When I introduced Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day as our reading group choice at the start of September, I told a small part of its publication history: a feelgood story in line with Miss Pettigrew’s own triumph over adversity. Winifred Watson stood her ground, persuaded her publisher to put the book out in spite of their worries about its risqué nature, and it became a huge hit. But that’s only part of the story – which has an unusual and enchanting afterlife.
Most of this story is beautifully told in the 2000 introduction to Persephone Books’ edition by the retired Cambridge academic Henrietta Twycross-Martin. She describes it as a Cinderella-style fairytale full of surprises, ups, downs and then, happily, more ups.
Initially – as noted – Miss Pettigrew was successfully brought to publication in 1938 and sold well, both in the UK and the US. It was translated into French, and the film rights were sold to Hollywood. Billie Burke, fresh from starring in The Wizard of Oz as the Good Witch of the North, was lined up to play Miss Pettigrew. But then the second world war started. The French translation didn’t make it into shops thanks to the German invasion, while the film never happened because Hollywood studios were now focused “on making morale-boosters”. Miss Pettigrew didn’t fit the bill, no matter how cheering it might have been.
“It was a disappointment,” Watson said years later. “I wish the Japanese had waited six months.” At least the experience hadn’t deprived her of her impish sense of humour.
But the war did effectively end her writing career. She released a novel called Leave and Bequeath in 1943 (“part murder-mystery and part psychological study set in a contemporary upper-class milieu in London and the home counties,” according to Twycross-Martin) – but that was the last one. When her house in Jesmond (she spent almost her entire life in the suburbs of Newcastle) was bombed, she and her young family had to move in with her mother. This stopped her from producing any more novels. “You can’t write if you are never alone,” she later told Twycross-Martin.
Of course, the fact that she came to speak to Twycross-Martin at all is a good indication of a happy ending. The academic came across the story when Persephone Quarterly magazine asked for recommendations for books to publish. She remembered her mother’s favourite book, took it along to the publisher’s office and they asked her to write an introduction. Researching Watson’s life proved hard; there was precious little information about her as Methuen’s records had also fallen victim to the war. But eventually she found an address for one Winifred Watson in Newcastle from 1974 and telephoned, on the off-chance that someone might know where the author was. “To our complete astonishment and delight,” writes Twycross-Martin, “a firm Newcastle voice replied, ‘I am she.’”
This wonderful moment enabled Twycross-Martin to interview the then 93-year-old writer and get the biographical information that informs her splendid introduction. This done, the book was published in 2000 to a new round of rapturous reviews and thousands of sales. The success prompted the Times to send Anne Sebba to interview Watson. “Well, it’s rather nice, and most heartwarming,” Watson said of her second burst of fame. “But it’s not the same as when you’re young. I’ve got past all that being excited.”
She died two years later. Sadly, she hadn’t lived long enough to see the Hollywood version of the book that eventually came out in 2008. Then again, I watched it last week and: ugh. In spite of the presence of both Amy Adams and Frances McDormand, and some spectacular art deco interiors, it was agonising. “McDormand is frankly bland and unresponsive in a role she clearly couldn’t care less about; Adams’s wide-eyed ingenue routine is on autopilot, and the whole thing looks like a sub-prime American TV movie,” wrote Peter Bradshaw when the film came out in the UK. He gave it one star. This almost feels generous to a film that mauls this book so cruelly. Gone is the snappy dialogue, the steadily building hilarity of Miss Pettigrew’s growing inebriation, and the sweetness of her being accepted and loved by a total stranger. (In the film, Miss LaFosse actually does think that Miss Pettigrew has come to work for her, thus breaking one of the key bonds in their relationship.)
Curiously, the film is also far more prudish: no cocaine, innuendo or fun. It’s quite a contrast with the book – but that also demonstrates what Wilson did so well. Even if it’s flawed and problematic in parts, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day is also rather wonderful, and deserves such a happy ending.
