The Queen of the Tambourine

Jane Gardam

• Publisher: Europa Editions
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781933372365
• eBook ISBN: 9781609450373
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

Winner of the Whitbread Prize for Best Novel of the Year: "Gardam's portrait of an insanely imaginative woman in an elusive midlife crisis is impeccably drawn" ( The Seattle Times).
With prose that is vibrant and witty, The Queen of the Tambourine traces the emotional breakdown—and eventual restoration—of Eliza Peabody, a smart and wildly imaginative woman who has become unbearably isolated in her prosperous London neighborhood. The letters Eliza writes to her neighbor, a woman whom she hardly knows, reveal her self-propelled descent into madness. Eliza must reach the depths of her downward spiral before she can once again find health and serenity. This story of a woman's confrontation with the realities of sanity will delight readers who enjoy the works of Anita Brookner, Sybille Bedford, Muriel Spark, and Sylvia Plath.
"Excellently done . . . Manic delusions have never been so persuasive . . . Very moving when it is not being exceedingly funny." —Anita Brookner, award-winning author of The Debut
"British author Gardam, who won the Whitbread Award for this jigsaw puzzle of a novel, keeps up the suspense to the end, writing like a sorceress in the meantime." — The Seattle Times
"Brilliant." — The Sunday Times
"An ingenious, funny, satirical, sad story . . . Vivid and poignant." — The Independent on Sunday
"Wickedly comic . . . masterly and hugely enjoyable." — Daily Mail
"Marvelously subtle and moving." — The Times (London)

For RhododendriaFor she’s the Queen
Of the Tambourine
The Cymbals and the Bones

Music Hall Song

7 February

Dear Joan,

I do hope I know you well enough to say this.

I think you ought to try to forget about your leg. I believe that it is something psychological, psychosomatic, and it is very hard on Charles. It is bringing both him and you into ridicule and spoiling your lives.

Do make a big try. Won’t you! Forget about your bodily aches and pains. Life is a wonderful thing, Joan. I have discovered this great fact in my work with the Dying.

Your sincere friend,

Eliza (Peabody)

Feb 17th

Dear Joan,

I wrote you a quick little note last week and wonder if it went astray? I know that you and I have not known each other for very long and have been neighbours for a very few years, but somehow I feel I know you very closely. Perhaps it is because we first met in Church. I remember the sudden appearance of this new yet somehow rather familiar woman sitting in the side aisle, your glassy, slightly hostile look. You seemed suddenly to have materialised there by some accident of the light. I remember that you did not kneel or bow your head. And when you were asked at the Church door whether you would like to join something or do the flowers, a look came into your eyes, and I have never seen you in Church again.

In my note I perhaps presumed on a friendship that was not quite as strong as I had imagined, and spoke perhaps peremptorily about your leg? Please forgive me if I have said too much, but I do hate to see Charles looking so low. A man whose wife has an undiagnosable leg at scarcely fifty is liable to be a “figure of fun.”

Why not come over and see me? I’m busy with marmalade and have found a clever ruse for dealing with the pith that might interest you. It makes the marmalade wonderfully translucent.

Your sincere friend,

Eliza

March 6th

Dear Joan,

It is now more than a fortnight since I dropped you a little note about your leg and I know that you have that dog that eats letters and just wondered if it and my second little message had gone astray? Nobody seems to have seen you lately, or even Charles, and the windows at thirty-four seem all to be shut. I asked Henry to go and investigate the lights when he went lamp-posting round the block last night with Toby, and he said there were definitely lights there, but they may I suppose have been only phased lights. Perhaps you have all gone unexpectedly away?

If you did not get my notes, they were just to say how sorry I am about your leg that never seems to get any better even after all the consultations you have had. I know the sadness when consultations come to nothing, through my work with the Dying. But, as I tell them, these things can be psychosomatic, even at the eleventh hour, and can sometimes easily be talked out either with a professional, often on the National Health—though I’m sure that Charles would never stint—or with somebody caring, like myself.

I would be more than ready to do this. Charles once said that at Oxford you were quite a pretty girl, and we all hate seeing you so sick—whether it is in mind or body.

Do answer this. Henry is taking it on the lamp-post run now.

