Bucolic setting in the
English countryside—check. Plucky heroine who grapples with misogyny and
small-town prejudice—check. Handsome doctor who slowly comes to recognize the
appeal of plucky heroine—check.
All the elements above might
sound like ingredients for a comforting stew of a romance novel—familiar,
basically a feel-good story.
But The Summer Before the War transcends the clichés and offers readers
plenty of food for thought, as well as balm for the spirit. Set in 1914, the
novel braids the themes of women’s fight for independence and the effect of
World War I on the lives and psyches of British people, both on the battlefield
and at home.
As the 100th
anniversary of The Battle of the Somme nears (July 1), there seems to be a
resurgence of interest in the impact of WWI. It was said to be “the war to end
all wars,” and thousands of British soldiers enlisted, expecting the conflict
to be over and to be home in time for Christmas. Troops were cheered with
parades and celebrations in towns all over England as they prepared to embark
for France or Belgium. It promised to be a glorious war.
The reality, as we know, was
horrifically different. The British army
suffered more than 60,000 casualties on the first day of the Battle of the
Somme, alone. By the end if the war, more than 900,000 forces from the British
Empire had been killed, more than 2 million wounded, and 200,000 taken prisoner
or missing. An entire generation of
young men was lost.
The war’s devastating impact
resulted in major social and cultural change in the orderly tempo of life in
Edwardian England. In particular, many women cast aside traditional roles and
took on “men’s work,” running farms, teaching schools, and taking on nursing
duties.
This is the context of The Summer before the War. In the summer
of 1914, Beatrice Nash, a beautiful, brainy young woman, arrives in the Sussex
Village of Rye to take on the job as Latin teacher in the local grammar school,
a definitely untraditional role and one viewed with considerable suspicion by
many townspeople. Her father has recently died, thoughtlessly tying up a modest
inheritance in a trust controlled by an unsympathetic relative. So, becoming a
teacher is not necessarily a career choice, but an economic necessity.
Still grieving her father’s
death and feeling socially isolated in a new town, Beatrice finds comfort in
the support of a local matron who has championed her hiring. Agatha Kent also
welcomes two nephews, who often visit from London: Hugh, a doctor in training,
and Daniel, a would-be poet. These young men’s lives will be upended by the
war, but for the summer of 1914, they savor indolent days in the countryside.
However, although the setting is more modest than Downton Abbey and the social
stratification less rigid, many stifling social mores prevail.
Fans of Simonson’s first
novel, Mr. Pettigrew’s Last Stand,
will find similar insights about social constraints and the ways that
sympathetic characters overcome them. Although the time periods and settings
differ, both novels share a wry sense of humor and a disdain for silly social
constraints. And both feature protagonists who are endearing, even if
occasionally misguided and tone-deaf.
Over the course of the novel,
Beatrice’s courage and independence strengthen, despite (or perhaps because of)
social opposition. At the same time, she comes to recognize and appreciate the
joys of companionship.
And Hugh endures the horrors
of trench warfare, coming to relinquish his dream of a fancy Harley St.
surgical practice in favor of a more modest country practice. His cousin Dan
continues to write poetry, although he sheds his esthete persona as battlefield
reality matures him.
The book’s ending is
bittersweet. Some characters forge new lives in the new, post-war world. Others
don’t survive.
Years after the Armistice,
several of the characters visit a small cemetery in Northern France, where so
many British died in battle and are now buried. One of the visitors observes
that, despite her current happiness, she
experiences “a thin vein of sorrow that millions like her would feel down the years.”
[The sorrow] did not stop their feet from walking, or
prevent the quotidian routines of life; but it ran in the population like the
copper wires of the telephone system, connecting them all to each other and to
the tragedy that had ripped at their hearts just as it had ripped at the field
outside her window.
