“‘I don’t feel anything,’ she said, ‘not anything at all. It isn’t that I’m trying not to. I want to feel something, even though Harold mightn’t have wished me to. But I just go on in an empty muddled kind of way, getting impatient because I’m always waiting for some piercing grief that doesn’t come.’”

Harold, Julia Stevens’s husband of 33 years, dies suddenly at the age of 60. An academic, a veteran of World War II, and a POW, he was due to be honoured, along with his cousin, Madge, at the Royal Albert Hall, but he collapsed—perhaps from a heart attack—at some point early in the ceremony. Julia was supposed to be watching the televised event; so were her four children and Madge’s brother, but all were too busy, each in his or her own way, to tune in. There is a certain mystery around Harold’s death, and Julia will later try to get Madge (a witness) to tell her about it.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression here: This book is NOT a mystery, though secrets do surface by the end. I do want to say that the book is a study of “bereavement”, but I’m afraid that, too, gives the wrong impression: that this is a story about intense mourning. Julia does not feel loss so much as lost or unmoored. Her husband’s death provokes not grief (which everyone seems to expect) so much as a dramatic role change. No longer is Julia the little woman to Harold’s big man. Her relationships with her four adult children will undergo adjustments.

Initially, Julia is prescribed tranquillizers to help her sleep. She also contracts influenza from a couple of door-to-door Jehovah Witness types. The flu will lay her up over Christmas—“good tidings of great joy” to family members, who all actually prefer to make their own Christmas anyway. When Julia is finally up and about, she goes on a mad shopping spree, her mood becoming almost manic as the purchases add up. At the last minute, however, she collapses in a flood of tears. A taxi is engaged to send her home. Apparently because she lost control of herself, “the small widow” is required to spend time at the homes of her two eldest children and their families. (Her younger son and daughter have flats in the family home.) Harold’s cousins, Lionel and Madge, also have important parts to play in the story. Unkempt Madge, always an odd duck, runs her own gardening business and seems to be closer to her dogs than to humans. She will become increasingly drunk and disorderly as the novel unfolds, appearing at Julia’s home at all hours. There is something very important she needs to communicate . . .

The first two-thirds of The Small Widow is brilliantly written and often very funny. It is full of sharp, unvarnished observations about marriage, motherhood, ageing, the sublimation of one person—a wife— into the world of a larger-than-life husband. Julia’s unsettled state after Harold’s death is, for the most part, compellingly and convincingly portrayed. However, the final third of the novel feels rushed and rather weak. Coming too hard and too fast, the denouement feels unnecessarily melodramatic. Nevertheless, I still found this a stimulating, insightful, and enjoyable novel.

Rating: 3.5 ( )

I hadn’t heard of Janet McNeill until recently but when she was compared with Elizabeth Taylor and Barbara Pym I immediately wanted to find out more.

The Small Widow was first published in 1967 and has been reissued by independent Turnpike Books. It tells the story of Julia Stevens who is suddenly widowed in her fifties. Julia’s whole identity is based on being a wife and mother. Now, her husband is dead and her relationships with her grown-up children and her social circle are in flux.

Julia is a shrewd woman who finds herself unable to grieve in the way those around her require. Much of the book’s drama and humour comes from the distance between what Julia feels and what she is able to convey. She is cool and arch which makes her occasional outbursts all the more shocking.

I particularly like the interplay between Julia and her four children, and the way she struggles with their expectations. She looks after her granddaughter, but finds herself unable to dote. Her son tries to shock her with his explicit language, but is embarrassed when she replies in kind. She is awash with ambivalence – she is resentful of their demands but consumed by love, has an unflinching eye for their failings but is swept away by occasional moments of perfection.

The Small Widow also gives an insight into a fast-changing world. Julia feels ridiculous in a café full of young people in her coat and matching hat, but is disappointed that the girls do nothing with their hair. She is aware of the greater sexual freedom of the younger generation, and experiences moments of jealousy that she can’t share in it. She misses her husband’s protective love, while knowing that he typecast her as dainty and dependent.

I’ve read a few blog posts recently on the merits of rereading. My own feeling is that a lot of contemporary novels aren’t built for it. They are written to be consumed rather than savoured, with high-concept plotting and low-density prose.

The Small Widow is different. It is intricately structured, and every minor character and sly observation play their part in drawing you into Julia’s shifting world. By the end of the novel your understanding of her family is transformed. A second reading would be a new experience, a chance to see what Julia (and I) missed.

This review first appeared on my blog https://katevane.wordpress.com/ ( )