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Punchinello, Vol. 1. No. 20, August 13, 1870 by Various

V >> Various >> Punchinello, Vol. 1. No. 20, August 13, 1870

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Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson,
Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




[Illustration: Vol. I. No. 20.]


PUNCHINELLO


SATURDAY, AUGUST 13, 1870.

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* * * * *

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,

By ORPHEUS C. KERR,

Continued in this Number.


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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.


AN ADAPTATION.


BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.




CHAPTER XII.


FOR THE BEST.

Miss CAROWTHERS'S educational hotbed of female innocence was about to
undergo desolation by the temporary dispersal of its intellectual buds
and blossoms to their native soils, therefrom to fill home-atmospheres
with the mental fragrance of "all the branches." Holiday Week drew near,
when, as Miss CAROWTHERS Ritually expressed it, "all who were true
believers of the American Church of England in their hearts would softly
celebrate the devout Yearly Festival of Apostolic Christianity, by
decking the Only True Church with symbolical evergreens over places
where the paint was scratched off, and receiving New Year's Calls
without intoxicating liquors." In honor of this approaching solemn
season of peace on earth, good will to young men, the discipline of
Macassar Female College was slightly relaxed: Bible-studies were no
longer rigorously inflicted as a punishment for criminal absence of all
punctuation from English Composition, and any Young Lady whose father
was good pay could actually sneeze in her teacup without being locked
into her own room on bread-and-water until she was truly penitent for
her sin and wished she was a Christian. Consequently, an air of unusual
license pervaded the Alms-House; woman's rights meetings were held at
the heads of stairways to declare, that, whereas MARY AMANDA PARKINSON'S
male second-cousin has promised to meet her at the railroad station, and
thereby made her pretend to us that the letter was from her father, when
all the time ANN LOUISA BAKER accidentally caught sight of the words "My
Precious MOLLY" while looking for her scissors in the wrong drawer, and
therefore, be it Resolved, that we wish he knew about one shoulder being
a little higher than the other, (as she _knows_ the dressmaker told
her,) and about that one red whisker under the left hand corner of her
chin which she might as well stop trying to keep cut off; dark
assemblages resembling walking lobsters were convened in special
dormitories at night, to compare brothers and tell how they Byronically
said that they never should care for women again after what they had
sacrificed for them in the horse-cars without so much as a "Thank you,
sir," but if they ever _could_ be brought to liking a girl now, it would
be on account of her not pretending to care for anything but money and a
husband's early grave; and very white parties of pleasure were organized
in the halls, at ghostly hours, to go down to the cupboard for a
mince-pie under pretense of hearing burglars, and subsequently to drink
the mince-pie from curl-papers, accompanied by whispers of "H'sh! don't
eat the crust so loud, or Miss CAROWTHERS 'll think it's a man."

