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202 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1971
I ought to tell you at the beginning that I am not quite normal, having had a violent experience at the age of nine. I will make this clear at once because I have noticed that if things seep out slowly through a book the reader is apt to feel let down or tricked in some way when he eventually gets the point.What a marvelous opening! Jessica Vye is only twelve or thirteen while she is writing, but it is clear that she has read enough books to have formed firm ideas about how to construct one. This, Jane Gardam's first novel (published in 1971), is pretty clearly a fictionalized memoir about growing up as a writer. She hardly needs the confirmation of a visiting author giving a talk at her school, who sends back the pages she has pressed upon him with the note: "Jessica Vye, you are a writer beyond all possible doubt!" It is clear (to us if not always to her) in just about every sentence she writes, and in her precociously knowing voice. Listen:
It takes them ages to get on and do anything. There is a lot of Danish blood on this part of the coast my father says, and the Danes tend to stand about rather. After all, look at Hamlet.Jessica grows up as a curate's daughter in a seedy seaside resort on the Yorkshire coast during the Second World War—a background that speaks especially to me since, though a decade younger, I also grew up in a similar household in a similar northern resort in the same war. Her father is a late recruit to the clergy, but already established as a left-wing writer; one of the pleasures of the novel is watching Jessica slowly discover how respected her father is. She commutes by train to the local school, for girls only, where she feels she is disliked by most of the pupils and suspected by many of the teachers of getting above herself. But a lot of this is her own insecurity and her budding writer's feeling that she knows what everyone is thinking, whether they actually are or not. And we do feel for her; one scene where she arrives at a sleepover party having brought the wrong clothes is excruciatingly familiar. Yet there are a few exceptions, sensible adults who really understand her; when we meet them, they warm the heart.