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Miss Buncle's Book

Miss Buncle's Book

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Miss Buncle's Book

ratings:
4.5/5 (90 ratings)
Length:
328 pages
5 hours
Publisher:
Released:
Sep 1, 2012
ISBN:
9781402270833
Format:
Book

Description

From beloved English author D.E. Stevenson who has sold more than 7 million books worldwide!

In the first heartwarming book of this classic series, D.E. Stevenson proves that one little book can be the source of all kinds of trouble when residents of a small English village start to see themselves through someone else's eyes.

Barbara Buncle is in a bind. Times are harsh, and Barbara's bank account has seen better days. Maybe she could sell a novel ... if she knew any stories. Stumped for ideas, Barbara draws inspiration from her fellow residents of Silverstream, the little English village she knows inside and out.

To her surprise, the novel is a smash. It's a good thing she wrote under a pseudonym, because the folks of Silverstream are in an uproar. But what really turns Miss Buncle's world around is this: what happens to the characters in her book starts happening to their real-life counterparts. Does life really imitate art, and can she harness that power for good?

With the wit and charm of a Jane Austen novel and the gossipy, small-town delight of the Flavia de Luce series, Miss Buncle's Book is D.E. Stevenson at her best!

Publisher:
Released:
Sep 1, 2012
ISBN:
9781402270833
Format:
Book

About the author

Born in Edinburgh in 1892, Dorothy Emily Stevenson came from a distinguished Scottish family, her father being David Alan Stevenson, the lighthouse engineer, first cousin to Robert Louis Stevenson. In 1916 she married Major James Reid Peploe (nephew to the artist Samuel Peploe). After the First World War they lived near Glasgow and brought up two sons and a daughter. Dorothy wrote her first novel in the 1920's, and by the 1930's was a prolific bestseller, ultimately selling more than seven million books in her career. Among her many bestselling novels was the series featuring the popular "Mrs. Tim", the wife of a British Army officer. The author often returned to Scotland and Scottish themes in her romantic, witty and well-observed novels. During the Second World War Dorothy Stevenson moved with her husband to Moffat in Scotland. It was here that most of her subsequent works were written. D.E. Stevenson died in Moffat in 1973.


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Miss Buncle's Book - D.E. Stevenson

Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of D. E. Stevenson

Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Eileen Carey

Cover image courtesy of The Advertising Archives

Cityscape © Francis Frith/Masterfile

Banner © Benchart/Veer

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

www.sourcebooks.com

First published in 1936 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd. Previously published in the UK in 2010 by Persephone Books Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily).

Miss Buncle’s book / D.E. Stevenson.

p. cm.

First published in 1936 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd. Previously published in the UK in 2010 by Persephone Books Ltd.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Women authors, English—Fiction. 2. Cities and towns—England—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6037.T458M57 2012

823’.912—dc23

2012020973

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One: Breakfast Rolls

Chapter Two: Disturber of the Peace

Chapter Three: Mrs. Greensleeves

Chapter Four: Mr. Hathaway

Chapter Five: Mrs. Walker

Chapter Six: Mrs. Carter’s Tea Party

Chapter Seven: First Fruits

Chapter Eight: Miss King and Mr. Abbott

Chapter Nine: Mrs. Bulmer

Chapter Ten: Feu De Joie

Chapter Eleven: Colonel Weatherhead and the Bishop

Chapter Twelve: Mrs. Featherstone Hogg

Chapter Thirteen: Colonel Weatherhead and Mrs. Bold

Chapter Fourteen: Sunday and Monday

Chapter Fifteen: More about Monday

Chapter Sixteen: The Drawing-Room Meeting

Chapter Seventeen: Inspiration

Chapter Eighteen: A History Lesson

Chapter Nineteen: Miss Buncle’s Holiday

Chapter Twenty: Chiefly about Sally

Chapter Twenty-One: Mrs. Snowdon’s Memorial

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Children’s Party at The Riggs

Chapter Twenty-Three: Miss Buncle’s Day in Town

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Pen Is Mightier—

Chapter Twenty-Five: Miss Buncle and Mr. Abbott

Chapter Twenty-Six: Colonel and Mrs. Weatherhead

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Sally’s Secret

Chapter Twenty-Eight: John Smith

About the Author

Back Cover

Chapter One

Breakfast Rolls

One fine summer’s morning the sun peeped over the hills and looked down upon the valley of Silverstream. It was so early that there was really very little for him to see except the cows belonging to Twelve-Trees Farm in the meadows by the river. They were going slowly up to the farm to be milked. Their shadows were still quite black, weird, and ungainly, like pictures of prehistoric monsters moving over the lush grass. The farm stirred and a slow spiral of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney.