In addition to these signs of impending freedom, trunks were packed in
the rooms, with an adeptness of getting in things with springs twice as
wide as any trunk, and of laying cologne-bottles, fans, and brushes,
between objects with ruffles so as to perfectly protect the latter, that
would have put the most conceited old bachelor to shame. Affected
tenderly by thoughts of a separation which, so ridiculously uncertain is
human life, might be forever, the young ladies who couldn't bear each
other, and had been quite sorry for each other because she couldn't help
it with such a natural disposition and rough forehead as hers, poor
thing!--graciously made-up with each other, in case they should not meet
again until in Heaven.--You will not think any more, HENRIETTA
TOMLINSON, of what I told you about AUGUSTUS SMITH'S remarks to me that
Sunday coming out of chapel. I _didn't_ let you know before, my dear,
but when he had the impudence to say that one of your eyebrows was
longer than the other, and that you had a sleepy look as though a little
more in the upper-story wouldn't hurt you, I stood up for you, and told
him he ought to be ashamed to talk so on Sunday about you, after you'd
taken such pains to please him. That's just all there was about that
whole thing, HENRIETTA, dear, and now I hope we may part friends.--Why
_shouldn't_ we, MARTHA JENKINS? I'm sure _I've_ never been the one to be
unfriendly, and when Mr. SMITH told _me_, that he guessed my friend Miss
JENKINS didn't know how much she walked like a camel, I was as sarcastic
as I could be, and said I didn't know before that _gentlemen_ ever made
_fun_ of natural deformities.--Yes, HENRIETTA, my love, I know how
you've _always,_ te-he! spoken well of _everybody_ behind their backs.
Gentlemen give _you_ their confidence as soon as they see you, without a
_bit_ of fishing for it on _your_ part, and then you have a chance to
befriend your poor friends.--Oh, well, MARTHA, darling, there's no need
of your getting provoked because I wouldn't hear you called a camel--he!
he!--after you'd been so angelic with him about stepping on the middle
back-breadth of your poplin--"Oh, _never_ mind it at _all-l_, Mayistah
SA-MITH; it's of _No-o_ consequence!" Te-he-he-he! When _is_ it to come
off, Miss TOMLINSON? When does your AUGUSTUS finally reward your
_perseverance_ with his big red hand?--I haven't asked him yet,
Precious! out of regard for your feelings. He's _so_ sensitive about
having any one think he's _jilted_ her; quite ridiculous, I tell
him.--HENRIETTA TOMLINSON! you--you'd get on your _knees_ to make a man
look at you: EVERYbody says _that!_--But then, you know, MARTHA JENKINS,
there are persons who wouldn't be looked at much, even if they did go on
their knees for it, _lovey_.--M'm'm! Ph'h'h! Please keep by your _own_
trunk, HENRIETTA. I don't want anything _stolen,_ Miss!--He! he! Of
course I'll go, MARTHA. There's so _much_ danger of my stealing your old
rags!--_Don't_ provoke me to slap you, Miss!--Who are _you_ pushing
against, _Camel?_--Aow-aouw-k!--Ah-h-h!--R-r-r-r'p, sl'p, p'l-'l Miss
CROWTHERS' coming!!----And thus to usher in the merry, merry Christmas
time of peace on earth, good will to young men.

At noon on the Saturday preceding Holiday-Week, Miss CAROWTHERS,
assisted by her adjutant, Mrs. PILLSBURY, had a Reception in the
Cackleorium, when emaciated lemonade and tenacious gingerbread were
passed around, and the serene conqueror of Breachy, Mr. BLODGETT,
addressed the assembled sweetness. Ladies, the wheel of Time, who, you
know, is usually represented as a venerable man of Jewish aspect with a
scythe, had brought around once more a festival appealing to all the
finer feelings of our imperfect nature. Throbbed there a heart in any of
our bos-hem!--in any of the superstructures of our waists, that did not
respond with joy and gladness to the sentiment of such a season? In view
of Christmas, Ladies, did we say, in the words of--an acceptable
Ritualistic translation from the Breviary--

"Day of vengeance, without morrow,
Earth shall end in flame and sorrow,
As from saint and seer we borrow?"

No; that was not our style. We saw in Christmas a happy time to forgive
all our friends, to forget all our enemies at the groaning board, and to
keep on remembering the poor. Might we find all our relatives well in
the homes we were about to revisit, and ready to liquidate our little
semi-annual expenses of tuition. Might we find neighborhoods willing to
take the resumption of piano-practicing in the forgiving spirit of the
Christmas-time, and to accept the singing of Italian airs, at late
hours, with the tops of windows down, as occurrences not to be profanely
criticized in sleepless beds at a time of year when all animosities
should be repressed. With love for all mankind, Ladies, where it was
strictly proper, we would now separate until after the Holidays, wishing
each other a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Then ensued
leave-takings all around; terminating with a delicate consciousness on
the part of each young lady present that she was not to be entirely
without escort on her way to her home, inasmuch as there was a BILL
prepared to go with her and be presented to her parents.

A number of times had FLORA POTTS witnessed this usual breaking up,
without any other sensation at herself being left behind in the
Alms-House than one of relief from incessant attempts of dearest friends
to find out what Mr. E. DROOD wrote about longing to clasp her again, in
his last; and on this occasion she came near being really happy in
having her dear MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON to remain with her. MAGNOLIA had
never mentioned EDWIN'S name since the virtual compact between herself,
and her brother, and Mr. SIMPSON, on the Pond shore; which was, perhaps,
carrying woman's friendship rather too far to the other extreme:--she
might as least have said, "Are you thinking of something commencing with
a D.?" once in a while:--but the Flowerpot, while slightly wondering, of
course, found a pleasant change in a companion of her own sex and age
who was not always raising the D. in conversation.

