Spring indeed Begins

If you read here at all you will know that I take great pride in the fact that both my grandmother (Ganna) and her sister (Rhona) had novels published, first in the 30s and then, after the war, in the 50s. I have written about them before here and here.

The British Library have marvelous initiative where they are republishing novels by "forgotten" women writers. To be republished the novels have to illuminate women's lives at the time they were written, and have at least one female protagonist.  There are all sorts of wonderful names that I remember from my early days working in the library, and from my grandmother's shelves: writers like Norah Lofts and Elizabeth Von Arnim. It is a "curated collection of novels and anthologies by female authors who enjoyed broad, popular appeal in their day". I am thrilled to say that my great Aunt Rhona, Ganna's younger sister, has joined this throng of voices. In April I received a package of 6 paperback volumes of The Spring Begins, which was republished that month. The three main female characters are all, in some way, moving towards their own sexual experiences, but from very different perspectives. It is the novel about which Rhona's rather staid Methodist Aunt said "Rhona is very clever, but I hope her next book will be different." I'm not sure she felt that awakening sexuality was a "nice" subject for her niece to be writing about! 

I have here to give a shout out to the rather wonderful Simon Thomas, keeper of the equally wonderful blog StuckinaBook (and what better place to find oneself stuck?) who has been the chief mover and shaker in getting Rhona's book republished. He declared it his "favourite read of this year", having come across its virtues being extolled on Furrowed Middlebrow's also rather wonderful blog. Without Simon and Scott's enthusiasm The Spring Begins might never have seen the light of day again. Thank you both gentlemen for your praise of my Great Aunt's book, it has given me untold pleasure.

I drafted a "pen portrait" of Rhona for the British Library to draw on for the very brief bio on the novel itself. I include it here for any curious readers who might want to know more about who Rhona was.

Rhona Catherine Dunning, born in June 1900 in Arklow, County Wicklow, was the youngest of three daughters of Howard Colman Rowe and his wife Alice (nee Atkins). Her father, a practicing pharmacist in the town, was politically active, a supporter of women’s rights and also a writer, having worked for Kier Hardie, writing articles for the Labour Leader newspaper when living in England. Alice was a very talented amateur painter and their daughters, Connie, Ethel and Rhona, lived quite a free life for girls of the time, roaming the town and countryside or wandering down to the beach, often accompanied by the family’s maid. Rhona was the most robust of the three girls, her sisters both being affected by brittle bone disease, inherited from their father. This may have given her more of a sense of her own strong physicality, which permeates her writing.

A charming child listening to the sea on the shores of Arklow

The family grew up Protestants in a Catholic country. My grandmother Ethel (Rhona’s sister, and  also a published author) remembered gangs of little boys chasing them down the Arklow roads shouting “proddy woddys”. Their maternal grandfather was a Methodist Minister, and in later life all three sisters became involved with, and devoted to Christian Science. It formed a significant element of their life as a family. Letters between the sisters, and my mother’s diaries all reflect a life lived with varying levels of spirituality. I think Rhona was considered the frivolous one by her sisters, which paints a picture of a fun person, but Christian Science certainly played some part in her life, as I recall copies of Science and Health in her daughter Cecil’s house when I cleared it after her death.

A portrait photograph of a sweet faced young woman

Howard died in 1914 of heart failure, aged just 44.  Losing their father affected all three girls deeply and is reflected in Rhona’s novel Whatever the Heart Appoints. The central character, a girl of eleven whose father has been absent as a prisoner of war, declares with great joy

“I have been without my father for years and years … tonight we are going to meet again and I shall know everything about him“

Alice tried for several years to keep the business afloat, but this wasn’t possible for a widowed woman in conservative Ireland. It was the time of the Troubles and, on finding a Sinn Feiner with a drawn gun hiding out in their home one night, Alice decided she and her girls needed to move to a safer place. A map of England was brought out and, with her eyes closed, Ethel, the middle sister, popped a pin into the map on St Leonards on Sea, Sussex. Somehow a property was located and they moved there in 1921, along with Alice’s sister Annie. The girls were then 25, 23 and 21. 

Looking rather exotic in her velvet dress in the garden

All the girls had to find some kind of employment as there was no money and Alice rented rooms out to “paying guests”. While her elder sisters were musical, Rhona found work as a secretary in a local garage, Dunning Marriott and Smith. Love soon blossomed between Rhona and Guy, the son of the garage owner. They married in 1923 and had one daughter, Rhona Cecil Grace, known always as Cecil, in 1925. Rhona and Guy had a slightly precarious existence, moving several times in Sussex and Hampshire, due to problems with Guy’s businesses, and money was often short. Rhona wrote novels and numerous short stories for women’s magazines under various pseudonyms – I recall Cecil saying that sometimes all the stories in a particular edition had been written by Rhona under different names. Her writing both supplemented the family income and provided her with an outlet for her creativity. She would write every morning for several hours, and then go for a walk on the seafront with Cecil in the afternoon to plot the next sections of the story. She was also very fond of imagining the lives of people around her when, for example, taking afternoon tea in a café. She and Cecil would speculate on who their fellow tea takers were and what their lives might be like. Rhona published five novels in all, from 1932 to 1952, one less than her sister Ethel, who was also publishing during the same time period. I would image there was some rivalry between the two. 

