Clare Chambers - Small Pleasures: Longlisted for the Womens Prize for Fiction 2021

The glorious literary equivalent of pulling the duvet over your head If you admire Tessa Hadley or Anne Tyler (and there are shades of Barbara Pym too), then this is one for you

Bookseller, Book of the Month

Clare Chambers is that rare thing, a novelist of discreet hilarity, deep compassion and stiletto wit whose perspicacious account of suburban lives with their quiet desperation and unexpected passion makes her the 21st century heir to Jane Austen, Barbara Pym and Elizabeth Taylor. Small Pleasures is both gripping and a huge delight. I loved what she did with the trope of the claim of a virgin birth, and how the hope of a miracle opens the door to love, kindness and hope in an arid existence. This is better than Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine and deserves just as much acclaim

Amanda Craig, author of The Lie of the Land

I adored Small Pleasures. Its engrossing and gripping: you want to race on and relish every sentence at the same time. I love the way Clare writes her wry, subtle turns of phrase, the humour in the smallest of observations, the finely drawn characters. A wonderful book

Sabine Durrant, author of Lie With Me

Small Pleasures is a tender and heart-rending tale that will draw you in from the first page and keep you gripped until the very end. Exquisitely compelling!

Ruth Hogan, author of The Keeper of Lost Things

Small Pleasures is a gorgeous treat of a novel: the premise is fascinating, the characters beautifully drawn and utterly compelling, the period setting masterfully and delicately evoked, and the plot is full of unexpected twists and turns. And oh, the finale broke my heart. I just couldnt put this novel down

Laura Barnett, author of The Versions of Us

A delicious mystery and a touching exploration of loneliness and desire in cloying 1950s suburbia a great read

Sally Magnusson, author of The Sealwomans Gift

Small Pleasures is the best sort of book: full of longing, regret and difficult emotions but leavened with so much warmth and humour it was a joy from start to finish

Francesca Jakobi, author of Bitter

To Peter

Tragedy struck office workers and Christmas shoppers on the evening of 4 December when two trains collided in thick fog under the Nunhead flyover. The 5.18 from Charing Cross to Hayes and the 4.56 steam train from Cannon Street to Ramsgate had been delayed by the poor weather. Coaches on both trains were packed, with passengers standing as well as sitting.

The Hayes train had stopped at a signal outside St Johns at 6.20 p.m. when the steam train ploughed into the rear coach. This was just the beginning of an unfolding disaster, which left more than 80 dead and 200 wounded.

The steam train swung to the side and struck a steel column of the Nunhead flyover, causing the bridge to collapse, crushing two coaches below. A third train, from Holborn Viaduct, was just approaching the fallen flyover, when quick action by the driver brought it to a halt, preventing further catastrophe. The coaches were derailed but no one on board was injured.

The rescue efforts of firemen, police, railway staff, doctors and nurses were hampered by fog and darkness. Worse still, the ruined bridge was in danger of falling further, crushing rescuers and trapped victims alike.

But through the long night of toil the army of volunteers continued to grow, with many local residents throwing open their doors to assist the injured. Eleven ambulances attended the scene, driving casualties further and further afield as nearby hospitals struggled to cope.

Local telephone lines became jammed by worried relatives as news of the accident spread. Hundreds of passengers were marooned in London for the night with the mid-Kent line completely blocked.

Many of the dead and injured were from Clock House and Beckenham. Passengers alighting at those stations were more likely to choose rear coaches because of their proximity to the station exits. It was these that took the brunt of the collision.

Southern Region authorities have launched an immediate inquiry.

The North Kent Echo, Friday, 6 December 1957

The article that started it all was not even on the front page, but was just a filler on page 5, between an advertisement for the Patricia Brixie Dancing School and a report on the AGM of the Crofton North Liberals. It concerned the finding of a recent study into parthenogenesis in sea urchins, frogs and rabbits, which concluded that there was no reason it should not be possible in humans. This dusty paragraph might have been overlooked by most readers of the North Kent Echo were it not for the melodramatic headline Men No Longer Needed for Reproduction!

The result was an unusually large postbag of mostly indignant letters, not just from men. One wounded correspondent, Mrs Beryl Diplock of St Pauls Cray, deplored the articles sentiments as dangerous and unchristian. More than one female reader pointed out that such a proposition was liable to give slippery men an excuse to wriggle out of their responsibilities.

There was one letter, however, that stood out from all the rest. It was from a Mrs Gretchen Tilbury of 7 Burdett Road, Sidcup, and read simply:

Dear Editor,

I was interested to read your article Men No Longer Needed for Reproduction in last weeks paper. I have always believed my own daughter (now ten) to have been born without the involvement of any man. If you would like to know more information you may write to me at the above address.

The next editorial meeting usually a dull affair involving the planning and distribution of duties for the week and a post-mortem of the errors and oversights in the previous issue was livelier than it had been for some time.

Jean Swinney, features editor, columnist, dogsbody and the only woman at the table, glanced at the letter as it was passed around. The slanted handwriting, with its strange continental loops, reminded her of a French teacher from school. She, too, had written the number seven with a line through it, which the thirteen-year-old Jean had thought the height of sophistication and decided to imitate. Her mother had put a stop to that; she could hardly have been more affronted if Jean had taken to writing in blood. To Mrs Swinney, all foreigners were Germans and beyond the pale.

Thoughts of her mother prompted Jean to remember that she needed to pick up her shoes from the menders on the way home. It mystified her why someone who seldom left the house should need so many pairs of outdoor shoes. Also required were cigarettes, peppermint oil from Rumseys, and kidneys and lard if she could be bothered to make a pie for dinner. Otherwise it would just be eggs anyhow, that old standby.

Does anyone want to go and interview Our Lady of Sidcup? asked Larry, the news editor.

There was a general creaking backwards in chairs, indicative of dissent.

Not really my thing, said Bill, sports and entertainment editor.

Jean slowly extended her hand to take the letter. She knew it was coming her way sooner or later.

Good idea, said Larry, huffing smoke across the table. Its womens interest, after all.

Do we really want to encourage these cranks? said Bill.

She may not be a crank, said Roy Drake, the editor, mildly.

It made Jean smile to remember how intimidating she used to find him when she had joined the paper as a young woman, and how she would quake if summoned to his office. She had soon discovered he was not the sort of man who took pleasure in terrorising his juniors. He had four daughters and treated all women kindly. Besides, it was hard to be in awe of someone whose suits were so very crumpled.