As anyone who has seen the recent BBC adaptation of the book will know (I haven’t, for the record), The Crimson Petal and the White tells the story of Sugar, a girl forced into prostitution by her mother the famed brothel keeper Mrs Castaway.  Well-read and highly intelligent, Sugar spends her spare time writing a vicious novel in which her protagonist gleefully tortures and murders the men with whom she has sex.  Her life changes when she attracts the attentions of William Rackham, the heir to the Rackham Perfumeries fortune who refuses to take an interest in the business until the desire to possess Sugar as his own means that he needs to make money in order to set her up as his mistress.  As Sugar becomes totally dependent on William, she also becomes more and more involved in all aspects of his life, from his business to his child-like wife Agnes, to his young daughter Sophie.

The novel opens with this passage, which instantly draws the reader in:

Watch your step.  Keep your wits about you; you will need them.  This city I am bringing you to is vast and intricate, and you have not been here before.  You may imagine, from other stories you’ve read, that you know it well, but those stories flattered you, welcoming you as a friend, treating you as if you belonged.  The truth is that you are an alien from another time and place altogether.

When I first caught your eye and you decided to come with me, you were probably thinking you would simply arrive and make yourself at home.  Now that you’re actually here, the air is bitterly cold, and you find yourself being led along in complete darkness, stumbling on uneven ground, recognising nothing.  Looking left and right, blinking against an icy wind, you realise you have entered an unknown street full of unlit houses and unknown people.  (p. 3)

The voice is powerful, cynical, intelligent and utterly absorbing.  It acknowledges the problems that quite a lot of readers have with present tense narratives then brushes them aside as unimportant, which is perhaps why I was less bothered by it than I usually am.  It is an atmospheric and compelling beginning and the rest of the novel easily lives up to the high expectations that this creates.

Faber is not only brilliant at setting scenes and giving the writing a real period feel, he is also a master of characterisation; although the story may seem a little like the seedy underbelly of a Dickens’ novel, the characters who people if could not be further from Dickens’ enjoyable but often one dimensional charicatures.  Faber makes his characters all so distinct with totally different voices and, frequently, some strange quirk which allows them to transcend the stereotype of their role within the book.  Sugar, for example, has a skin disease, yet she is still desired by the men of London because it is rumoured that she will do anything.  This is not because she is desperate, but because when the reader meets her she genuinely does not seem to care what happens to her outer self as long as she is able to preserve the inner self who writes and plots and schemes.  Mrs Castaway is set apart by her peculiar collection of pictures of Mary Magdalen, which she pastes into scrapbooks.  Sophie has a perfect childhood logic and solemnity which just leap off the page.

The most fascinating character for me was Agnes, William Rackham’s wife.  Never have I read more convincingly written madness.  It has its own internal logic which makes it seem completely understandable, even as the reader knows that Agnes is mad.  Her attempts to seek solace in the Convent of Health and her abiding, if somewhat off-kilter, Catholic faith are touching as they show how deeply unhappy and unsettled she is in her current life.  Her horror and frantic desperation to escape the life she leads, which does not improve after Rackham regains his fortune, are so well drawn that they feel almost tangible.  Her madness is interspersed with periods of complete lucidity, when she is possibly even more unhappy, which make her all the more compelling.  The way that the reader discovers Agnes along with Sugar through reading her hidden diaries is a clever stroke and helps to bind the reader into their complicity which will become so important.

Given the subject matter of The Crimson Petal and the White and other reviews and comments that I’d read about the sex in the book, I was surprised at how restrained I found it.  Although there is a fair amount of sex which is described in detail, it feels clinical and matter of fact rather than graphic and titilating, and it is never gratuitous.  Because Sugar and her fellows see nothing unusual or even particularly exciting about the acts that they perform, they come across as rather mundane and this, conversely and rather brilliantly, makes them even more disturbing than if they were luridly detailed encounters designed to be erotic.  It is all the more sordid because it is presented as being so normal.

All in all, this is a fabulously written book which evokes the Victorian era through a series of unique characters who fascinate and repel in equal measure.  I’m definitely in the market for a copy of The Apple, a collection of stories which fills in some more details of Sugar’s story and follows some of the lesser characters.  I only hope it is anywhere near as good as this book.

