The Small Back Room by Nigel Balchin

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The Small Back Room by Nigel Balchin was published in 1943, while the second world war was still going on. I am quite surprised that publication of this short, vivid and grim novel was allowed under wartime censorship rules, given the rather jaundiced picture it paints of the scientific establishment of that time. The wartime civil service atmosphere is very well caught; they work long hours and weekends with little time off. It is written in a terse, stripped-down, dialogue-heavy style, so that when there is a figure of speech it comes as a surprise.

Complex bureaucracy and office politics figure strongly in this story of a small technical research unit. The Reeves gun is an anti-tank weapon at the experimental stage; the army doesn’t like it, and the narrator, scientist Sammy Rice, has written a report saying it isn’t ready. However, his boss, Waring, and Professor Mair, head of the unit, have already persuaded their minister that the gun is a good idea.

Any consideration as to whether this will eventually be a useful weapon takes second place to a plot to oust Mair. The effectiveness of the gun becomes merely a pretext in the power struggle. The senior scientists and civil servants seem less interested in winning the war than scoring points off each other. Mair tells Sammy that scientists over fifty are not capable of original thinking anymore; it’s all about competing for knighthoods and so on. When Holland, the old soldier, intervenes in a meeting to make a point about the soldiers who will eventually have to use the gun on the battlefield, Sammy thinks he is the first person who has spoken as if they meant what they said.

Sammy is not very good at all this game-playing and career making. He has an artificial foot, a drink problem and a tendency to feel sorry for himself. He rails against “the bloody silly way things were arranged”. He doesn’t realise he is being sounded out as deputy director of the unit and is amazed when the job goes to Waring, the ex-advertising man who knows next to nothing about science, but is good at selling ideas to people.

Sammy is kept more or less on an even keel by his relationship with Susan, Professor Mair’s secretary. They have a ritual to keep Sammy’s drinking under control. She asks him if he would like a whisky and he replies that, no, he wouldn’t.

The real war in which people get killed keeps intruding into this world of farcical meetings and inconclusive conversations. Sammy’s younger brother Dick, is a twice-decorated fighter pilot who volunteers for secret and highly dangerous duty. Sammy has been asked by the engineer officer Captain Stuart to help with the investigation into a booby trap bomb the Germans are dropping, that is responsible for the deaths of several children.

Eventually, two of the bombs are found intact on a west country beach. Sammy tells Stuart to wait until he gets there before starting work. But by the time Sammy’s train gets in, Stuart has gone ahead and been blown up while attempting to defuse the first one. Sammy is a civilian; it was Stuart’s responsibility to do the dangerous part, but for various reasons, Sammy volunteers to defuse the second bomb.

We have now arrived at the novel’s tense, dramatic and unforgettable climax, with Sammy alone on the beach, working painstakingly on the second unexploded bomb, using the notes left by Stuart, giving a running commentary on every move he makes to the control point by telephone, in case he too should be killed. It tends to be this part of the novel that readers remember, despite the fact that it is only one chapter or so. It leaves a very strong impression.

I’m not sure if this novel actually introduced the phrase “back room boys”, to mean wartime scientists. The phrase is usually attributed to Beaverbrook, but I think the novel may have popularised it. The dialogue is full of 1940s expressions, such as “the balloon going up” and “I’ll put you in the picture”.

It was filmed in 1949 by Powell and Pressburger in a black and white expressionist style, I think they altered it a little too much. It’s time for a remake, in colour and widescreen, more faithful to the realism of the book.

Weathers by Thomas Hardy

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I had been planning to post a favourite poem of mine, “Snow in the Suburbs” by Thomas Hardy, with a photo to match. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look as if there is going to be any snow in my neighbourhood this winter. Despite the wind and rain, we are heading towards spring. So, instead of a winter poem, here is another one by Hardy that contrasts spring and autumn.

 

Weathers

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Traveller’s Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

White Eagles Over Serbia by Lawrence Durrell

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White Eagles Over Serbia is an unusual book among Lawrence Durrell’s many works. It is a cold war spy story that was published in 1957. Intriguingly, that was also the year that he published Justine, the first volume of his most celebrated work, The Alexandria Quartet.

