Yesterday, the DC area was blanketed with a record-shattering amount of snow. And it was beautiful. The son and the husband kept up with the shoveling, and I turned my attention to a small but lovely book that has been quietly seeking my attention for some time. Claire sent me a copy of Henrietta's War a few months back, and yesterday was finally the occasion to read through. And it turned out to be the perfect read for a snowy day. Manageable size for all in one gulp, charming, funny, and quietly poignant.
Joyce Dennys was an artist and writer who wore the face of mother and doctor's wife to most of the world. She expressed her frustrations at the limiting nature of her roles in life through stories of the fictional Henrietta whose life bears a marked resemblance to her own. These stories, written in epistolary form directed to Henrietta's childhood friend Robert, were originally published one at a time in Sketch. Many years later, these missives were gathered together in (I believe) two publications, Henrietta's War being the first.
These letters to Robert detail the unsettling time of the second world war in a small, English coastal community with great wit and with little maudlin focus upon deprivation, but perhaps written as a distraction for a friend fighting on the front. Henrietta is considered a bit vague by those around her - unsuitable for organized war efforts, giving blood, being a doctor's wife or even singing on cue in the choir.
The community she resides in and her husband all affectionately seek to compensate for her perceived lack of organization in various ways, but the reader quietly cheers for her as we realize her hidden depths. It is hilarious when she falls down the stairs (see one of the charming illustrations above) and immediately begins to fantasize about the time she will now be able to spend in bed avoiding chores. Frightfully humorous but too close to home when she realizes that marketing is depriving the women of her Devonshire village of their once good looks. And laughably ridiculous when the demands of filling out a simple form with computations nearly sends her over the edge. But what emerges at the end, is a portrait of traditional housekeeping that is both an insightful window into another time and a reminder that women are meant for more than the roles written for them.
The book concludes on a quiet note on a Christmas night. Perfect for the weather here, perfect for the season complete with a gentle reminder of a more meaningful viewpoint some twenty or so pages before the end:
Lady B smiled happily. 'The secret of happiness is to adopt this attitude towards possessions,' she said - and she made a pushing-away gesture with her hands - 'rather than this,' and she pulled an imaginary treasure to her bosom. 'Once you drop the grabbing habit everything is plain sailing.'
So for now my yard is full of the tidy and sweet snow angels of my daughter and ...
... the riotously messy tunneling of my son in 19 inches of snow. Onto another book as I don't think that we need to leave the house just yet. Great Expectations in between a little more holiday baking and decorating. What will you be reading in the Sunday Salon today?