Brenda Blethyn's "Mixed Fancies" - A Review

Brenda by Petr Novák, Wikipedia

If you’re lucky enough to know any nice people over 60 who grew up in large, loving families of limited means, ask them about whether anything dangerous happened to them as kids.  Indiana Jones will look like a lightweight by comparison.  

From my own family, where my father was the eldest of 12, there was the time time my seven-year-old Aunt Judy fell out of the hay mow and broke her other arm.  (The first one was already broken by an encounter with a cow as I recall). Or when Margie burned her back sitting on the stove, or Tommy got his fingertip chopped off in the fan blade, or Maryanne almost died of whooping cough. As a variation, you can ask your sources about the temperature of their house in winter (Freezing!) or the foods they regarded as treats.  (Fat drippings will play a part). 

            And so on to our subject for today, Brenda Blethyn’s 2006 memoir Mixed Fancies. I pulled it out of my mailbox when I got home from work last Friday. By midnight I had just about finished it.

Brenda (I feel on a first name basis with her now), as you surely must know, is a celebrated British actress. She was born “Brenda Bottle” to her 42-year-old mother in 1946, the tail ender in a family of nine children.  In her early years the Bottle family lived in rented accommodations in Ramsgate, a seaside community in Kent in southern England. Their home was of a sort that would now be commonplace only in the third world: one cold water tap, outhouse in the garden  – with no door on it  – three rooms badly heated.  (The poverty of post-war Britain never fails to shock me – it wasn’t that long ago and the Bottle story is hardly unique).

Brenda presents the perils and privations of her childhood with honesty but without any sense of grievance.  She didn’t know enough about sex at eight years old to understand what the pedophile she encountered in the alley was doing. The “clouts” that her mother administered were part of the picture, as was Mum’s alcoholism.  Brenda seems to have accepted these things like so much bad weather, and no more to be lamented than bad weather.  She doesn’t remember the time she fell into the fire as a toddler, though she was told that she had.  She does remember the time she and her brother, having been left home alone, almost burned the place down trying to make it cozy for their parents. 

There were offsets to the hard times: treats of movies (where her mother had the bright idea of bringing the wet laundry in the winter so it could be dried on the radiators in the dark theater), and boxes of “mixed fancies.” That is, little cakes, 12 to a two-shilling box ­. (Brenda didn’t care for the one with the coconut, but the cream horn was coveted by all the children). And yes, meat drippings.

It wasn’t til Brenda was 14 that the family achieved indoor plumbing.  Around that same time her teachers, recognizing her intelligence, recommended further academic education.  Her parents deemed a secretarial course more practical, however, and so a secretary she became.  She married Alan Blethyn and soon divorced him, but no hard feelings.  It was during that short marriage that she was recruited as a reluctant substitute for a play being put on by her work-place drama troop…

The stories are told in rapid succession and in episodic fashion, which is why I had such trouble putting the book down. It’s clear that the genetic combination of Mum and Dad was a happy one. The children were good looking and sturdy despite their toothbrush free existence  ­– lots of family photos are included. And in the end, they loved one another and love and gratitude are the dominant themes.

 Brenda is currently famous as the star of the British TV detective series Vera.  It is because of Vera that you are reading this review.  It’s where I became a Brenda fan, watching every episode at least three times, then chasing down her film appearances (she’s excellent in everything), and now reading her memoir. Because it was published back in darkest 2006, Mixed Fancies omits the great success of Vera, which debuted in 2011, but you just got the highlights on that here, so probably not to worry – or maybe she’ll decide to write a sequel. It would be worth reading, especially as it’s not every actress who gets a career-defining part in her 60s.

The thing that makes any story compelling is the arc of the characters. When a likeable character makes a big swing upwards, as it did in Brenda’s case, it’s a lot of fun to go along for the ride.  Mixed Fancies never going to be taught alongside Hamlet or Middlemarch but that wasn’t the point. If you want to know how Brenda Blethyn got the way she is, here you go.  Even if you’re not so curious about that, the book is so full event and charm and good humor that you’d have to be the kind of person who doesn’t like ice cream, or maybe cream horns, not to enjoy it.  

