THE BRONTES WENT TO WOOLWORTHS

How I loathe that kind of novel which is about a lot of sisters. It is usually called They Were Seven, or Three—Not Out, and one spends one’s entire time trying to sort them all, and muttering, “Was it Isobel who drank, or Gertie? And which was it who ran away with the gigolo, Amy or Pauline? And which of their separated husbands was Lionel, Isobel’s or Amy’s?”

Katrine and I often grin over that sort of book, and choose which sister we’d be, and Katrine always tries to bag the drink one.

If the opening lines don’t render you instantly smitten with this obscure 1931 novel by Rachel Ferguson, you are dead inside made of sterner stuff than I. For me, this was like catnip. It certainly didn’t hurt that the next paragraph was:

A woman at one of mother’s parties once said to me, “Do you like reading?” which smote us all to silence, for how could one tell her that books are like having a bath or sleeping, or eating bread—absolute necessities which one never thinks of in terms of appreciation. And we all sat waiting for her to say that she had so little time for reading, before ruling her right out for ever and ever.

Snarky and a readaholic? Yep, I’m in love. Our narrator is Deirdre Carne, a journalist; her eccentric and imaginative family consists of her widowed mother and two younger sisters, actress Katrine and (home)schoolgirl Sheil. The Carnes’ shared hobby is telling each other richly detailed stories about fictional characters (the girls’ old dolls, for instance) as well as actual people who fascinate them (including Judge Toddington, who presided in the courtroom where Mrs. Carne once did jury duty). But reality and fantasy collide when Deirdre meets Mrs. Toddington in person, and the two families’ efforts to get acquainted are complicated by the fact that in the Carnes’ minds, “Toddy” has been a beloved friend for years.

This is a highly idiosyncratic book, and it takes some getting used to. Ferguson/Deirdre plunges you into her story with as little explanation as possible, and for the first few chapters I had no clue what was supposed to be real and what was supposed to be imaginary. Coupled with the 1930s slang/Britishisms/cultural references, it was as disorienting as a sci-fi book about an alien planet. I started the book on my homeward train commute, mentally exhausted after a long day, and got so confused I had to start it all over again the next day (it did become clearer upon rereading). Even once you think you’ve straightened out the truth and fantasy, the book still throws some weird curveballs—most notably, the actual ghosts of the Bronte sisters show up midway through. But the Carnes are so warm and witty, and their adventures so interesting and funny, I would happily follow them anywhere. Hilarity abounds, particularly as the kind Toddingtons discover and adorably play along with the imagined versions of themselves, but there’s also poignancy to balance out all the whimsy. As their friendship deepens, it becomes clear that not only are the childless Toddingtons charmed by the Carnes, but the girls’ obsession with imagining dear friendships with inanimate objects and strangers reveals a certain loneliness as well. And the sinister Bronte ghosts, coupled with young Sheil’s touching failure to comprehend that her family’s stories are only stories, lend a hint of darker themes.

This book reminded me a bit of a bizarro I Capture the Castle, though without the romance. It’s a great addition to my growing repertoire of quiet, humorous early-twentieth-century novels, which is fast becoming my favorite genre, perhaps because in addition to the pleasure of reading them I get all the thrill of the chase, as so many gems are out of print (god bless my public library with its musty collection of relics!). The Brontes Went to Woolworths was an extra-great discovery for me because it introduced me to the Bloomsbury Group, which specializes in republishing exactly this type of book (and in handsome designs that makes me yearn to collect the whole set), thus giving me a slew of delightful-looking titles to add to my “to be read” list. A’s mother thoughtfully bought this one and another off my Amazon wish list for Christmas, and if the rest of the Bloomsbury Group books are half as good as this one, I’ll be in heaven. (Alas, the very nice Bloomsbury Group website, which handily listed all the imprint’s titles in one place, seems to have been absorbed into the larger, terribly user-unfriendly Bloomsbury Publishing site since the last time I checked, so I’ll link you to Amazon instead.)

Still not sold? Here’s one last winsome, book-loving quote from Deirdre:

Three years ago I was proposed to. I could not accept the man, much as I liked him, because I was in love with Sherlock Holmes. For Holmes and his personality and brain I had a force of feeling which, for the time, converted living men to shadows….

I’m through with Holmes now, but I often think that he and I could have hit it off wonderfully well in Baker Street, as I am not at all demanding, and rather love old clothes and arm-chairs, and silence, and smoking, and dispassionate flights of pure reason.