When I find myself in times of trouble, my remedy is slightly different than The Beatles’. I inevitably reach for a book and, more often than not when things are too dark or stressful or scary, that book is the delightful Little G by E.M. Channon. In the not-quite seven years I have owned a copy, I have read it at least five times and – no surprise – it was one of the first books I read during the lockdown of spring 2020. It is no less comforting this spring, with the dual motivation of reading it for the 1936 Club and to provide comfort amidst the dire Covid third wave we are experiencing here.
John Furnival is a pre-maturely stuffy, antisocial Cambridge mathematician who is ordered by his doctor on a long country stay to recover his health, which, his doctor chides him, has suffered due to:
Too much to eat: too much port and too much tea: too much work for your head, and not enough for your body.
Because the world of 1930s academia is forgiving of the need to do work – especially by dons with private incomes – Furnival is soon installed in a cottage in the village of Challingley. The village, from the doctor’s perspective, is ideal. It’s hilly enough to force Furnival to discomfort on his walks, quiet but full of sociable neighbours, and the cottage offers a large garden to rest or putter in. Furnival is less convinced, disgusted by his new neighbours’ obsessions with their gardens, tennis parties, and, most horrifyingly of all, the pretty young widow at the center of the village’s social life. But he is firmly drawn into the social whirl and realises – slowly and to his horror – what an unattractive foil he serves against this healthy, vigorous set. Surely he – once a champion rower and tennis player – isn’t the sweaty old man set next to the village’s quick vicar or dashing doctor? And at only thirty-seven!
While adult society may terrify or bore him in equal measure, Furnival finds himself much more at home with the cottage’s cat – the only creature he was immediately delighted to encounter in his new surroundings – and his next-door neighbours, three children living with their terrifying Aunt Agatha. Rather to his surprise, the children are pleasant companions and it isn’t long before the three are slipping from their yard to his, eager for his stories and spoiling. Furnival, for the first time in years, is giving thought and attention to something other than his equations (though his versions of children’s stories are very physics-focused). But there is yet another resident next door, the children’s aunt Grace, who is that most terrifying of things – a young woman. Thankfully she is not so terrifying as most of her species, being rather small and quiet, but also very capable and quick-witted and rather pretty…
Over the course of his time in the village, Furnival is forced out of his almost monastic mindset and learns once again how to be human. He relearns how to care for others and to take care of himself and questions his long-held and unquestioned visions of a solitary, scholarly future.
This sounds very sweet, which it is, but Channon is a clever, funny writer and it’s that spark of humour that makes this book so memorable. She is more than happy to skewer Furnival, but always affectionately, and the neighbours who most concern him (the female ones) aren’t nearly as one dimensional as his initial imaginings of them. That’s not to stay this is a novel of great characterization and depth – it decidedly is not – but it’s far better than the sentimental drivel it could have been in another writer’s hands and I love it desperately. The only sad thing about it is how difficult it is now to find copies. It was reissued by Greyladies Books in 2012 but it’s almost impossible to find second-hand copies. I’m not surprised – I certainly wouldn’t give mine up!
The greatest pleasure of feeling a bit under the weather is picking reading material to match your frail state. No weighty tomes or complex sentence structure here please! Just straightforward storytelling that will capture an invalid’s attention without wearing them out.
Let’s start in 1948 with the instantly forgettable Pirouette by Susan Scarlett. Scarlett was the pen name under which Noel Streatfeild wrote a dozen light and extraordinary gentle romances. They are all formulaic and trite but generally enjoyable. Unfortunately, this one was just trite and formulaic. It’s the story of Judith Nell, a young ballerina (and young means very young – only 18), who has just been offered a big professional break. At the same time, her boyfriend accepts a job in Rhodesia and asks her to marry and go with him. In the background are discontented ballerinas – one of whom is more than happy to go out dancing and drinking (and who knows what else’ing) with Paul while Judith struggles with her decision – and young men who see no future in England, only in Africa. As we know, that’s not going to end at all well for anyone. There are class struggles, career struggles, and familial struggles and yet it all manages to be quite dull. The only good thing about it is the portrait of Judith’s family and how all its members struggle because of Mrs Nell’s stage mother ways. It’s a bit overwrought but essentially good, especially the conspiracies that spring up between the other members of the family as they try to out manoeuvre Mrs Nell.
And in the entirely satisfactory category of “frothy and forgettable but enjoyable” we have Every Frenchman Has One by Olivia de Havilland. First published in 1961 and 
On Friday afternoon, I returned home after work to that most delightful of things: a package of books. A few weeks ago, I shamelessly begged Shirley at 
The Captive Reader 