Review: 'Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day' by Winifred Watson

I mentioned this book in an entry I wrote for World Book Day, commenting that I would be reviewing it soon... Well, I've taken my time and finally gotten round to it. The reason for my pause is that this is one of my favourite books of all time, and I wanted to ensure I did it justice - something which I am now going to attempt to do.

Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day is a novel that focuses on a character who has almost reached the bottom of the barrel; Guinevere Pettigrew is a hapless, middle-aged, unsuccessful governess who is unable to hold down a job - time and time again she returns to her agency for jobs of decreasing prestige. She finally acquires an interview for a post with a Miss LaFosse, an interview which she must succeed in, or suffer eviction (it sounds pretty depressing so far, but you have to stick with it, because it is crucial that the reader is aware of just how much trouble poor old Miss Pettigrew is in, or nothing that follows will have the same impact). Feeling utterly dowdy, downcast and lacking even the merest scrap of confidence, it is with a heavy, anxious heart that Miss Pettigrew approaches the door of Miss LaFosse, expecting a brisk, no-nonsense matriarch to open the door, and promptly slam it back shut. What she encounters instead is a glamorous, flighty minx of a woman with a man in her bed, another coming round to visit and no end of despair for the fix she is in. Miss Pettigrew gets caught up in the whirlwind that is Delysia LaFosse's life, and embarks on a day that is to change her world forever.

Set in the 1930's and told over the course of a single day, with each chapter divided into unequal portions of time - forty-five minutes here, two hours there - it follows Miss Pettigrew as she becomes assimilated into the luxurious, decadent life of Miss LaFosse and her associates. I've recently become a bit of a fan of these types of novels - stories that are set in a long-gone era where women wore evening gowns, men wore suits no matter what time of day it was, and everyone wore hats if they left the house - The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald, The House At Riverton by Kate Morton and so on. Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day fits perfectly into this genre; there's darstardly men, cigars, sherry at eleven in the morning, flowers for button-holes, nightclubs with waiters, pianos and singers, corsets... everything one could associate with those bygone times and classes where the men are all brash and bold, women are coquettish and flighty and no one cared much for the consequences of their actions, if they were rich enough. This in itself is glorious enough about the novel; it's sheer escapism to a time where life seemed simpler and, from my point of view, a lot more fun.

This, however, is not the main attraction that the novel holds; this honour goes, of course, jointly to the two female protagonists, both resembling two versions of women that are recognisable to all. Miss LaFosse is the confident, happy-go-lucky beauty with all the odds in her favour, whilst Miss Pettigrew is the nervous, unhappy mouse with all the confidence of a ripped paper bag. As the relationship between two women at opposite ends of the spectrum develops, we begin to see how they need each other, and how they begin to feed the better parts of the other, whilst pruning back the more unpleasant aspects of their personalities. For example, Miss Pettigrew helps Miss LaFosse to escape the clutches of a rogue who's no good for her, and swap him for the ideal man. Miss LaFosse, meanwhile, helps Miss Pettigrew discover confidence in herself through the time-old, fail-safe remedies of uniting against men and a make-over. Miss Pettigrew becomes the mother-figures Miss LaFosse needs, whilst in return, Miss LaFosse becomes the best friend Miss Pettigrew has been missing all her life.

It's a story that is unashamedly positive, and this is why I love it; even though Miss Pettigrew begins the book as - to use the age-old metaphor - an ugly duckling, she is well on the way to being a swan by the end of her day of living. It's a fairytale in the most traditional sense of the word; there's a fairy godmother, a handsome prince of a man, a villain and a happy ending. Better yet, this formula is used twice, for both Miss LaFosse and Miss Pettigrew, so you get two fairytales running alongside each other, for the price of one. As a pick-me-up, it doesn't get much better than this; it restores your faith in good fortune and good people, and personally, it makes me hopeful for such a day when all my fortunes turn around... that's not to say I'm not fortunate, but let's face it, there's a part of everyone's life that you wish a fairy godmother would come and wave her wand over!