Your affec friend,

Eliza

March 20th

Dear Joan,

I have just seen Charles going off down the hill to work and he is looking very haggard. I have tried to telephone you, but there is no reply. This makes me think that perhaps you are ill, and I am only too ready to do whatever I can, except on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday mornings when I am busy with the Dying, and Wednesday afternoon which is Wives’ Fellowship. No hope of seeing you there, as you once made very clear indeed!! In fact the second time we met you told me, with your splendid, incisive clarity, your views on the dear old “Wives.” You would not listen when I told you that our friendly meetings are not really only for the wives of professional men, but for all of us without nine-to-five professions who believe that woman’s ministry is in the home, in God and marriage and “soldiering on”—which of course you do. Everyone has always said you are a terrific “stayer.” Your garden is weedless and your dog so beautifully clean—as is your car. And you’re a wonderful friend and neighbour, and, of course, mother, which is a mysterious area for me.

I have prayed about your leg, Joan, and hope that if you received my first note it did not upset you. I’m afraid I’m very forthright. At the “Wives” they say I’m “fifth-right”—you see, there are some witty people there—and I do call a spade a spade. I do this even at The Hospice for the Dying. Be sure I shan’t mind a bit, Joan, if you go for me for what I said. The patients often go for me. One of them said the other day, “Any more spades and I’ll send for Sister Phyllida.” But I can take anything, Joan, anything you like to say, for the love of Our Lord who endured all things for us.

And please understand that I don’t rule out that your leg may be hurting. Psychosomatic illnesses are often painful. I know this only from hearsay, of course, never having had such an illness myself, in fact I have never had an illness in my life, but I pray that this may in no way harm my credibility (in the jargon of the Age) or the affection I have always had for my sick friends, of whom, Joan, I count you one. Your absence these last weeks has really upset me. I think of it all the time. It has made me all the more eager and affectionately determined to help you.

Your loving friend, E

PS Anne Robin told me yesterday that she saw you in the distance at the Army and Navy Stores the other day, so I know that at any rate you are on your feet. Henry has promised me that he will ring Charles at the Treasury today, as you have no answering-machine at thirty-four and there is no reply to any call or knock. We want you both to come here to dinner. Do come and don’t be upset by me. I have been wondering actually if you would like to come along and do some work with the Dying? I’m sure Mother Ambrosine would accept you, if perhaps you could disguise the leg-iron with trousers or a long skirt.

Or a drink one lunchtime? Or lunch at the Little Greek?

Affec, E

April 1st

Dear Joan,

I am sending this letter to the first of the addresses on the list you left for poor Charles to find on the hall table of thirty-four, it seems many weeks ago. We managed to contact Charles at last only yesterday—quite a month after you left him. I have lain awake all night, worrying and praying and asking forgiveness just in case my little note had anything to do with your disappearance. I can’t believe that it could have done. It was only a gesture, tossed out in good faith from one friend to another. I am apt to write without reflection, believing in the Will of God.

It was very hard to discover anything from Charles when we finally got him over here and sat him down to dinner—with which he merely played. He has lost weight, is thinner than ever, and I am sure has been eating only frozen, and, so it appears, have the children. I did not say in my earlier notes, Joan, that Simon and Sarah have been going up and down the road looking scruffy in the extreme, not ethnic or bleached or oddly barbered, as would be natural, but scruffy. They come home from school eating things out of bags, in the Road, and carry cartons with straws sticking out. They throw the cartons in hedges.

Charles is frantic, Joan. At least, to be perfectly honest, he is clearly frantic underneath. He is, I know, not somebody who shows his feelings easily. Or even at all. Only you, Joan, can know what he must be going through: first there has been the ridicule of you with that leg, going up and down with Sainsbury plastic bags because you could no longer drive the car. Then there was the humiliation of your leaving him. And leaving him, I understand, in the car! And, as he has at length told us, leaving him with a pair of good shoes on your feet, and without the leg-iron which he says he found lying in the bed. Like some totem. An evil joke. A malicious act.

Of course I am natur...

Table of contents

• THE QUEEN OF THE TAMBOURINE
• ABOUT THE AUTHOR