Rumer Godden – derrickjknight

The Peacock Spring

A welcome visit from Shelly and Ron, to collect the platinum anniversary photographs, broke the monotony of a morning spent on too-long-deferred paperwork. We enjoyed the usual ensuing conversation, naturally involving a certain amount of reminiscing.

Afterwards, beset by the raging gale-force winds, I visited the postbox.

Despite Jackie’s distressed efforts to bring the hanging baskets and raised pots to protective ground level

some were repeatedly blown over and their contents broken.

We haven’t dared approach the rose garden.

In 1975 I bought a first edition of Rumer Godden’s ‘The Peacock Spring’. In 1996 the novel was filmed for television. Directed by Christopher Morahan and starring Peter Egan, Nareen Andrews, Hattie Morahan, Ravi Kapoor, with Madhur Jaffrey, this production was well received. It still took me until this year to read the book. I finished it today.

Set in 1959, a slow fuse burns with ever-increasing tension, until the explosive finale of the tale of a tragic relationship. The author’s trademark poetic description and insightful characterisation enables her to build an enthralling story of a flawed family and the conflict of cultural mores. I will not give away details, but can say that the picture to the left here shows the father with his two English daughters who have been brought to India to provide a veneer of respect to his relationship with the woman portrayed.

MacMillan’s publications comes in a striking book jacket designed by David Baxter.

It is not unusual for me to take forty years to read a book in my possession. As with this one, I sometimes wonder why it took me so long.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s sublime cottage pie, crisp orange carrots and green cabbage. I drank more of the Cuvée St Jainé and Jackie enjoyed Blanche de Namur, a different Belgian wheat beer. The filmy quality of the above photograph comes from the wisps of steam rising from the dish, possibly encouraged by the layer of smoked cheddar cheese over the mashed potato topping.

Slightly Better Than Expected

The Canonical Hours are the seven prayer times in the day developed by the Roman Catholic Church. Ritualised offices are said, at three hourly intervals, in private or in groups. In her novel ‘China Court’, which I finished reading today, Rumer Godden has chosen to give each of her seven chapters a name of one of these hours.

Mediaeval books of hours offered hand-written and -illustrated devotional works. They are the most common manuscript works of the period. Each of Godden’s chapters is headed by quotations from two of these.

James Joyce spans just twenty four hours in his rather more lengthy ‘Ulysses’, but Rumer Godden’s tale, a saga of four generations of occupants of ‘China Court’, covers a much greater time span. So why has she chosen to present her work in this way? That, I cannot tell you, for it would reveal too much. It is well worth reading the book to find out.

There is, of course, much more to relish in the novel. Slipping seamlessly backwards and forwards through the years, we learn about those who have lived in ‘China Court’. Opening with the death of a key figure, holding all the tapestry together, it is the story of the house, but far more, of those who have lived in it. We are treated to the author’s trademark beautiful, descriptive, writing and her insightful characterisation. An example, which fits with the time theme, is how seasonable changes in the garden are detailed. Close attention has to be paid to the narrative, for so seamless are her time switches that they are unannounced, so you suddenly find yourself transplanted into the lives of other generations. If, like me, you read in bed, it is not advisable to tackle this one when you are sleepy.

Despite rain falling steadily all morning, Shelley and Ron persevered with their planned barbecue. By mid-afternoon the rain had cleared and the event continued, to be enjoyed by Jackie and me and most of the usual guests. Convivial conversation ensued. The delicious fare was similar to that provided on 9th. I drank Doom Bar and Jackie drank Carlsberg.

Traditionally, English Bank Holiday events are ruined by rain. This one wasn’t, as the weather was slightly better than expected.

Hedge Cutting

It was an exchange with Cynthia Guenther Richardson, herself a talented story-writer in Tales for Life, that alerted me to the fact that I had unread novels of Rumer Godden in my bookshelves. Cynthia’s enthusiasm led me to begin reading ‘A Candle For St. Jude’, yesterday, and finish it this morning. Like Tales for Life this book keeps the reader eager to learn the denouement. The work is full of beautifully described detail and insightful characterisation. I will not reveal the plot, but can say that all senses and emotions are carefully evoked. I mentioned the setting yesterday, and will add that the writer’s intimate knowledge of a dancing school clearly comes from her own training as a dancer, and subsequent running of her own such establishment.

Paul and Mike from Double Glazing Doctor replaced the hinges in five of our Everest windows and repaired the leak in the Velux kitchen window, and this afternoon our new Samsung television was installed.

A new visitor to our garden was, I think, a Speckled Wood butterfly.

I wandered down to Roger’s gate and back, in time to witness hedge cutting in Downton Lane.

This presented some interesting traffic problems.

Early this evening Becky, Ian, and Scooby arrived for their holiday with us. We all dined at The Red Lion in Milford. My choice of meal was a meaty Mexican chilli burger, served with crisp salad and chips. Jackie couldn’t eat all her hunter’s chicken, so I enjoyed some of that as well. My drink was Ringwood’s best bitter.