Paul Gallico - Mrs Harris Goes to Paris and Mrs Harris Goes to New York: The Adventures of Mrs Harris

The Bloomsbury Group: a new library of books from the early twentieth-century chosen by readers, for readers

JOYCE DENNYS

HENRIETTA SEES IT THROUGH

MORE NEWS FROM THE HOME FRONT 1942-45

The war is now in its third year and although nothing can dent the unwavering patriotism of Henrietta and her friends, everyone in the Devonshire village has their anxious moments. Henrietta takes up weeding and plays the triangle in the local orchestra to take her mind off things; the indomitable Lady B, now in her late seventies, partakes in endless fund-raising events to distract herself from thoughts of life without elastic; and Faith, the village fl irt, fi nds herself amongst the charming company of the American GIs. With the war nearing its end, hope seems to lie just around the corner and as this spirited community muddle through, Lady B vows to make their friendships outlast the hardship that brought them together.

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Anyone who wants to get the feel of the period must read [this]
DAILY TELEGRAPH

I havent smirked, giggled and laughed out loud at a book so much in quite some time. A perfect and delightful book
SAVIDGEREADS.WORDPRESS.COM

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ISBN: 978 1 4088 0855 9 PAPERBACK 7.99

B L O O M S B U R Y

ROHAN OGRADY

LETS KILL UNCLE

When recently-orphaned Barnaby Gaunt is sent to stay with his uncle on a remote Canadian island, he is all set to have the perfect summer holiday. Except for one small problem: his uncle is trying to kill him. Heir to a ten-million-dollar fortune, Barnaby tries to tell anyone who will listen that his uncle is after his inheritance, but no one will believe him. That is, until he tells the only other child on the island, Christie, who concludes that there is only one way to stop his demonic uncle: Barnaby will just have to kill him fi rst. With the unexpected help of One-ear, the aged cougar who has tormented the island for years, Christie and Barnaby hatch a fool-proof plan Playful, dark and witty, Lets Kill Uncle is a surprising tale of two ordinary children who conspire to execute an extraordinary murder and get away with it.

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A dark, whimsical, startling book, far ahead of its time
DONNA TARTT

A thrilling, original book, exquisitely written, and unforgettable a classic, rediscovered
HANAN AL-SHAYKH

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ISBN: 978 1 4088 0857 3 PAPERBACK 7.99

B L O O M S B U R Y

E.F. BENSON

MRS AMES

Reigning over a social merry-go-round of dinners and parties, Mrs Ames is the undisputed queen bee of Riseborough. That is, until vivacious new villager Mrs Evans catches the eye of both her son and her husband. Not content with captivating the men in her life, that wonderful creature Mrs Evans becomes not just rival to Mrs Amess marriage, but rival to her village throne.

When the whole of Riseborough is invited to Mrs Evans masked costume party, action must be taken. As the date looms, the irrepressible Mrs Ames resolves to seize the chance to win back her position and her man.

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An extraordinary study in comedy
NEW YORK TIMES

A clever, laughable little satire in the authors lightest and happiest mood
TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

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ISBN: 978 1 4088 0858 0 PAPERBACK 7.99

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B L O O M S B U R Y

THE small, slender woman with apple-red cheeks, greying hair, and shrewd, almost naughty little eyes sat with her face pressed against the cabin window of the BEA Viscount on the morning flight from London to Paris. As, with a rush and a roar, it lifted itself from the runway, her spirits soared aloft with it. She was nervous, but not at all frightened, for she was convinced that nothing could happen to her now. Hers was the bliss of one who knew that at last she was off upon the adventure at the end of which lay her hearts desire.

She was neatly dressed in a somewhat shabby brown twill coat and clean brown cotton gloves, and she carried a battered imitation leather brown handbag which she hugged close to her. And well she might, for it contained not only ten one-pound notes, the legal limit of currency that could be exported from the British Isles, and a return air ticket to Paris, but likewise the sum of fourteen hundred dollars in American currency, a thick roll of five, ten, and twenty dollar bills, held together by a rubber band. Only in the hat she wore did her ebullient nature manifest itself. It was of green straw and to the front of it was attached the flexible stem of a huge and preposterous rose which leaned this way and that, seemingly following the hand of the pilot upon the wheel as the plane banked and circled for altitude.

Any knowledgeable London housewife who had ever availed herself of the services of that unique breed of daily women, who come in to scrub and tidy up by the hour, or for that matter anyone English would have said: The woman under that hat could only be a London char, and what is more, they would have been right.

On the Viscounts passenger list she appeared as Mrs Ada Harris, though she invariably pronounced it as Mrs Arris, Number 5 Willis Gardens, Battersea, London, SWII, and she was indeed a charwoman, a widow, who did for a clientele living in and on the fringes of fashionable Eaton Square and Belgravia.

Up to that magic moment of finding herself hoisted off the face of the earth her life had been one of never-ending drudgery, relieved by nothing more than an occasional visit to the flicks, the pub on the corner, or an evening at the music hall.

The world in which Mrs Harris, now approaching the sixties, moved, was one of perpetual mess, slop, and untidiness. Not once, but half a dozen times a day she opened the doors of homes or flats with the keys entrusted to her, to face the litter of dirty dishes and greasy pans in the sink, acres of stale, rumpled, unmade beds, clothing scattered about, wet towels on the bathroom floor, water left in the tooth-glass, dirty laundry to be packed up and, of course, cigarette ends in the ashtrays, dust on tables and mirrors, and all the other litter that human pigs are capable of leaving behind them when they leave their homes in the morning.

Mrs Harris cleaned up these messes because it was her profession, a way of making a living and keeping body and soul together. And yet, with some chars there was more to it than just that, and particularly with Mrs Harris - a kind of perpetual house- proudness. And it was a creative effort as well, something in which a person might take pride and satisfaction. She came to these rooms to find them pigsties; she left them neat, clean, sparkling, and sweet-smelling. The fact that when she returned the next day they would be pigsties all over again, did not bother her. She was paid her three shillings an hour and she would again leave them immaculate. This was the life and professions of the little woman, one of thirty assorted passengers on the plane bound for Paris.

The green and brown checkered relief map of British soil slipped beneath the wings of the aircraft and gave way suddenly to the wind-ruffled blue of the English Channel. Where previously she had looked down with interest at the novelty of the tiny houses and farms below, these were now exchanged for the slender shapes of tankers and freighters ploughing the surface of the sea, and for the first time Mrs Harris realised that she was leaving England behind her and was about to enter a foreign country, to be amongst foreign people who spoke a foreign language and who, for all she had ever heard about them, were immoral, grasping, ate snails and frogs, and were particularly inclined to crimes of passion and dismembered bodies in trunks. She was still not afraid, for fear has no place in the vocabulary of the British char, but she was now all the more determined to be on her guard and not stand for any nonsense. It was a tremendous errand that was taking her to Paris, but she hoped in the accomplishing of it to have as little to do with the French people as possible.