In the village of Silverstream (which lay further down the valley) the bakery woke up first, for there were the breakfast rolls to be made and baked. Mrs. Goldsmith saw to the details of the bakery herself and prided herself upon the punctuality of her deliveries. She bustled round, wakening her daughters with small ceremony, kneading the dough for the rolls, directing the stoking of the ovens, and listening with one ear for the arrival of Tommy Hobday who delivered the rolls to Silverstream before he went to school.

Tommy had been late once or twice lately; she had informed his mother that if he were late again she would have to find another boy. She did not think Tommy would be late again, but, if he were, she must try and find another boy, it was so important for the rolls to be out early. Colonel Weatherhead (retired) was one of her best customers and he was an early breakfaster. He lived in a gray stone house down near the bridge—The Bridge House—just opposite to Mrs. Bold at Cozy Neuk. Mrs. Bold was a widow. She had nothing to drag her out of bed in the morning, and, therefore, like a sensible woman, she breakfasted late. It was inconvenient from the point of view of breakfast rolls that two such near neighbors should want their rolls at different hours. Then, at the other end of the village, there was the Vicar. Quite new, he was, and addicted to early services on the birthdays of Saints. Not only the usual Saints that everybody knew about, but all sorts of strange Saints that nobody in Silverstream had ever heard of before; so you never knew when the Vicarage would be early astir. In Mr. Dunn’s time it used to slumber peacefully until its rolls arrived, but now, instead of being the last house on Tommy’s list, it had to be moved up quite near the top. Very awkward it was, because that end of the village, where the old gray sixteenth-century church rested so peacefully among the tombstones, had been all late breakfasters and therefore safe to be left until the end of Tommy’s round. Miss Buncle, at Tanglewood Cottage, for instance, had breakfast at nine o’clock, and old Mrs. Carter and the Bulmers were all late.

The hill was a problem too, for there were six houses on the hill and in them dwelt Mrs. Featherstone Hogg (there was a Mr. Featherstone Hogg too, of course, but he didn’t count, nobody ever thought of him except as Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s husband) and Mrs. Greensleeves, and Mr. Snowdon and his two daughters, and two officers from the camp, Captain Sandeman and Major Shearer, and Mrs. Dick who took in gentlemen paying guests, all clamoring for their rolls early—except, of course, Mrs. Greensleeves, who breakfasted in bed about ten o’clock, if what Milly Spikes said could be believed.

Mrs. Goldsmith shoved her trays of neatly made rolls into the oven and turned down her sleeves thoughtfully. Now if only the Vicar lived on the hill, and Mrs. Greensleeves in the Vicarage, how much easier it would be! The whole of the hill would be early, and Church End would be all late. No need then to buy a bicycle for Tommy. As it was, something must be done, either a bicycle or an extra boy—and boys were such a nuisance.

Miss King and Miss Pretty dwelt in the High Street next door to Dr. Walker in an old house behind high stone walls. They had nine o’clock breakfast, of course, being ladies of leisure, but the rest of the High Street was early. Pursuing her previous thoughts, and slackening her activities a little, now that the rolls were safely in the oven, Mrs. Goldsmith moved the ladies into the Colonel’s house by the bridge, and the gallant Colonel, with all his goods and chattels, was dumped into Durward Lodge next door to Dr. Walker.

These pleasant dreams were interrupted by the noisy entrance of Tommy and his baskets. No time for dreams now.

Is this early enough for you? he inquired. Not ready yet? Dear me! I’ve been up for hours, I ’ave.

Less of your cheek, Tommy Hobday, replied Mrs. Goldsmith firmly.

***

At this very moment an alarm clock started to vibrate furiously in Tanglewood Cottage. The clock was in the maid’s bedroom, of course. Dorcas turned over sleepily and stretched out one hand to still its clamor. Drat the thing, she felt as if she had only just got into bed. How short the nights were! She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Her feet found a pair of ancient bedroom slippers—which had once belonged to Miss Buncle—and she was soon shuffling about the room and splashing her face in the small basin which stood in the corner in a three-corner-shaped washstand with a hole in the middle. Dorcas was so used to all this that she did it without properly waking up. In fact it was not until she had shuffled down to the kitchen, boiled the kettle over the gas ring, and made herself a pot of tea that she could be said to be properly awake. This was the best cup of the day and she lingered over it, feeling somewhat guilty at wasting the precious moments, but enjoying it all the more for that.

Dorcas had been at Tanglewood Cottage for more years than she cared to count; ever since Miss Buncle had been a small fat child in a basket-work pram. First of all she had been the small, fat child’s nurse, and then her maid. Then Mrs. Buncle’s parlor maid left and Dorcas had taken on the job; sometimes, in domestic upheavals, she had found herself in the role of cook. Time passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Buncle departed full of years to a better land and Dorcas—who was now practically one of the family—stayed on with Miss Buncle—no longer a fat child—as cook, maid, and parlor maid combined. She was now a small, wizened old woman with bright beady eyes, but in spite of her advancing years she was strong and able for more work than many a young girl in her teens.