Thanks!

Hello to any and all stopping by after picking up the e-book during that recent price promotion.  I hope you will like it and tell your friends.  If you don't it you can keep that to yourself. (Kidding! [sort of]). 

I'm vowing (again) to get back to work on my work-in-progress, another story for children (sort of - advanced, unusual children).  What's that old quip? "I love deadlines, especially the sound they make as they fly past."  I had hoped to have revisions made before Christmas and yet...  Anyway, there's more to come and if you haven't read my Barbara Pym fan fiction it's right down there in the preceding post.  More to come.

Welcome Barbara Pym Fans!

If you're asking "who's Barbara Pym?" you might want to move on, or read on.

She was an English writer, emphasis on "English" who lived between 1913 and 1980. Her career flourished during the 1950s but withered utterly in the 1960s and '70s.  Her publisher had decided that her style of writing and her subjects; single, unmarried women, living small, intelligent lives, were old fashioned. She had a notable second act in the late 1970s after her friend, the poet Philip Larkin, told the Times Literary Supplement that she was "the most underrated writer of the 20th century."

She went on after this to write a book, Quartet in Autumn, which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. She found new admirers then and those that persist are a special lot.  There is a Barbara Pym Society that meets twice a year.  The BPS describes her this way on their website:

[A] shrewd observer of a certain kind of middle-class Englishwoman, no longer young and not quite beautiful, whom society finds it easy to overlook. She is just as shrewd an observer of the people that these women, vigilant and perceptive, themselves observe.

The spinster heroine of Excellent Women, Pym’s most famous novel, says, “I suppose an unmarried woman just over 30, who lives alone and has no apparent ties, must expect to find herself involved or interested in other people’s business, and if she is a clergyman’s daughter then one might really say that there is no hope for her.

The  Pym Society will hold its North American meeting in Boston in March 2019. In conjunction with that meeting, it sponsored a Barbara Pym short story contest.  The assignment: write a  story featuring any Pym character in any setting or time. The only limitation was a 2000 word limit and a deadline of December 3, 2018.

Reader, I entered.

And yes, I planned to win.

I was advised in a polite email in early January that I didn't win. I didn't place. I didn't show.

I decided after a few hours reflection on this entirely foreseeable result that it was actually very Pymian to lose a Barbara Pym writing contest.  And, as further consolation, I enjoyed working on the story (which isn't true for everything to which I put my hand).  Also, I have the story. And here it is for you too.

By way of background, I have read and enjoyed a few Pym books, including Excellent Women.  It features  Mildred Lathbury, who has to be the archetypal Pym character. Miss Lathbury is intelligent, observant, very well brought up, and self-aware to a fault.  In middle age she is a never-married clergyman's daughter. She remains one of the props and stays of her local church. She lives in beleagured post-war London in a flat with a shared bathroom. Her social circle is primarily a group of aging celibates (a school friend, the priest and his sister) and her days are occupied partly with work for a society that aids distressed gentlewomen and for her church. The social circle is broken open by the arrival of a young couple that moves into the flat that shares her bathroom - the husband is ex-military and glamourous, the wife is interesting. Around the same time, her friend the priest meets a tempting widow. These are unsettling events. Her spinster's equilibrium is disturbed.

I kept thinking as I read the book how many of the male characters would today be instantly assumed to be homosexual. There is nothing so frank in EW - although another one of her books (one that I haven't read) A Glass of Blessings, features a female protagonist who develops an interest a gay man, not quite understanding the situation, at least not right away. I wondered how Mildred, with her longings for love just under the surface, would cope with the offer of a union with a man who might make a good mate  - in some ways, at least.  So, here, at last,  for your consideration is the story which didn't take a prize.

Best Laid Plans

“We have left undone those things we ought to have done…” I intoned with the congregation, thinking of poor Mr. Arundel, whom I had left all alone with the Wiggins file. Mr. Wiggins must acquire a corner of east London for his new adhesives factory tomorrow.  Several deeds remained to be prepared. These weighed on my conscience and had made my attendance at Evensong, of all things, feel a guilty indulgence. I popped up from my pew at the first note of the organ voluntary, keen to get back to the office. I was halfway down the aisle, wondering if I should buy some sausage rolls for Mr. Arundel, when an elderly lady blocked my progress.

