trennels | Readthrough: Ready Made Family: Chapters 1-4 (Reply)

Again, my apologies for only just squeezing this in on the scheduled Friday (in my time-zone).

The first sentence is splendid, just as Austenesque as it needs to be. Trennels really is rather posh, isn't it? As well as being the domestic equivalent of the TARDIS.

Lawrie's partiality for Megs Jenkins had me briefly imagining her in later life having a series of deeply-bosomed, rather matronly older girlfriends, but maybe she's just making a serious study of character acting.

How very Karen is the suggestion of Persuasion, and how very Nicola to take her up on it. Is anyone of the Nicola, erm, persuasion when it come to Laws of Reading? I confess I don't like not finishing books, but if I encounter something utterly uncongenial, my dodgy attention span usually makes the decision for me, and I find I'm taking nothing in at all: I clearly don't have the Marlow grit. The novel will, of course, become a symbol for Nicola's maturation during this Easter holidays.

Nicolantha, seventh child! (This has been your regularly scheduled fic prompt, though to an extent

ankaret has anticipated us all.) Still, it ties in nicely with Nicola's tendency to superstition.

The naval signals always delight me, though I can quite see how irritating they would be in the real.

Karen's evasiveness about her reasons for being at home is nicely done, I think; and Nicola's speculation about it. The telegraphic nature of Nicola's conversation with Rowan is ironically set off by the latter's irritation with the oft-repeated 'Psalm 91: 7'.

Karen's 'Baby it's cold outside' makes me think of her and Edwin duetting on it, which, urrrgh. (I'm not really an Edwin fan, I'm afraid, but ymmv.)

Doris's "Mince was all the boy had that Auntie fancied," is another marvellous sentence. I'm sure Miss Kempe would disagree, but it's perfectly grammatical and idiomatic. Actually, this passage is full of little verbal gems. Nicola's 'I am a sad case of day-starvation' sounds like a quotation, but I don't recognise it; does anyone? I also like 'It's not usually as British Railways as this...' tautologically and paradoxically describing a late train.

The three sisters' different personalities (as well as the full range of earnest teenage concern) are succinctly summarised in the sentence beginning 'Nineteen and Sixteen...': Nicola copes with a sort of robust facing-up to the fact of the rest of the family's lateness, while simply refusing to believe anything untoward; Karen rattled and indecisive, Ann occupying a middle ground. How gloriously Marlovian is Nicola's reflection that the worst thing about an accident would be having to deal with Karen's fretting and Ann's reasonable goodness. One might lose half the family and cope, but the embarrassment of Karen in a dither and Ann dutifully pious: insupportable!

Not that I have any time for people who interfere with the railways, but Nicola sharing Mrs Bertie's hang-'em-and-flog-'em sentiments comes as a bit of a surprise.

Lawrie's echolalic response is interesting, isn't it: a touch of relieved hysteria?

The mention of the Thuggery is notable for Nicola's taking Peter and Patrick's side: perhaps she has heard altogether too much of Lawrie's version over the last few weeks at school. It would be interesting to know what Nicola thought of the whole escapade: 'and mostly Patrick' suggests admiration for his courage but is demonstrably untrue--if any one of them did smash the gang it was Lawrie, in that she at least got finally the police involved, albeit not as speedily or effectively as she might've.

Karen drops her bombshell. I love Mrs Marlow's sharp distinction between an engagement and an imminent marriage, and Lawrie's gloriously dozy (or is it?) why the hurry?, and Mrs Marlow's unsettled response to that. Her stumbling over what to call him--on the one hand he is her daughter's fiancé and Christian names are called for, on the other she's never met him--does a great deal to indicate disquiet, I think.

I do feel for Karen, confronted by her family's unconcealed and utter dismay, but honestly, what does she think she's at? There is a discussion thread here with some valuable reflections. She's going to marry this bloke and she's done the maths to the extent of working out the age-gap but never reflected that he's over twice her age (which is all Nicola says, after all). She's never bothered to enquire about the circumstances that caused his first wife to leave him--Ginty's speculation that he might be violent is tactlessly phrased, certainly, but not, as it turns out, exactly wrong. He does, however, seem to have made it clear to Karen that his split from Rosemary was not entirely irrevocable. And I think Mrs Marlow's right: gossip aside, it does look rather callous to charge down the aisle with a widower of a month's standing. This does seem don't touch with three ten-foot poles laid end to end territory, and her angry response does rather suggest that Karen knows it. So then, why does she do it?

