Princess Anne by Katherine L. Oldmeadow

Princess Anne by Katherine Oldmeadow front cover

Princess Anne by Katharine L. Oldmeadow

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Princess Anne by Katharine Oldmeadow is a pleasant enough diversion from the world, but it was fairly unremarkable. It reads like a sort of Sara Crewe / Abbey Girls / Pollyanna mash-up, which is delightful but not the sort of thing I’m ever going to be able to review coherently. Because, when it’s done, it’s sort of – just – done. You’ll know the feeling; there are those books in the world that are lovely and satisfying but when you finish them, there’s nothing left. A perfectly good cake that’s perfectly pleasant for a couple of mouthfuls but once it’s done? Nothing, but nothing stays of it.

And I like my books to stay. I like them to find a place in the world and make it their own. I like being able to think of them in ways that I do not expect, and to find connections between them. A web of words, perhaps, if I’m being fancy, but mainly it’s the memory of them. That moment of the read. The thought that I could have it again. The memory of how good it was.

Princess Anne sort of doesn’t have that. It’s put together very nicely for 1925 but does have an oddly patchwork affair. She is orphaned. She’s sent to stay with a horrible aunt. The horrible aunt sends her to school. Some of it works, particularly the moments where Anne makes friends, but mostly it’s a game of catch-up. She’s perky here, despite the awful circumstances, and then she’s perky elsewhere, despite the similarly hideous situation, and that’s great but it doesn’t really make her particularly interesting. If you think of The School At The Chalet by Elinor M. Brent-Dyer, published the same year, the difference is remarkable. Grizel (a little bit of a cow at the best of times) is interesting. Anne, on the other hand, sort of skips through everything and finds the best in it. Kittens. Rainbows. Unicorns.

(Though I am fond of the point where she finds a friend by quoting Milton at everyone. It’s the sort of ridiculous whimsy that this genre does so very well).

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