I would never have picked up this book for its cover, or for its inside-the-flap description, for that matter. But a friend spoke well of the author and, thankfully, I trusted that recommendation more than the book jacket.
The story is lovely, descriptive without ever gushing, romantic without ever being a romance, simple without ever being trite. It’s not any more complicated than real life is: real family, real friends, real worries, real joy.
I’m a pushover for any writer who seems to understand the intense pangs of parenting. Pilcher gave me this almost right off, when Alec stopped in to say goodnight to Gabriel: “At ten she was neither as pretty as she had been or as beautiful as she would become, but to Alec she seemed so precious, so vulnerable, that his heart turned over at the thought of what might lie ahead for her.”
Pilcher is wisely restrained about most of the details that date a story quickly, prices, for example, or brands. But her occasional descriptions of clothing did remind me that I wasn’t in the 21st century. “He wore a maroon gabardine jacket, brass buttoned, smoothly tailored; a pale blue polo-necked sweater; and a pair of maroon and pale blue plaid slacks.” I actually sat for a minute, trying to picture the wonder of that outfit.
Eve is delightful, from her love of pretty dinner tables to her take on being close to 60. She savors the “really marvelous moments that still came one’s way. They weren’t happiness, exactly. Years ago, happiness had ceased to pounce, unawares, with the reasonless ecstasy of youth. They were something better. Eve had never much liked being pounced on, by happiness or anything else.”
Her husband, Gerald, “never pottered. Some husbands Eve knew pottered the day away, always apparently on the go, but never actually achieving anything. Gerald was always either intensely busy or intensely idle.”
Pilcher gives all the right details to make a moment precisely believable. When Ivan and Laura came back from a swim, “he emptied the haversack and took the damp swimming things and slung them over the washing line, where they hung, sandy and unpegged, in the gathering mist.” Of course he did. That’s exactly how he would have done it.
Here’s a measure of how good the writing is: Even though the story arc is so gently sloped, I cared deeply. I cared about their ordinary lives and ordinary problems and ordinary moments of joy. Reading this book was like sitting on the patio at Tremenheere, having tea and ginger biscuits with Eve and Laura. A perfect way to spend an afternoon.