H.E. Bates is the most under-rated writer of the twentieth century. If he is regarded as a master of the short story form, then his novels are equally impressive; in my opinion, he has written the best novel of the War I have read, and which I recommend to everyone and anyone: Fair Stood The Wind For France [1944]. I have only read it twice, and must again soon, but the wonder of it as a boy has never left me, nor its gentleness. I've read a handful of his war novels, and each was memorable. One of my favourite short stories, The Waterfall [1933], is perhaps as evocative of wonder as anything you'll read.
It is difficult to describe Bates's style of writing. Whether in the third or first person (as here), you are in a world of realist immediacy, yet somehow cosseted in the heart of England - or northern India, or Burma, as the case may be. Wherever, you have a deeply felt sense of the land as the profound cradle of story. It is this evocation of sense of place which is the key to his spell-binding.
Within a chapter, we have lived with this family of women in this house in some other life, so indelibly imbuing is his evocation of place. It opens with a separating and a connecting plane, the window: the women inside, a bright fire of ash, their shared vision the swans; outside, the view of the lake, blanketed by snow, icebound, the swans sailing round and round in a small unfrozen pool. This image frames the novel, and, like his most memorable imagery, exists in but a casual glance or a thought that captures a moment, held in you forever. Within the first pages he uses the expression 'sereing' to define grandmother's withering comment; it is, of course, more than withering, with a sharper edge, perfectly apt a choice for that very moment and action. But it is also an echo of that image, permanently captured. You notice these deliberations within what is otherwise a gentle, naturalistic style.
Although we are in the Phoney War, getting to know the spirited RAF characters, and then suddenly, 30 miles away, Dunkirk, and then, after a brief hiatus, above, the Battle of Britain, with all this flying about around and above us, there is still a profound sense of the land, with its hazel and alder copses and beech woods, its bluebell woods and honeysuckle in the hedges, the foaming meadowsweet in the ditches, the wild roses and drifts of summer scent. Even in the novels of hotter climes the land bursts with its flora, its bougainvillea and jacaranda trees. Bates's deep knowledge of the countryside enfolds you, and, bedded in the land, the people take on deeper shades of realism, along with a stream of memory, of your own experience of jungle climes or the heart of England as a child or teenager. The streams merge, and the story becomes entwined in self.
After a while, you almost forget this a man writing in the first person of a young woman; after a while, it is Elizabeth indissoluble from yourself. Although the War is being thrashed out above and around us, there is no bleakness of the terror, but rather a cause for communing, friends coming and going so rapidly, and we get that sense of 'making do', of 'carrying on', of a determination of spirit, as the realities become harsher. But always the land about, bashed and bombed, but resilient to such trivial scratches, burgeons forth its life, and its peace, through the sense of belonging shared.
This may not be among the best of his war novels (the four between 1944 and 1950 are those), but it is still highly evocative, and in that echoing of our own love of the land under vast baking August skies, spread out for miles and miles of gold and green, which we wandered in distant summers, it recalls something deeper in us that seemingly spent memories cannot merely account for. And H.E. Bates always brings this quality to his short stories and novels. And this is why I will always read him.