The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber.  Published by Harcourt, 2002, pp. 838.  Originally published in 2002.

First, the reader is introduced to Melanie, a 1950′s wife and mother who has been confined to her bed since the birth of her child as she was taken ill with tuberculosis and has consequently been unable to see her child in case the excitement is too much for her weakened constitution.  As the novella starts, the doctor decides that Melanie is well enough to spend the afternoon in a different room to give her a change of scenery and she is carried to the Victorian chaise-longue of the title, a peculiarly compelling item of furniture which Melanie purchased in an antique shop whilst shopping in search of a crib for her coming baby.  There, she falls asleep, but on waking Melanie finds herself no longer in the 1950′s but back in 1864 and so the nightmare begins.

I thought that Melanie (or Milly as she is known in 1864) was a very interesting character.  When the reader sees her in the 1950′s she comes across as docile and rather vacuous, relying on her husband, the nurse and the doctor without any particular opinions or influence of her own, but there is still the feeling that there is something behind her perfect housewife exterior, an intelligence which she keeps hidden for some reason.  Ironically, it is only when she is transported back to 1864 that this is revealed: in the modern setting the reader is kept out of Melanie’s head, wheareas all of the Victorian section is shown entirely through her thoughts and reactions.  She starts to express her thoughts and try to act only at the time when she is most helpless and she no longer has other people around her to act as props.  The nightmare experience of finding herself in an alien time period is the catalyst which forces her to become independent and so in a peculiar way the reader watches her becoming free even as she is trapped.

The most thought provoking aspect of this book is its ambiguity; as I’ve observed, the reader only experiences the time travel through Melanie’s mind and so it is impossible to say what exactly is going on.  Is she dreaming?  Is she mad?  Has she really travelled in time?  She retains her modern sensibilities and is aware of herself as Melanie, not Milly, but also has some of Milly’s memories, so who is she really?  Has she regressed to a past life?  Can she get back or is she trapped?  If she dies in the past, what happens to her in the present?  The reader is just as confused and disoriented by this sudden, unpredicted change in the direction of the narrative as Melanie is and so is drawn into her panic and horror.

I found this book very effective and I’m very grateful to Persephone for introducing me to a wonderful new author, even if this wasn’t the book that I was expecting at all.

The Victorian Chaise-Longue by Marghanita Laski.  Published by Persephone, 1999, pp. 101.  Originally published in 1953.

As the title suggests, the book is a fictionalised diary of fifteen months in the life of an ordinary man .  Mr Charles Pooter is a middle class man, living in a typical London suburb, who works at a bank.  As he goes about his daily life, his aspirations are constantly frustrated by his troubles with his workmates, his layabout son, the tradespeople and the blasted scraper outside his door.

The aspect of this book that I enjoyed best was definitely Mr Pooter himself.  In spite of his pompous manner, his ineffectual nature, his jokes that fall flat and his highly inflated opinion of himself, I found him somehow endearing.  I rarely sympathised with him, he often frustrated me, but I liked him nonetheless.  His ill-advised notions (perhaps most delightfully deciding to paint everything with red enamel paint, leading to a rather bloody-looking bath after it dissolves in the hot water) often had me giggling.  His constantly frustrated narration is rather entertaining:

By-the-by, I will never choose another cloth pattern at night.  I ordered a new suit of dittos for the garden at Edwards’, and chose the pattern by gaslight, and they seemed to be a quiet pepper-and-salt mixture with white stripes down. They came home this morning, and, to my horror, I found it was quite a flash-looking suit.  There was a lot of green with bright yellow-coloured stripes.

I tried on the coat, and was annoyed to find Carrie giggling.  She said: “What mixture did you say you asked for?”

I said: “A quiet pepper-and-salt.”

Carrie said: “Well, it looks more like mustard, if you want to know the truth.”

How interesting that the Victorians evidently said “pepper and salt” instead of “salt and pepper” as I always hear it nowadays.  The things you learn from books.

I also appreciated the fact that not every entry was intended to be funny, which made it feel more like a real diary, with someone just recording the mundane things that had happened that day.  Often these entries provided build up to an amusing anecdote, but it nonetheless adds a flavour of realism to an otherwise comic novel.

