Every Eye is a beautiful Persephone novella, complete with, as ever, stunning endpapers. It was the publishing house’s fifteenth publication, and is one of my favourites to date. The copy does not contain a blurb – as many Persephones do not – but, perhaps unusually, there is no extract from the work itself either, as is often the Persephone way. Rather, we are given an insight into the novella through an extended John Betjeman quote. In the Daily Telegraph in 1956, Every Eye‘s publication year, he wrote: ‘Sometimes, but not often, a novel comes along which makes the rest one has to review seem commonplace. Such a novel is Every Eye. It is remarkable for the skill of its construction, and for the style of its writing… [English] is on the mark whether she is observing scenery or character.’ I hasten to agree. 
Isobel English is a pseudonym for June Braybrooke, a friend of the likes of Muriel Spark, Olivia Manning, and Stevie Smith. For simplicity’s sake, I shall refer to the author as English throughout my review. The novella’s preface was written by her husband, Neville Braybrooke; he includes many fascinating biographical details, and writes also about the rather charming publication preparation of Every Eye: ‘… after it was returned [from being typed], she wrapped it in a silk scarf, as was her custom, and delivered it by hand to her publishers…’. English published only three novels in her lifetime, between the years 1954 and 1960. In 1974, she won the Katherine Mansfield Prize for her collection of short stories entitled Life After All.
Every Eye runs to just 119 pages, but its length is perfect; English’s writing certainly works well in the more compact literary frame. The novella charts the life of a newly married woman named Hatty, and begins with the death of her aunt, Cynthia: ‘It is strange that this news should arrive today, the eve of our departure. Tomorrow morning Stephen and I are to set off for Ibiza, the most savage of the Balearic Islands. We have been married a year and this is a long-promised holiday. Now it seems something over and above, an involuntary almost predestined mark of respect to a dead person, for it was Cynthia who first told me of this place which must have been when I first met her about the time of my fourteenth birthday’. Indeed, Cynthia, who was married to Hatty’s ‘big brown bear’-like Uncle Otway, lived there for much of her life.
Hatty is often frank, and I was immediately endeared to her; she strikes one as rather an original character construct, by all accounts. When asked for Cynthia what she likes to read after a fraught exchange has taken place, for instance, we are given the following information: ‘Still cautious but placated almost completely, I answered, a little gruffly I remember: “I like good books,” and then to illustrate the extent of my knowledge: “I like Rider Haggard very much, but I can’t stand Jane Austen”.’
Every Eye is not at all a run-of-the-mill portrait of a young newlywed. The details which English gives too, particularly with regard to Hatty and Stephen’s relationship, and their wider circle, intrigue: ‘6.30am and Victoria. Stephen’s mother, Amy, is already on the platform waiting to see us off; she has brought with her the young girl that she hoped Stephen would marry before he met me.’
The structure which English has used here, of a continuous narrative with no chapter breaks to speak of, works well; it allows her to present us with a coherent barrage of thoughts and memories, which run simultaneously alongside her present day life and travels. English’s descriptions are incredibly perceptive; she picks up on all kinds of minute details. Of the train journey which Hatty and Stephen take through France, for instance, she writes: ‘To begin with we are a carriageful of nondescript putty-coloured figures. But with the thinning out from station to station, there develops before our accustomed eyes brilliant coloured designs on women’s dresses, cyclamen gashes on mouths and headscarves; the cerulean of the sky greased and shining on the eyelids of the girl in front of me’.
Hatty has such realistic touches to her, and she has been thoughtfully and intelligently constructed. English’s writing is strong and distinctive throughout, and the novella is often quite darkly funny: ‘So it is Wednesday, and the first for Cynthia below the ground – the cold raw earth lined with evergreens. “Six feet of semi-detached will do me nicely, dear,” I had heard her say often enough when she was looking for another smaller flat when their lease expired. At last this has been realised as a permanency’. Every Eye is a beguiling and sometimes unsettling book, with a vivid sense of place. From the first it is incredibly absorbing, and is a fantastic choice if you are looking for something which you can read without too much trouble in a single sitting.
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