A lovely scene was it, and maddening to masculine imagination, when so
many of Miss POTTS'S blooming young schoolmates kissed her good-bye in
the porch, and gave her a last chance to tell them what he _had_
written, then. It was charming to see that willed-away little creature,
without her enamel, waving farewell to the stages departing for the
ferry; and to hear the disappearing ones calling out to her: "By-bye,
FLORA, dear; EDDY ought to see you now with your natural complexion."
"_Au revoir_, Pet You'd better hurry in now; here comes a man!"

"Don't stay out in the sun for us, Darling, or the belladonna may lose
its effect."

Oh, rosebud-garden of girls! Oh, fresh young blossoms, to which we of
the male and cabbage growth are as cheap vegetables! Cling together
while ye may in the fair bouquet of sweet school friendship, of musical
parlor-sisterhood. So shall your thorns be known only to each other in
such fragrant clustering, and never known at all to Men unless they
insensately persist in giving you their hands.

While the Flowerpot was thus receiving fond good-byes, EDWIN DROOD, on
his way to see her, suffered an indecision of purpose which might have
bred disquiet in a more gigantic mind than his. With the package
containing the memorial stay-lace in one pocket, and his hands in two
others, he strode up the Bumsteadville turnpike in a light overcoat and
a brown study. But for good Mr. DIBBLE'S undeniably truthful picture of
a modern lover's actual situation, he might have allowed matters to go
as they would, and sunk into an early marriage without one prayer to
Heaven for mercy. Now, however, that picture troubled him even more than
the bump which he had got upon his head from the tilting table in the
lawyer's office, and he was disposed to send the stay-lace back to the
candid old man. "FLORA and I have about equal intellects," reasoned he
to himself. "Shall I leave the whole question to her, or my own
decision! One would be about as profound in wisdom as the other. Which?
I guess I'll toss-up for it."

He stepped aside from the road, under a leafless tree, and drew from a
pocket a badly speckled nickel coin. "Heads for her, tails for me," he
said, with some awe in his tone. The tasteful coin was tossed, and
"Heads" stared up at him from the frozen ground. "It's her inning," he
muttered, and, re-pocketing the money and his hands, went on whistling.
Thus the great crises of our laborious human lives are settled by the
idle inspiration of a moment, and fate, for good, or evil, comes as it
is cent.

The Flowerpot, expecting him, was ready in her walking dress, and, by
tacit permission of Miss CAROWTHERS, the two started upon a promenade
for the nearest confidential cross-road, each eating half of an apple
which Mr. DROOD had brought to disguise his feelings.

"My dear, absurd EDDY," said FLORA, when they had arrived in a secluded
lane not far from St. Cow's Church, "I want to give you something very
serious, and oh! I'm so ridiculously nervous about doing so,--especially
after your giving me this apple."

"Never mind the apple, FLORA. It was the fruit of our First Parents, and
has constituted the most available pie of the poor ever since. Don't
allow it to fetter your freedom of speech, and please try to eat it
without such a gashing noise."

"Thank you, EDDY. You have always been liberal with me. And now are you
sure you won't be absurdly angry with me if I give you something?"

He fell away from her a moment, as half anticipating a kiss, but
promised that he would restrain his temper.

"Then here you are, EDDY;" and she drew from a pocket in her dress and
held out to him a small worsted mitten.

"You give this to me?" he said, accepting it, and tossing it from one
hand to the other, as though it were something hot.

"Yes, dear, ridiculous friend; and from this day forth let us give up
the cold indifference of people engaged to each other, and be as truly
affectionate as brother and sister."

"Never get married?"

"Not to each other."

Under the ecstatic influence of the moment, the emancipated young
bondman began dancing and turning somersaults like one possessed but,
quickly remembering himself, hastened to regain a perpendicular position
at her side, and coughed energetically, as though, the recent gymnastics
had been prescribed for his cold.