Diary of a Nobody by George Grossmith, illustrated by Weedon Grossmith.  Published by Pan, 1947, pp. 171.  Originally published in 1892

When I came up with the idea of using a random number generator to select one book for me every month, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was letting myself in for.  I needn’t have worried about January’s choice though, as it seems to have been remarkably kind to me in my first month.  Lady’s Maid by Margaret Forster is a book which I added to my wishlist after it was recommended in a discussion about good neo-Victorian novels, along with several other titles which are also waiting patiently on the shelves now.  A copy turned up on BookMooch not long afterwards, and so it came to have a home on my shelves.  I probably wouldn’t have read it for quite some time though, had it not been January’s TBR Lucky Dip selection.

Lady’s Maid tells the story of Wilson, a girl from the northeast who becomes lady’s maid to Elizabeth Barrett.  At first she feels alone and awkward in her situation, but slowly she comes to love her mistress and grows in confidence.  Wilson becomes increasingly important in Miss Barrett’s life, facilitating her secret marriage to Robert Browning and flight to a new life in Italy.  Throughout this, Wilson has her own life to contend with: her family, her suitors and her hopes for the future.

I really enjoyed this book.  It struck an excellent balance between being the story of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s maid, encompassing her daily life, concerns, struggles and interactions with other people in service, and the story of Elizabeth Barrett Browning as told by her maid, who is the initial draw of this book for most people, I should imagine, myself included.  Margaret Forster has written a biography of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and so, feeling reasonably safe that it was as historically accurate as I was likely to get, I thoroughly enjoyed this glimpse into the lives of two of the great Victorian poets.  I fell in love with her husband’s poetry from the moment that I opened the Best Words anthology that was the bane of many a GCSE student’s existence at that time and read the lines:

That’s my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

In fact, this book has reminded me of how much I enjoy Robert Browning, and I may make one of his books my poetry offering for next month.  His wife, however, is not someone I’ve read very much (the ubiquitous ‘How Do I Love Thee?’ excepted) and after reading Lady’s Maid I’m so cross with her that I don’t feel any inclination to do so any time soon.  Elizabeth Barrett in this book is utterly selfish; she is kind and affectionate towards Wilson only when she needs her or has no better occupation, and as soon as Wilson asks her a favour or goes against her wishes then she is petulant, tetchy and sometimes downright cruel.  I spent most of the book feeling righteous indignation of Wilson’s behalf for her treatment at the hands of her mistress, and this is indicative of Forster’s skillful storytelling.

The style of the novel is unusual but effective.  It alternates between third person narration, although the perspective that this reports is always Wilson’s and the reader never sees the thoughts of any other character except through her own interpretations of what they might be, and letters from Wilson to various other characters.  The writing segues seamlessly between the two forms, often running sentences across the break between the two so that the narrator will begin saying something and Wilson herself will finish it.  I thought that this semi-epistolary style worked very well, as it gives the impression that more of the book comes direct to the reader from Wilson than really does, while simultaneously allowing Forster a freedom of writing which would have been necessarily restricted by a novel comprised purely of letters.  It is a clever technique and results in an engaging, emotionally involving read.

The letters are also a means of reflecting Wilson’s growing confidence and learning, both personally and stylistically.  Initially, her letters are timid and shy, desperate to please the recipient and so hiding a lot of the truth that is revealed to the reader in the narrative sections of the novel.  As Wilson becomes increasingly sure of herself, she begins to be more open and honest.  She express opinions and even makes demands.  At the same time, her letters go from being full of unnecessary capitalisations and awkward phrasing to being written in a smooth, warm, elegant prose.  I thought it was an interesting touch that the writing skills of both Wilson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning develop only as they begin to blossom personally.

Lady’s Maid was a very satisfying book to read.  Margaret Forster’s writing kept me engrossed with her wonderful ability to describe locations and capture characters.  I definitely recommend this one.

Lady’s Maid by Margaret Forster.  Published by Fawcett Columbine, 1990, pp. 549.  Originally published in 1990.

Title:

Author: John Fowles

Published: Pan Books, 1987, pp. 399.  Originally published 1969.