“Excuse me, it’s Miss Lathbury, isn’t? Is it, still, ‘Miss’ Lathbury?”

She was tidy and smelled of gardenias.

“Yes… I’m sorry, do I know you?”

            “You did once, a little. I appeared before your committee six years ago. I’m so pleased to see you. I went back to the Society to thank you, but it was closed.”

I had a revelatory moment. “Oh yes! You’re Mrs. Brudenell!” She’d been thinner and paler when I’d last seen her. “You’re looking very well.”

“I am well. Thanks in large part to you! I don’t suppose you remember the bus ride we took together after that dreadful interview?”

I remembered it too well. Our chairwoman had informed Mrs. Brudenell -- as all applicants were in informed in that unhappy interval -- that the Society for Distressed Gentlewomen was winding down. By 1960 we’d become an anachronism. Letters to the editor had appeared. A small band of socialists had even protested outside our offices. “You must seek government assistance with all possible despatch,” our chairwoman had pronounced, in that games-mistress way of hers. “Your situation seems quite desperate, Mrs. Brudenell, and the authorities do not always act with alacrity.”

 “Yes,” I said. “I remember… a difficult time for you.”

Her eyes fluttered. “I was at my lowest ebb since the death of my husband. Stones into pockets and into the Thames like Virginia Woolf -- that was my plan, God forgive me. It was your suggestion that saved me.”

“Did I make a suggestion?”

“Indeed!  You asked whether I had any family or friends who might help. I told you I just couldn’t ask my son. He was in America and struggling himself in those days.  And my sister, who’d been such a prop and stay, had just been widowed herself. Her situation was as bad as mine.”

“Yes, I remember now. Your brother-in-law had been in the diplomatic service, in the Caribbean?”

 “That’s right! And in Egypt before that. You suggested that Whitehall might help my sister, under the circumstances.”

“Did I?”

“I should never have thought of that myself. I followed your advice and, what do you know, “ she put her hand on my arm, “before long the Queen herself interceded.”

My thoughts of sausage rolls and Mr. Wiggins’ flew away like the notes of the Bach toccata that was playing.

“Really?”

            “Truly! My sister’s plea resulted in a warrant from the Lord Chamberlain for a Grace and Favour apartment at Hampton Court Palace! We’ve lived there with my sister’s old housekeeper for five years now.”

 “Well, that’s wonderful.”

I hadn’t been to Hampton Court since school days, and I’d never seen the Grace and Favour apartments, but they were famous. I knew they were doled out by the monarch, rent-free and mostly to widows, as a reward for service to the crown. I also knew they had a reputation as the grandest, and dottiest, poor house in England.

“Our apartment is just off the gallery haunted Catherine Howard,” she continued. “It’s not so large as some of them but quite comfortable for us.”

“I’m delighted!” I said. “Not about the ghost, of course, but for you. Thank you for telling me, but I’m afraid I must fly back to work.”

“Oh wait please! We’re planning a little party. We don’t entertain often, but we thought it right to host a kind of thanksgiving. Do say you can come. It’s this Saturday.”

“That’s very kind of you but…”

“Please,” she looked momentarily panicked. “Did you know there are more than 1300 rooms in the Palace? From the roof you get a splendid view of the chimneys, and the Thames, and the gardens.”

“I’m afraid I’m expected to work Saturday mornings...”

“But we aren’t gathering until teatime. Oh, and Lady Baden-Powell will be there!”

“The Lady Baden-Powell? Of the Girl Guides?” I had been a guide once myself.

“The very one!  She’s a neighbor. Let me give you directions.”

