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One Year’s Time by Angela Milne

Girls have always been told that their duty is to ‘get a man’, and to do so they must please him by putting him first in everything. The main character in One Year’s Time is Liza Brett, a single young woman, living in London in the 1930s, and not interested in acquiring a husband. She meets and falls in love with Walter. As their relationship progresses, they plan to spend the summer together and Liza reassures Walter:

‘… it would be rather nice to be a fallen woman. I think sin is lovely.’ (45)

The reader is presented with the development of their relationship over twelve months. We see her giving way to him in small and large matters, her growing wish for marriage and their ultimate unhappiness.

One Year’s Time

Time dominates this novel, as the title suggests. But this is not referring to the time in which they are living, for although there is a fleeting reference to a coming war, the geopolitical context does not feature. Rather it’s about how the main character spends her time in trivial and unimportant activities: at first in an office for a company whose function is never revealed; then during a rural retreat she spends her days in domestic pursuits, playing at being a wife and a housewife; the days of her summer holiday are counted down until she can return to Walter and London; this pattern intensifies through their year together. 

When Walter says he will go abroad without her, she spends the remainder of the summer with her aunt’s family. On his return he takes up a live-in job at a prep school to earn more money to finish his training, and she hardly sees him. The relationship ends in her flat (which she has reclaimed) a year after it started. He wants his freedom. She had wanted him to propose marriage.

Walter’s selfishness is gradually revealed. He calls her ‘ducky’, which even accounting for changing idioms over time, sounds disrespectful. He has a habit of flicking her neck. When they rent a cottage in the countryside they find there are two beds.

She turned over and saw the back of Walter’s head in the next bed, which was a few inches higher than hers, and a good deal softer. Walter had said ‘I’ll have the camp-bed, ducky. I can sleep on floors, and it wouldn’t be much harder.’
Liza had said, ‘No darling, I’ll have it. You’re bigger and you kick more.’ And now, whenever she saw the beds, she thought, Walter’s got the best bed. Yes, that sort of unselfishness was only cowardice, and selfishness, in equal proportions, no, cowardice and selfishness were two words for the same thing. (92) 

It is not entirely clear from this passage whether Liza sees her generosity to Walter as cowardice and a form of selfishness. Walter’s selfishness is not in doubt. The dysfunctionality of their relationship is beginning to be revealed.

Walter’s selfishness becomes more and more evident as he persuades Liza that it would be best if he left her to her own devices for the rest of the summer while he went abroad, and ultimately that he will not marry her because it would cramp his freedom. 

At last, the reader thinks, when she tells him some truths in their final quarrel. It begins when she says that she wanted ‘something beautiful’ from their relationship. Walter replies,

‘And what do you think I wanted?’
‘The same as I did.’ She was swept with a wave of anger. ‘And someone to cook your dinners, and iron your suits. Yes, I know that’s a lie. I know all about unselfishness being selfish. Everything I say comes back on me. It always does.’ (260)

Up to now she has met his anger with fear and backs down, and even now she nearly caves in again, but recovers enough to assert herself. 

‘Some people are wise and don’t mind growing up. You’re not wise. You’re – you’re nothing but an escapist.’ And she was very frightened indeed. She had said something he didn’t want to know about himself.
Walter moved. She heard him stand up, and waited with a sinking misery, for his voice. It came.
‘All right. Now we are throwing the china.’
‘Oh, darling.’ She turned round for the first time. ‘I didn’t mean it. I don’t want you to be anything you aren’t. Only I can’t bear this any longer. Say yes or no, and we’ll get married, or we’ll never see each other again.’ (262)

Finally, thinks the reader, finally you have stood up for yourself, finally you have said what you will and won’t put up with. It is painful for them both, for despite the abusiveness of the relationship, to which she contributed by giving in all the time, they loved each other.

One Year’s Time is not about whether it is wrong to ‘live in sin’, or undesirable to be described as a ‘Batchelor Girl’. It is about forming grown-up relationships. While Walter has neglected her, Liza has met David, and it is obvious that he is a better match for her, although he has gone to America to work for a couple of months. 

Although the reader hears a great deal of Liza’s inner voice, as these extracts indicate, this novel is narrated in the third person, but the point of view never leaves Liza. We read about her excitement at the start of the relationship, and the dilemmas of having to pretend to be married when ‘living in sin’ is a public statement. We see her rationalising the need to endure absence, and the counting down of days and even hours until she might see Walter again. 

Angela Milne had flair in her writing. I noticed as I typed out the quotations featuring the couple’s interactions, how skilfully she creates gaps in their exchanges, beats in the scene. Angela Milne only wrote one novel, using her literary talent for shorter pieces in Punch and reviews in the ObserverOne Year’s Time was published in 1942, during the Second World War. Angela Milne undertook war work in the Women’s Land Army and the Ministry of Information. Later she married and had two children. She lived until 1990.