But there is more to come, with the revelation of the three Dodd children. Forest plays off the genuinely ominous--Edwin's poor relationship with his parents-in-law, his belief that they are turning the children against him--with Lawrie's farcical speculations on family spacing and nomenclature.

Enter Rowan, to whom Lawrie's greeting is another little verbal delight. Lawrie does seem a trifle demented in this chapter, rushing off to tell Doris about Mr Tranter's stroke. I really feel for Rowan here--she must have got quite close to Mr Tranter over the past few months, and she certainly depends on him (odd that Nicola knows his sister's name and she doesn't, though?) and she's had to both try and support Mrs Tranter and put up with Gert's rudeness (which is probably deflected concern for her brother, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with).

The counterpointing in these chapters is done with a lovely subtle hand, I think: the false alarm over Mrs Marlow, Lawrie and Ginty's safety is contrasted with the Dodd children's loss of their mother (as Nicola reflects); Karen's failure to cope even with the minor upset of the late train mirrors Mrs Tranter's unexpected falling to pieces at a much more serious one, and contrasts with Rowan's comprehensive coping mechanism (as Mrs Marlow points out, she could have rung up to the house on the off-chance someone might have been there to help, but it didn't even occur to her) which seems to be Driving Her to Drink (Gert's indignant teetotalism providing another contrast). Meanwhile, the whole family is rather failing to cope with the Karen situation in a way which might help the poor lass see sense.

Mind you, Karen's being fairly madly unreasonable about it all, culminating in her request, which she doesn't even manage to articulate--the ever-frank Rowan coming to her aid--to live at Trennels. It appears she's made rather unwise assurances to Edwin that of course it'll be all right to lodge with the in-laws. But is this situation plausible? Are we to assume that there is absolutely no house or flat to rent in Streweminster? The house in Oxford is surely sufficient capital for Edwin to get something in the nature of a bridging loan to cover expenses while the Oxford house put on the market (or didn't those exist in 1967?)

And then the final revelation--Edwin has been a distinctly reluctant bridegroom. I imagine that what's gone on here is that Edwin, still on the rebound from Rosemary, met Karen, they became closer, and at some point, perhaps after Rosemary's death, they fell into bed. They both--perhaps in slightly different ways determined by age and class--assume this means engagement, though Edwin seems to have done his damnedest to imply that it really, really needn't necessarily, short of actually being enough of a swine to sleep with the girl and then tell her emphatically marriage is absolutely not on the cards.

Rowan's candour (whisky-aided or not) is almost too painful to take here, particularly since it's earlier implied that she's the only member of the family Karen might have been close enough to to confide in re the Edwin situation. Their estrangement, amplified by Karen's (frankly appalling, I think) behaviour over the old farmhouse, begins here.

This is a favourite chapter of mine.

The twins suddenly needing the babyish comfort of a shared bath is very touching, and 'luxurious infant hippopotami' is a fantastic phrase. Nicola immediately sees through Ginty's scorn to her similar need for reassurance. Ginty's 'relish' of Rowan's remark is psychologically astute, as is, I think her sense of disbelief that Karen really would go through with something so unromantic.

Lawrie might not be wide of the mark in suggesting that Karen's decision is partially driven by intellectual uncertainty; and perhaps by social overwhelm too.

Ann's entrance is perfectly characteristic, and her 'welly icky' theory. Naturally, each of the sisters' reasoning says more about them than it does about Karen. Karen being from different perspectives both young and old for her age is also a rather nice observation--and her nightwear contrasted with Ginty's is a lovely bit of bye-writing.

Nicola, we might note, pays more attention to Current Affairs than her sisters and her mother, and has anticipated the hostility that might be directed her way if she pointed out that one or two balloons are going up in South-East Asia at the mo. Nicola pointing out inconvenient facts has already become a bit of a routine.

Ginty is still quite fixated on the Brontës; the vision of a Kingscote-themed wedding is one to relish; and the air of farce is intensified as well as punctured by Mrs Marlow's entrance.

It's Lawrie who notes that the family failed to offer even the most perfunctory congratulations; Ginty's reflection that Karen presented the affair as hopeless from the start is pretty accurate too. Pam's too-salient thought process from 'if someone told me that this was the swinging zingy fun way to do it' via Nicola's 'Kay's as square as they come' to Anthony Merrick doing the giving away is a delight. And Ginty's fantasy of the Merricks at the wedding is a fine extension of that. By the way, can we have a little hoarse shout of appreciation for Forest's stylish 3rd person omniscient voice here, giving us a multiplicity of viewpoints without the feeling of being jarred from one headspace to another?