*          *          *

Despite the directions I found myself the following Saturday afternoon hunting around the vast Tudor portion of the palace for her apartment.  A helpful guard eventually directed me to the Chapel Courtyard. Once there, I heard a young voice calling my name. I looked up and saw two girls of about 18, one blond, one brunette, leaning out of a second story window. A few moments later I was trailing them up a broad staircase with shallow treads and iron railings. “I’m Sarah Butler,” the brunette said as we climbed. “I’m from Nottingham. Lady Baden-Powell invited me down for the weekend.”

“Sarah’s won the Queen’s Guide Award,” the blond put in. “I’m just a granddaughter, I’m Sylvie.” I was surprised at Sylvie’s tight sweater, given her pedigree. As I thought this, my eye caught on a paper sign reminding residents to switch off lights in the stairways.

“I’m pleased to meet you both. Are you having tea too?”

“Yes. We’re just waiting for you.”

“Am I late?”

“Oh, no. We came early.” The girls giggled, though I had no idea why this was funny.

At the top of the stairs Sylvie barged into the apartment, shouting my arrival. Sarah took my coat and hat and quickly disappeared after her friend. Mrs. Brudenell and her sister, it could be no other, advanced on me.

“Miss Lathbury!” Mrs. Brudenell exclaimed, shaking my hand in both of hers, “We’re delighted to see you. This is my sister, Mrs. Davies.”

“We owe you such a debt of gratitude,” Mrs. Davies said, taking my hand in her turn. “Do come through.”

I protested their gratitude as I followed them down a long, tall corridor where my new heels rang like gunshots on the parquet. I was still protesting when we reached the salon at the end of the hall. The two girls were by then settled either side of a fabulously handsome man. He stood as I entered.

“This is my son, Peniston, from New York.” Mrs. Brudenell was glowing.  “And this is Lady Baden-Powell.”

Lady Baden-Powell shook my hand from her chair and murmured a few words of thanks to my compliments on girl guiding. I turned then to Peniston, who was smiling down upon me like the Caribbean sun.

“Pleased to meet you.” His offered hand was warm and strong. He spoke with an American accent. “I understand you’re the lucky charm that helped my good ladies find this home.” Peniston’s teeth were beautifully white and even. His hair was fair with a touch of grey. He had crow’s feet by his blue eyes, but his waist was trim and his shoulders broad. I wondered about his age and thought of George Eliot’s observation, ‘some men are like lions, you can’t tell how old they are except that they are fully grown.’

“Oh hardly,” I began protesting again.

Mrs. Brudenell gestured for me to sit next to her son, displacing Sylvie. “I hope the train wasn’t crowded,” she said. I caught a look from Sylvie but as it was a case of being rude to her or our hostess, I sat.

“It was fine, thanks, and of course it’s not far.”

At that moment a voice, surely Jamaican, came from a swinging door behind us. “Are you all ready now?”

“Yes, thank you Caroline,” Mrs. Davies said.

The housekeeper came through with a silver tray laden with China tea things. Thin as she was, Caroline’s brown forearms bulged with ropy muscles. She set the tray down gingerly then gave the whole party a long, appraising from behind her black-rimmed glasses. She exited without another word. “She’s a gem, is Caroline,” Mrs. Davies said.

*          *          *

The sandwiches were tolerable. The conversation was bright. It moved quickly from the Hampton Court neighbours to Peniston.  The Brudenell family, it emerged, had lived in Toronto for years.  After completing school there, Peniston had made his way to New York, where he eventually opened an art gallery featuring the work of abstract expressionists. It’d been hard going in the ‘50s but it was finally taking off.

“He’s opening another in London this year,” Mrs. Brudenell said. “I’ve no feeling at all for the art he sells, if that’s what you can call it, but at least it will bring him home.”

“Twice yearly anyway,” Peniston added.

“Oh, I do wish you were moving here for good. Then we could show you around London!” Sylvie said.  Sarah nodded. They both gazed up at him.

Lady Baden-Powell scowled over her teacup. “Stop fawning girls! He’s far too old for you!”

After an uncomfortable moment’s silence, Peniston and the girls burst out laughing. “Oh Grandma. You’re one to talk! Grandpa was 30 years older than you!” Sylvie said.