The opening in London’s clubland recalls Ian Fleming and this intelligence unit is called Special Operations, Q Branch. The shabby office where the lifts don’t work, known as “The Awkward Shop”, and Boris, the specialist in disguise, anticipate John Le Carré or Len Deighton.

I don’t know if this was intended as the first of a series, because the hero, Methuen, is on the point of retirement from the service and is tempted back for one last mission. Realism is given by the mention of a recent mission in Malaya. There are no first names here; his boss is known simply as Dombey.

Methuen is despatched to Yugoslavia to investigate the death of a British agent and to try to find out about mysterious goings-on in the mountains of Serbia. A royalist, anti-communist organisation known as the White Eagles is up to something. They distrust the British because of British wartime support for the Partisans, the group led by Tito who now rules communist Yugoslavia.

There are patriotic poems broadcast on the radio that may be coded messages of some sort. Methuen is of course expert in the language, an old hand in the area.

Durrell makes his political opinions quite clear with the descriptions of the degraded state of ordinary people under the communist regime. Methuen is struck by the change in the people since he was last in the country, before the communist takeover. “These ragged creatures seemed to have lost all self-respect in the struggle to make ends meet.” The officials on the other hand look secure and well-fed. The secret police or “leather men” as they are known, are everywhere.

Methuen is based at the Belgrade embassy under a false identity. His cover for his journey to the mountains is that he is on a fishing trip, and he gains the support of the ambassador through their shared love of fly fishing. Once his real mission begins, he lives rough in a cave in the mountains.

Here, the book takes on the flavour of John Buchan or Geoffrey Household as an outdoor adventure, allowing Durrell free reign with his landscape descriptions. The bulk of the story concerns Methuen’s solitary investigations among the forests and rivers. He realises the danger he is in when he sees a fisherman sitting still on the riverbank for some time. When he goes to check, he finds that the man is dead and a placard with the word “traitor” is round his neck.

The code by which Methuen keeps in touch with Dombey in London is based on Thoreau’s Walden. He selected this book simply as a code book long ago, but has come to love it after “many re-readings in solitary places”.

The story bursts into action when Methuen infiltrates the White Eagles and discovers just what they have been involved with.

I don’t know the extent of Durrell’s involvement, if any, with the espionage world. Certainly, he worked on and off for the Foreign Office, his duties described as press officer. This novel draws on his time in the Belgrade embassy, as do his comic stories of diplomatic life.

I’m also not sure if this was intended as a children’s book. The paperback I had in the 1980s was published by Peacock, a “young adult” offshoot of Puffin books. The novel was re-issued by Faber in 1993, perhaps because of the war in the Balkans. It is packaged as an adult book and described as “an early novel that continues to appeal to readers of all ages”.

If this is not quite up to the level of Ian Fleming or Eric Ambler, this realistic and enjoyable spy thriller is not far off it. It shows just how talented and versatile a writer Lawrence Durrell was.

The House by Walter de la Mare

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At the beginning of Walter de la Mare’s story The House, a tired and elderly man arrives back at his house in the country, late at night. We learn that he is to leave the house for the last time in the morning. Two female servants, the only other occupants, have already left. During the night, the man, who we know only as Mr Asprey, goes on a final tour of the house, where he has lived all his life, it seems. Rooms contain memories, regrets…or are they ghosts of some sort?

He sees himself as an unhappy small boy. The room that used to be his parents’ summons up a vision of his father’s grave. A portrait of a woman reminds him that he never declared his love to her.

As he goes round he makes careful notes of things to do. But these are major things, such as leaving an heir to inherit the house. It is as if he is making an inventory of his regrets, the things left undone in life.

There is an odd atmosphere, and the reader begins to wonder. Is the man actually alive? Is all this taking place in some mysterious zone between life and death? Is it a real house or a symbolic one, representing the man’s life or personality?

He ponders a manuscript, given to him by a friend for a critical appraisal; he had not read it when his friend died suddenly and he never returned it to the friend’s wife.

In the kitchen, he finds a wallet hidden in a drawer. It was presumed stolen by one of his servants many years before and led to her dismissal. When he turns round, the wronged servant is sitting at the table. He hands the wallet to the woman. Then she disappears, taking the wallet, which he had assumed to be real, with her. We are on the borderline between the physical and the insubstantial here.