I read this novel after reading about it on JacquiWine’s Journal. She welcomed this new addition to the British Library Women Writers’ series in January 2024. 

One Year’s Time by Angela Milne, first published in 1942. Re-issued in the British Library Women Writers in 2023. 275pp

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The Dry Heart by Natalia Ginzburg

Natalia Ginzburg was a writer with a very direct and precise style. Here are the first lines of The Dry Heart:

‘Tell me the truth,’ I said.
‘What truth?’ he echoed. He was making a rapid sketch in his notebook and now he showed me what it was: a long, long train with a big cloud of black smoke swirling over it and himself leaning out of the window to wave a handkerchief.
I shot him between the eyes. (1)

Just over 100 pages later this scene is retold. In the pages between the unnamed narrator describes her meeting with Alberto, their walks together, how they married and how the marriage fell apart, all within four years.

This intense and rather shocking novella is newly available in the translation from the Italian by Frances Frenaye, published by Daunt Books. Here is my response to it as part of Women in Translation Month 2023.

The Dry Heart

This novel was first published in 1940, in Italian. The blurb makes a great deal of the anonymous narrator’s apparently casual attitude to the murder she commits, (‘she shoots her husband and walks to a café for a coffee’) – cool as you like. But it quickly becomes clear that she is not level-headed, or cold-blooded. She has been suffering in an exceedingly dreadful marriage. Unlike many novels containing murder, this one does not leave you wondering who committed the crime, or how it was done. That cleared out of the way, the narrator goes to have her coffee and the reader gets to think about why she might have done such a dreadful thing. What is the truth of this event?

In concise, spare and unbroken narrative, the anonymous wife describes their meeting, four years before, their subsequent marriage, and descent into awfulness. Alberto has a long-term lover and is unable to stop himself leaving the narrator periodically to meet up with Giovanna. 

They appeared unsuited from the start. He is much older than her: 40 to her 26. She is much taller than him. She is lonely in the city where she has come from a rural background to teach in a school. He is a confident city-dweller and enjoys showing her around. She finds pleasure in her time with Alberto, and believes she is falling in love. She is surprised that he makes no affectionate move towards her and challenges him. He too has enjoyed their talks and walks together and is lonely himself as his mother has just died. He agrees to marry her. They live in his mother’s house.

In due course they have a daughter who, like her mother, is never named. But although Alberto is affectionate towards the child their lives become more separate, until the death of the child when she is about 2 years old. Alberto comforts his wife in her grief, but soon takes up his old ways. As he is about the leave her again for time with Giovanna the narrator challenges him. She asks for the truth, and not getting it she shoots him between the eyes. Thus it begins and ends. A tough novella about a marriage that should never have happened and ended in murder.

In part it is a novel that describes loneliness, of both husband and wife. Here she describes being alone and without confidence when she first arrived in the city.

When a girl is very much alone and leads a tiresome and monotonous existence, with worn gloves and very little spending money, she may let her imagination run wild and find herself defenceless before all the errors and pitfalls which imagination has devised to deceive her. I was a weak and unarmed victim of imagination as I read Ovid to eighteen girls huddled in a cold classroom or ate my meals in the dingy boarding house dining room, peering out through the yellow window panes as I waited for Alberto to take me out walking or to a concert. (6-7)

After spending her summer holidays with her parents she returns to the city. She has not heard from Alberto. He does not call. She explains that this is how she fell in love with him: imagining his life, what he is doing, becoming obsessed with him, ‘sitting all powdered and primped in my boarding house bedroom’ waiting for him to appear. 

Alberto is older than his wife, but no wiser, and unable to extricate himself from his lover. They live two lives separately, in separate beds after the birth of the daughter. He disappears periodically. She sees her life narrow to the care of their baby. She has little idea of an alternative to her life. Her cousin Francesca tries to persuade her to leave Alberto.

‘Let’s go for a trip somewhere. He’s a little rat of a man. What good is he to you?’
‘I love him,’ I said, ‘and then there’s the baby.’
‘But he’s deceiving you. He does it in the most blatant sort of way. I see them together sometimes. She has a behind like a cauliflower. Nothing much to look at.’ (54)

The spare, intense prose makes direct contact with the reader. There is little reported speech, and few names. Not only do we never discover the names of the narrator and her daughter, but the city is not identified either. And although the Second World War had been over for three years before the book’s publication, it seems to have left no shadow on this book, not on the story anyway. No one is reported to have died, or been imprisoned, and the city has not been damaged. The war does not appear to have been in any character’s backstory.

Leone and Natalia Ginzburg before February 1944 when Leone Ginzburg died. Source unknown via wikicommons

The absence is strange, for the author had not had a comfortable time during the war, being known to have left-wing tendencies, and to be Jewish. Her first husband was tortured for his activities against the Fascist regime resulting in his death in 1944. They had three children.

There are also some lighter moments in this bleak account. In the boarding house where the narrator lives when she first came to the city, she imagines the pleasures of her own establishment as a contrast to how she lives.

