When I first discovered this book on a library shelf in 1984, I was thrilled. Another book by the author of Flambards!!!
But my excitement soon soured. To my teenage self, Pennington’s crimes were:
1) He’s a BOY—and not a sensitive, bookish boy. He’s rough and sneering. Pennington is Tom Sawyer at age 17, if he were long-haired, bitter, cynical, physically abused, and living in a depressed 1960s British seaside town.
2) There aren’t any horses. If this is the author of Flambards, WHERE ARE THE HORSES?
In short, this book is not Flambards, and at the time I couldn’t forgive it for that.
Flambards had entered deep into my heart and blossomed as a book can do if read at exactly the right time and age. I loved Christina Russell. But Patrick Pennington?? To use his own word, Cripes.
Fast forward more than thirty years. As the mother of two boys, I decided to try again. And this time—you guessed it—I loved the book. Pennington is hilarious, brave, loyal, and misunderstood. The writing is old-fashioned, but vivid and full of life.
I went on to read the entire trilogy. The second two books aren’t as funny or original as the first one, but I like them, too. And the second volume, The Beethoven Medal, is from the perspective of a young woman—in love with Pennington, of course. She is similar to Flambards’s Christina in many ways. The third novel, Pennington’s Heir, is told from both her and Penn’s perspective (but mostly hers).
Now, one “problem” with the Pennington trilogy is that it’s not feminist, at least not by today’s standards. KM Peyton was born in 1929. This book was published in 1970, and yes, it’s dated. Ruth is brave, stalwart and loving, but she’s eclipsed by the brilliant, talented, larger-than-life Pennington, and that’s just fine with her.
If this kind of female character is unbearable to you, look elsewhere. As for me, I like old books because they tell how the vast majority of women actually lived, shaped as they were by their societies. Current novels set in the past tend to give every heroine an indomitable, independent spirit—the context may be painstakingly researched, but the female protagonist seems to has time-traveled straight from the 21st century.
Don’t get me wrong; I like those books too. But it's nice to read about women like Ruth and Christina sometimes. Their compromises tell us how far we’ve come, and show us where we used to be. And everyday life still contains many such compromises, after all. Even in the best of times, women are likely to be supporters and caretakers. (As I write this, the social isolation imposed by the cornovirus pandemic has shifted such caretaking burdens disproportionately onto women more than ever.)
I urge anyone who likes 1) old-fashioned novels 2) rude, surly young men with secretly tender hearts 3) concert piano music, or 4) Flambards to give this novel a try.