Mr Golightly's Holiday [Hardcover]

Fiction readers with a sweet tooth and a high tolerance of Anglican whimsy are offered much beguilement in Sally Vickers' new novel Mr Golightly's Holiday. Set in the Devon village of Great Calne, it records the events observed, and in part precipitated, by Mr Golightly, the author of a work once famous but now tending to be overlooked, who has elected to settle himself in this community for a while. Mr Golightly himself, a rumpled, elderly figure arriving in a half-timbered Traveller van, is a familiar enough version of "the male author"; Great Calne, an apparently idyllic village with a wide range of carefully differentiated characters, but underneath seething with unseen discontents and rivalries, is itself another easily summoned trope--the kind of community now perhaps most commonly encountered in fictional terms in TV shows. This is handy, for Mr Golightly decides that the best way of dragging his great work into the limelight of popularity and relevance is to recast it as a soap opera. In the event, he makes little headway with this project because, of course, the affairs of the village become all-absorbing and gradually draw him in. And so things unfold, as the characters carefully established by Sally Vickers work out their destinies in a mixture of social comedy (some of it very sharp), melodrama, nature mysticism and visionary redemption that delivers far more than the opening paragraphs can suggest. Moreover, the precise identity of Mr Golightly, while not exactly part of the plot, is disclosed gradually and may come as a surprise to some.

It should be said that this is not really a novel, although it does offer many of the satisfactions of a novel. It is a fable with distinctly eschatological overtones, and as such runs the general risks of the genre, most of which are successfully negotiated. --Robin Davidson

Praise for ‘Mr Golightly’s Holiday’:

‘Salley Vickers is a writer whose subtle intelligence and unobtrusive command of narrative I always enjoy. She sees with a clear eye and writes with a light hand, and she knows how the world works; and these qualities are much rarer than they should be. She's a presence worth cherishing in the ranks of modern novelists.’ Philip Pullman

‘Few novelists would dare tackle the theme of Salley Vickers’s third novel; fewer still would pull it off so triumphantly. I am speechless with admiration.’ John Julius Norwich

Praise for ‘Instances fo the Number 3’:

‘The reader glides through it effortlessly. The plot is simple, yet has an amazing amount of narrative power. Vickers’ second novel confirms that she will have a long and outstanding career.’ Martyn Goff, The Times

Praise for ‘Miss Garnet’s Anger’:

‘Writes like a haunted angel.’ The Times

‘Rich, complex and haunting…she makes the ancient story as riveting as Miss Garnet's own adventures.’ Sunday Times

PRAISE FOR INSTANCES OF THE NUMBER THREE:
‘Gentleness of perception and sharpness of intellect … sustains you long after the last page.’ Bel Mooney, The Times

‘Admirable. Salley Vickers has a way with persuasive characters and crisp narrative.’ Penelope Lively, Independent

‘Studded with observations and asides that stop you in your tracks.’ Julie Wheelwright, Scotland on Sunday

‘Lovely. Distinctive grace.’ Murrough O’Brien, Daily Telegraph

PRAISE FOR MISS GARNET’S ANGEL:
'Writes like a haunted angel' The Times

'Rich, complex and haunting… she makes the ancient story as riveting as Miss Garnet's own adventures' Sunday Times

'Very kind, very funny' John Bayley

'A subtle, witty tale' John de Falbe, Spectator Books of the Year

'Delightfully affecting' Julia Neuberger, Independent Books of the Year

'All lovers of Venice should read this book' The Spectator

'Vickers writes like a haunted angel.'

'Full of charm.'

'Vickers reproduces conversations about Brazilian bikini waxes, bird watching or metaphysics with a mimic's expertise; paints Dartmoor's scenery with artistry.’

‘Salley Vickers is a writer whose subtle intelligence and unobtrusive command of narrative I always enjoy.'

'Few novelists would dare tackle the theme of Salley Vickers's third novel; fewer still would pull it off so triumphantly.'

'A treat, fun, reflective and, in its very English way, quietly jubilant.'

The new novel from the best-selling author of ‘Miss Garnet's Angel’ and ‘Instances of the Number 3’.

Holiday: a period in which a break is taken from work or studies for rest, travel, or recreation. [literally: holy day]

Many years ago Mr Golightly wrote a work of dramatic fiction that grew to be an international bestseller. But his reputation is on the decline and he finds himself out of touch with the modern world.

He decides to take a holiday and comes to the ancient village of Great Calne, hoping to use the opportunity to bring his great work up to date. But he soon finds that events take over his plans and that the themes he has written on are being strangely replicated in the lives of the villagers he is staying among.

He meets Ellen Thomas, a reclusive artist, young Johnny Spence, an absconding schoolboy, and the tough-minded Paula who works at the local pub. As he comes to know his neighbours better, Mr Golightly begins to examine his attitude to love, and to ponder the terrible catastrophe of his son's death. And as the drama unfolds we begin to learn the true and extraordinary identity of Mr Golightly and how the nature of the secret sorrow that haunts him links him to his new friends.

