Miss Lemon Only Read Improving Books

Miss Lemon kept a small, but perfectly functional, library arranged in alphabetical order in a bookcase in her sitting room. The bookcase reflected its contents. It was a solid, unshowy number made of good quality wood. The kind of bookcase purchased from an old-fashioned furniture store and lugged upstairs by a delivery man. It contained approximately four dozen volumes, spines intact and pages pristine, for Miss Lemon did not believe in dog-earing, neither would she lower herself to break a book’s spine. Aside from the Bible, (King James Version), Wordsworth’s collected and a single edition of Shakespeare’s plays, nothing but straight up non-fiction was permitted to reside on Miss Lemon’s shelves.

Miss Lemon only read improving books and in her humble opinion, the novel- no matter what its subject- most certainly didn’t fall into this category. Why, some of her girlfriends had been led quite astray by notions they’d lifted from silly books. Susan Benners had gone doo-lally after reading The Stepford Wives and Christine Clifford -though flighty by nature- had remained loyal to her husband until she’d borrowed a copy of Wuthering Heights from the library van. Upon discovering Heathcliff, she’d promptly run off with the groundsman. Miss Lemon couldn’t even bring herself to consider Marjorie Hill. For she’d got her hands on a copy of American Psycho and now none of them would be seeing Marjorie for forty years to life.

Obviously, Miss Lemon had been upset to hear about all these fine women, led astray. However, the smallest part of her had also felt vindicated for hadn’t she warned them all about fiction? Hadn’t she put the foot down quite firmly when Leonora Highfield suggested forming a nice book group, to discuss the latest releases by Stephen King and Barbara Cartland? “Not on my watch,” Miss Lemon had said. “If you must meet up to discuss a book it should be edifying. Something like a Delia Smith or one of those Beginners Guides to other languages. Something which will improve ourselves.

She’d started her own small, afternoon book group. They’d met in her sitting room fortnightly for a single, moderate glass of sherry and a robust, hour long discussion of what Miss Lemon called a champion read. There’d been ten ladies at their first meeting. Seven when they met a second time. By the time they got round to discussing Garden Birds of Britain, it was only Miss Lemon and her sister Harriet in attendance. And Harriet hadn’t even read the book. She was only there for the sherry. Harriet was a bit of a lush. After two and a half glasses she finally admitted that she’d not have the time to read Garden Birds because she’d been busy reading Fifty Shades of Gray. They were doing it, this month, in her other book club.

“What, other book club?” Miss Lemon hissed and, when it transpired, that Leonora Highfield -the sly old bitch- had defected and set up a rival book group, luring her own dear ladies away with the promise of better sherry and shortbread and fiction, she almost blew her top. “Well, I’ve heard everything now,” she muttered to her sister. “You mark my words. Nothing good will come of reading all those novels.” Harriet agreed. Though she thought Miss Lemon was utterly cuckoo, she was angling for a fourth glass of sherry and at the point where she’d agree with anything. Harriet could not see the problem with fiction. All those dreary improving books bored the socks of her. She finished her drink and stayed for supper and faithfully promised to read a biography of Winston Churchill before the book group met again. On her way home, she swung by her favourite bookstore to pick up a copy of the Da Vinci Code, which was Leonora’s pick for next month. She started reading that night in bed, and by the following week found she’d inadvertently joined a cult. It was not ideal. They were talking about ushering in the end of the world. Harriet didn’t mention this to her sister though she could really have done with a bit of help. She wouldn’t give Miss Lemon the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so. Fiction is a slippery slope.”

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1956 novel, Dead Man’s Folly