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Members in attendance: Louise Cavendish, Ginny Atkins, Martina (can’t spell her last name), and Avis Montgomery
Book under discussion:Mrs. Miniverby Jan Struther
From my research, I explained that the book was compiled from a series of newspaper columns published in theTimes. (“Like a comic book made from a bunch of Sunday funnies strung together?” Ginny asked. Close enough.)
Debate then began on whether Mrs. Miniver was a realistic character. Miss Cavendish, who I suppose had some authority, coming from a wealthy family, insisted she was. Ginny was the skeptic, insisting “Nobody’s got time to wander around thinking about flowers and time passing and all.” I—and apparently Martina, because she gave a slight nod—took the middle ground, saying that essays are by nature more reflective than most of us tend to be in real life.
I said I had expected more of the war but hadn’t realized when the book was written. Miss Cavendish pointed out some scenes showing the buildup to war, such as Mrs. Miniver volunteering as an ambulance driver and the digging up of Kensington Gardens. This prompted another rant from Ginny, who described the poster from the upcoming movie, which featured bombers and the ruins of buildings, all completely absent from the book.
When I asked Martina, who hadn’t spoken, for her thoughts, she raised a question of what was meant by this line: “It’s as important to marry the right life as it is the right person.”
Miss Cavendish firmly declared that “married women are often defined by their husbands, and therefore their choice of partner is treated as the most important decision of their lives.” (Said with disdain for those of us bearing a “Mrs.” brand before our names.) Ginny said she figured it meant not tying the knot with “just any looker who can get down on one knee.” She referenced several ill-fated engagements in romance novels to substantiate her point. I cut her off before she could bring any out from the storage room for a dramatic reading.
I was too busy taking notes to have an opinion. Or perhaps I simply don’t know, having married my high-school sweetheart, our families having practically betrothed us since birth.
At this point, conversation stalled. Given the London setting of this read, Louise felt we ought to read something written by an American woman and suggested Emily Dickinson. And by suggested, I mean stated. So it was decided ... without my vote. I don’t care a whit for poetry. We had to memorize loads of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in school, on account of his being born in Maine, and I always forgot my lines. I threw the whole text of “Evangeline” in a bonfire at the end-of-the-year party. That’s when Russell first took notice of me, actually.
We’ll see how Emily fares. I can only hope she’s less long-winded than HWL.
nine
LOUISE
APRIL 23
Louise knew it was childish, but she couldn’t help slamming the door of her study. “What does it take to find competent workers these days?” she demanded.
Jeeves, the only other occupant of the room in his bed by the fireplace, answered with a sympathetic whine. He leaped up as she stormed over to the bookshelf that once displayed her father’s personal library and now held her painting supplies, his tail wagging in delight. The termman’s best frienddisplayed the usual male arrogance by assuming women didn’t find happiness in the creatures’ unconditional affection.
Even giving him a requisite pat on the head made her feel better and helped her put the contractor’s warnings out of her mind. “We’ll show him, won’t we?” she said, satisfied that Jeeves, at least, would always see things her way.
The meeting with the contractor this morning had been a disaster. Before she’d given him the tour of the building, he’d warned her that the work required would be extensive. Afterward, he shook his head with a deep frown, listing off the library’s flaws. Plumbing would need to be installed, the balcony blocked off, as stairs would be a safety hazard to the little ones. The library’s heating was inadequate for a nursery school, andit would be months before a construction crew would be able to begin. “It’s just not suited for a renovation like this.”
He’s wrong, she insisted, taking the canvas apron from its golden hook and knotting it around her waist. All she wanted were some simple, functional modifications. Even in wartime, it couldn’t be too much to ask. The library was the building she had, and so it was what they would use.
Painting would help. The art lessons Aunt Eleanor had insisted on as part of an old-fashioned idea of an accomplished lady had been the one piece of that sham Louise had appreciated.
As she removed her hog-hair brushes one by one, she noticed a book beside her wooden case of oils. Delphie must have set it out, knowing the book club discussion was coming up.Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson, the title on the faded green binding declared.
No need to borrow this one from the library or order it from town. It and a few others were old friends. She turned the pages, and the book fell open to one poem in particular.
She quoted it from memory while tying on her paint-smeared canvas apron and opening the north window to let in some fresh air.
Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you’re lagging,
I may remember him!