Lawrie's worldliness and Mrs Marlow's crunch of it provides a wonderful lead into the story of Geoff and Pam's courtship. I think I've said before that I'm fascinated by the hints of a grand (and continuing--remember how she hotfoots it to Farrant in TMATT for a dirty weekend, abandoning the kids?) passion that lies behind the respectable exterior of Captain and Mrs Marlow (this has been your regular, scheduled &c.: this fic has a thrilling one-sentence evocation of it, but there must be more to be said.)

Oh, Ginty. No doubting the Merrick Boy's courage, given the events of last half term, but it doesn't lie in that direction, does it? And I love Lawrie immediately translating the scene into the movies.

Ginty and Nicola's uncomfortable confrontation over Persuasion is a nice development from Ginty's fantasies: Nicola's 'Then I understand it' is rather devastating, in the circs, and takes us back to Nicola's pain in Peter's Room.

Rowan--the whole household is now in the bathroom, picture it!--enters with uncomfortable news again; the second slammed door might, one reflects, herald Rowan having her version of a jolly good cry. The closing reflections on what Mr Tranter means to Trennels and its inmates strike me as pitilessly honest and accurate about the sorts of relationships that build between employers and employees: he's regarded with affection, but dehumanised, seen almost as a piece of furniture, and so it is perhaps not accidental that Lawrie (votary of the hall-stand) voices her particularly illogical qualm that they shan't be able to stay. And at the same moment we note that Lawrie--and presumably by extension the whole family--have now thoroughly settled into Trennels, and regard it as home.

Erk, bread and brown sugar. Anyone else tried this gritty non-delicacy for Research Purposes? Just you wait until we get to orange-juice-and-cream.

Karen Anstruther Gabriel Marlow. My word.

Rowan gets her own back in dept. the biblical references: I suppose she primarily means 'But others fell on good ground, sprang up, and yielded a crop a hundredfold.', but the verse continues: 'When He had said these things He cried, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear!”' which does seem all sorts of appropriate for Rowan, whose good sense is universally acknowledged and rarely heeded. And here her predicament is awfully stark: she's sure she can't cope and yet keeps on keeping on, with Nicola as her only off-the-record confidante. Little hint of squirish entitlement in the pressure the Marlows put on Mr Tranter to stay on, presumably to the detriment of his health.

Rowan and Nicola's compact over the farm logs, to be used as a possible means of détente with Edwin if he doesn't turn out too ghastly, implies the family silences and complexities that Nicola then evokes explicitly with her cauldron metaphor. As if the Marlows didn't have enough secrets and unspoken boundaries.

Giles's bear Nelson! (Does it make me like The Odious Giles? No, what sort of sentimental fool do you think I am? but it's touching, and I must work it into a fic sometime.) And Nicola slinking away and leaving most of the work to Lawrie suggests the extent to which family dynamics have been inverted and overturned by Karen's impending marriage.

Mrs Marlow's reference to the wedding as a 'wretched little affair', her need for retail therapy ('To buy anything') and her windiness over the train are all peculiarly endearing, I think. Anyone fancy writing Ginty's wedding, with six-month engagement, reception, four yard train, crossed swords--the lot? Which reminds me:

ankaret's "Lawrie's Wedding".

Kempe's letter suggests that Forest is now planning from novel to novel. But Kempe's vouchsafing all this to Lawrie, of all people, does seem rather odd: has she sent out similar letters to all the prospective cast? I'm still a bit baffled by Kingscote's methods of casting plays: it's surely wildly inefficient (not to mention a bit mean) to have a whole bunch of pupils learn parts that only one amongst them is going to play?

Mrs Marlow's relief at being able to think about something other than Karen's wedding for a few minutes (I am sympathetic, but on the other hand, she could distract herself by enquiring into her second daughter's welfare occasionally too) demonstrates the extent to which this supposedly low-key affair has entirely consumed everyone. Forest is making a sort of Burkean-conservative point here, isn't she: that apparently hollow formulae have a purpose in letting everyone know where they stand--breaking conventions without a good understanding of what the conventions are for just leads to much more hassle for everyone. Not sure I agree, but the point is made with great aplomb.

Right, enough of my old waffle. Next week

jackmerlin will be doing a guest post, so you'll get a break from it.