Rhona was a lively and flirtatious character, rather glamorous, deeply loved by and loving of her husband, enjoying company and outings in the family car, great fun and described by her niece as easy going with a sweet intense voice. My one clear memory of her is when, while staying with her and Cecil as a child, I found her standing in the bedroom wafting her arms and hands to and fro. Mystified, I asked what she was doing. “drying my nail varnish darling” was the reply, which speaks of her sense of glamour. 

With her beloved husband Guy

Guy died in 1964 and Rhona moved to live with her daughter Cecil in Henley on Thames, where Cecil was working as secretary for the Brunner family of Grey’s Court, and later custodian of the house when it was transferred to the National Trust. They lived in “the Keep” part of a group of associated buildings just behind the main house. 

in later years, chic as ever, with Cecil

Sadly, over time Rhona developed dementia as a result of a bang to her head, becoming increasingly confused. Eventually, after her mother wandered out to where Cecil was showing people round Grey's Court and invited everyone to tea, Cecil had to take the difficult decision to move her into a care home where she died in 1975. 

So that is my Great Aunt Rhona, novelist and warm and glamourous soul, now republished for a fresh generation of women. Cecil would have been immensely proud to know that one of "Mummy's" books had found its way into the world again. My mother, on the other hand, would have felt that her "Mummy's" books should also be republished: in fact, should have been republished first. That sisterly rivalry most certainly extended to their daughters!

I have, of course, passed one of Ganna's novels, For Flute and Piccolo, on to the relevant people to see if the British Library might consider republishing her story of women's lives and concerns. I give a brief outline of this here, if you would like to know more. You can image how over the moon I would be if they said "yes"!

One young woman's VE Day

Mum was just 19 when VE Day came in 1945. Here she is with her beloved dog Randy, posing in the fields near Nirvana I suspect, She looks almost a child still, with her white ankle socks and hesitant expression. I wonder if war had ended when this was taken. With her warm cardigan this could be early spring, with the war still alive or autumn and a time of peace.

She kept her journal all through the war, as she mentions here. I thought you might enjoy reading her words, and hearing about her feelings on this momentous day; a young woman of quiet life in a suburb of London. Here is what she wrote

8 May 1945

Tuesday

Today is V.E. day. Victory in Europe has come. Today and tomorrow are being held as a national holiday. I am sitting out in the garden at the top of the lawn in my grey skirt and greeny blue blouse, with little Randy lying at my feet, and the time is 4.10.at 3 o’clock we went into the drawing-room to listen to Mr Churchill announcing it over the wireless. Then there was a short service and then they took us all around England, firstly in London, Edinburgh, then Belfast, then to the docks at the Mersey, then to Coventry and Cardiff and Bath to hear eyewitness accounts of the celebrations that were taking place. The wireless is really wonderful in bringing you into touch with all the places. And indeed what a wonderful day this is. We know that it isn’t the end of the war. There is still Japan to be conquered, and when you think of all the misery that has been and is being suffered by our men over there you feel that this is a time of thanksgiving more than rejoicing, for no longer are we subject to air attacks, sirens, doodlebugs, rockets and the misery destruction and suffering that go hand-in-hand with them. German war has always been so much more real to us somehow though, that it is hard to feel that we’re not altogether at peace. I don’t think the crowds will be any more when final victory does come from the description over the wireless. There were masses of people outside Buckingham Palace, and at Whitehall where Mr Churchill in his car on his way to the House of Commons, after making his announcement to us, and [sic] stood up in his car (it was open) and waved his hat to the crowds. The commentators said that police on horseback tried to make their way in front of the crowds but could hardly do it, and at one point it looked as though the people would bodily lift the car, Churchill and all. There are flags hanging out all over Cheam too and loudspeakers going round. I know I have not made many comments in my journal about the war. No doubt I should have done, but somehow when you merely live from day to day and you are only 13 when it starts, and every night week in week out, and year in year out the news bulletins are put on, and you hear of advances here or there and such and such a place captured (which owing to bad geography conveys very little to you) you don’t really take a terribly vital interest in it. You endure the bombs and rockets, and after the first two or three days they become part of life. No doubt if I had been older when it started I would have been more awake to what was going on. The whole of my precious journal has been written during war, and when I look back to the first few entries I see how young 13 and 14 are. Anyway a great deal has happened in one way or another, and now the war with Germany is over. It still seems unbelievable. One day not think what a German victory would have meant. This is indeed a day of deliverance, a day of thanksgiving and rejoicing.

come for a wander

Our garden is singing it's quiet song just now. There is plenty of sound: the ripple of water into the pond below the mossy rockery; wind chimes in the bird tree; the little flutters, tweets and twitters of multiple birds; crows and pigeons marching, or waddling, about the lawn; jays screeching down in the Dell; squirrels racing about raiding the peanuts and a pair of seagulls with whom I am at war!  

