Souvenir Press sent me some books a few months ago, two of which were in their Independent Voices series. I reviewed one by Dilys Powell a week or so ago, here, and found it to be beautifully written and with a wonderful sense of place so that the reader could almost feel they were there. Not the usual travel story, the tale of how the author saved a wreck in France and then sold the rights so that a dreadful film/tv series was made - I am sure you know to what I am referring.
This book by Michael Jenkins is set in Flanders. It was published some 15 years ago and tells of a period in his boyhood, an enchanted summer when he was sent by his father to stay with his aunts. He was fourteen and though he had been dimly aware of the existence of these aunts and their great house in France, not far from the border of Belgium, he had never met them and the war had intervened and severed all contact for many years.
So he goes to visit and he meets his aunts, Yvonne, Florence, Alice, Therese, Lise and his Uncle Auguste and other cousins and relatives. France is not a country I have visited very often and I know little of the countryside, but this opening paragraph caught my imagination immediately:
'In the extreme northern part of France lies the plain of Flanders, a great fertile expanse rolling inland from the sea until it meets a chain of conical hills which, strung out like a necklace of beads, run north over the frontier to Belgium and southwards in the direction of Picardy. The plain is liberally dotted with prosperous looking farms, whose thatched roofs and brick walls merge easily into the landscape while villages with massive church towers look down from the hills over woods and carefully husbanded fields'
I don't know if you remember the Olivier film of Henry V with its stylised backdrops and sets straight from the Book of Hours, but there is a scene in this film where the camera pans out over such a countryside, It is a painted set but beautifully done, and the music being played is Songs of the Auvergne by Canteloupe. This haunting tune came straight into my mind as I read this page and I knew I was going to find this book enchanting.
One by one, Michael comes to know his aunts: Tante Yvonne, the eldest of the sisters, the chatelaine, the head of the family who, as a teenager took over the responsibility of the farm and her family, when both parents died suddenly. She sacrificed a possible marriage, a life of her own and any independent life she may have had to care for her family. She is wise, canny, loving and warm and I fell in love with her within a few pages, as did young Michael.
All the aunts have their own characteristic and foibles: Tante Florence, Yvonne's sister in law whose husband came home from the the First World War a broken man and lived only a few years longer. He had witnessed the death of Antoine, the young brother of Yvonne who was one of those who died pitifully young in the trenches. Tante Alice, rich and wealthy and the owner of many farms, but rather tight fisted and not keen to part with money or to look after her tenants properly until shamed into it by Tante Yvonne. Then there is gentle Tante Lise, profoundly deaf who lives in a world of her own, Oncle Auguste who still nurtures a hatred of the Germans after they took over the estate and who likes a glass of wine or two and thinks he is still at war.
Michael Jenkins devotes a section of his book to each of his relatives and as the summer goes by and there are anecdotes galore and gently,touching stories about his aunts and uncles, all told with enormous affection and love. One of his most interesting acquaintances was not a member of his family. Madame Chaillot was a neighbour who one day decided to take to her bed and she 'liked to spend her days reading or supposedly writing memoirs which in Yvonne's view were unlikely ever to find their way onto the printed page'. She asks Michael what he is reading and when he replies that he is struggling with the Three Musketeers, she snorted 'Rubbish. We must begin to awaken your sensibilities with some real literature. You are old enough now for the greatest romantic tale of this century' and she gives him a copy of Le Grand Meaulnes by Alain-Fournier.
'Half an hour later I was dropping down the path to the house. The afternoon was fading, but not the light and rather than head for the drive I went round to the meadow. There was a bench at the far end under one of the great copper beeches...........I settled down to read and was at once enthralled'
There is a sense of other worldliness in this depiction of this part of the author's boyhood, a feeling that each day was a golden one, full of gentle comings and goings, a life that seemingly had not changed and would always continue.
I was aware that I was nearing the end of this quite lovely book and I slowed down as I did not want to finish it, like Michael I was loathe to acknowledge that my time in Flanders was coming to an end, I wanted to stay. He goes back to his school, reluctantly, but determined to return the following year. He does but it is only to attend Tante Yvonne's funeral and to read the letter she has left for him.
'You should never forget that a strong and united family is a bottomless well of love and support.....from the moment you came to us last summer I knew that you belonged here. You must always look on this house as your home. I am so happy to have known you before leaving for a place where I hope I will be allowed to watch over all those whom I love'
There is a quote from the actor Dirk Bogarde on the cover of A House in Flanders. He lived in France for many years and he says 'this is a radiant book and one I beg you not to overlook. You will pick it up again and again for sheer delight. This is perfect, simple prose at its best'
Yes that is what I was trying to put into words and he has done it for me. He is right - it is sheer delight and it is radiant...
