Well, here I am, in one of the wildest, most beautiful places on earth, listening to the waves of the Atlantic crash and bang about shore, sobbing, inside a beautiful rental, from the ending of another Rosamunde Pilcher novel.
I can’t believe the old girl isn’t with us anymore. Ms. Pilcher, that is. It seems altogether wrong. I’ve only “known” her for less than a year, but I feel downright companionable with her, like we’ve been friends forever now.
I find it funny that they once billed her as a “romance writer.” Romance? Hardly. No heaving bosoms or sordid embraces in these stories. In fact, any romantic entanglements that ever occur are ones that my prudish, dear grandmother would have approved of, and we spend a lot more time talking about food, whisky, and Scottish tweeds than we do about physical intimacy.
But perhaps it was Ms. Pilcher’s sensibilities that were romantic, rather than her characters?
In the blurb on the back of my hardcover, published in 1990, the publisher suggests that this novel is the “kind of old-fashioned read hardly anyone knows how to write anymore.”
That’s for sure.
In a certain way, the author’s work reminds me a bit of Ernest Hemingway’s, which is a somewhat odd comparison for me to make, as I’m not a great fan of Hemingway’s work. These two authors shared a similar eye for detail, though, particularly when it came to descriptions of meals and natural settings. There’s always a bit of A MOVEABLE FEAST in Ms. Pilcher’s offerings.
And, for the first time, I feel compelled to compare one of her novels with one of William Trevor's. If you’ve ever read Trevor’s THE CHILDREN OF DYNMOUTH (and, oh, I hope you have), you might delight in the very creepy Lottie Carstairs (Dottie Lottie), who may remind you a bit of Trevor’s creepy creation, Timothy Gedge.
If you liked Pilcher’s THE SHELL SEEKERS, you simply must read this novel. If you haven’t read THE SHELL SEEKERS, then you should read that one first, then read this one. We get to visit with Noel Keeling again (remember: Penelope Keeling’s vain, materialistic son?) and we get to meet a new group of characters, some of whom once knew Penelope.
I don’t know how Rosamunde Pilcher gets away with describing every make and model of everyone’s car in the driveway and every item on the menu without boring the living hell out of me, but somehow she does.
Of the four novels of hers I’ve read this year, this one is my new favorite. It has sharper edges and it’s far less picture perfect, and, oh yeah, it caused me to add some of my own salt to the sea.
“It’s always a good moment, isn’t it? Just before a party. Time to have a toes-up and listen to nostalgic tunes. Do you remember this one? It’s so pretty. . . Something about a long long time from May to December. But the days grow short when you reach September.”