Lawks! she exclaimed suddenly, looking up at the clock. Look at the time, and the drawing-room to be done yet—I’m all behind, like a cow’s tail.

She whisked the tea things into the sink and bustled round the kitchen putting things to rights, then, seizing the broom and the dusters out of the housemaid’s cupboards, she rushed into Miss Buncle’s drawing-room like a small but extremely violent tornado.

Breakfast was all ready on the dining-room table when Miss Buncle came down at nine o’clock precisely. The rolls had come, and the postman was handing in the letters at the front door. Miss Buncle pounced upon the letters eagerly; most of them were circulars but there was one long thin envelope with a London postmark addressed to John Smith, Esq. Miss Buncle had been expecting a communication for John Smith for several weeks, but now that it had come she was almost afraid to open it. She turned it over in her hands waiting until Dorcas had finished fussing round the breakfast table.

Dorcas was interested in the letter, but she realized that Miss Buncle was waiting for her to depart, so at last she departed reluctantly. Miss Buncle tore it open and spread it out. Her hands were shaking so that she could scarcely read it.

ABBOTT & SPICER

Publishers

Brummel Street,

London EC4

—th July.

Dear Mr. Smith,

I have read Chronicles of an English Village and am interested in it. Could you call at my office on Wednesday morning at twelve o’clock? If this is not convenient to you I should be glad if you will suggest a suitable day.

Yours faithfully,

A. Abbott

Goodness! exclaimed Miss Buncle aloud. They are going to take it.

She rushed into the kitchen to tell Dorcas the amazing news.

Chapter Two

Disturber of the Peace

Mr. Abbott looked at the clock several times as he went through his business on Wednesday morning. He was excited at the prospect of the interview with John Smith. Years of publishing had failed to dim his enthusiasms or to turn him into a soured and bitter pessimist. Every new and promising author found favor in his eyes. He had given up trying to predict the success or unsuccess of the novels he published, but he went on publishing them and hoping that each one published would prove itself a bestseller.

Last Friday morning his nephew, Sam Abbott, who had just been taken into the firm of Abbott & Spicer, suddenly appeared in Mr. Abbott’s sanctum with a deplorable lack of ceremony and announced, Uncle Arthur, the feller who wrote this book is either a genius or an imbecile.

Something stirred in Mr. Abbott’s heart at these words (a sort of sixth sense perhaps), and he had held out his hand for the untidy-looking manuscript with a feeling of excitement—was this the bestseller at last?

His sensible, publishing, businessman-self had warned him that Sam was new to the job, and had reminded him of other lamentable occasions when authors who had promised to be swans had turned out disappointing geese, but the flame which burned within him leaped to the challenge.

The manuscript had gone home with him that night, and he was still reading it at 2 a.m. Still reading it, and still in doubt. Making allowances for the exaggeration due to his youth and inexperience Sam had been right about Chronicles of an English Village, and Mr. Abbott could not but endorse his opinion. It was not written by a genius, of course, neither was it the babblings of an imbecile; but the author of it was either a very clever man writing with his tongue in his cheek, or else a very simple person writing in all good faith.

Whichever he was, Mr. Abbott was in no two opinions about publishing him. The Autumn List was almost complete, but room should be made for Chronicles of an English Village.

As Mr. Abbott turned out his light—about 3 a.m.—and snuggled down comfortably in bed, his mind was already busy on the blurb that should introduce this unusual book to the notice of the world. The author might have his own ideas about the blurb, of course, but Mr. Abbott decided that it must be very carefully worded so as to give no clue—no clue whatever—as to whether the book was a delicate satire (comparable only with the first chapter of Northanger Abbey) or merely a chronicle of events seen through the innocent eyes of a simpleton.

It was really a satire, of course, thought Mr. Abbott, closing his eyes—that love scene in the moonlit garden for instance, and the other one where the young bank clerk serenaded his cruel love with a mandolin, and the two sedate ladies buying riding breeches and setting off for the Far East—and yet there was simplicity about the whole thing, a freshness like the fragrance of new mown hay.

New mown hay, that was good, thought Mr. Abbott. Should new mown hay go into the blurb or should it be left to the reader to discover? What fools the public were! They were exactly like sheep…thought Mr. Abbott sleepily…following each other’s lead, neglecting one book and buying another just because other people were buying it, although, for the life of you, you couldn’t see what the one lacked and the other possessed. But this book, said Mr. Abbott to himself, this book must go—it should be made to go. Pleasant visions of bookstalls piled with neat copies of Chronicles of an English Village and the public clamoring for more editions passed dreamily through his mind.

