But of course that generation of women, having recently come through the horrors of WW2, were no shrinking violets - in fact our demure heroine spends much of the novel tearing around the French countryside in her Riley, expertly outdriving and outsmarting her pursuers without smudging her lipstick or creasing her frock. That sense of immediacy is all the more impressive when you consider that this was written in the early 1950s, a time I imagined to be stuffier and more constrained than today. This is what Stewart excels at, immersing the reader in her world so you feel that you’re experiencing it, not just reading about it. Instantly you’re there with her, bathed in that golden southern light, listening to the hurdy-gurdy of the carousels, sniffing the garlicky air, watching the evening passeggiata over a digestif. This intriguingly titled one begins with our protagonist, Charity Selborne, (young, beautiful and with the slight whiff of tragedy about her) driving over a drawbridge into the walled town of Avignon to begin her holiday touring the South of France. Long before I had ever been on a plane these books filled me with wanderlust and a determination to one day visit the locations of her most exotic thrillers. But rereading them recently (as part of my on-going nostalgia kick) I felt again something of the thrill they once invoked in me.
Mary Stewart’s tales of adventure featuring intrepid heroines and square-jawed heroes have all but been forgotten now, and were probably even considered out-dated back when my mother passed on her dog-eared copies to me as a young teenager.
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