Elizabeth Jane Howard. She is just the best. So funny, astute, the perfect brave authorial goddess over the realms of her creation, by which I mean how effortlessly she pulls off her surprises, her unminced words and unexpected observations. One character is a father who consciously dislikes his daughter and whose feelings for her disturb him. A parent who unconsciously dislikes his offspring seems fairly commonplace, but I thought this character was both convincing and sympathetic. There are some other horrid men is this story and women who, by inexperience or credulity or need to keep up appearances, are their victims. I kept imploring them to run or get the meat cleaver. But EJH works it out.
Here’s a scene of a party with the in-laws to a misbegotten marriage:
« So here [Alice] was, in the Mounts’ spare room having a rest so that she would be all right for their party that evening. …. Alice had never been good at parties (in fact she’d been to very few), but the Mounts’ parties were the worst she’d ever tried to be good at. Everybody seemed to know everybody else extremely well: there was a great deal of public badinage, and when—as experience had awfully taught her it invariably was—this was directed at her, she was struck dumb, paralysed, utterly done for. There were always too many people for the room: the large dining room table loaded with food took up a good third of it. It was also very hot, as Mrs Mount imported fires and put them all over the place so that the room was alive with scorching culs-de-sac and perfectly airless. None the less, Mounts and Mount guests managed to eat and drink and think of things to say to one another for hours and hours, and Alice, as a quasi-Mount, was in agony. Sometimes, late in the evening, they played terrible games that drew attention to people and, she felt, particularly to her: ‘games’ being a kind of cynical synonym for torture. The worst feature of these social nightmares was the feeling that everybody was enjoying themselves except her. It seemed so unfair: like being colour blind or tone deaf or not being able to smell or something. ‘Relax!’ people would cry; ‘not to worry!’ ‘She’s shy,’ someone would inevitably, but publicly, confide—as though she was, not tone, but stone, deaf. »
I love how this passage starts out as neutral third person, shifts more closely into Alice’s point of view (It seemed so unfair!), and how my reader’s attitude shifts from sympathy to feeling that poor Alice needs to buck up, to recognition of just how patronizing people can be…. And then there’s that slam dunk of a last line: ‘…not tone, but stone, deaf!’ All those wonderful, rhythmic commas! Just brilliant. I’m not much for parties myself.
The podcast Backlisted has a recent episode discussing Something In Disguise. It’s good fun. Elizabeth Jane may not be Dostoevsky but neither is she chick-lit. It’s a shame she is not more widely read and enjoyed by readers of both camps.