Isn’t it extraordinary how easy it is for a book to slip under our radar? I am ashamed to confess that The Bookshop is one such book. It was only after watching the film last year that I was made aware of its existence, and I have only now read it. So I have broken the readers’ cardinal rule: Read the Book BEFORE seeing the film. But enough with berating myself….

With a generous (and naive) heart, Florence Green, (youngish) widow, opens a bookshop in a small East Anglian town. It is 1959, and Florence is viewed, unbeknown to herself, as an enemy by some members of this very close community. Hardborough is populated by the usual eccentric village types, but Fitzgerald’s ability to create real people, with such economy of words, is breathtaking. Milo North who is a man who will ultimately betray Florence without a thought, is described thus:
“His fluid personality tested and stole into the weak places of others until it found it could settle down to its own advantage.”

The Bookshop made me so angry. Fitzgerald shows us how cruel people can be. With callous indifference they destroy another’s dreams and, in fact, livelihood, without any remorse or regret. But just as you, the reader, are ready to give up on humanity, Mr Brundish (our only hero is this book) points out to Mrs Gamart (a truly cold and malign individual):
“‘Old age is not the same thing as historical interest. Otherwise we should both of us be more interesting than we are.’” - Delicious!

Penelope Fitzgerald has written a book that is, at times, wonderfully humorous, but also, devastatingly sad. She described it herself as “a short novel with a sad ending”. However, there is so much more: wit, and playfulness, and compassion.