"My own sister!" he exclaimed, "a weight is now lifted from both of our
minds, and both of us should be the better for the lifting-cure It is
noble in you to let me off so."

"And it's perfectly splendid in you, EDDY, to make no horrid fuss about
it."

The beautiful contest of generosities between these two young souls made
each as tender toward the other as though the parents of both had been
alive and frantically opposed to their mutual attachment.

"We are both sorry that we have ever had any absurd engagement between
us," said FLORA, with a manner of exquisite softness, "and now, that we
are like brother and sister, we need not be all the time playing the
Pretty with each other, and needn't be putting on our best things every
time we have to meet. You think that my hair always curls in this way,
don't you, EDDY?"

"Why, you don't mean to say, FLORA, that it's _all_--"

"--False? No, you absurd thing! But curling irons, and oil, and crimping
pins have to be used hours and hours."

"Ha! ha!" laughed EDWIN DROOD, "I see the point; you've had to make-up
for me. Now I dare say that you have thought my boots, which I have worn
in your company, were the right size for me? They're really one and a
half sizes too small, and almost kill me. As for gloves, I never wear
any at all except when I come to see you."

"And my complexion, dear brother?"

"Oh, I know all about that, darling sister. I couldn't find any fault
with _that_, so long as my own seal-ring, which you thought so
rich-looking, was only plated."

The little creature burst into a laugh of delight, and pressed his arm
with sisterly enthusiasm. "And we can be perfectly honest with each
other; can't we, EDDY? As a partnership for life until death should us
part is no longer our object, we have no need to utterly deceive each
other in everything."

"No," answered the equally happy young man; "as we're not trying to
marry now, we may as well drop the swindle."

"And just suppose we'd gone on and got married," cried the Flowerpot
with dancing eyes. "When it was too late, you'd have found out what I
really was--"

"And you'd have found _me_ out," interrupted EDWIN, vivaciously.

"I should have wanted more expenditure upon myself, for giving me my
proper place in society, than you, with your limited means, could have
possibly afforded.--"

"And I should have told you it would ruin me--"

"And that would have made me more disappointed in you than ever, and
provoked me to call you a pauper-monster.--"

"And then I would have twitted you about being anything but an heiress
yourself when I married you--"

"--Which would have thrown me into hysterics--"

"--Which would have made _me_ lock you up in your room, and leave the
house--"

"--For which _I_ would have sued you for an Indiana divorce--"

"--Thus driving _me_ to commit suicide--"

--"And bringing myself under a cruel public prejudice seriously
detrimental to my future prospects."

Gloriously excited and made nearly breathless by their friendly rivalry
in thus specifying what must have been the successive results of their
union without plenty of money, the animated pair panted at each other in
a kind of imaginative intoxication, and then shook hands almost
deliriously.

In a moment after, however, Mr. DROOD thrust his hands into his pockets
and presented an aspect of sudden discomfiture.

"I forgot about my uncle, JACK BUMSTEAD," he said, uneasily. "It will be
a dreadful blow for JACK: he's counted so much upon my having a wife for
him to flirt with.--There he is, now!"

"_Where_?"

"Amongst those trees down there--Look!"

In a small grove, skirting the road some distance behind them, Mr.
BUMSTEAD could indeed be seen, dodging wildly from one tree to another
in an extraordinary manner, and occasionally leaping high in the air and
slashing excitedly around him with his alpaca umbrella. A hoop from a
barrel, possibly cast out upon the road by somebody, had, apparently,
become entangled around the legs and in the coat-tails of the
Ritualistic organist; and he, in his extreme nervous sensibility,
precipitately mistaking it for one of his old enemies, the snakes, had
evidently fled headlong with it as far as the grove, and was there
engaging it in frantic single-combat.

"Oh, take me home, at once, please!" begged FLORA, alarmed at the
remarkable sight.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Elliott Kastner obituary

John Makinson says that if people want to read using new technology, that's what publishers must give them

Penguin this week celebrates its 75th year and is marking the anniversary by repackaging a series of seminal books from the 1960s to the 1980s. Although the company might afford itself a brief look backwards, it feels as though there is little room for nostalgia in book publishing now, as the industry turns its face firmly – and apprehensively – to the future.

