Seville oranges and sugar make a pleasant, if imperfect, pot

Being a lover of marmalade, this title and its glorious front cover of 9 marmalade pots intrigued me. The story is of the fictional descendants of John Keiller, of Dundee Marmalade fame. As any marmalade eater will know, marmalade is not jam, though in the book, it is sometimes called jelly (the book was set around the 1930s-1970s in Dundee, Scotland.

The story begins with Maggie and Billy Keiller who fall madly in love and marry against the Keiller patriarch’s wishes. Nevertheless, the newly weds in their remote Rose Cottage are happy, with Billy fishing and farming for survival, and Maggie being pregnant. Disaster strikes barely a year into the marriage, and Billy is drowned at sea. Maggie is grief stricken, and her new born child is dead on delivery. She is beyond clinically depressed, when Billy’s beloved sister, Morag, comes to the rescue, and not only cares for Maggie, but bequeaths her the Keiller book of marmalade recipes, which go back to 1797, to the first Keiller Marmalade by Janet Keiller. It seems like marmalade-making is a uniquely women’s undertaking or skill, as all the marmalade recipes were by Keiller women; we have to suppose many by marriage, not by birth. Many are prize winning, including Maggie’s own, of course.

For 40 years, Maggie lives in Rose Cottage, only visited monthly by Dougie, war veteran, officer, perfect gentleman, and grocery shop keeper, who delivers her supplies, including the all important Seville oranges and glass jars. At some point, Morag’s abused and pregnant daughter, Kirsty, is sent to Maggie, but runs away to London, where she makes a huge success of her life, but her daughter, Isla, in an almost perfect repeat of her mother’s life, also ends up teenaged, pregnant, and abandoned. It is Isla who ends up Maggie’s heir.

A lot of the charm of the novel is in the language and landscape, which are both ruggedly Scottish, harsh and beautiful, unremittingly difficult and testing, but compelling and memorable. The Scottish brogue is delightfully captured in most of the dialogue,

“You dinnae get those glimmering chips with owt but the best oranges!” (p90)

“Well, don’t tarry on the step getting drookit. Take yourself inside.” (p100)

Some of the words are particularly charming, like the bitter taste of uncooked Seville oranges, which most of us might call bitter-tart, is called ‘beedy’ by Maggie. Children are ‘bairns’, nothing is ‘nowt’, ‘fae’ is from, ‘tae’ is ‘to’, etc. There are also some turns of phrase which are beautifully illustrative, such as the dreadful place Isla is taken to have her baby, where “Comfort was marked by its absence…” (p278). However, for all its charms, the book is not consistently well executed, because there are many passages which come across as a little too histrionic, a little too emotionally blown up, a little more intense than would be warranted. Also, some descriptions are interweaved with dialogue intended to explain the inner workings of the characters’ minds and motives, but which are poorly paced and placed, slowing down the dialogue to the point of missing the thrust of the exchange. There is also a lot of telling rather than showing at times. But for all that, the novel still works somehow, because the characters do shine through, the heroes anyway, such as gallant Dougie, and steely, passionate Maggie. The villains are too villainous to believe, such as the Rector’s wife, Mrs McLintock, who becomes more and more venomous as she ages and even into grandmotherhood, more and more a crone/witch caricature than a real person. Likewise with Kirsty Keiller, who resembles Cruella de Vil of the 101 Dalmatians more than a real life human being.

However, as expected, the love and wonderment at marmalade is a redeeming feature of the novel. The tastes are lovingly described, of course.

“Isla expected the tartness of the marmalade to overwhelm her as the fruit had done moments before, and initially it was a bitter taste which engaged her, but then came a strangely sweet sensation, startling and indescribable. And the aftertaste, the slow gradual enveloping of her mouth with the smooth, syrupy warmth, intermingling now and then with the roughness of the peep – it transported her to the Mediterranean climes of Southern Spain where the sun soothed her face and the warm waters tickled her toes.” (p90)

There are even amazing things called Marmalade Tablets – they seem to be small squares of caramel colour,

“shimmered in the sunlight as if coated with an effervescent gold, a treasure of the most sublime kind” (p178).

The modest, indeed, humble cottage with so few comforts and even fewer luxuries, is nevertheless a treasure trove, full of hidden jars of marmalade, one from every year since 1932, for 40 years.

’There’s one fer every year, ‘ said Dougie, ‘and each is magnificent.’

‘That’s the oranges, no me,’ replied Maggie. ‘Each year the weather brings its own story and those tales are written down by the fruit trees. All I do is chop and boil and spoon them into jars.’ (p132)

It is not only the fruit and the marmalade which are celebrated, it is also the beautiful glass jars and the cottage itself, which are written with such marvelment and love:

“Throughout the entirety of the small kitchen was amassed an amplitude of shiny jars, each glistening and reflecting the bright sunshine, creating a clear brilliance extraordinary in power and strength. For the first time Isla beheld each and every white washed brick of Rose Cottage in all its lustre and noticed every shade and hew of the old oak floorboards which blazed with warmth. It was as though the cottage itself had awoken from a long sleep.” (p196)

Maggie herself is of course the star, not just the star marmalade maker, but also the wise woman, albeit one who is gradually is losing her mind as well as her self. But all through her dignity and spirit remain intact, and she inspires those who know her with her indomitability, self-sufficiency, and brisk practicality.

“I think we’ve had enough clishmaclaiver for one day,” (p112)

“’Cannae abide all this blethering’, Maggie continued. ‘Harking on things that cannae be changed. Does nobody any good.’” (p112)

It is overall an uneven novel. So very good in parts, and so lacking in others. So evocative, and yet needing a firmer hand with the edits so that it does not become unbridled with too much tragic attributed emotion. But for marmalade lovers, definitely not a read that will be regretted.

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