The boarding house was gloomy, with dark hangings and upholstery, and in the room next to mine a colonel’s widow knocked on the wall with a hairbrush every time I opened the window or moved a chair. I had to get up early … The colonel’s widow knocked furiously on the wall while I moved about the room looking for my clothes, and in the bathroom the landlady’s hysterical daughter screeched like a peacock while they gave her a warm shower which was supposed to calm her down. (6)

Such vivid details add authenticity to this account.

Jacquiwine’s review in July 2023 is enthusiastic and points to the humour in the novel.

The Dry Heart by Natalia Ginzburg was first published in Italian as È stato cosi in 1949. The English translation by Frances Frenaye was published in 1949. I used the edition by Daunt Books published in 2021. 108pp

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The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark

We know we are in for an interesting read when we find this near the start of the novel:

As they realised themselves in varying degrees, few people alive at the time were more delightful, more ingenious, more movingly lovely, and, as it might happen, more savage, than the girls of slender means. (9)

The time is 1945. The ‘savage’ girls live in the May of Teck Club which exists for

The Pecuniary Convenience and Social Protection of Ladies of Slender Means below the age of Thirty Years …(9)

This is my second contribution to #ReadingMuriel2018, hosted by Heavenali. Memento Mori had older people as its subjects while The Girls of Slender Means are young. I plan to reading more of Muriel Spark’s work – she wrote 22 novels – in this anniversary year of her birth.

The story of The Girls of Slender Means

The events in the Club in Kensington occur between VE Day and VJ Day in 1945, but also at a later date. A number of young women live in the Club, on the lower floors in dormitories but increasing in social standing as the accommodation rises to the fourth floor. There are many young women, and our attention is drawn in particular to Selina the beautiful one, Jane the fat one doing ‘brain’ work and Joanna who, having failed in love has come to London and teaches elocution. Joanna recites poetry throughout. There are lesser characters, such as the older women including Greggie who manages the garden and claims there is an UXB buried there.

The young women are obsessed with having a good time now and expect their futures, with suitable young men, to come along in due course.

Love and money were the vital themes in all the bedrooms and dormitories. (26)

Men are attracted to the hostel. Nicholas Farringdon is a poet philosopher ne’er-do-well. We learn that after the events of the novel he converted to Catholicism and martyred in Haiti. This is reported by Jane to one of the other survivors of the disaster at the May of Teck Cub.

Jane is employed by a dodgy publisher to write letters to authors so that he can sell their replies. You know he is dodgy because he changes his name every two years and has abandoned two of his three wives. Jane’s activities are referred to, by her, as brain work. Her employer asks her to investigate Farringdon and so he comes to the Club and falls for Selina. None of the young women really have a handle on the world, and they are too naïve to know it. Jane, for example, naïve in 1945, is really on the make as much as her publisher boss. In the later time frame of the novel, after Farringdon’s death, we find she is collecting material for a feature on him.

There is a role for a Schiaparelli dress, passed around the young women for various activities and stolen by Selina under cover of the chaos of the building as it collapses.

And there is a part for a skylight out onto a flat roof. The girls are forbidden to use it, but some of the most slender are able to slip through the opening, others have to smear their bodies with cold cream or margarine. It is the focus of the climax of the novel.

Some reactions

I really enjoyed Muriel Sparks’s spikey style. Her descriptions of people nearly always include a twist, undercutting what on the surface.

Her description of war-battered London is a marvel of compression. Here is the novel’s opening paragraph:

Long ago in 1945 all the nice people in England were poor, allowing for exceptions. The streets of the cities were lined with buildings in bad repair or in no repair at all, bomb-sites piled with stony rubble, houses like giant teeth in which decay had been drilled out, leaving only the cavity. Some bomb-ripped buildings looked like the ruins of ancient castles until, at a closer view, the wall-papers of various quite normal rooms would be visible, room above room, exposed, as on a stage, with one wall missing; sometimes a lavatory chain would dangle over nothing from a fourth- or fifth-floor ceiling; most of all the staircases survived, like a new art-form, leading up and up to an unspecified destination that made unusual demands on the mind’s eye. All the nice people were poor; at least, that was a general axiom, the best of the rich being poor in spirit. (7)

And the novel ends with the words ‘long ago in 1945’ (142). The focus is on the poverty of spirit of the young women emphasised in those not so far off days.

A review in the New York Times in 1963 by Virgilia Peterson points to the qualities of this novel, at the time of its publication.

A review that captures the social nuances of the May of Teck Club can be found on Jacquiwine’s Journal blog (from July 2017).

The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark (1963) Penguin 142pp

More Muriel Spark

The first of my contributions to #ReadingMuriel2018 was Memento Mori by Muriel Spark first published in 1959. I read the Virago version.

In May/June I will read and report on a novel by Muriel Spark from the ‘70s. Any recommendations?

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