Genre: Historical fiction

Blurb:In this contemporary, Victorian-style novel Charles Smithson, a nineteenth-century gentleman with glimmerings of twentieth-century perceptions, falls in love with enigmatic Sarah Woodruff, who has been jilted by a French lover.  (Goodreads.com)

When, where and why: I think my mother picked this book up for me to take on holiday when we went to Charmouth, just along from Lyme Regis, one May half term.  However, as my primary focus while on holiday was revision for the upcoming exams this book was neglected in favour of Latin verbs endings (although not by choice).  It’s sat on my shelves ever since and I discovered it when I was reorganising some books, an activity I find almost as satisfying as reading them.  This OAP definitely qualifies for book 30/50 for my Books Off the Shelf Challenge.

What I thought: The first thing I have written in my reading journal for The French Lieutenant’s Woman is, “I love this book.  I’ve only read the first few pages and already I’m completely hooked.  I can’t believe I waited to long to read this”.  My initial enthusiasm remained undimmed throughout the whole course of the book and it turned out to be one of my favourite reads of this year.

The French Lieutenant’s Woman at times reads exactly like a Victorian novel; Fowles is able to mimic the style impeccably and I often forgot I was reading a modern piece of writing.  However, the text is peppered with dry observations on the characters, the Victorians or the process of writing a story that come from such a modern perspective that they jolted me out of this false sense of period and made me aware of what the author was doing.  Fowles has a very knowing, self-conscious narratorial voice in these passages which can put some readers off, particularly as they often interrupt the flow of the story.  He does like to draw attention to just how clever he is being, but as I whole-heartedly agree with him it’s very difficult to find this an irritating trait.  In fact, I thought that Fowles observations and reflections on being Victorian, something obviously impossible in contemporary novels, added an extra layer of richness to the text.  He uses the distance and perspective provided by time to make explicit the cultural points of view latent in these Victorian novels and provide commentary on them.  I think it’s great that he doesn’t just write a historical novel butinstead uses a historical style and setting to produce something so lucid and clever.

The story centres around Charles Smithson, who is staying in Lyme Regis visiting his fiancee, Ernestina, prior to their wedding.  There he meets Sarah Woodruff, also known as Tragedy or, less kindly, as the French Lieutenant’s Woman.  As he becomes increasingly fascinated by Sarah he is forced to reexamine his own values as his forthcoming marriage is threatened.  Charles is a thoroughly intriguing central character: although not always likeable, he is so open and honest with himself that it is impossible not to sympathise with him as he struggles with doing what is morally right but socially unacceptable.  At one point Fowles says:

You will see that Charles set his sights high.  Intelligent idlers always have, in order to justify their idleness to their intelligence.  He had, in short, all the Byronic ennui with neither of the Byronic outlets: genius and adultery.  (p. 19)

I got the impression that Fowles rather likes him even though he may not approve of him.  His ‘sinister fondness‘ (p. 17) for spending time in the library, so frowned upon by his uncle, is another trait designed to make him appeal to the reader.

Fowles employs a similar tactic when talking about Sarah and her days at boarding school:

Thus it had come about that she had read far more fiction, and far more poetry, those two sanctuaries of the lonely, than most of her kind.  They served as a substitute for experience.  Without realising it she judged people as much by the standards of Walter Scott and Jane Austen as by any empirically arrived at; seeing those around her as fictional characters, and making poetic judgements on them. (p. 50)

I know I can identify with this statement, and I’m fairly sure it’s designed to make Sarah appeal to the reader (who, it’s reasonable to assume, has probably read a few books before) and makes her relatable rather than aloof, as she initially appears.  I felt I was manipulated into liking her, just as Charles is, while Ernestina on the other hand, the woman with a legitimate claim to affection, is not a sympathetic character at all.  She is constantly shown playing games and acting rather than being sincere, a trait which continues even during moments of what should be genuine emotion.

Considering Fowles’ frequent interruptions of the narrative and drawing attention to the fictionality of the characters, I was surprised at how invested I was in Charles and Sarah and what happened to them.  Shortly before the end of the novel, Fowles observes:

Fiction usually pretends to conform to the reality: the writer puts the conflicting wants in the ring and then describes the fight — but in fact fixes the fight, letting the want he himself favours win.  And we judge writers of fiction both by the skill they show in fixing the fights (in other words, in persuading us that they were not fixed) and by the kind of fighter they fix in favour of: the good one, the tragic one, the evil one, the funny one, and so on.  (p. 348)

This explicitly states that there is no ‘real’ ending in fiction, just the author making things work out in his own way, yet still I cared about what ‘really’ happened.  This year I’ve discovered that it takes a lot for me to forgive an author messing around with the story: it has to have a point and it has to be well executed.  The French Lieutenant’s Woman exhibited both of these qualities and so was a fantastic book from beginning to end.

