By Jill Dawson
“A remarkable, complex guy is the centre of Jill Dawson’s The nice Lover, and whereas she attracts widely on ancient files of Brooke and his contemporaries, it truly is her judgements as a novelist that make this account of his lifestyles attention-grabbing in addition to devoted. . . . . the tale that emerges is powerful, pleasing, and memorable.” — The Times (London)
An ingenious, interesting novel approximately some of the most enduringly renowned and romantic figures of the 1st international War—the radical, good-looking younger poet Rupert Brooke.
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Sample text
I saw his white shape slip over like a bottle of milk and I knew before we reached him exactly how much of him had been spilled. All of him. The bees seemed to know it too and were swelling around his head in the shape of a giant fur hood until Betty ran at them, puffing with the bellows to direct them, the soft brown swarm, into the skep. Then we ran for Sam, the eel man from two doors up, to help us lay Father out on the kitchen table. His funeral was like all funerals in this part of the world.
He holds the apple between his teeth, bending down to step out of his shoes and socks. Mr Rupert Brooke steps over the threshold and into the kitchen. His naked toes. I try, of course, not to look. But later, when he asks for tea outside on the lawn at the front of the house, and I bring it to him on a wobbling tray, the milk shaking in the little jug, there they are again. Each toe well formed and strong-looking, like the long white keys on a piano. ‘Handsome’ and ‘shapely’ are the two words that present themselves to me, thinking of his feet.
Most people can quote a line or two: ‘If I should die, think only this of me…’ But when I read that ‘high undoubting purpose’ again in The Times piece, I had to laugh. ‘Undoubting’ is not a word that suits Rupert. I think he would have laughed at it, too. He did like to laugh, much of the time. Often this was directed at himself. You can probably tell that by reading his poetry. The other poem that people here are most likely to remember him by is ‘The Old Vicarage, Grantchester’ (the house is still there, too, next door to the Orchard).