Amazon last week announced sales of ebooks on its US site had outnumbered hardbacks for the first time, stunning casual observers, even if it had not been entirely unexpected in the trade.

The launch of the iPad has added a sense of urgency. Where music went first, books are set to follow, although Penguin and other publishers would hope without the same devastating effects. Amazon this week launched a cheaper, more lightweight version of its Kindle ebook reader and a digital store on its UK site, while others, including Google, are muscling in. Digital book sales are still less than 1% of Penguin, but the direction of the market is clear. In the US, digital books already account for 6% of consumer sales.

Penguin chief executive John Makinson says he is a convert. The day after we meet he is on his way to India, as part of David Cameron's delegation, and had loaded titles on to his iPad, including a manuscript by John le Carré and some Portuguese classics (in English) ahead of Penguin launching a range in Brazil. He is also reading Lord Mandelson's diary. It simply makes sense, he says, instead of carting an armful of books in your carry-on luggage.

Innovation

"It does redefine what we do as publishers and I feel, compared with most of my counterparts, more optimistic about what this means for us," he says. "Of course there are issues around copyright protection and there are worries around pricing and around piracy, royalty rates and so on, but there is also this huge opportunity to do more as publishers."

Publishing, he says, must embrace innovation: "I am keen on the idea that every book that we put on to an iPad has an author interview, a video interview, at the beginning. I have no idea whether this is a good idea or not. There has to be a culture of experimentation, which doesn't come naturally to book publishers. We publish a lot of historians, for example. They love the idea of using documentary footage to illustrate whatever it is they're writing about."

The very definition of a book is up for grabs he says, although the company has just published a version of Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth for the iPad in the US that might provide clues – and horrify traditionalists. It includes scenes from a TV adaptation embedded in the text, as well as extras including the show's music soundtrack and Follett's video diary during the making of the series.

For now, Makinson says, digital books are expanding the market; hardback sales in the US are up this year, despite the march of ebooks. Piracy is not yet a significant issue and lessons have been learned from the music business.

"You have to give the consumer what the consumer wants – you can't tell the consumer to go away. So we didn't participate in this experiment where a number of publishers deferred publication of the ebook until a certain number of months after the hardcover publication. I thought that was a very bad idea. If the consumer wants to buy a book in an electronic format now, you should let the consumer have it."

He has added confidence, because with tablets such as the iPad, consumers are used to paying a subscription to the wireless operator and for "apps", creating a more benign environment than the wild west of the PC, where users are used to getting everything for free.

Penguin's profits more than doubled to £44m in the first half of the year. The company gained market share, but one reason for the dramatic improvement was the outsourcing of some design and production to India last year; the company now has around 100 designers in Delhi making books for Dorling Kindersley, belying the idea that Britain can at least live off its creative industries. Makinson defends the decision and says DK is now back in profit, which means it can reinvest in Britain: "We can't pretend we can do everything here. In order to be internationally competitive, some work needs to be done in other places."

About 8% of the publisher's sales are from its classics, including Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, and revenues are still growing, despite much of the copyright being in the public domain. It is launching the range in Mandarin, Korean and Portuguese. But it is not all highbrow. What would Penguin's founder, Sir Allen Lane, whose aim was to publish quality paperbacks for the masses, have made of Penguin putting out books "by" Peter Andre or Ant & Dec?

"Allen Lane's view was that we should publish good writing of all kinds for all audiences at affordable prices," Makinson says. "I'm not saying he would necessarily have approved every single publishing decision we take, but would he have approved of Penguin being a very democratic publishing company, publishing for lots of different tastes? I think he would definitely have approved."

Makinson has long been mentioned as a successor to Dame Marjorie Scardino, who runs Pearson, Penguin's parent company. Her departure has been a perennial question, though she has defied the investment community's chattering classes by staying in her post for well over a decade. She has also confounded expectations by keeping Penguin and the Financial Times in a group dominated by educational publishing. Makinson says it now makes more sense than ever for Penguin to remain part of the group, as the digital era draws each division closer.

