It said something about my literary tastes when the blurb on a just acquired old-time tome said: “It is not a book of violent incident or thrills, but an entertaining picture to enjoy at leisure for the humour of the story and the skill of the portraiture, and for the charming romance that runs through it.”
I could do without the romance, but the rest of N. C. Hunter’s The Romsea Romeo – I suppose romance was implied in the title – sounds racy enough for me.
It’s the only one of his novels I’ve managed to find, a second-hand copy from a bookshop in the south of yonder England.
Harmless tales of suburban life
N. C. Hunter first came to my attention via the excellent Chesterton YouTube channel, which broadcasts Saturday theatre from BBC Radio 4 in the Sixties and Seventies.
Apart from the odd murder, these are mostly harmless tales of suburban life among insignificant people. My tribe!
I particularly liked the works of Hunter, known more for his plays than his novels, and edged out ultimately by the Angry Young Men reacting against 1950s conformity. His stories were gentle and wise.
On the whole worldwide web, there’s little biographical information, beyond sources saying he shunned the limelight – presumably that explains the lack of detail about his life.
Granted, he was a bit of a toff
He liked gardening but was a bit of a toff so there are passing references, even if ambivalent, to characters killing birds or animals for enjoyment. I find that irritating but try to ignore it.
The same thing sometimes crops up in P. G. Wodehouse, my main source of otherwise innocent, gentle entertainment, where a plot might revolve around possession of a little cream jug shaped like a cow.
These stories soothe me, make me take life a little easier (not that it’s exactly filled with thrills and spills in the first place).
As previously reported exclusively, I dislike murder stories and deplore Nordic Noir.
Nothing bad happened to my characters
My own attempts at fiction, decades ago, were rejected because nothing much happened in them.
Life would be so much more agreeable if things didn’t happen. In particular, I didn’t let anything bad happen to characters that I, god-like, had created.
The attempted children’s book apparently didn’t have enough violence or snot, and none of the characters passed wind (ruddy Roald Dahl).
Indeed, it was too much in the old-fashioned tradition of The Wind … in the Willows.
I mustn’t over-egg this impression, and will own that, from time to time, I like to be thrilled as much as the next reader or viewer.
Mind you, there’s Stranger Things
Recently, I’ve been enjoying Stranger Things on Netflix, thinking I was down with the kids until learning it was first broadcast six years ago.
In my beloved Lord of the Rings, one of my favourite sequences is the Flight to the Ford, where the Hobbits are pursued by wraiths.
As for N. C. Hunter, on Amazon one gets the dreaded “currently unavailable” notice, even second-hand, though I got my copy on eBay.
I’ve barely started The Romsea Romeo, and these days have a scatty approach to reading, partly caused by spending too much time on yonder internet.
However, from the first few enjoyable pages, I’ve a feeling I’ll finish this quickly. I’ll let you know if anything untoward happens.
Conversation