For my fourth or fifth Christmas, dad made me and my sister a wooden doll house. Two stories, with six rooms and an attic, this enchanting structure sported a tiny fireplace, real carpet, doors that opened and closed, and, best of all, a porch complete with swing. We spent countless hours playing with this house, and, as I grew older, the clever craftsmanship became even more apparent. Perhaps it was this early experience with dolls and their wonderful homes which primed me for Rumer Godden’s children’s books.
Godden, though few are likely to recognize her name today, was a midcentury writer once beloved in her home country. She’s often best remembered in Catholic circles for her classic In This House of Brede, and others may recognize the title Black Narcissus. These are important works, and they deserve full attention in another essay. But it’s Godden’s children’s books which first opened my eyes to her depth of wisdom and observation.
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