He accidentally spills a pot of coffee over the list he has so carefully compiled, making it illegible, with no time left to write another one.

He is expecting some kind of “conveyance” to come for him in the morning. But finally, he steps through the front door into an “infinite waste of wasteless light”, and the door closes by itself behind him. He seems to be in another world, but one that is familiar to him. If this is death it feels like an awakening. “It looked as if he must be intended to walk. And so he set out.” So ends a story that will linger long in the reader’s mind.

I can give only the merest flavour of this extraordinary story. It is difficult to do it justice. It think it is connected in some way to De la Mare’s poem The Railway Junction, which was published around the same time, the mid-1930s, I think, and has similar symbolic undertones.

De la Mare relies on elusiveness and ambiguity. There is often a dreamlike mood in his atmospheric stories, written with the precision of language we would expect from such an accomplished poet. Here, as in so many of his stories, we are not quite sure  exactly what has happened. The effect is a bit like watching a film where something might or might not be glimpsed at the corner of the screen. Each reading of a De la Mare story can reveal a new emphasis or meaning. They almost demand to be read more than once, but the reader will find it hard to settle on one fixed, solid interpretation.

De la Mare’s stories have rather gone out of fashion, but there are signs that interest in his work is reviving. A selection was published by the British Library not long ago. They are often categorised as “ghost stories” and compared to the work of Henry James in this field. Certainly, the subtle, shifting atmosphere so characteristic of De la Mare is closer to Henry James than M R James, but also similar to the later stories of Rudyard Kipling.

Another reason for the comparative neglect of these stories might be that whereas M R James’ ghost stories were collected into one volume which has stayed consistently in print, De la Mare’s were spread over several different collections. There is not even general agreement as to which of his many short stories should be considered as “supernatural” or “ghost” stories.

There is an excellent BBC radio series of readings of five De la Mare tales. It turns up on Radio 4 extra from time to time or can be found on YouTube. The House, alas, is not one of the stories featured.

Roald Dahl goes back to school

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I mentioned Roald Dahl in my recent Patrick Hamilton piece. The Hamilton radio play had reminded me of a particular story. Not long afterwards, by one of those strange coincidences, I saw a TV documentary on Dahl and the story was mentioned by name. It is called Galloping Foxley and is one of Dahl’s adult stories, first published in the early 1950s. I have not read it for many years. It has stayed in the back of my mind, though, ever since.

It is quite a straightforward story. A railway commuter, William Perkins, is a businessman with a very settled routine. He is put out when a stranger appears on the platform one morning and pushes himself into Perkins’ group. The disruptive stranger insists on sitting in the same compartment as Perkins, taking the seat opposite. Perkins fumes about the intrusion of this man into his daily journey, until a few days later, he recognises the newcomer as Bruce Foxley, the boy who bullied him mercilessly at school, many years before.

This brings all his memories of being tormented to the surface. He sits in the train compartment re-living such delightful experiences as cleaning Foxley’s study, being beaten by him, etc. He decides to identify himself and is shaken when the man replies that he is Jocelyn Fortescue, who attended Eton, not Repton, as Perkins and Foxley did.

When I read it, I was convinced that Perkins had simply made a mistake, that the whole thing was in his mind, and that the memory had been brought back by the man he thought he recognised acting as a catalyst. I accepted that it was a mistake, but what seemed so disturbing, was that the memory of his unhappiness was lurking there, just waiting to come to the surface again.

After checking on Wikipedia, I now realise that there are other possibilities that I did not spot when I read the story. Apparently, the story was adapted for the first series of Tales of the Unexpected. In the TV version, the man who denies he is Foxley, is asked by Perkins again and gives a slightly knowing look when he denies it a second time. This implies that he has recognised Perkins but has given a false name.

This dramatises what is only implied in the story; that the stranger might after all actually be Foxley. If he is in fact Foxley, does he deny it because he is ashamed of his conduct at school? Or is his denial a way of tormenting Perkins all over again? Has he only re-appeared in Perkins’ life to carry on the bullying in a more refined, adult way?

