The Fortnight in September

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If you are looking for a lovely, gentle story from a more innocent time, then please put R.C. Sherriff’s The Fortnight in September on your reading list. Sommige recensenten spraken over kneuterigheid en ik begrijp dat wel, maar ik vond er niets kneuterig aan. Dat was gewoon zo. Gewone mensen hadden niet meer, kenden geen grote luxe en er was nog veel sociale controle zodat de mening van anderen wel vaak een rol speelde, zoals bij Ernest Stevens ook het geval was. Sherriff read history at New College, Oxford, from 1931 to 1934. [10] [11] He was a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and the Society of Antiquaries of London. [12] Career [ edit ] Playwright [ edit ] The author writes that Mr. Stevens “had the gift of establishing domestic ‘Occasions’” (p. 18) around special days—such as the night before a trip—so that they become almost ritualistic in nature. Why are these rituals important to him and the rest of the family? What other rituals take place throughout the book?

Robert Cedric Sherriff, FSA, FRSL (6 June 1896 – 13 November 1975) [1] was an English writer best known for his play Journey's End, [2] which was based on his experiences as an army officer in the First World War. [3] He wrote several plays, many novels, and multiple screenplays, and was nominated for an Academy Award and two BAFTA awards. [4] Early life [ edit ] The road to Journey's End...A Hitch in the Proceedings and other early plays by R C Sherriff". Exploring Surrey's Past. 21 November 2014. The Fortnight in September. 1931. OCLC 246884057. (Reprinted in 2006 by Persephone Books); 2021 pbk reprint. Scribner. 7 September 2021. ISBN 978-1-9821-8478-0. A captivating read. . . . quietness is part of the novel's immense charm." — Laurie Hertzel, Minneapolis Star Tribune This novel, first published in 1931, perfectly encapsulates the small joys of a family embarking on their annual holiday to the English seaside. Not very much happens in the story, but it’s written in such a mannered, yet insightful, way, that it hardly seems to matter. A long train journeyAt the end of Corunna Road an asphalt footpath dived under the Embankment and emerged on the other side, but Mrs. Stevens seldom penetrated far into this other part of the world. She shopped in Dulwich, and had her friends there. Fine Saturday afternoons called them south, to the open fields and trees, out Bromley way. Goodbye, Mr. Chips – which was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay along with his co-writers Claudine West, Eric Maschwitz But the house had been well done up and was scrupulously clean. The Stevenses had returned the following year, and they had returned ever since, for twenty Septembers, wet and fine, hot and cold. I am dipping into various collections and enjoying the work of a range of poets: Kathleen Jamie and Helen Dunmore for example.

Stevens, Christopher (2010). Born Brilliant: The Life of Kenneth Williams. John Murray. p.264. ISBN 978-1-84854-195-5. Their journey to Bognor Regis, on the West Sussex coast, is described in exacting detail, including the walk to the train station from their terraced house at 22 Corunna Road in Dulwich, and then the long journey by train, via Clapham Junction, and then onwards to “Seaview”, the apartments they have taken every year since their honeymoon more than 20 years earlier. No matter their circumstances, Sherriff’s characters remain steadfastly familiar, common or garden heroes (and villains). And it’s this that makes his novels so strangely enthralling. He writes without fanfare or affectation, but most importantly, with sympathy and compassion. However inconsequential, unambitious or even downright foolish they might appear to be, he treats his characters’ lives—their hopes and dreams, their fears and disgruntlements—with the greatest of respect.

