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Books : Fiction : Authors, A-Z : F : Forster, Margaret
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The question mark in the title of Margaret Forster's triple biography and memoir, Good Wives?, betrays something of her ambivalence on the subject of matrimony. To deconstruct what a "good" wife might be, she explores the lives of a "wife-of" trio who were all married to prominent men (as is Forster, to writer and journalist Hunter Davies), making them good subjects, if hardly representative. Mary Livingstone proved a determinedly submissive wife to her missionary explorer husband, constantly uprooting and following him over Africa on an ox wagon. For Forster there are only cursory overlaps with her own experience; she dismisses Mary quite harshly, while pitying the grimness of her existence. Fanny, married to Robert Louis Stevenson, was a more determined soul. Together they sailed to the South Seas in the search for hospitable climates for his frail constitution, where she nursed him, kept house, and wrote a little herself. When he finally died in 1894, though, so did much of Fanny. Forster has more time and sympathy for a woman who had seen something of the world on her own terms, even if the vow "in sickness and in health" was to hold undue pertinence. Lastly, the purposeful, militant Jennie Lee, who eventually married politician Nye Bevan, provokes only admiring connection in Forster. Lee, an MP herself, saw marriage as a practical contract, though she loved and protected Bevan dearly. Children were out of the question: not only did she refuse to play mother, she disdained playing housekeeper or moll, and refused to sacrifice her own career.The "Reflections" from Forster that follow each wifely portrait are easily the most interesting sections of this bracing, unindulgent book. In comparing her own marriage to those of her subjects, she reflects insightfully on universal themes of marital union, such as in-laws, (in)dependence, entertaining, careers, money, home and children, and concludes that if she were considering it today as a young woman, she would marry for children, but not for a husband. Perhaps Hunter Davies might consider writing Good Husbands?, as a companion partner to this relentlessly thoughtful, stimulating work of scholarship and experience. --David Vincent
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"Susannah was apparently perfect, as the dead so often become": Margaret Forster's The Memory Box opens with the challenge which runs right through this book. How do you get to know the dead? How can the dead make you get to know them? In this case, by leaving a box of strange, and disconnected, objects through which a daughter, Catherine, learns to trace the contours of her mother's life and the depths of her own loss in never having known her. Susannah, her mother, died when Catherine was six months old; she is brought up, happily, by her father and step-mother. Only on their deaths does she open the "memory box" and enter into the everyday complexity (there's no melodrama here) of her family life. Was Susannah perfect? And why did her loving husband marry so soon after her death? What has Catherine missed in never having known her? Critically acclaimed for, amongst others, Lady's Maid and Mothers' Boys, Forster brings a keen, and unsentimental, eye to her (at times remarkably painful) topic. She is, also, the biographer of Daphne du Maurier, and Forster has taken on her legacy of menace and romance (think of Rebecca) in this intelligent, and compelling, novel. --Vicky Lebeau
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In this sequel to her recent bestselling memoir, Hidden Lives, in which she told the story of the women in her family, the novelist and biographer Margaret Foster describes her father Arthur's life and death, structuring the narrative around the last six years of his life until his lingering death at the age of 96. As he begins to fail, Forster's beloved sister-in-law Marion is diagnosed with terminal cancer, and Forster compares the fierce struggles both Arthur and Marion put up against the inevitable, marvelling at their tenacity in the face of extreme humiliation and suffering. As she puts it, "These have been two stories not of life but of dying", so this is anything but a sentimental account of death, about which Forster ponders bleakly and with a bracing philosophical clarity. She sifts through her memories of growing up in Carlisle and builds up an often comical portrait of an irascible, routine-obsessed working-class man, who works hard for his family, hates hospitals and is scornful of self-pity. Arthur is as vivid as any of her fictional characters and Forster's calm account of his last few months in a nursing home, unable to hold on to his fiercely-guarded independence, unable to enjoy the landscapes of his beloved Lake District, is both moving and--in terms of his courage--inspiring. --Emily Ormond
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