There is of course also the possibility that the man is who he says he is, but that he is a perfect example of the same “type” as Foxley, ie public school bully, and it is this that Perkins has responded to, rather than a facial resemblance.

I do not have a copy of the full text to hand, so I cannot check how much importance Dahl gives to the facial resemblance.

Roald Dahl apparently disliked his public school and had similar unhappy experiences there. Perhaps, haunting as it is, this is not so much a short story as a semi-autobiographical meditation on the power of unhappy memories to last a lifetime.

Prospero’s Cell by Lawrence Durrell

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This book by Lawrence Durrell was published in 1945. It is an account of his life on Corfu in the years 1937-38. It forms part of a loose “island trilogy” with the later Reflections on a Marine Venus (Rhodes) and Bitter Lemons (Cyprus).

The great strength here is Durrell’s eye for the unusual and his extraordinary descriptive prose. This is a book full of local colour in every sense. It opens with the sentence: “Somewhere between Calabria and Corfu the blue really begins”. He was primarily a poet, after all. He is particularly effective at evoking the maritime world and the sea is a constant presence. There are vivid descriptions of night fishing for squid and octopus by carbide lamp.

The part of the island where Durrell lives is tranquil in 1937: “The silence here is like a discernible pulse – the heart-beat of time itself”.

There is not much narrative to speak of, and it has to be said that some of the philosophical conversations with his Greek friends are a bit tedious. It is one of these friends who claims to have proved that Corfu was Prospero’s island in The Tempest.

There is an extraordinary visionary passage where Durrell, bathing in a rock pool, seems to have become one with the landscape: “One is entangled and suffocated by this sense of physical merging into the elements around one”.

The book is perhaps most effective as an attempt to convey the history, myths and customs of Corfu as revealed in the everyday lives of its inhabitants. He gives us the details about olive gathering and oil manufacture, a village dance in old-fashioned clothing, and a strange pageant dedicated to a mythical figure who embodies the Greek character. Even the brief period of British rule has left its trace in an enthusiasm for cricket. I think of it as a sort of literary cubism, where it does not really seem to be going anywhere, but by the end the reader has gained a complete picture.

Like Kipling, Durrell was born in India and spent his early years there. I have wondered whether his painterly talent for rendering colours and landscape in words derived from this in some way.

This book is connected to the story of the Durrells’ family life on Corfu as told by Gerald elsewhere, although you wouldn’t really know it. There is a fleeting reference to “my brother” and “his guns”, so that must be Leslie. Lawrence was living with his wife Nancy in the White House to the north of the island, while his mother and siblings lived elsewhere, but he doesn’t really mention them much. Nancy is referred to only as “N” here.

Towards the end, the coming war starts to make its ominous presence felt and the final section is an epilogue looking back from Alexandria in 1943. This is pointing towards Durrell’s  later career and the collapse of his marriage to Nancy. She was something of a shadowy figure, but her story has now been told by her daughter Joanna Hodgkin, in Amateurs in Eden. Prospero’s Cell portrays pre-war Corfu as a paradise lost.

This book can be seen as an early example of a sub-genre of writing that became popular in the 1950s, which sought to bring the colour, sunshine and abundance of foreign locations to a Britain still feeling the effects of wartime austerity. Other examples of this are the Mediterranean cookery books of Elizabeth David, with their cover illustrations by the painter John Minton, and the James Bond books.

Fleming kept Bond in England in Moonraker but readers complained so he did not repeat the experiment. Jamaica was Bond’s real home and perhaps the Caribbean was to Fleming what the Mediterranean was to Durrell.

 

Money With Menaces by Patrick Hamilton

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For me, the broadcasting highlight of the holiday season was on the radio rather than the television. It was the play Money With Menaces by Patrick Hamilton. Actually, it wasn’t on the radio; it is a BBC recording from a few years ago that someone had kindly loaded on to YouTube.

A little research revealed that this was written for radio in 1937, shortly before Hamilton’s great stage success Gaslight. It is a gripping suspenseful piece, quite short and essentially a two-hander, a series of increasingly disturbing telephone calls. As the title suggests, it becomes clear that what we are dealing with here is blackmail. Part of the fascination for Hamilton admirers is the slow, insinuating way that “Mr Poland” tortures his victim. He talks round the subject in his dry voice and refuses to come to the point, stringing out the agony. It is almost Pinteresque.

