Call it serendipity, but shortly after reading Barbara Pym’s Jane and Prudence, and writing my last blog post, I read another novel featuring a steamed pudding: Shy Creatures by Clare Chambers.
Whereas in Jane and Prudence the steamed pudding represents the greater latitude accorded to men, compared to women, when it comes to food, in Shy Creatures the same food item is at the centre of a scene when a shocking betrayal is disclosed (*spoiler alert: this post reveals crucial aspects of the plot of the novel).
I have previously posted about Clare Chambers in this blog, when I wrote about her 2021 novel Small Pleasures:
https://frompagetoplate.com/2022/01/09/suburban-life/
https://frompagetoplate.com/2022/01/30/a-miracle-in-suburbia/
In these two posts I explored the way Chambers uses food to both represent the mundanity of suburbia and conversely the miracles that can take place in unexpected settings.
Like Small Pleasures, Shy Creatures, which was published in 2024, tells a story of unnoticed and seemingly insignificant lives and events in a London suburb, and in so doing accords them dignity and respect.
Set in 1964, Shy Creatures takes place in Croydon at a psychiatric hospital, Westbury Park. The central character, Helen Hansford, is an art therapist working with the patients. Passionate in her belief in the restorative value of art, she is quickly drawn to her charismatic, but married, colleague, Dr Gil Rudden – who, ironically, turns out to be married to her second cousin, Kathleen. Gil embraces the radical ideas of the real-life figure, R D Laing (1927 – 1989), a Scottish psychiatrist who regarded mental illness and psychosis, not as genetic conditions, but rather as understandable responses to oppressive social and familial situations. Laing argued that madness was caused by other people, and mental illness was a journey that could provide the sufferer with important insights, enabling them to become wiser and more grounded as a result.
Laing’s theories illuminate the case of a patient who arrives at Westbury Park one day in 1964. William Tapper is a 37-year-old mute recluse with a beard down to his waist. It transpires that he has been living with a motley collection of spinster aunts, who have gradually died over the years leaving only one, Louisa, alive in 1964. When an altercation was reported by neighbours, police discovered that William had been living in the house, shut away and cut off from the outside world for over 20 years.
Following William’s arrival at the hospital, whilst the novel continues on its onward trajectory covering the next few months of 1964, Chambers weaves 12 chapters into the narrative which take the reader on a journey back through time, starting in 1964 and ending in 1938, gradually revealing William’s backstory and what has brought him to his damaged state in the present of the novel.
Not only does William’s mental illness eventually bring him to a place of greater understanding and healing, it also has a profound effect on the key characters around him, particularly Helen.
This impact is signalled to the reader in the opening sentences of the novel:
In all failed relationships there is a point that passes unnoticed at the time, which can later be identified as the beginning of the decline. For Helen, it was the weekend that the Hidden Man came to Westbury Park.
The reference to ‘failed relationships’ is quickly followed by a conversation between Gil and Helen, which explains the nature of their adulterous relationship to the reader and enables them to understand that it is this relationship that is obviously going to ‘fail’ in the course of the story.
At the beginning of the novel the affair has been going on for three years, having started soon after Helen’s arrival at Westbury Park. Early on Gil helped Helen, who had been living in lodgings, to find a flat (in order to facilitate his visits to her) and he contributes to the rent. He also churns out the cliched responses of a spouse in his situation, and somewhat predictably Helen accepts them:
The pillars of their relationship, Gil made clear at the outset, were solid, indestructible, eternal – not things that could be put to the test or negotiated away. 1) She was the love of his life, the keeper of his heart, the one above all others. 2) He would not leave Kathleen until both the children had left school for work or college. As his youngest was only seven years old, this day was so far off as to make the promise all but worthless. He was not opposed to divorce in principle; sometimes it could be seen as the remedying of error, but when children were involved, the remedy had to be deferred.
Helen understood, of course, accepting just what he could spare her and no more.
However, things take a rapid downhill turn when Helen pays a long overdue visit to her parents in Lewisham one weekend. As they work their way through a roast dinner, Helen’s mother reveals that Kathleen (Gil’s wife) has recently paid them an unexpected visit, dropping in when ‘”on her way to visit a friend in Lewisham hospital”’. As Helen’s mother shares family news from Kathleen, including her mother Mary’s diagnosis with diabetes, the main course is finished and she begins the task of serving pudding, a steamed jam pudding with custard. Concerned about the reason for Kathleen’s visit, and keen to get her mother off the topic of family illness, Helen asks: ‘”Was there no good news?”’
That question unleashes a shocking and unexpected piece of news, the horror of which is reinforced by the description of the steamed jam pudding.
At last the knots were untangled and the suet sponge was inverted onto a plate with a sucking sound and a billow of steam. Molten strawberry jam flowed down its slopes and pooled at the base.
‘Oh yes – if you can call it good at her age. Kathleen’s in the family way again.’
This news, so casually delivered, set off a series of small explosions in Helen’s brain. From far away she heard a voice – her own – say with perfect composure: ‘They’ve got two older children already, haven’t they?’ …The pudding, domed and streaked with red, was suddenly obscene and nauseating.
Her mother scooped a portion into a bowl and a blob of boiling jam flew off the spoon onto Helen’s wrist. She gave a yelp and seized the opportunity to escape to the sink, where she was able to turn her back on the table and hide her confusion and dismay….
Her mother’s voice flowed on. Helen dried her hand and returned to the table, her discomposure now safely ascribed to the jam burn, which had left behind a pink mark the size of a sixpence.
…for a moment they proceeded to eat in silence. Helen attempted a morsel of suet, moving it around her dry mouth and swallowing effortfully. It took all of her willpower not to gag.
In this episode, Chambers artfully uses the description of the steamed pudding – the dry suet sponge and molten red jam – to accentuate the shock Helen experiences on realising that her lover’s relations with his wife have continued throughout their affair, and that any chance of them being together permanently is ‘Eighteen more years’ away.
So neither Barbara Pym or Clare Chambers make steamed pudding the most appealing dish to create, but if you are happy to put aside your literary prejudices the recipe can be found here