At this stage in my reading career, how many types of wartime memoirs have I read? Serious and humorous, military and political, front lines and home front, Allies and Axis, I’ve made a pretty good survey of the Second World War but I’m not sure I’ve ever read one that managed life on the home front as lightheartedly as Spam Tomorrow by Verily Anderson.
Anderson was in her mid-twenties when the war began, single and working in the F.A.N.Y.s, though not very devotedly. When we meet her on the first page she is just about to go AWOL and get married, with no plan of returning. This, as we learn, doesn’t seem wildly out of character given the number of jobs she cycled through before the war. She has spent time as a “nursery-maid, a governess, a chaffeuse, a scene-shifter, a ballet-dancer’s dresser, and then I tried to emigrate to Canada […] as a mobile Sunday school teacher”. She also found time to illustrate wrappers for toffees while living in a studio flat with three bohemian friends. It is an incongruous and intriguing life for the daughter of a country parson but a good indicator of the adventurous and indomitable spirit that makes her so interesting to read about.
Anderson hadn’t enjoyed her time in the F.A.N.Y.s but she had found some peace there. When she takes the time to analyse her reasons it with her usual humour and self-knowledge:
Walking home to the rectory, I tried to analyse my reasons for wanting to go back. My heart had never been in the F.A.N.Y.s until Dunkirk. The community life did not suit me. Discipline did not appeal. I was not a good F.A.N.Y., either technically or socially. Could it be patriotism? Knowing myself, I felt there must be some more selfish motive behind it. Then I remembered telling Lucy I should feel safer right in the war.
That was it. Anything might happen now, not only to my brothers and friends in the navy, the army, the air force, but to my parents, to Rhalou [a sister] with her little family, and to Lorema [another sister] still at school. In the F.A.N.Y.s I should be safe from the impact. Somebody else does your thinking for you in the army, and even your feeling. And if I were killed, well, in the F.A.N.Y.s life was that much less interesting to want to cling on to.
Even though the F.A.N.Y. portion of her life is over with quickly, I did love hearing about it. Her sketch of her commanding officer delighted me and seems like something from a Joyce Grenfell sketch:
We were commanded by a bubbly-haired old actress who, as the niece of a senior army officer, took her position very seriously. In her talk she mingled a certain amount of army jargon, picked up at her uncle’s breakfast table, with the normal chatter we understood of hats and actors and horses. Sometimes, judging by her modes of addressing us, she saw us as Mayfair Debutantes and sometimes as Men Going Over The Top.
Once Anderson dashes away from the F.A.N.Y.s to marry Donald Anderson, who is much older than her and whom she has been in love with for several years to the disapproval of her family, the focus becomes exceedingly domestic. But for once in a wartime memoir we do not have to hear ad nauseum about the prices of things or about ingenious cooking on the ration (I’ve taken about as much of that as I can handle). What we do hear a lot about is housing and, thankfully, I find that endlessly entertaining. The Andersons bounce around frequently through the short war years, setting up homes in London, in the suburbs, and in the country. As housing shortages and stretched finances make shared living both practical and necessary, Anderson takes on a variety of housemates and eventually latches on the brilliant plan of letting rooms to holidaymakers. This turns out to be not so brilliant for someone with no hospitality training but is very funny.
During the war years Anderson had her first two children (she would eventually have five in total) and of all the domestic details I’ve read in diaries and memoirs I’m fairly certain I’ve never come across so many pages devoted to life in a maternity hospital. The birth of Anderson’s first child was rather dramatic so she spent plenty of time at the hospital and I was fascinated by the details of it.
With her ever-changing accommodations, Anderson spends a fair amount of time bouncing around to friends and family as well. Any time her mother appeared I was delighted as she seems a redoubtable sort of woman, equal to anything put before her (whether it be reconciling herself to her daughter’s elopement or living under the German flightpath to London):
My mother was very sceptical about the German raiders getting across the Channel at all.
‘Once,’ she said, ‘one got across and dropped some tiny little bombs on Eastbourne and then landed and gave himself up. He was hardly out of the sixth form.’
There was a fifteen-mile-from-the-coast ban on non-residents and my mother was determined to keep all the secrets behind it.
‘Then what’s that whacking great crater down in the field over there?’ I asked.
‘One of ours,’ she assured me. ‘They dropped it by mistake on their way out.’
‘Just as uncomfortable all the same to be hit by it.’
‘Anyways that was ages ago. They’re much more practised now.’
As she spoke there was an enormous explosion on the marshes.
‘Marsh gas, I suppose?’ I teased her.
It’s a thoroughly enjoyable book, sure to make you smile and even giggle throughout – a rare enough thing for a wartime memoir.
But what delighted me most was discovering facts about the rest of Anderson’s life. I was tickled to learn that her fourth child is Janie Hampton, author of How the Girl Guides Won the War, a book I read and loved years ago. But most impressive of all for me was the discovery that Anderson’s father had been the clergyman at All Saints’ Herstmonceux in East Sussex. The last book Anderson wrote was about Herstmonceux Castle, including her memories of playing on the grounds through the 1920s and 1930s. The castle is now owned by Queen’s University, the Canadian school where I studied, and serves as its international study centre. I spent a term studying there in 2007 and it was the happiest part of my university years. It’s a small, small world.
The Castle
Read Full Post »
It takes very little for a book to entertain me on a lazy Sunday afternoon. All I ask for is a bit of romantic intrigue, a dash of humour, and ideally a Scottish setting. Susan Settles Down by Molly Clavering fit the bill perfectly.
More recently, I picked up the sequel, Touch Not the Nettle, eager to be reunited with Susan. A few years have passed since the end of the last book (this was published in 1939, while Susan Settles Down came out in 1936) and the married couples are all as happy as we left them. Susan (now in her mid-thirties? I’m struggling to remember ages from the first book but I feel like this was mentioned, though she is referred to by another character as a “young woman” here) wishes silently for a child, admiring her growing nephew, but thankfully this is not a book about that. Instead, the central character is a visiting cousin by marriage, Amanda Cochrane.
When Dean Street Press reprinted eight of Molly Clavering’s books earlier this year, I was so overwhelmed with excitement that I barely knew where to start. My only experience with Clavering had been Near Neighbours, reissued by Greyladies a few years ago, and I’d enjoyed it enough to want more. Overwhelmed by choice, I chose Dear Hugo for my reintroduction to Clavering. When, after all, have I ever been able to resist an epistolary novel?
10. 
7. Lassoing the Sun (2016) – Mark Woods
4.
1. 
The Captive Reader 