This sort of thing features strongly in Hamilton’s novels. I am thinking of Mr Thwaites in The Slaves of Solitude, whose victims are stuck with him at the breakfast table. It might almost be a grown-up Ralph Gorse on the other end of the line. Those unfamiliar with this nasty piece of work, can make his acquaintance in my post about The West Pier.

The mechanics of suspense are worked out very cleverly. We are in the world where telephones were situated at a specific place, not carried in one’s pocket. The blackmailer leads his victim in a merry dance around the west end of London, from one phone booth to another. The telephone call provides many possibilities for radio drama. How do we know that the person on the other end of the line is who they claim to be? Francis Durbridge used this sort of thing to great effect in his Paul Temple series.

Thinking further along these lines reminded me of Ford Madox Ford’s 1912 novel, A Call. As far as I know, that was the first novel where the plot depended on the use of the telephone.

Without giving too much away about Money With Menaces, what seems to be increasingly absurd turns out to have a logical explanation. There have been later works on a similar theme by Roald Dahl and William Boyd.

I thoroughly recommend this as a gripping forty minutes or so on the radio – or should I say wireless?

Age shall not weary them, but perhaps it should

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I once read in an interview with Agatha Christie that she felt she had made a mistake with Poirot and made him too old. He had already retired by the time of his third appearance, in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926). I suppose it never occurred to her that the demands of the public and her publisher meant she would be writing about him for the next fifty years. Poirot therefore had to be permanently suspended in late middle age, while the world he moved through changed around him. This is quite effective; the books set in 1960s England are very different to those set among international travellers in the 1930s.

There are occasional references to his age, though. At the beginning of Five Little Pigs (1942) his would-be client looks at him quizzically. Poirot realises that she thinks he is too old for the job. He explains that the “little grey cells” are still working perfectly. Mrs McGinty’s Dead (1952) begins with Poirot reflecting on what is now his greatest pleasure, the dining table, and lamenting that there are only three meals in the day. But Christie could never have aged him realistically; He was a first world war refugee, after all, and Captain Hastings was recovering from wounds when Poirot met him. Even if he was only in his forties then, Poirot would have been in his nineties in the books set in the 1960s.

Poirot contrasts sharply with John Buchan’s hero, Richard Hannay, who made his first appearance in The Thirty Nine Steps in 1915. He ages realistically over the course of his five adventures and in the last, The Island of Sheep (1936), he has been knighted, become an MP and his teenage son takes an active role. This may have something to do with the fact that in the books set in the first world war, Hannay gains promotion, ending up as a senior officer. You can’t really have a character who progresses up the military hierarchy without them ageing. We can see this in C S Forester’s Hornblower series, where Hornblower starts as a midshipman and ends as an admiral. He must therefore age. Of course, both Hannay and Hornblower are parents, so if they did not age, their children could not, either.

The characters that Christie did age realistically, in a similar fashion to Hannay, are her detective duo Tommy and Tuppence. They first appeared as a pair of bright young things in Christie’s second novel The Secret Adversary (1922). Their final appearance as a married couple of mature years was in the last novel she wrote, Postern of Fate (1973).

John Le Carré had a Poirot-like problem with George Smiley, in that he had been very specific about his age in his first book, which made him a bit too old for the later books. In Call for the Dead (1961), we are told Smiley went up to Oxford in 1925, so he would have been born around 1907. Smiley leaves the secret service at the end of that book; we assume he has returned, because he appears as a supporting character in The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1963) and The Looking Glass War (1965).

He becomes the central character in Tinker Tailor, Soldier Spy (1974), but Le Carré had to change Smiley’s past and knock some years off his age to fit him into that story. Smiley had to be much closer in age to the generation who were at Oxford in the 1930s and still young enough to be forced into premature retirement in the early 1970s. That also made him vigorous enough to appear in the next two books of the Karla Trilogy. Again, one has to assume that when Le Carré wrote Call for the Dead, he did not imagine Smiley as the central figure in a much longer and more complex novel that he would write almost fifteen years later.

