This is one of those books that I probably would never have picked up, but-oh!- I’m so grateful I was sent it. I always forget how much I enjoy collections of letters and I enjoyed this collection very much.
Mary Moss and David Francis met in 1938 and fell in love almost instantly; the book is a collection of letters written by them to each other over the course of seven years. Two young people, from completely different backgrounds, desperate to be together but separated by war, poured their hearts out on paper. It’s a moving collection of letters that’s full of humour, frustration and utter, all-consuming love. I was also surprised at the modern tone of the letters- we tend to think of the 1930s/40s as being completely different to now, but here the couple write in a way that we would recognise: they call each other ‘honey’ and early on Mary hints at a pre-marriage pregnancy scare. Later, after their daughter Rosheen arrives, the parental pride is touching and the concerns that Mary has seem very similar to some of those I have for my own son now.
As war makes the separation deeper and longer, Mary’s descent into depression and David’s war work colours the letters. It’s a fascinating look at the way that war affected those working for the Allies (David works on high level projects and is posted to Africa and, later, India, where he would die of smallpox) and those left at home in a terrible limbo. The longing that permeates the pages is moving and heartbreaking. Little in-jokes, film reviews, the excitement over a Russian red winter coat, David asking Mary what he can send her as a treat- all these things help the reader see inside the marriage and feel sadness as it becomes apparent that the story does not have a happy ending.
After David’s death, Mary hid the correspondence in a suitcase in the attic, only to reveal to Rosheen that they were there. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to discover a cache of letters from a father you knew very little about- but I’m so glad that they have been published.
Riders came out the year after I was born and I remember seeing it in the library and bookshops quite frequently (and probably being scandalised by THAT hand placement, which seems to have become smaller on the cover of the copy I was sent.) I never knew anyone who read it, though, and it never featured in my teenage book list. To be honest, I’m not sure how I would have responded to it- I don’t know an awful lot about either posh people OR horses. Fun fact: I am actually terrified of horses.
I’ve always joked that I’d quite like to write a Mills and Boon story- mainly because it would be quite out of my comfort zone and would challenge me to think differently about what I read AND write. However, I realised that I’d never read a M&B book- indeed, I hadn’t read much romance in the last few years (a depressive phase at university was accompanied by many Jackie Collins novels.) It’s not to say I dislike romance- I loved the Point Romance books as a young teenager- it’s just my interests had veered off a bit. When I was offered the chance to read a M&B book, I took it. I was asked what sort of thing I’d like and I chose to read something from their huge Regency collection: after all, I live in Brighton.
Poor Anne. Not even rated by her sister (Charlotte presented her as a bit of a wet lettuce in her introduction to the re-issue of her sisters’ novels; Agnes Grey didn’t even get a mention), she’s been relegated to being the forgotten sister. Her novels don’t have the astonishing power of Wuthering Heights, or the gutsiness of Jane Eyre, but they do have a special pull all of their own.
