Candleford | Stray Thoughts

Candelford Green is the third installment of the Lark Rise to Candleford series, Flora Thompson’s semi-autobiographical account of growing up in a small English village.The books take place in the 1880s and 1890s, and Flora writes as an adult looking back at simpler times and the changes that happened since.

In the first book, Lark Rise, Flora’s alter-ego, Laura, is the oldest daughter in her family, living in the small village of Lark Rise. In the next book, Over to Candleford, Laura spends a lot of time with her relatives in Candleford Green, a slightly bigger village some eight miles away.

In this third book, Candleford Green, Laura works as an assistant in the post office. Young girls often went into service as maids or mother’s helpers at this time. Laura’s mother didn’t feel she was suited for either of those jobs. But when a friend of the Candleford relatives invites Laura to help her out in the Post Office, her family agrees to let her go.

Like the first two books, there’s no real plot. The book is mostly Laura’s observations of how the people lived, worked, celebrated, decorated their homes, etc. Along the way are little vignettes of some of the individuals who make up the village.

Some of the quotes that caught my eye:

Few would care to take that trouble for the sake of a few spoonfuls of jelly in these days. . . it was thought a waste of time in many households. On the face of it, it does seem absurd to spend the inside of a week making a small jelly, and women were soon to have other uses for their time and energy, but those who did such cookery in those days looked upon it as an art, and no time or trouble was thought wasted if the result were perfection. We may call the Victorian woman ignorant, weak, clinging and vapourish—she is not here to answer such charges—but at least we must admit that she knew how to cook.

At fourteen it is intolerable to resign every claim to distinction. Her hair was soft and thick and brown and she had rather nice brown eyes and the fresh complexion of country youth, but those were her only assets in the way of good looks. ‘You’ll never be annoyed by people turning round in the street to have another look at you,’ her mother had often told her, and sometimes, if Laura looked dashed, she would add: ‘But that cuts both ways: if you’re no beauty, be thankful you’re not a freak.’

And she had her own personal experiences: her moments of ecstasy in the contemplation of beauty; her periods of religious doubt and hours of religious faith; her bitter disillusionments on finding some people were not what she had thought them, and her stings of conscience over her own shortcomings. She grieved often for the sorrows of others and sometimes for her own.

‘You’ve got to summer and winter a man before you can pretend to know him’ was an old country maxim much quoted at that time.

This about two single women taking care of elderly parents while trying to run a shop:

No wonder the Pratt girls looked, as some people said, as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders. They must in reality have carried a biggish burden of trouble, and if they tried to hide it with a show of high spirits and simpering smiles, plus a little harmless pretension, that should have been put down to their credit. Human nature being what it is, their shifts and pretences only served to provoke a little mild amusement.

The new vicar, according to Laura, didn’t mention heaven or hell or sin or repentance, but his sermons made “you feel two inches taller.” The people were what I’d call God-fearing in a general sense, but it doesn’t sound like the gospel was proclaimed except for one or two of the townspeople.

I found the first book sometimes hard to wade through. I didn’t have any problems with the last two: maybe I grew more used to Thompson’s style.

Nowadays, the books are usually packaged together under one title, Lark Rise to Candleford. My copy looks like the one here.

I hope to be able to watch the series, Lark Rise to Candleford. I know some things will be different. Laura is just a teenager in this last book and younger than that in the first two books. Dorcas, the postmistress, doesn’t appear until halfway through the second book, but I understand she’s there at the beginning of the series.

Overall, these were pleasant reads. I’m glad to finally be acquainted with Laura and the villagers.

(Sharing with Booknificent Thursday, Carole’s Books You Loved)

Over to Candleford is the second book in Flora Thompson’s semi-autobiographical Lark Rise to Candleford Trilogy.

Candleford is a bigger town about eight miles away from the village of Lark Rise where Laura’s family lives. For years, Laura heard offhand plans about maybe going over to Candleford one day. Then finally it happens.

Laura’s father hires a cart, and the whole family drives over to visit relatives. Laura and her brother Edmund are fascinated by the new things they see. They are a bit intimidated by their relatives, though. Both families they visit are more well-to-do than Laura’s. The first has so much excess that Laura doesn’t feel comfortable. The second family is less ostentatious and more thoughtful and kind, and Laura feels more at home.