Perhaps Ian Fleming came up with the best solution to this ageing problem. James Bond always seems to be about the same, unspecified age; mid to late thirties perhaps, old enough to be experienced and confident but young enough to be fit and tough. But the books link in to one another, with a consistent cast of characters. There is a chronology, and Bond is scarred by his experiences, but he is oddly ageless.

This can be seen particularly towards the end of the series. On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1963) opens with the hunt for Blofeld, the criminal mastermind behind the atomic bomb plot in Thunderball (1961). At the beginning of You Only Live Twice (1964), the events of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service have left Bond a broken man, on the point of being dismissed from the service; by the end, he is missing in Japan, presumed dead. The Man With The Golden Gun (1965) opens dramatically with the brainwashed Bond returning to try and assassinate M. He is then given a dangerous mission to redeem himself.

Fleming was careful never to pin down Bond’s exact year of birth. In the (premature, as it turns out) obituary in You Only Live Twice, M writes that Bond became a commando “in 1941, claiming an age of 19”; that would make Bond’s year of birth about 1923 or so. So, if we do apply realistic time, he would have been in his early forties when he turns down a knighthood at the end of The Man With The Golden Gun, the last Bond book.

Sooner or later, Fleming would have had to solve the problem of how Bond should age, and it’s interesting to speculate what he might have done. Perhaps he would have inserted an earlier adventure into the timeline, as Conan Doyle did with The Hound of the Baskervilles. Unfortunately, Fleming died at the comparatively young age of 56. Like his creator, Bond never had to cope with old age.

Don’t Look Now: great story, great film

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Memory is a funny thing. I know this happened but I’m not sure exactly when and the details are hazy. Our local cinema used to have late-night screenings on a Friday night. Not the latest releases, but what you might call cult classics, in the days before they were available on video. We are talking about the mid to late seventies here.

One Friday after the pub we trooped along to see a Nicolas Roeg double bill, attracted by the prospect of David Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth. That was on first, so it must have been well after midnight when the second film started. I had heard of Don’t Look Now, but I didn’t know much about it, except that it was adapted from a story by Daphne du Maurier, known to me as the author of Rebecca.

I have never seen any other film that generates such a sense of unease and dread. Even something seemingly innocuous, the interview at the  police station, is full of. . . well, what exactly? The same feeling that runs through the whole story, that there is something you can’t quite grasp, out of reach, until everything that seemed fragmentary is connected horrifically and tragically at the end.

They used to turn the heating off, so imagine watching those scenes of a dank and wintry Venice in a cold cinema. Then think of the ending and imagine walking home in the early hours of the morning after that. I would never forget this chilling story of bereavement and second sight.

I have seen it several times since on the television, and I have read Daphne du Maurier’s story more than once. It’s fascinating to compare the story and the film. It’s only fifty pages or so, a longish short story, but too short to be called a novella.

The prologue in England was added for the film, but what Roeg also did was to take the story and make it more visual, as you would expect, by creating the repeated images of the colour red, water and breaking glass. The colour red was something of a theme with Roeg in his earlier films as director of photography, such as Fahrenheit 451 and Far From The Madding Crowd.

Something that could not really be transferred to the screen was the fact that the viewpoint character is the man. Thus we have a female writer looking critically at a woman through the eyes of a man. Also, the film was set roughly contemporary to when it was made, in 1973. In the story, there are indications that it is set a bit further back, in the nineteen-fifties, say. The fame of the film has rather overshadowed the story, but I feel that although they are distinct works in their own right, it should always be remembered that the original ideas that drive the film came from the fertile imagination of Daphne du Maurier.

Du Maurier was a favourite writer of my parents. My mother was particularly fond of the novel The King’s General. There was always a bit of a problem with Du Maurier’s reputation in that, for all her fame and success, she was regarded as a writer of “romance” or “women’s fiction”. That probably put me off reading her work when I was younger. Don’t Look Now and the other short stories place her in quite different territory, much closer to Patricia Highsmith or Shirley Jackson who were her true peers, rather than Georgette Heyer, say.