I must confess that I acquired my copy of this book through illicit means; I actually 'borrowed' it from my sister, and never quite got round to returning it - and I probably never will. When I took it, I was just looking for something to while away a three-hour train journey; what I got instead was one of the friendliest, feel-good, most well-written books I've ever read; the characters are well-rounded and believable, the settings are enchanting, the dialogue is hilarious and the whole plot is, whilst simple and another version of the Cinderella story, original enough to be forgiven for it's borrowed plotpoints. It's nostalgic, romantic and brazenly shallow in places, but so enjoyable you'll revel in the scenes that wouldn't look out of place in a modern chick-lit. Boys may not be interested by such a book, but honestly guys, it's so much fun you're missing out. I just wish more people knew about it.

Childhood Favourites: You've told me yours...

Inspired (as I hoped I would be) by all the many contributions I received in regards to my previous entry on Childhood Favourites, I think I've finally managed to cobble together a list of some of my old favourites from my younger years. I'll tell you what though, it wasn't easy; at one point, said list was about two dozen books long, and it took a fair bit of ruthless trimming to get it down to the more manageable selection below. I would like to take a few moments, though, to remember the few that didn't quite make the list...

• The Animal Ark series, by Ben M. Baglio under his alias, Lucy Daniels. As a child, I was convinced I wanted to be a vet when I grew up, and this series of books about a girl who's parents are both vets, and who manages to rescue dozens of animals, was right up my street. 
• The Twins At St. Clare's, by Enid Blyton. Much in the same vein of Mallory Towers, this was the first book in a series about two Irish twins and their escapades at their boarding school. It was jolly ripping to read and excellent fun, what with the circus and the midnight feast and all. Spiffing!
• Danny, The Champion Of The World, by Roald Dahl. Like most people who mentioned Dahl, I found it really hard to pick just one, but eventually I succeeded. This was a close second, what with all the drugged pheasants, trout-tickling doctors and general espionage.

 Valiant though these books are, they aren't quite so close to my heart as my (current) selection, but I still felt they deserved a mention at the very least. I've also not included Vampire Park by Willis Hall, or Winnie The Witch by Valerie Thomas and Korky Paul, as they were both mentioned in my previous entry on the subject, and I felt it was time to make room for a few more. It also freed up two more spaces, so I'm being economical.

So we've had the starters - onto the main event!


George's Marvellous Medicine, by Roald Dahl

  This was a genuinely tough choice, as I've recently had the pleasure of being able to re-read most of Roald Dahl's books. My parents bought one of my cousins a boxset of all the most popular Roald Dahl books - about 15 in all - for a Christmas present one year, and I was so insanely jealous that I spent a good half an hour organising the books in the order I thought my poor cousin should read them. Apparently the hints I dropped later in the car were heard, because the next year, I got the same boxset all to myself, and I've worked my way through it more than once. Now, when I asked all my Facebook and Twitter chums what their favourite books from childhood were, Roald Dahl cropped up more than once, though mostly as a general choice. I challenged myself to pick one, and it was hard; there was The Giraffe, The Pelly And Me, about a young boy who opens a sweet shop with a giraffe, a pelican and a monkey; the aforementioned Danny, The Champion Of The World, and of course, a girl after my own heart, the book-gobbling Matilda. But in the end, I knew it had to be George's Marvellous Medicine. Why? Because it's the only book I ever tried to copy. I used to lock myself in the bathroom, fill the sink half up with water, and then add bits of everything I could find in the bathroom - soap, shampoo, face cleanser, toothpaste, sun cream and aftersun, all mixed together with the end of my sister's toothbrush, and topped off with a squirt of my dad's shaving foam to give it that 'mediciney' look. I'd do the same in the summer months, except with a bucket of water, and bits of all the plants in the garden, with soil to thicken it up. I never dared drink either mixtures, of course - even I knew that such concoctions were more likely to send me to A&E than sixty feet up in the air - but it was excellent fun, especially the bathroom medicine, which always went a cool shade of turquoise thanks to the toothpaste and mouthwash. Roald Dahl never forgot what it was like to be a child; he knew how they thought, and he certainly had the measure of kids like I was when he wrote this.