He says there will still be the need for publishers in the digital world: "I used to have this discussion with [Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy author] Douglas Adams. He created this thing called the digital village, an online publishing platform. Douglas's argument was, 'all of my friends will come along and publish on digital village and you the publishers will be disintermediated, you will be irrelevant'. Well, it hasn't happened. I am not aware of any successful direct to consumer publishing model that exists.

"The reason it doesn't work is that the publishers do actually perform quite a useful service: they edit the book, then they publicise it." In the physical world, they make sure it is stocked in bookshops, he adds.

Clubbable

Makinson, 55, perhaps feels more adaptable than some of his counterparts because he arrived at Penguin as an outsider. A clubbable character, he has taken an unusual career path, from a journalist on the Financial Times, to working for the Saatchis, setting up his own investment consultancy, running the Financial Times and then becoming Pearson finance director, despite having no training as an accountant.

But his passion for books is evident. Five years ago, he and his brother bought a bookshop in the small Norfolk town of Holt. For an out-of-the-way independent, the Holt Bookshop attracts a starry line-up of authors for events, including Stephen Fry, due to talk about his new autobiography, which, perhaps not surprisingly, is published by Penguin.

"We are all terribly sentimental about books," Makinson insists. "It is terribly important to me that we sell lots of wonderful books in my little independent in Norfolk, and when I talk about digital I do sometimes worry that it looks as though I am neglecting all this," he points to the books on the shelves behind him, "which I am not."

CV

Born: 1954, Derby.

Education: Graduated from Cambridge with honours in English and History.

Career: 1976-1979, journalist, Reuters; 1979-1986, journalist, Financial Times; 1986-1989, vice-chairman, Saatchi & Saatchi; 1989-1994, co-founder of capital markets advisory firm Makinson Cowell; 1994-1996, managing director, Financial Times; 1996-2002, finance director, Pearson; 2002-present, chairman and chief executive Penguin Books.

Other interests: chairman of the Institute for Public Policy Research, a director of the National Theatre and of the International Rescue Committee, a humanitarian organisation.

Family: Married with two daughters.


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The nostalgia narrative now aches to a different tune | John Freeman

Late-flowering writer of biographies and children's books

Verily Anderson, who has died aged 95, published more than 30 books – memoirs, biographies, children's stories and work ranging from personal reminiscences to Shakespeare scholarship and 10 Brownie books. She was a late starter: her breakthrough as a writer came in 1956, at the age of 41, when she published Spam Tomorrow, a deft and frequently uproarious account of her wartime experiences on the home front. Critics hailed it as a new kind of memoir, one of the first to explore the lives of women in wartime.

Before the success of Spam Tomorrow, she led a life that was colourful but frequently impecunious. Born in Edgbaston, Birmingham, the fourth of five children of the Rev Rosslyn Bruce and his wife Rachel (nee Gurney), Verily was always certain that she wanted to be a writer. As children, she and her brothers edited and wrote a nursery magazine which they called the News of the World. Verily's haphazard schooling ranged from a few years at Edgbaston high school for girls to being taught at home by her mother, to a brief and unsuccessful stint at the Royal College of Music in London. She said she worked at "100 different jobs" (including writing advertising copy, illustrating sweet papers and working as a chauffeur) before the outbreak of the second world war, when she enlisted with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, on the grounds that if there were going to be a war, it would be "less frightening to be in the middle of things".

During the war she met Donald Anderson, a writer who specialised in military history. They married in 1940 and had five children. With his encouragement, she made a precarious living as a freelance writer, while papering her lavatory walls with rejection slips received from publishers for her book projects. Her persistence was at last rewarded with the success of Spam Tomorrow – and a further half-decade on the bestseller lists. These years included a film adaptation of her 1958 memoir, Beware of Children, called No Kidding and starring Leslie Phillips and Geraldine McEwan (1960).

Donald died in 1956, and by the mid-60s Verily was again struggling financially. She was rescued by the actor Joyce Grenfell. They had struck up a friendship when Verily interviewed Grenfell for the BBC. Grenfell was so shocked at the conditions she found Verily living in that she bought her a home in Northrepps, a village in Norfolk, where she stayed for the rest of her life, writing dozens more books (including the critically acclaimed The Northrepps Grandchildren in 1968) and glorying in the role of matriarch to an ever-expanding family of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. When Verily married Paul Paget, architect and surveyor to the fabric of St Paul's Cathedral, in 1971, Grenfell was matron of honour.