“Thirty-two, actually,” Lady Baden-Powell replied, as she bit into a potted meat sandwich. “My parents objected, appropriately, as I now understand. But your grandfather and I were singular.”

“I assure you, Ma’am, you need have no fear of me,” Peniston laughed. “I’m a confirmed old bachelor.”

“I meant no offense, sir. It’s just that I hate to see girls making themselves ridiculous over men,” Lady Baden-Powell said.

“Certainly, there’s much to be said for common interests and shared history for binding a couple together,” Mrs. Brudenell chanced.  “Don’t you agree Miss Lathbury?” “What are your interests? Do you like art?”

Every face turned to me. “Yes…. Though I’m no connoisseur. I’m terribly dull, really. I work for a solicitor and I seem to manifest every cliché of a clergyman’s daughter. I do like history, though. I was hoping to see some of the Palace. It’s a marvelous view you have.”

This had the desired effect of turning the faces to the tall windows, and of precipitating the tour that Mrs. Brudenell had promised at Evensong.

*          *          *

The subsequent ramble round the premises was marvelous, though the tea party was, given the unusual company, increasingly putting me in mind of the one in Alice in Wonderland.  When we returned to the apartment, Lady Baden-Powell promptly announced her departure.  “Help Caroline tidy up, girls,” she commanded. Not wanting to appear to shirk, I took some teacups and followed the girls into the kitchen.

“He’s just like Rock Hudson,” Sarah breathed. “Oh no,” Sylvie clucked. “Rock is dark, and Peniston is fair, like Tab Hunter.”

“He certainly is attractive,” I added lamely, rinsing the cups out of force of habit. The girls gave me a polite, pitying look and returned to the salon. Caroline came up behind me then. She’d moved so quietly, I was startled when she spoke.

            “Miss, can I talk to you?”

“Certainly…”

“Miss, I’ve known these ladies here more than 45 years...”

“They told me. They rely on you tremendously.”

“Too true. They do. And for more than they know. They’re good, but they’re not worldly wise. I think you ought to know, Mrs. Brudenell, she’s got designs on you, for Mr. Penisiton.”

I couldn’t suppress a laugh. “He’s hardly for the likes of me!”

“He’s not for any woman, if you take my meaning.” She looked at me knowingly over the top of her glasses.

I understood, though I was shocked by her suggestion. “Really, I don’t think…”

Caroline held up her hand. “Mrs. Brudenell been goin’ round churches all over London lookin’ for you these last few years. She’s settled on you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” (I didn’t have the presence of mind to consider the implications of this statement.)

“Mr. Peniston is a good man, but he might make a choice to please her ...”

I must’ve looked confused. Caroline sighed.

“Miss, I see you’re an excellent woman, but you got that whiff of the vicarage about you. You might put your heart right under his feet, not understanding how things are.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m sure it’s misplaced.” I wiped my hands on my skirt, forgetting I wasn’t wearing an apron.

“Well that’s a relief to me Miss. Thank you.”

I nodded and stepped back into the salon. The others had decamped to the vestibule. I joined them there.

“I’ll be back in London in January, Miss Lathbury,” Peniston said as he helped me with my coat. “Perhaps we could meet again?” He smiled, and I felt something in me lurch in his direction. Mrs. Brudenell beamed. The girls were stone faced.

Caroline leaned out from the swinging door and caught my eye.

What I thought was, ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ What I said was, “Nothing would please me more.”

Still Here and Top Tips

"That time of year, thou may'st in me behold..."

Yes, here I am. Sorry. I have no good excuses... Well, a few: work, age, the usual.  As I say, not good excuses but there you have it.

In writing news, I got the edits back on that work in progress I've been mentioning for a year and let me tell you, going through edits is a painful process.

As I said over on Twitter:

Something there is that doesn't like a writer to sit down and write. #amwriting Oh wait. #amtweeting

— Kim Velk (@woolfoot) October 13, 2018

Fall has been beautiful and inspiring here in Vermont and making me feel like I should write more. When I get home from work these days, however, I pretty much settle into re-watching episodes of Vera (which you should all watch, BTW, Brenda Blethyn is a marvel) and listening to BBC Radio on my iPlayer app (which you should all get right now if you don't already have it).