A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

 I was a tomboy when I was young - I fractured my arm playing football, got in trouble for taking off my Holy Communion dress to climb a tree before anyone got to take a photo, and had to be helped out of a conifer by a neighbour on a ladder after I climbed up too high and couldn't get back down (protestations that I knew what I was doing, and was taking my time, were not believed). But, like so many little girls, I loved the idea of being a princess, and this story - a riches-to-rags-back-to-riches tale of a young girl at a boarding school - captured my heart. I actually read a 'modern' re-write first, which I don't remember a lot about, apart from the main character was American and got her computer taken away - but that first taste was outclassed by the original tale. It's not just the fairytale-like qualities that I loved; it was the overcoming of obstacles by Sara, the main character, and the strength of her mind, her kindness and her belief in happy endings that attracted me. Sometimes now I do read it and Sara does seem a little bit too perfect - her one 'weakness' is a slight temper, which is revealed once in an altercation with an older pupil at her school - but the feeling the story gives me remains the same; a sheer childlike delight at the 'Magic' that Ram Dass works, her love of the Large Family across the square, and the pantomime-villain behaviour of Miss Minchin, the antagonistic proprietor of the school.

Adventures Of The Wishing Chair, by Enid Blyton

 I'm a bit embarrassed at how I forgot about Enid Blyton's books when I first tried to think of my favourite children's books; she wrote so many, after all. But when I got down to some serious thinking on my own favourites of hers, it was this one that popped up in my head first. I don't think it was as popular as The Magic Faraway Tree, which I have to say I've never read, but I think it was in the same vein. Mollie and Peter get rescued by a flying chair from an antique shop whilst shopping for their mother's birthday present, and when the chair stays with them, they discover it can fly them to Fairyland, and all other kinds of magical places! Naturally, they go on many jolly adventures, and even rescue a pixie, Chinky, who comes to live in their toy room and look after the chair for them. I've got to admit; I don't actually remember any of the places that they go on said chair, but it's the feeling that counts here; the idea that, with the right kind of transport, you can visit the most amazing places. Much like all of Blyton's books, they are a bit sickly-sweet; everyone's ever so nice to each other, and ever so remorseful when they're told they're being a bit beastly, and it's not a proper meal unless it's washed down with lashings of ginger beer - but I don't think it's the proper Blyton experience unless it's got that Wartime-Britain style patter to it. I've heard that quite a few of Blyton's series have since had 'new' titles written for them in recent years - More Wishing Chair Stories, published in 2000, is an example - but I really don't agree with this; it's just publishers trying to cash in on the nostalgic feel of Blyton's books, and you can't recreate that. Adventures Of The Wishing Chair is maybe not the best of Blyton, but it's a magical collection of tales that still, from time to time, make me hopeful that the next chair I sit in is a wishing chair. So far, no such luck.

