3 Min read
1 Book rec
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I suppose it is the unexpected and the good which sustain us. The package arrived as media mail and I set the used copy on the counter. A week or so later, I began to read it, The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald.
What I discovered in its pages one night was a slip of paper the size of a receipt, nearly translucent. It struck me as the kind from the pad you might get as a marketing freebie in the mail along with personalized address labels, pen, and blank cards.
After a few chapters, I looked closely at the scribbles. Go figure. It was a character list for the book.
Florence Green with the words Old House beneath it. Then Mr. Brundish, Bank Manager, Mrs. Gamart, Milo —BBC (Kattie) and others with notes.
The Scribbler writes in No. 2 graphite pencil. It reflects an even hand and a thorough mind, starting with the story’s protagonist: the bookseller. The order is logical. Each word is in cursive. The daughter, Christine, has the mother’s name beneath it, Mrs. Gippings.
The words and the order tell all. The spelling is exact, correctly transcribed from the text.
I hold the slip–a ready bookmark–and begin where I left off. It is light in my fingers, a bit of air, fallen to the floor on occasion. I imagine a fellow reader who laughed and sighed, at the sad and lonely characters in this village by the sea, a world divided in two as Florence Green describes: exterminators and exterminatees.
That early bifurcation of humanity is foreshadow. Exterminatee.
The book is short, 150 some pages. I wonder who wrote down the names and where she is. It’s a she, most certainly. Initial capitals and strong finish to each word, the writing is the same size and level, not sloping down or rising up, a script long in use. A thoughtful hand. Minimal flourish. Slant right.
This book in good condition now bears the underlining and earmarks and tabs I added. The similarity between the Scribbler and Florence Green–the book’s heroine–is undeniable.
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In an early scene, Florence Green informs the bank manager who is a puppet to the malicious and provincial Mrs. Gamart:
But I’ve no intention of re-selling. It’s a peculiar thing to take a step forward in middle age, but having done it I don’t intend to retreat. What else do people think the Old House could be used for? Why haven’t they done anything about it in the past seven years? There were jackdaws nesting in it, half the tiles were off, it stank of rats. Wouldn’t it be better as a place where people could stand and look at books?
Penelope Fitzgerald. The Bookshop (1978). page 6.
I laughed often when I read the book. The author opened my mind and heart in this dark comedy. A grim tale. At the close, there’s a lot that is unanswered and unaccounted for, which is likely her intention. Florence Green can’t help but remind me of the Scribbler.
And, in that way and others, the heroine and the slip of paper are a gift to this reader. Unexpected and good.
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FOOTNOTE
*The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald was published in 1978 and the story takes place in 1959. I first came across this title in Joseph Epstein’s list of books worth re-reading in, The Novel, Who Needs it? In search of short works that would make me laugh and think, this did not disappoint. The title lives up to its billing and is worth reading again. The library in the next town had a couple of her books so I dashed over and picked them up.
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