory. But the final pages I found unexpectedly moving and unsentimental, with a haunting note of unvarnished truth about them.

Percy herself - you only find out late in the book why she has such an odd name, what it’s short for, (though you can guess) and it has been carefully planned - is an excellent character, very far from the stock figures Duncan sometimes creates. She reminds me of the figure of Northey in Nancy Mitford’s Don’t Tell Alfred.

It’s a great shame that no-one else seems to read Jane Duncan any more – she was a huge bestseller in her day. I would love to find someone else who had read the series recently, so I could discuss the books, but no-one seems to…. Click on the label below to read about the rest of the series.

The picture, from the Library of Congress, shows the crowd watching a regatta off Hains Point, which is in Washington DC.