Just So Stories, by Rudyard Kipling

 Anyone who's read this blog a few times will probably know that I am a sucker for a beautiful looking book - I'm a bit shallow like that - and this has got to be the first book I fell in love with, lookswise. The particular edition, pictured - which I have had for as long as I can remember - has the most gorgeous illustrations by Isabelle Brent, with metallic highlights, spectacular borders and a feel of magic to them; it's a joy to look at, and I remember flicking through the book to just look at the pictures more than once when I was a child. But the magic of the book is not, of course, in the pictures; it's in the stories, and O, Best Beloved, what stories they are! Written in a way that is almost lyrical, yet with a childlike feel, this collection of short stories explains the answers to such questions as How The Leopard Got His Spots, How The Alphabet Was Made and The Beginning Of The Armadillos - which, by the way, are my three all-time favourites of the Just So Stories. It's hard to explain why I love this book so much; again, I think it comes down to how it makes me feel. When I pick up the Just So Stories, I am transported to beautiful, hot, mystical countries, which are home to speaking animals, Djinns, and men of infinite-resource-and-sagacity. You can tell just from reading these books that Kipling was a man who read much, saw much and lived in exotic countries, but also had children, and had written these stories for them. For a long time I thought my love for this book was largely down to the illustrations by Isabella Brent, but a few months ago I found an edition in what might be considered a 'grown up' format, and I was so excited I snapped it up at once. Even without Brent's pictures, I still felt the same joy as I read through the stories, and this is how I know I love the Just So Stories.

Prince Caspian, by C. S. Lewis

 First of all, I'd just like to say - it was flipping difficult, trying to find an image for this entry, because thanks to Disney and Ben Barnes, all that came up on Google images for ages were stills and promo shots for the film! Anyway - this might seem like an odd choice, as surely the obvious option is The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe? Well maybe - if I'd read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe first. As it happens, I actually read Prince Caspian first, as when I was growing up it was the only one of The Chronicles Of Narnia that we had in the house, for some reason - in fact, it wasn't until I was writing my university dissertation on Classical influences in Narnia that I even read the full series. I think what appealed to me most about this book was the fact that I didn't know what happened in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, beyond what the characters discussed - this meant that I felt more curiosity about this Golden Age of Narnia, and of Aslan, as I was not familar with their roles, or the events, of LWW. For instance, I didn't know why Edmund didn't get a present from Father Christmas, and I didn't understand the curious nature of Narnian time in relation to Greenwich Mean Time. Consequently, even though it's technically a sequel, it was an entirely new novel to me, with brand new characters to become acquainted with, new mysteries to understand and geography to become familiar with - the ruins of Cair Paravel were a particular example of this, as I managed to get a sense of nostalgia for the magnificent palace it once had been without ever knowing it as said magnificent palace. Prince Caspian not only introduced me to Narnia, but also instilled in me a fierce desire to know more about the fictional country, and it's inhabitants; it may even be partially responsible for why I was able to write my dissertation with as much enthusiasm and interest as I did. When I read Prince Caspian now, I remember how I felt those first times I read it - the nostalgia for something I didn't really know, the desire to learn more, the interest in Narnia - it reminds me why I love books; the power they have to make you want more.

Childhood Favourites: Literary Nostalgia

A few days ago, I was pondering what subject to write about next, when I realised my mind had wandered over to a book called Vampire Park, by Willis Hall, which I had owned as a child. I hadn't thought about this particular book in years, had forgotten about it's existence, even, until the forage in the loft at my parents' house that helped to kickstart this blog. Since then, and I'm not entirely sure why, it's stuck in my head. It's not exactly a literary classic; the story is about a 'veggie' vampire (take that, Cullens - and you thought you were the only ones!) who only drinks tomato juice, and who returns to his castle in Transylvania after a holiday to discover his distinctly un-vegetarian, British cousin Freddie has turned up, with claims to the castle and a plan to turn it into a theme park. Count Alucard is too mild-mannered to question Freddie and so lets him get on with his plans, though there's something odd about this cousin of his...

Alright, it's not the stuff of great literature - copies are currently selling for one english penny on Amazon Marketplace if you're interested, though the postage will cost more - but for some reason it's a book that sticks with me; from what I can remember, it was a bit clever, there was a decent plot, and it was funny, and when you're ten years old there's not a whole lot more you'd ask for from a book. If you asked me now what my favourite book as child was, you'd be waiting a good while for me to come up with an answer, and I'd hope it wouldn't be this, but maybe ten-year-old Jasmine would answer differently. It did, however, get me thinking hard about what my favourite book from childhood would be, and I struggled so much with the answer that I started to give myself a headache. For starters, I couldn't really think of any books from my childhood, apart from fairly obvious ones, which made me sad - so instead, I enlisted the help of Twitter and Facebook to see if anyone else remembered their childhood favourites.

