I’ve never been able to finish Cold Comfort Farm, so discovering the other novels of Stella Gibbons this year has been a revelation. The Woods in Winter was a treat that I devoured in a couple of days.
Published in 1970, it harks back to the 1930s—the time of Bright Young Things and a scarcity of young men, of new mores clashing with the surviving but elderly Victorian old guard. This might have been tired ground save for the fact that the central character is a charwoman, the delightfully unregenerate Ivy Gover, who is dying slowly in London until she inherits a rural cottage formerly inhabited by an uncle. She steals/rescues a dog in her neighborhood who has been chained up and left in his own filth, and absconds with him for rural climes. I’ve done that a time or two myself, and it endeared me to her.
Ivy has some gypsy blood, little education, and no manners but she has her own wisdom and knows her own mind; she lives in her little cottage in a way that repels attachments but earns her some wary respect from the more observant among the country folk. She is one of those people who has a Way with animals, and they respond to her with love and confidence that provide her a degree of family. Another human comes to live in her solitude for a time, in one of the more poignant developments of this novel.
Other people whose lives have touched Ivy’s get their moments in the story—the local lord whose income has vanished; two cheap, smart sisters who open a Tea Shoppe; the spinster daughter of an old gentry family. The latter, Angela Mordaunt, has some of the most telling scenes in the book, showing that Gibbons was fully aware of the social upheavals taking place in England and approved of the best of them. Finding herself wooed by a strapping young laboring man, Angela contemplates the shibboleths of class separation that had ruled her life and gives them up with joyful grace. “How vulgar, what a low view of the solemn devotion to their ideals in which she and her mother shared,” the narrator says during her pivotal encounter with the strapping lad. “It occurred to her that all her life she had been taught to be truthful, but never to be truthful to herself about what she felt and wanted.” And just like that, she is off to escape the shackles of a hollowed-out way of life.
Less satisfactory—probably because the portrait is too autobiographical—is the story of Helen Green, a young writer who employs Ivy in London and retains a sort of fondness for her after Ivy has moved to the country. In a coda set around 1970 that wraps up the book we discover that the heartbroken Helen has found a husband, but we don’t get any sense of how her character has developed.
This coda also shows the changes that have come to the rural area described so lovingly in the story, and it casts a shadow of melancholy over the whole, which felt fragile enough while we were in the middle of it. This mood of clear-eyed nostalgia for a world that is lost exactly suits my own mind-set, which might account for the enormous pleasure I took in reading this book. (As Brad Kessler has said, “Wherever the notion of paradise exists, so does the idea that it was lost.”)
But Gibbons’s own gifts are enough to reward the reader. She has a way with characters, drawing them in clear lines that avoid cliché or sentiment and occasionally, just often enough, skewering them with a phrase, like the judgmental Mrs. Threader who prides herself on hiding her judginess: “Mrs. Threader’s face retained its usual suggestion of an unawakened bun.”
The fiction of England between the wars has a humanity and expansiveness of spirit, despite its embeddedness in national and class assumptions, that never fails to give me hope for humanity. Perhaps that’s why in these days of rage and cynicism I turn to it over and over again.