My first encounter with the name ‘Sarah Waters’ was
relatively inconsequential. I had never heard of her and her novels, despite
her being an international best seller and myself a voracious reader. I am
ashamed of this now. I am embarrassed
that I attended a Grazia writing event with Waters on the interview panel and
wasn’t filled with admiration and awe. I am embarrassed that, when given the
chance to buy her novels at the end of the talk, and have them signed by her,
that I did not take up this opportunity. Yes, I could only afford one and I
chose ‘Elizabeth is Missing’ by Emma Healy (an incredible novel-I will return
to this at a later date) but I am appalled that I didn’t stretch to two. I will
write more about that evening at a later date as it was a truly inspirational
experience. But for now, Sarah Waters and her sixth novel ‘The Paying Guests’.
I was originally
drawn to the book firstly, because it is set in 1922 and I have a ridiculously
romanticized idea of that era (when the world of cinema and fashion finally
caught the ‘Great Gatsby’ bug I practically rolled around in a pile of sequin
dresses and cried). Secondly because of the blurb line ‘Secrets are confessed,
dangerous desires admitted; the most ordinary of lives, it seems, can explode
into passion and drama’. Oh golly! As someone who tends to spend most of her
spare time curled up on the sofa in pyjamas, I love to live vicariously through
characters. And what better way to kid myself that I could lead such an
exciting life, full of complexity and fervour? So 1920s setting and the promise
of excitement. I grabbed myself a coffee, donned my slipper boots and set to
it.
The novel is intoxicating and I can think of no better way
to describe it. The protagonist, Frances, and her mother are forced to take in lodgers after the deaths of the males in their household during the first world war. Surrounding them, Waters depicts a world trying to piece itself back together, and characters who are unsure how to behave now the carpet of long established social norms has been ripped from under them. With the waiting and the subsequent arrival of the 'paying guests', a young, modern and colourful couple Mr and Mrs Barbour, an
undercurrent of anxiety is already established. This
butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling, a torrent of unanswered questions swirling
around inside, sets the tone for a novel that will keep you continuously
anxious and utterly consumed in their lives. Questions like- what on earth has
Frances let herself in for? And- why the subtle yet sensual description of Mrs
Barbour’s lips on page 6? As the novel progresses, the lives of the characters
become intertwined, messily and haphazardly, and you are right there with them-
peeking out of Frances’ slowly neglected parlour and watching. It is difficult
to fully describe the tremendous pull and affinity you feel with these
characters without ruining several of the most pivotal moments but I can say
this. When you get to those moments, you will be unable to peel yourself away.
Those butterflies-in-your-stomach that
fluttered away quite happily at the start, will become violent and clawing.
Water’s writing is thorough, tense, consuming and utterly sensual. A game of snakes and ladders takes on a sinister edge and emits a darkness that fails to dissipate.
Mrs Barbour, or Lillian as we come to know her as, is vivid and intoxicating. She
is voluptuous, like ‘treacle’ and we are made to adore her. Frances is a myriad
of attributes; selfless, bold, introverted and brisk, yet fervent. We follow
her narrative as if it were our own and swim without shame in her secrets.
The novel took me a week or so to read but every moment I
snatched felt intimate and secretive; like I was indulging myself in a way I
shouldn’t be. And I haven’t felt that way with a book for a good while. My
request to my boyfriend of ‘anything at all by Sarah Waters’ for my stocking
fillers should be enough of a testament. So, Sarah Waters. I apologise for
overlooking you at the Grazia event. I am now whole heartedly yours.
 |
| The author, Sarah Waters |
Page 99 snapshot:
“She offered her arm, meaning the gesture playfully, but Mrs
Barbour caught hold of it and let herself be pulled upright, laughing again as
she found her balance; it seemed natural, after that, to remain with their arms
linked. They went down the steps and into the sunlight, wondering where to make
for next. The little encounter with the man had put the polish back on the day.
But they were conscious of the time. Somehow, an hour and a
half had passed. They thought of returning to the tennis courts for a final
look at the match- but at last, with reluctance, decided that they ought to
head home. They climbed the slope of the park, paused again to admire the
bluebells; then were back on the dusty pavement.”
The reason for this blog is twofold- I read an astounding
number of books and very rarely get to share my opinions on them, and I am
desperately in need of ‘something else’. As an English teacher, I spend a large
portion of my life dragging disinterested adolescents through the hoops of
their GCSE and I am starting to question whether I am selfless enough for this
career. More on my mid twenties crisis another time, but in short, I need to
have my ‘me’ moments. I read as much as I can (when I’m not falling asleep on
the sofa with the cats and hiding from my mountain of coursework marking) but
that’s not enough. I write when I don’t feel guilty for doing so instead of
lesson planning, but that’s not enough. This seems to be a pretty decent way to
merge the two- I can have my own miniscule section of the internet where my own
desires and thoughts can be heard for once.
So now just a little about me. I live in a rural village about a 40 minute train ride from
London (where everyone I have ever known is gradually sneeking off to) with my
boyfriend and my two cats; one of which is named after a stupendously famous
Fitzgerald character. I spend most of my spare time hiding from life by reading
books and wearing reindeer patterned pyjamas. I love coffee and Friends, Girls
and marmite. I love knitwear, sequins and velvet and have an unhealthy
obsession with scarves. And that’s all you get for now.
This blog will hopefully be a little cluster of several
things- many a review on a book or two and casual chats about life and its
little intricacies. I feel that book reviews around tend to be very wordy and
impersonal. Almost as if the writer feels they have to prove their knowledge of
literature by deconstructing every nuance of the text and then slamming it down
for one reason or another. Normally ones that are so high brow you want to cry.
Yes I like to think I know my stuff reasonably well
when it comes to English based bits and pieces ( a degree and teaching A Level
will do that for you) but that’s not why I read. I do it because of the
experience, the effect a book can have on you. And you very rarely get that
with a broadsheet review- no matter how many fancy words they use.
You will also get a ‘Page 99’ snapshot. Now. This is one of
those things that I have read and for some reason or another, it has lodged its
way firmly in my head. Like that comment made flippantly by my Year 8 English
teacher that you should “Always give a book 100 pages. If it hasn’t caught your
heart by then, move on”. I read about
‘Page 99’ in a copy of Elle magazine.
The idea is that you can turn to page 99 and get a pretty decent idea of the
novel and its preoccupations. I don’t completely agree with this, but I think it’s
a cute idea enabling you to read a part of the text you may not have come
across otherwise.