They did, and I was quite surprised by what I found, for it seems that I'm not the only one who struggles to pick a favourite; a quarter of all the people who responded to my nosey question couldn't pick just one. Indeed, one friend kept coming back again and again, with contributions ranging from the little-known The Mennyms by Silvia Waugh, to Mallory Towers by Enid Blyton. What surprised me more, though, was that 42% of books mentioned were published pre-1980; for a lot of the respondents, that's before they were born. Of that 42%, a third were Enid Blyton titles, the most popular of which was The Magical Faraway Tree series, though The Naughtiest Girl In The School and The Secret Seven did get a look in (surprisingly, no Famous Five - not a lot of love for Timmy and George, then). In fact, a lot people answered with what could be considered 'classic' children's literature; The Hobbit, The Chronicles of Narnia, Heidi and Little Women to name but a few. I wasn't expecting this, if I'm honest; I suppose I had half hoped that more people would come up with slightly shameful examples, such as my dear own Vampire Park, but no, I've been put in my place. There were a few authors and titles that I was expecting, such as Roald Dahl, which I got (curiously, out of the mere four people who mentioned Dahl, only one went for a specific book - The Twits, if you were wondering - whereas the rest went for just 'Roald Dahl'), Jacqueline Wilson, who also cropped up, and J. K. Rowling, which I didn't get. That was a bit of a shocker; given that my generation grew up with Harry Potter, I was under the impression that books from the series would come up a fair few times, but no, not even once. I suppose that might be due to the fact that it was still being published when we were all in our late teens and early twenties, so to call it a childhood series to people of my age might not ring quite true. Funnily enough, Enid Blyton never even occurred to me as being an option, and yet, as mentioned before, her name came up over and over again, more than anyone else, in contributions by men and women alike.

Another surprise was the number of, dare I say it, 'baby' books that came up; The Hungry Caterpillar, Not Now, Bernard and Peace At Last! all got a mention, and, to my delight, a personal favourite of mine, Winnie the Witch. On the flipside, there were a few surprisingly 'adult' entries, of which The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, aged 13 and 3/4 and The Lord of The Flies are two examples. I myself was a bit shocked to see The Lord of The Flies associated with childhood by a contributer, as I read it when I was about seventeen and personally would not consider it a childhood book; a teenagers', maybe, but not childhood, not by a long shot. I suppose this just goes to show that there isn't an age limit to childhood, that the term 'childhood' itself holds no boundaries, and the same applies to books from that age. If you considered yourself a child when you read a certain novel, then it was a childhood book. Maybe this is why Harry Potter didn't crop up; I was considering myself a bit of a grown-up when I first read The Philosopher's Stone, at the grand old age of twelve, and because I still own copies, and still read them, they're not children's books to me; they're a weird kind of in-between, books that are, technically, for children, but appealling to age groups far outside the ages of 'childhood'.

What I loved most about the responses that I got, was the number of people who seemed to have put thought in; one contributor offered a reason for why The Magic Faraway Tree was one of theirs ('my mum used to read them to us complete with banging saucepans when she was reading about the saucepan man'), whilst others offered a book for each of the three stages of childhood - toddler, child, young adult - which just seemed to prove to me that you can't put an age on childhood. It's definitely given me food for thought in terms of my favourite childhood books, and I'll be compiling a list soon to sit alongside this entry. In the meantime, though, if you happen to remember a book from your childhood, let me know; I've loved reading all your thoughts, and all the surprise entries - Goosebumps was one I never expected to see, but I know I read nearly all of them and I even had the board game to One Day At Horrorland - and if you have any more, I'd love to know. They might be some forgotten favourites of mine that I'll want to reclaim.