Vanished Worlds

70 years ago, in 1950, Elfrida Vipont won the Carnegie Medal with The Lark on the Wing, the second in a series of five books about the musical career of Kit Everard, a young Quaker. 

When I came to this book the only thing I knew about its author was that she wrote The Elephant and the Bad Baby, that brilliant collaboration with Raymond Briggs which is still one of my favourite picture books. In many ways The Lark on the Wing is a straightforward story about a girl who wants to become a professional singer (the author is more than a little snobbish about 'amateurs' and, it must be admitted, about lower forms of music, like Gilbert and Sullivan and sentimental popular songs). Kit faces various obstacles in the course of the book which, naturally, she overcomes. It is, as Marcus Crouch observes, a 'serious and deeply moving book.' He goes on to say that 'It matters very much to her (Elfrida Vipont), and to her readers, that Kit should find herself and remain true to herself, and in doing so not only become a great singer but also fulfil the God within her.' One Amazon reviewer found it far too high-minded and I do see why, but the confident and often entertaining writing carried me through. 

Elfrida Vipont was herself a Quaker who, while studying History at the University of Manchester, realised that she really wanted to be a singer. She went on to study singing, according to Wikipedia, 'with teachers in London, Paris and Liepzig'. She didn't pursue a career in singing and instead married, had children, and became a writer. She initially wrote boys' adventure stories under the name Charles Vipont and then wrote many more novels for children and young adults as Elfrida Vipont as well as writing widely on Quaker matters and about music, often as E V Foulds.

There is a passage early in the book which seems particularly deeply felt. Kit tells Terry, who is already a professional singer, that she understands what she needs to do to be a singer herself.  'Lots of hard work, and no fun and games, but it's worth it.'

'I think it is,' said Terry. 'I've always known it would be for a man. But it may not be the same for a girl. Papa Andreas always says your mother had a lovely voice, but she can't have been much older than you are now when she was married.'

'Ah, that was different,' said Kit. 'You see, she'd met Father.'

Terry's arm trembled slightly on hers. 'And you—haven't met anybody like that yet?' he suggested.

Elfrida Vipont said about her book: 'Kit's experiences are not my experiences: this book would be a thin travesty of a photograph if they were. Fiction is not autobiography. Nevertheless, to re-read the book now recalls for me a host of memories—the essence is there but not the substance.'

I very much enjoyed The Lark on the Wing. The experience was like looking thorough a window onto a vanished world. This book is set partly in post-war London (although you wouldn't know that the war was so recently over), a world of Corner Houses and Milk Bars. It is, slightly terrifyingly, a world which I can just remember. It's also set in various small towns and cities, but always among Quakers. Everyone seems to be related (fortunately the author provides a family tree at the start), and most people seem to be employed in Quaker businesses and organisations. A Quaker grocery business in a seaside town employs musical performers to play in the cafe, and it is the descriptions of musical performances that I enjoyed most in this book. One of them reminds me of a story that I will tell you shortly. But first I must mention the odd fact that this 'children's book' has no children in it.

All of the young people in the story are at work or university, living independently in shared flats or student halls of residence. Some are married already, with children. Where the book is not about music it is about love. Kit, the central character, is utterly focused on becoming a singer and has no notion that the young men around her, like Terry in the excerpt above, have any romantic interest in her. In her unawareness of sexuality Kit is still a child. Lotte, her singing teacher's cook, sings her a 'cradle song of my country'

' . . . it's going to be one of my songs, I know it is,' (Kit) said. 'Won't you give it to me, please?'

'Not yet, my little one, not yet!' insisted Lotte, shaking her head. 'I tell you, it is not the time. The heart is not awake.'

This is enough, I think, to indicate the kind of book this is. Whether or not Kit's heart is awakened, I leave you to guess. And so to my story.

Kit is invited at one point to sing at a charity fundraiser in the home of Lady Hilbery-Wapentake (there are some great names in the book). 'Tea was being served in the ante-room . . . "Not so much as a sandwich!" commented the dance-band leader in a disgusted tone. "Never mind, we'll make up for it afterwards. I've had a word with the butler."'

This has the ring of bitter experience, an experience I have had many times in many different places and, as we move into another lockdown, I'd like to take you back to another vanished world, the world of crowded receptions and canapés. The year was 1994 and I was playing in a kind of flamenco/jazz improvised guitar duo with my friend, Glenn. The year before, I'd quit my full-time teaching job to start writing children's books. We'd recently played for a theatre performance at the University of East Anglia and we were asked to provide music for the grand opening of the new Drama Studio. There would be crowds of people, good food, and best of all from Glenn's point of view, the Studio was to be opened by one of his heroes, Harold Pinter. I think we imagined we'd play for a bit and then stop to have some food, at which point we'd be introduced to Harold Pinter and we'd have a chat about music and theatre and Pinter would learn that Glenn wrote plays and  . . .

It wasn't like that. The room filled with people. We played. People talked. They talked very loudly. They probably didn't hear the music as we couldn't hear it ourselves. The event went on . . . and on. No one asked if we wanted to take a break. No one paid any attention to us at all. We were starving, and thirsty, watching all those people eating and drinking and talking. And then suddenly, weaving through the throng with a plate of canapés, I saw Hazel. She was the mum of one of my ex-pupils, a boy who had caused me some anxiety in my first year of teaching when I'd woken in the middle of the night panicking because I'd forgotten to give him his glasses at home time (he was 5). Hazel was also, wonderfully, working for the caterers.

UEA Studio

She sized up the situation with a single glance, maoeuvred over to us and popped canapés in our mouths as we continued to play our guitars. After that, every time she came out with a new tray, she came to us first. There is often a grim camaraderie between caterers and musicians at this kind of function, just like Elfrida Vipont's band-leader and the butler.

Oh, and we never did get to meet Harold Pinter.

The Lark on the Wing is out of print and a bit pricey on Abebooks, but not as expensive as others in the series. There is a biography of Elfrida Vipont which I'd like to read one day but I haven't been able to get hold of that either, and even though the British Library has been open I can't face sitting for hours in a mask with my glasses steaming up.

Originally published on ABBA