Where this book goes: I’m definitely keeping this book as it’s one of my favourite books of 2010.  However, my copy has been annotated (with the blindingly obvious, which is annoying, rather than with insightful comments which would be quite interesting) so I’ll be on the lookout for a replacement copy as I prowl the charity shops.  There’s a particularly attractive Vintage version which I’m hoping to spot.

Tea talk: I’ve been on the Lapsang Souchong again, as it’s been so cold recently.  Now that we have heating again (for which I am eternally grateful) I don’t spend my evenings huddled in front of the fire any more, but this tea brings back that lovely smokey smell which I’m missing, surprisingly.

Set in an alternative Victorian London populated with mysterious scientists, brass automatons, airships and zombies, this book was very silly but also very entertaining.

At times it seems as though Mann has a few too many subplots on the go at once and that certain aspects are being ignored for too long. However, he handles them all skilfully and eventually they become so impressively interwoven and dependent upon one another that I was willing to forgive their seemingly disparate nature because of the way they come together so spectacularly in the end.

The rapid pace of the plot admittedly didn’t allow for much character development, but in my opinion many mystery stories of this sort employ stock characters (the Butler, the Village Gossip, the Policeman with a Secret etc.) so this wasn’t particularly surprising for the peripheral characters. I have every faith that Newbury and Hobbes themselves, already made interesting through several tantalising hints, will be more fully fleshed out with each further encounter with the pair. There are a lot of Victorian English stereotypes to be found, but some were played with beautifully (I particularly enjoyed Queen Victoria herself). Besides, what situation can’t be made better by a pot of Earl Grey?

So yes, the book does suffer from some inconsistencies, the storyline is utterly improbable and the characters are a little one dimensional, but this book is still a lot of fun to read.

The Affinity Bridge by George Mann.  Published by Snowbooks, 2008, pp. 350.  Originally published in 2008.

N.B. This is an old review written in 2010 and posted on Goodreads and LibraryThing before I started keeping track of all the books I read here at Old English Rose Reads.  I’ve decided to keep copies here so that this remains a complete record of my reading since I started reviewing books for my own pleasure.

But when Harriet does come home, London has become more dangerous than ever. Her health, her freedom-even her sanity-are under threat. Escape is essential. Can a young, powerless girl change her life? Can she board the Amaryllis without being discovered? Does she realize that if she flees, more than one person will pursue her, literally to the end of the world?  (Goodreads Summary)

It was a rare treat to find a historical novel with the typical stunningly beautiful heroine, magnetically attractive to all men who gaze upon her beauty, which somehow (for reasons which become clear as the novel progresses) managed to avoid being a romance. Not that I have anything against romance, but this certainly made a refreshing change and I found Harriet to be a much more interesting central character for it.

Victorian England isn’t my time period of expertise, but Barbara Ewing certainly seems to know her stuff and, more importanly, how to use it well. There was just enough historical name dropping in the opening sections to root the book firmly in the given era without becoming obtrusive and annoying, after which it was dropped rather than relied upon as a lazy way of indicating “look: this is a historical novel!” Instead, the era was so well evoked and engaging that such clumsy reminders would have been entirely unnecessary.

This was a beautifully written, thoroughly researched book which I really enjoyed reading. The only reason I haven’t given it five stars is because of the way the plot tended towards strings of very suspicious conveniences, some of which required a lot of suspension of disbelief. I know that it’s fiction and such devices are sometimes necessary to get to the desired conclusion, but I would have liked perhaps a tiny bit more subtlety in that respect. Otherwise, an excellent read

The Trespass by Barbara Ewing.  Published by Time Warner, 2003, pp. 408.  Originally published in 2002.

N.B. This is an old review written in 2010 and posted on Goodreads and LibraryThing before I started keeping track of all the books I read here at Old English Rose Reads.  I’ve decided to keep copies here so that this remains a complete record of my reading since I started reviewing books for my own pleasure.