So that's two top tips, just for stopping by.  Here's one more that I will serve up to you with a link and everything.

BBC Radio 4 provides many audio books each week. They are abridged usually, but FREE to all the world and first-class productions too. This week  the Book of the Week is Colm Toibin reading his lovely, thoughtful, Mad, Bad, Dangerous to Know.  Colm is Irish, so of course it's wonderful to listen to him. The book explores the lives of the fathers of three of Ireland's greatest writers: Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, and James Joyce. Toibin is a wonderful writer and these biographies offer great insights on the famous men and on history.

Here's a link to the the Book of the Week. 

There's also "Book at Bedtime" and that's a winner right now too. Sarah Perry's Melmoth.

Thanks for stopping by. Best wishes for a happy stick season to you all.

He's Worse than a Smoky House

I'm doing research on corvids (like magpies and crows) for my work in progress and found myself today looking at Shakespeare's references to ravens.  I came across this speech in Henry IV, Part I - Hotspur is speaking about a problem companion - one who is longwinded and who doesn't know when to leave the party. 

You might want to read this over a couple of times. I did and thought, whoa,  Shakespeare is as good as they say.  Thanks for stopping by.  Stay tuned...

I cannot choose: sometime he angers me With telling me of the mouldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing'd griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat, And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff As puts me from my faith. I tell you what; He held me last night at least nine hours In reckoning up the several devils' names That were his lackeys: I cried 'hum,' and 'well, go to,' But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious As a tired horse, a railing wife; Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, Than feed on cates and have him talk to me In any summer-house in Christendom.

For Your Listening Pleasure

Hi All -

I've had a lot of nice correspondence and interest from those of you in the UK who downloaded the e-book during AmazonUK's recent half term promotion.  I hope, if you're stopping by here, you've finished the book and liked it.

You'll know there's a key scene near the end where Miles plays some music on his iPod for a certain someone. The music has a tremendous effect on the listener. You might like to hear it yourself, so there's a link below to a particularly beautiful rendition. You might like to get your earbuds or headphones out for this.

I've become more and more grateful in the passing years for musicians and those who make it possible for them to share their gifts with us all. I say this as one with no musical talent whatsoever.

I hope you are having a restorative Sunday and that you will have few minutes to let Mr. Tchaikovsky and these players work their magic on you.

Today's Top Tip - Matt Haig's "How to Stop Time"

I got to know about Matt Haig first on Twitter.  I gathered he was famous (mostly) for a book  called Reasons to Stay Alive. It gets praised all over the place and seems to have helped a lot of people.  He talks a lot on Twitter about his own fragile mental health and I've found him to be witty, humane, and tough.  I'll admit I hadn't read Reasons to Stay Alive - yet - despite the usual intentions.

His tweets recently included a lot of book launch stuff on his new release, How to Stop Time.  I knew that it was a Big Book, getting lots of attention and again I planned to check it out. Then, mirabile dictu, it came to me and it can come to you too.

If you have been here before you know I lurk around BBC Radio as much as possible. I was very pleased to find last week that How to Stop Time been serialized for the Radio 4 series, Book at Bedtime.  Here's a link to the web page where you can find it, at least for the next little while.

While we're on the subject, Book at Bedtime is just one chest of BBC riches that US listeners can now plunder, for free. There is sooo much more.  If you get the BBC iPlayer app for your smartphone, they will all be laid out there before you and you need never be bored again.

But back to the book. This BBC version is abridged so you'll probably still want to buy a kindle version or a hard copy,  but its a fine production of a wonderful story. I won't spoil the fun, but our hero is a man with a rare condition that has him aging at about one tenth the speed of the rest of us. The premise of the book is that these rare people have always been among us but hidden for their own protection.

It's been a long time since I came across a writer that pleased me so well.  I think David Mitchell of Cloud Atlas fame was the last discovery that had me chattering away like this.  So, you're welcome.  Happy New Year.  Thanks for stopping by.