Around the time of the centenary of du Maurier’s birth, in 2005, I saw a stage production that was an adaptation of the story, rather than the film. I think the stage design of this was done by people who had worked in the opera. It looked like real water seeping down the dark walls. At the interval we walked up to the front, to get an idea of how it was done, and found it was indeed real and there was a gutter at the lip of the stage. The play had also taken the story back to its original time.

I know I shall read the story and watch the film again, but I feel that neither are to be taken lightly. Both are masterpieces but not exactly uplifting. One has to be in the right mood. I was lucky to see the film with no prior knowledge of it, so I could react to the film itself, and not any preconceived idea of it.

I later met someone who said that they didn’t like the film, which surprised me. But then they had been obliged to watch it as part of a film studies course, a different thing entirely. Nothing kills your appreciation of a film like being told in advance it is a classic.

 

 

So, farewell then, Anthony Price

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I knew he was quite elderly, but his death wasn’t reported that widely and I only found out some time after the event. He actually died in May 2019. I suppose it wasn’t considered big news, because his books had somehow fallen out of favour in recent years, and most of them are out of print now. I think that’s a great pity, because they are well worth reading for anyone who enjoys the cold war spy genre.

His approach to the spy novel is original, combining as it does a taste for military history combined with cold war intrigue. His first novel, The Labyrinth Makers (1970), opens with the discovery of a wrecked plane from the second world war in the English countryside. Why are the Russians so interested in it so long after the war? This intrusion of the past into the present is perhaps seen to best effect in Other Paths to Glory (1974). Why is someone is prepared to kill to get hold of a piece of first world war trench map? There are two stories here, the tale of a group of soldiers on the western front, and a modern-day espionage plot. They turn out to be connected, the riddle of what happened to the soldiers providing the answer to the main mystery.

Price’s spy master is Dr David Audley, historian and leading light of the counter-intelligence unit known simply as “Research and Development”. He is also a great enthusiast of the works of Rudyard Kipling. He lives in a country house of great antiquity, not unlike Kipling’s Batemans in Sussex. He appears in almost every book, along with a recurring set of characters, but he is not always the main character. Price has a habit of introducing someone completely new at the start of a novel and telling the story from their point of view. The series was not published in chronological order, either. This may be one of the reasons for Price’s comparative lack of popularity. It can’t have been obvious to readers that the books did in fact form a series and I don’t know if his publisher promoted them in a way that made this clear.

Actually, the books that depart from the main chronological sequence and are set entirely in the past are some of the best. The Hour of the Donkey (1980) is the story of two young British officers in France in 1940. It is also a slice of alternative history, with its explanation of why the German tanks stopped short of Dunkirk. Alert readers will spot several characters who appear in the books set later. The ‘44 Vintage (1978) shows the young David Audley in France in 1944, when he becomes a member of a commando unit operating behind enemy lines, along with Jack Butler, who features in many of the other books. This is the start of his intelligence career, the sort of thing that Ian Fleming hinted at in the Bond books but never got round to writing about at length. Soldier No More (1981) is perhaps the closest Price comes to Le Carre, with its complex double agent plot, set just after Suez in 1956 with Audley indulging in a spot of lotus-eating deep in the French countryside.

So why isn’t Price better known today? After all, his novels won prizes and were highly praised at the time. As well as the reasons I have outlined above it may be something to do with the lack of successful film or TV adaptations. The first three novels were televised (under the title Chessgame) but were altered somewhat and Price was unhappy about the casting. A more popular and continuing series might have made Audley a figure to rival Inspector Morse. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone has another go at some point. There is a lot of material there.

Perhaps I’m on the wrong track, though. It’s often difficult to point to one particular reason why a writer’s works fall out of favour. It may be the military history that puts some readers off, but on the other hand I think that is a great deal of the appeal of Price’s writing. Perhaps there was a confusion with his near namesake Anthony Powell. It may simply be the passage of time and the question of availability. When the Cold War came to an end, Price stopped writing new books, about 1990, and his old ones started to drop out of print. If readers can’t find them, they can’t read them. Well, thanks to the internet, secondhand copies are easily obtainable and I believe some of the titles are available electronically. It’s time for an Anthony Price revival.