R.C. Sherriff

The “Seaview” guest house where Mr and Mrs Stevens stayed there on their honeymoon is shabbier than they remember it from their last visit. The linoleum flooring is worn bare in some places, the bedroom curtains frayed at the edges and the sitting room exudes a “faint, sour atmosphere, as if apples had been stored in it.” The widowed proprietor Mrs Huggett isn’t as cheerful as on past visits; now she looks drawn and maybe a little tearful. Those winter-break vacations remain some of the best family memories [great quality time] for both our daughters and Paul and I. The Fortnight in September is a real balm for the soul. It’s about an ordinary family momentarily escaping the confines of their mundane lives, but it’s also a fascinating historical look at the minutiae of domestic travel in a different era. I loved it. Het deed me erg denken aan de jaarlijkse daguitstappen van ons gezin, meer dan 25 jaar na het verschijnen van dit boek, toen er in de meeste arbeidersgezinnen als het onze zelfs nog geen sprake was van twee weken op vakantie gaan. Wij gingen elk jaar achtereenvolgens met bus, trein en dan weer bus naar Scherpenheuvel, vader, moeder en de 5 kinderen. Het idee dat we de trein zouden kunnen missen maakte mij elke keer weer bang en nerveus. De opluchting als we eindelijk samen in de trein zaten!

Our dance with life is encapsulated here within the framework of an annual family vacation in the early 20th century at the English Seaside. There’s nothing like tradition to measure the passage of time, both reliable in its regularity and separate enough from the daily grind to compare the choices we’ve made with what lies ahead. There’s also the ritual itself in all of its ceremony, and how we improve our preparation and navigation of it each time. This story moves us into those moments when we teeter on that line between the desire for known comforts and for that of something new. Since it is the father, Mr. Stevens, who is central, it is in his middle-aged rhythm with its small shifts that we mostly experience our read. The journeys of the two eldest children come later, breaking the rhythm and sweeping us into more dramatic change. But even those are the ordinary dramas of first times. The rain had quite stopped now: the sun was shining. Mrs. Stevens took the tablecloth from the kitchen drawer and went into the dining-room.The guest house was a little shabby, but it was as familiar as home. The Stevens had stayed with the Huggetts every year when the came to Bognor, but this year things would be a little different. Mr Huggett had died and Mrs Huggett was having to manage things on her own. So, even though they noticed that things were a little shabbier than usual, the family would not dream of saying a word. I particularly enjoyed Mrs Stevens’ thoughts about Clapham Junction, where they have to change trains, because I used to visit that station daily on my commute (for about two years) from Kensington Olympia and it is absolutely the worst train station in the world with its 17 platforms, crowds of people and confusing walkways (above ground and underground): She always provides a wider perspective on events, allowing one to understand the world in which we live in more breadth and depth. You will find several posts featuring her writing (all non-fiction). This first chilly weekend of autumn has forced me to drag out the super soft blanket a dear friend gave me for my birthday last year. That fleecy throw wasn’t needed while reading The Fortnight in September earlier this month, yet the novel offered all the same snug comforts of that prized possession. I haven’t been to the beach in five years, but I feel I’ve been there for a short while through the sublime writing of R.C. Sherriff. With clear, uncomplicated prose, he vividly evokes the feelings one has while anticipating, preparing for, traveling towards, and arriving at one’s longed-for destination.

This reminds us that, despite the freedom of their holidays, the Stevens family normally live in a world of strict hierarchies and manners. They come from the rather prim suburban world of the 1930s, in which people are anxious to abide by the rules of a middle-class they might only recently have joined. I was fascinated to read that the Stevens’ neighbours, the Bullevants, ‘ were looked down upon by some of the people in Corunna Road because Mr Bullevant always breakfasted without a collar ‘. And these delicate echoes of class arise throughout the book. Mr Stevens, whose father was a plumber, has raised himself to the middle class by his own merit, and cherishes those little moments which show that he has become a man of standing – the moment when a porter calls him ‘sir’ in front of the family, or his role on the Football Club committee. Sherriff is brilliant at these tiny touches, so very English in their subtle evocation of class and character, lighting on details which enrich our understanding of the whole.

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Yet what lingers in the mind, at the end? This is a book about change. It has the poignant charm of a story that knows its time is slipping away even as it happens. The children are growing up; the days of the boarding-house are numbered; the holiday, perhaps, will never quite be like this again. And holidays are, by their very nature, bittersweet: you only enjoy them so much because you know they will end. Lovely. And a family so very well drawn, whose the story catches so much that is important in life: home, family, friendship, love, the passing of the years, disappointment, acceptance … with wonderful subtlety and honesty.