The quiet in this garden is about the feeling of time having passed, the procession of harmonious colours, experiment over many years and some benign neglect. There are always weeds somewhere, but at this time of year, much to enjoy. It is the longest I have ever had a garden in my care, we have been here now over 14 years and I am just beginning to understand how a growing space evolves. With time you notice the way the soil works, how the light falls and what comes up when. Just now all is full of spring lightness, the colours are quiet, the plants partly from the previous owner and partly from my planting. I pop things in and care for them to a greater or lesser extent, and some thrive and some don't. The primroses are certainly thriving this year, washing the space with their delicate yellow. The camellias are out and the pulmonaria with their glowing blues, pinks and purples are just at their best.

Look one way and you'll find the shed with a camellia glowing at the end and some of the many clusters of primroses in the foreground

turn round and the pointy covered pond is there, pots full of expectation and a chair and table to sit and watch the fish as the weather warms and the chimes send out their bell like notes.

There is often a garden tool propped up somewhere, remnant of a forgotten task

The oriental lady still welcomes you along to path to the wind chimes, pulmonaria at her feet and the flowering currant nodding above.

Half way down the path, the tripod lantern holder my son in law made me some years past holds a glass lamp we brought home from Turkey many moons ago.

The rockery by the pond is always a battle to keep clear of weeds, but the moss is doing nicely these days

The little waterboy stands guard by the small steps

where some lovely daffodils, which came with the garden, give us joy each year

And in the courtyard, the promise of blossom just swelling from the buds of the miniature plum.

We are so lucky to have this peaceful spot to soothe our souls.

The tale of the Handy Heffalumps (and a little bit of Norway)

I have some Handy Heffalumps given to me in the dim distant past by a friend. We knew each other for many years as friends and work colleagues; at one stage she was also my very kind boss but, as often happens, post retirement we have lost touch. Life sometimes intervenes. The Heffalumps usually live in my handbag, and are taken out to carry bits of shopping all over my home town. At every use I send a "thank you Rhona" to her, wherever she is, and hope life is being kind to her. They are one of those miraculous breed of fold out shopping bags which, by some Zen principle of origami, can be persuaded to go neatly back into their inbuilt carry pouch, if you are especially patient! 

 

They haven't travelled abroad before though, until now, when they went to explore Norway, in an airplane across the sea

Along the way the Heffalumps saw many wonders, tucked away in my bag

Edvard Grieg's house nestled in the woods above the water

His little composing hut, sheltered down on the shoreline

The eerily wonderful Fantoft Stave Church, again, tucked away in the woods

The delights of Bergen looking Christmassy

It was here we boarded our cruise ship to go hopping up the coast. On the way we saw Art Nouveau Alesund

But, on one fateful shore trip, the Heffalumps were dropped, position unknown, complete with pair of cleats they were carrying!

The owner's bag went on past more wonderful sights in Trondheim: the glorious cathedral (where cleats might have been very useful in all that ice)

Many strange bits of delightful street art or memorial 

until the owner suddenly stopped, here, realising the Handy Heffalumps were gone!  

Powerhouse Brattørkaia – Snøhetta

There was some considerable sadness for such a mundane thing, but they had been my companion, memento of my friend, for many years.

The shining gods of the eco powerhouse must have been smiling on me though, along with some kind fellow cruiser, who retrieved that nylon bag, bringing it back to the ship. The following day I and my Heffalumps (and cleats) were happily reunited in the lost property section of our Hurtigruten ship. I will never know who rescued them, and they will never know the impact of their kindness. So thank you, whoever you were, for returning a nylon shopper (plus all essential pair of cleats) to MS Polarlys in early December. Your kindness enabled the Heffalumps to see more delights, including

A snow hotel with huskies

wonderfully Jule festive looking ports

The crossing the circle ceremony onboard; occasion of much jolliness and laughter at others' discomfort. Feel free to speculate as to the contents of the icy silver bucket! A ladle was involved.

The rather magical Arctic Cathedral in Tromso

Glorious scenery

Days where sunrise and sunset are all the daylight you get, while the sun hides below the horizon. 

More Christmas cheer

And many more marvels besides. The Heffalumps may have been deployed on several occasions to carry wool, or fabrics, or other lovely things back to the ship. 

And the question you always get asked, "Did you see them?"

I am thrilled beyond measure to say I did.

I hope you have all had a very merry Christmas, Solstice, Yule or whatever other way you celebrate the turning of the year.