Mysterious, light of touch, witty and profound ‘Mr Golightly's Holiday’ confirms Salley Vickers's reputation as one of our most original and engaging novelists.

Salley Vickers divides her time between London and Venice. Previously a university lecturer in English, when not writing she practices as a psychologist and still lectures widely on the connections between literature, psychology and religion.

Chapter 1
One afternoon in mid March, when the green-white snowdrops had blown ragged under the tangled hawthorn hedges, the pale constellations of primroses had ceased to be a novelty, and the more robust, sun-reflecting daffodils were in their heyday, an old half-timbered Traveller van drove into the village of Great Calne. There was, in fact, no other Calne, great or small, in the county of Devon; or if there ever had been, it had long since vanished into the indifferent encroachments of the moor. Great Calne stands at the edge of Dartmoor, one of the ancient tracts of land which still, in the twenty-first century, lends out its grazing free to the common people of England – though it must be said that the ‘common people’ are something of a scarcity these days.

Sam Noble, out walking his bitch, Daphne, named for his mother’s still-born twin sister, and having nothing better to do, watched with naked curiosity as the driver of the car negotiated the corner by the Stag and Badger – where, thanks to the pub’s garden wall, the passage was tight and drivers often came a cropper. He was mildly disappointed when nothing untoward occurred. Sam’s was not an especially malicious nature, but Great Calne did not provide the thrills he had once been used to. Before his retirement, Sam had been a film director, and had had hopes of winning the Palme d’Or at Cannes with a film about women jockeys which had subsequently made waves. However, for the past five years he had lived in Great Clane, where the principal excitement was provided by Morning Claxon’s plans to transform the tearooms into an alternative health centre.

There was another witness to the arrival of the car, a less obvious one. Johnny Spence had, as usual, skipped school and it wasn’t safe for him to show his face till after four o’clock. During the stranger’s arrival, Johnny was hiding, as was his habit, in the upper branches of a yew tree which spread its antique shade over the churchyard wall and on to the garden of the Reverend Meredith Fisher, the latest occupant of the rectory. Johnny, whose researches were thorough, knew that the lady vicar was off doing her counselling training down in Plymouth, and would not be back before six. So he was free to watch the old Morris – which from his calculations must be worth a bit – being brought skilfully round the corner and into the front garden of Spring Cottage, which since the death of Emily Pope had been let out by her daughter, Nicky, to holidaymakers.

Emily Pope had been dead long enough for Nicky to discover that Spring Cottage did not let easily. So far, it had been rented by a couple of families who complained about the out-of-date facilities, and the damp. One woman, from Clapham, claimed to have found toadstools.Spring Cottage filled the bill nicely. Writers were notoriously careless people – very likely this one would smoke in the bedroom, but then again he was a man, and mightn’t notice that the back plates on the kitchen hob were dodgy, or that the avocado suite in the bathroom (once the pride of Emily Pope) was now badly out of fashion. Nicky, in the first flush of holiday letting, had splashed out on a Norwegian wood-burning stove, sold to her by a travelling salesman who had hinted at further attractions. These had never materialised, and the stove, prominent in the website details, filled the downstairs rooms with smoke when the wind was in the wrong direction. The Clapham woman had complained about this too; but Nadia Fawns, who ran an antiques store over in Backen, had sold Nicky a couple of convector heaters which she hoped would put paid to heating problems.

Sam Noble, with several backward glances, had made his way with Daphne through the main street of Great Calne and up towards the moor by the time the driver came to unload the Traveller van. Only Johnny Spence was there to observe him more closely. Johnny’s powers of reconnaissance were keen; had he been asked he would have described the stranger as ‘a fattish guy who looked as if he hadn’t had a proper shave’. But Johnny’s position on the yew bough would not have afforded a view of the newcomer’s most striking feature – a pair of eyes whose true colour was hard to discern, since they had a quality of shifting from the brooding shades of a storm-crushed sea to the limpid freshness of a dawn sky.

It appeared that the visitor was at any rate physically strong since he emptied the Traveller in double-quick time. The contents were comparatively few: a knocked-about suitcase, a baggy holdall, a laptop computer, a rather loud-looking portable stereo and some cardboard boxes, one of which bore the name of a well-known wine store. A drinking man, at least, Colin Drover, who managed the local inn, might have remarked. The visitor had brought his own alcohol – which might have been a disappointment to a publican. But with drink, as with so much else, inclination in one quarter usually leads to exploration of others.

And the publican’s optimism would have been confirmed. When the stranger had unpacked the van, and distributed some of his belonging in the cramped interior of Spring Cottage, he strolled up the main street to the inn, paused a moment to inspect the menu displayed outside, which promised Tasty Snacks & Bar Lunches, and then pushed open the solid double doors to enter the fire-lit warmth within.