In 2008 I conducted what turned out to be Verily's last interview. Letting myself in after some fruitless bell-ringing, I followed the sounds of a piano to her study door. "Oh my dear," she said, looking up at my knock. "There you are. Now – shall we have a gin, before we start?"

I had already heard all about Verily through her daughter, my friend the writer Janie Hampton, and so had a good idea what to expect. Janie's main piece of advice on hearing that we were going to meet was: "Whatever you do, don't let her pick you up from the station – she's half-blind." She also said: "Don't eat any of the cake she offers. She's always got some, and it's always about five weeks old."

Verily did have cake and it was past its best – but Verily definitely was not. She regaled me with anecdotes. I came away with the image of a woman with a twinkle in her eye, who after eight decades of writing was still full of energy and enthusing about her latest project. This – a memoir of the time she spent at Herstmonceux Castle, Sussex, in the 1930s and 40s – was completed the day before she died.

Verily is survived by her children, Marian, Rachel, Eddie, Janie and Alexandra, 16 grandchildren, 14 great-grandchildren – and Alfie, her beloved RNIB guide-dog.

• Verily Anderson, writer, born 12 January 1915, died 16 July 2010


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Tom Stoppard returns to BBC with Ford Madox Ford adaptation

The American literary genre of you can't go home again – that fertile ground farmed by Faulkner, Twain and Kerouac – has in the last half-century found a new voice abroad

At six foot, six inches tall, Thomas Wolfe had trouble entering most rooms. But he also had a problem with going back through them, especially if they led to the past. He had told too many truths – and too many lies – about where he came from in North Carolina.

In his posthumous 1940 novel, You Can't Go Home Again, he gave Americans a literary catchphrase for the pain so many of us who wind up far from where we grew up feel acutely.

After all, in the case of many Americans, if you leave the provinces only to return home, you are marked as a failure. At the very least, you run the risk of finding that flight has spoiled any fond memories you managed to smuggle out.

Think of the successful ad-man hero of John Updike's The Farm, who returns to his family's crumbling Pennsylvania farm for an emotionally fraught visit, or Quentin Compson of William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom, shivering in his dorm room at Harvard, who begins his defence of the American south with the ringing endorsement, "I don't hate it ... I don't hate it."

This thread of conflicted nostalgia is strongest in America's most autobiographical novelists, especially the ones who had to leave to write but continuously dial back the past in their work: writers such as Jack Kerouac, who frantically travelled America, but wrote most of his later books about Lowell, while living with his mother in Queens and Florida.

Then there's Mark Twain, whose autobiography appears in the new issue of Granta, who rose out of Missouri and saw the world, but settled in Hartford, Connecticut in a white mansion that everyone around him could see looked exactly like a river steamboat.

But like so many things America feels it has invented, from democracy to baseball, the you-can-never-go-home again narrative is hardly unique to it. In fact, in the last half-century (and especially in the last 20 years, as diaspora writers from the Dominican Republic to Nigeria to India and Pakistan have emerged as some of our most vigorous storytellers), nostalgia – which is a combination of "returning home" and "ache" – has taken on a different texture.

In Granta's new issue, there's a story by the Sudanese writer Leila Aboulela, about a young man who has come to London from Khartoum to study mathematics. His mother, who worries he will never return, arranges for him to marry a devout Muslim wife – a move which backfires when she comes to London and reminds him of everything he left behind. Chimamanda Adichie, meanwhile, has a story about a Nigerian "big man" whose life is turned upside down when his ex-girlfriend announces she has come back to Lagos. As he speculates about the reasons for her return, Adichie's hero worries whether he has sacrificed something essential in his rise to the top.

In stories like these, not to mention the novels of Monica Ali or Kiran Desai or Uzma Aslam Khan, the export duty to elsewhere is high. The past isn't just the past – it's another country. And for reasons political and personal, there is no going back.


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