Later, Laura’s mother asks if Laura and Edmund think they could walk to Candleford by themselves. I can’t fathom sending children that young (nine and eleven) on an eight mile walk alone. But they make it.

This starts Laura on several visits to Candleford. One of my favorite parts is when she discovers a pile of old books in the attic and then discovers her uncle loves to read as much as she does.

Every afternoon when her cousins could be persuaded to go out or do what they wanted to do without her, she would tap at the door of her uncle’s workshop and hear the familiar challenge, ‘Who goes there?’ and reply, ‘Bookworms, Limited,’ and, receiving the password, go in and sit by the open window looking out on the garden and river and read while her uncle worked.

Laura’s family might seem a little rough to modern readers. They are not unkind, but they don’t coddle their children. “Her mother was kind and sensible and loved her children dearly, but she did not believe in showing too much tenderness towards them or in ‘giving herself away’ to the world at large.” When a neighbor tells Laura, “Never you mind, my poppet. Good looks ain’t everything, and you can’t help it if you did happen to be behind the door when they were being given out,” her mother tells her later, “You’re all right. Always keep yourself clean and neat and try to have a pleasant, good-tempered expression, and you’ll pass in a crowd.”

Laura starts to feel less valued than the new babies, until her mother finally treasures the bond they share in remembering early days and people that the youngest can’t.

When Laura turns thirteen, that’s about the time girls in the village found work outside the home to help support the family. But Laura is unsuited for many of the lines of work open to her and feels like a failure. Then an unexpected opportunity arises.

There is a little more plot to this book than Lark Rise, the first one. But there’s still a lot of description and short vignettes of people and customs.

I enjoyed the opening of new horizons to Laura in visiting a bigger town and unfamiliar people. I also liked her arc from a girl into a teenager.

Thompson also shares the changes that occurred during her lifetime.

They were still much as their forefathers had been; but change was creeping in, if slowly. A weekly newspaper came into every house, either by purchase or borrowing, and although these were still written by educated men for the educated, and our hamlet intellects had sometimes to reach up a little for their ideas, ideas were slowly percolating.

I smiled at this about bicycles:

But, although it was not yet realized, the revolution in transport had begun. The first high ‘penny-farthing’ bicycles were already on the roads, darting and swerving like swallows heralding the summer of the buses and cars and motor cycles which were soon to transform country life. But how fast those new bicycles travelled and how dangerous they looked! Pedestrians backed almost into the hedges when they met one of them, for was there not almost every week in the Sunday newspaper the story of some one being knocked down and killed by a bicycle, and letters from readers saying cyclists ought not to be allowed to use the roads, which, as everybody knew, were provided for people to walk on or to drive on behind horses. ‘Bicyclists ought to have roads to themselves, like railway trains’ was the general opinion.

Yet it was thrilling to see a man hurtling through space on one high wheel, with another tiny wheel wobbling helplessly behind. You wondered how they managed to keep their balance. No wonder they wore an anxious air. ‘Bicyclist’s face’, the expression was called, and the newspapers foretold a hunchbacked and tortured-faced future generation as a result of the pastime.

There’s always resistance to any progress, and then it becomes normal.

As a homebody myself, I appreciated this:

To the women, home was home in a special sense, for nine-tenths of their lives were spent indoors. There they washed and cooked and cleaned and mended for their teeming families; there they enjoyed their precious half-hour’s peace with a cup of tea before the fire in the afternoon, and there they bore their troubles as best they could and cherished their few joys. At times when things did not press too heavily upon them they found pleasure in re-arranging their few poor articles of furniture, in re-papering the walls and making quilts and cushions of scraps of old cloth to adorn their dwelling and add to its comfort, and few were so poor that they had not some treasure to exhibit, some article that had been in the family since ‘I dunno when’, or had been bought at a sale of furniture at such-and-such a great house, or had been given them when in service.

This was a sweet story, and I look forward to the next one, Candleford Green.

(Sharing with Booknificent Thursday, Carole’s Books You Loved)