A "fine" romance: JANE SETH-SMITH, Suite in Four Flats (1957)

But Tansy, although she had of course noticed the young man scowling on the seat and then, surprisingly, smiling into her eyes as she went by, knew that one did not look back. At least, one ought not, though she could not help wishing that some fortuitous circumstance—such as being suddenly attacked by a savage dog, for instance—could have cropped up, so that she might have been able to thank the young man for saving her.

In one comfortable London house reside three generations of the Ardant family. Middle-aged Patrick has sworn off of women since the tragic loss of his wife late in the Blitz, so his mother, Lady Ardant, manages the house and benevolently watches over its inhabitants. These include Patrick's two grown sons (whom we rarely see), two daughters, Robin and Tansy, both lovely and charming in their own ways (though Robin is distinctly a dolt when it comes to romance), Great-Uncle Arthur, ex-miltary and a bit unhinged, whose favorite hobby is accompanying his friend to communist party meetings and heckling the speakers, very often triggering brawls, and Dordie, Patrick's widowed sister, clinging to her fading looks and prone to be a bit bewildered.

The entertaining, sometimes funny plot of the novel is set in motion by Lady Ardant's decision to hire a companion. Mary Drury, a widow with limited means, is hired for the post—coincidentally at almost the very same moment that Tansy meets a charming young man in Regent's Park (in a little known garden near the Institute of Archaeology, in case that rings any bells with anyone, or if you wish to seek it out), who turns out to be Mary's son, Tim. If this perhaps strains credibility just a bit, well, we do know that London is a charmed place, right?

In parallel with the complications this meeting causes, there's the complicated relations between Charles Legge, a charming gadabout who's always falling in love, and lovely Robin, who is simultaneously being courted by a doctor at the hospital in which she works—who just happens to be an ex-schoolmate of Charles. Well, someone would inevitably have been his schoolmate! Why not Charles?

Naturally, too, Mary is a sensitive and efficient woman, perfect for advising the girls on the twists and turns of their romances, and indeed for making others think of romance too… And Charles manages to rescue Great-Uncle Arthur from a brawl, though apparently no one can rescue Dordie from her fixation on a shady Eastern European princess with whom she hopes to travel round the world.

I only came across Seth-Smith recently in researching new authors to (finally) add to my main list. I came across a short blurb about Suite in Four Flats and I was so disposed in its favor that I didn't post the (perfectly charming) cover on Twitter when I received it for fear that the handful of copies of her other three novels (the temptingly-titled Three Suitors for Cassandra, Love Thy Neighbours, and The Laird and the Loch) would sell out before I had the chance to compulsively acquire them. And I did enjoy it—a charming family situation, likable and/or absurd characters, some humorous dialogue, plausibly silly misunderstanding and complications. What's not to like? But have I leapt onto Abe Books, eyes beady and greedy, to acquire Seth-Smith's other three novels, no expense spared? 

I have not. 

I certainly recommend picking up any of her books that you happen across at reasonable prices. She's a solidly "good" writer, and this is a perfectly fine, entertaining, nice novel. But as I read the final pages of this one, I had to admit it was missing that certain "je ne sais quoi"—charming, slightly rowdy local color in the case of Molly Clavering, masterful storytelling in D. E. Stevenson, intricate plotting in Doris Langley Moore, a delicious daftness in Margery Sharp, profound understanding of character in Stella Gibbons. Suite in Four Flats has much of the same framework that those authors utilized so brilliantly, but without that something extra, that flare that comes from the author's own personality and engagement with her story, it's really only all those slightly condescending adjectives that male critics used to use way too lavishly about most women writers—pleasant, nice, charming, likable, etc. 

One random detail did strike me and I have to mention it in closing. It's a description of the hospital where Robin works:

St. Ann's Hospital is, as everyone knows, right in the middle of London, with miles of corridors and swing-doors down which and through which trolleys, stretchers and wheel-chairs are forever being pushed. It has a large main hall and subsidiary halls, a flower-and-fruit stall, a bookstall and a number of balconies upon which T.B. patients lie out in their beds, inhaling the soot and dust-laden air of Central London and not always making the progress their relatives might wish .....

I've encountered tuberculosis patients in fiction ailing on Swiss balconies, swathed in blankets with a stack of good books beside them (which always sounds rather ideal to me, though I prefer not to have to have TB in order to indulge). But I somehow hadn't realized that of course patients who didn't have the resources to retreat indefinitely to the Alps would have had to make the best of a balcony in smoggy London. I mean, a balcony in London now sounds like heaven, but in the 1950s perhaps not so much?