The author must come and see him, thought Mr. Abbott, coming back from the verge of sleep. He would know then, once he had seen the man, whether the book was a satire or a straight story, and he must know that (the mystery intrigued him) but nobody else should know. John Smith must be bidden to the office at the earliest possible moment for there was no time to waste if the book was to go into the Autumn List—John Smith, what a name! An assumed name, of course, and rather a good one considering the nature of the book.

Sleep hovered over Mr. Abbott darkly; it descended upon him with outstretched wings.

On Saturday evening, after a day’s golf, Mr. Abbott read the book again. He took it into his hands with some trepidation. It was probably not so good as he had thought—things looked different at 2:00 a.m. He would be disappointed when he reread the thing.

But Mr. Abbott was not the least bit disappointed when he reread the thing; it was just as good today as it had been last night—in fact it was better, for he knew the end and could now appreciate the finer points. It made him chuckle, it kept him glued to his chair till the small hours, it drifted along and he drifted along with it and time was not. It was the characterization, Mr. Abbott decided, that made the book. The people were all so real; every single character was convincing. Every single character breathed the breath of life. There was not a flat two-dimensional character in the book—rather unusual that! There were glaring faults of construction in the thing (in fact there was not much attempt at construction about it)—obviously a tyro, this John Smith! And yet, was he? And yet, was he? Weren’t the very faults of construction part of the book’s charm?

The first part of Chronicles of an English Village was a humdrum sort of affair—it was indeed a chronicle of life in an English village. It might have been dull if the people had not been so well drawn, or if the writing had not been of that amazing simplicity which kept one wondering whether it were intended to be satirical or not. The second part was a sort of fantasy: a golden boy walked through the village playing on a reed pipe, and his music roused the villagers to strange doings. It was queer, it was unusual, it was provocative, and, strangely enough, it was also extremely funny. Mr. Abbott was aware, from personal experience, that you could not lay it down until the end.

The name of the book was poor, Mr. Abbott thought. Chronicles of an English Village sounded dull; but another name could easily be found, a name that would focus light on the principal incident in the book, the incident upon which the whole story turned. What about The Golden Boy or The Piper Passes? Perhaps the latter was too sophisticated for such an artless (or was it an artful) story. It might be called Disturber of the Peace, thought Mr. Abbott. Yes, that was rather good. It had the right ring about it; it was easy to remember; it cast the necessary light upon the boy. He would suggest the title to John Smith.

It will have been deduced from the foregoing that Mr. Abbott was a bachelor—what wife would have allowed her husband to sit up till all hours for two nights running reading the manuscript of a novel? None.

Mr. Abbott was a bachelor; he lived at Hampstead Heath in a very pleasant little house with a small garden. A man and his wife—Rast was their name—did for Mr. Abbott and made him extremely comfortable. Their matrimonial differences were frequent and violent, but these were confined to the kitchen premises and were not allowed to interfere with their master’s comfort. A slate hung upon a hook on the kitchen dresser, and if the Rasts were not upon speaking terms they communicated with each other through the medium of a squeaky slate pencil. Wake him 7:30 Rast would write, and Mrs. Rast would glance at the slate on her way to bed and appear at Mr. Abbott’s bedside at 7:30 precisely with a spotless tray of morning tea. Lucky Mr. Abbott!

The letter summoning John Smith was dispatched early on Monday—it was the first thing Mr. Abbott had seen to on his arrival at Brummel Street—and now here was Wednesday morning, and Mr. Abbott was expecting John Smith. There was the usual box of cigars on Mr. Abbott’s table and two boxes of cigarettes—Turkish and Virginian—so that whatever sort of man John Smith might be, his taste could be catered for with the least possible trouble or delay. Mr. Abbott was not quite his usual self this morning; he was excited, and the typist found him distrait. He was not giving his whole mind to the drawing up of a water-tight contract with Mr. Shillingsworth, who was a bestseller and quarreled with every publisher in turn, and it was important, nay, it was imperative, that Mr. Abbott’s whole mind should be given to the matter.

I think you had better come back later, Mr. Abbott was saying. I must think it over carefully.

At this moment there was a knock at the door and the small page boy announced hoarsely, Miss Buncle to see you, sir. Shall I bring her up?

Buncle! cried Mr. Abbott. Buncle—who’s Buncle?

Says she’s got an appointment at twelve.

Mr. Abbott stared at the imp while he rearranged his thoughts. Miss Buncle—John Smith—why hadn’t he thought that it might be a woman?

Show her up, he said sharply.

The typist gathered up her papers and departed with the swift silence of her tribe, and a few moments later Miss Buncle stood before the great man. She was trembling a little, partly from excitement and partly from fear.

I got your letter, she said in a soft voice, and showed it to him.

So you are John Smith, he announced with a humorous lift of his brows.

It was the first name I thought of.

It is an easy name to think of, he pointed out. I rather thought it was too bad to be true.

I don’t mind changing it, she told him hastily.

I don’t want it changed, said Mr. Abbott. There’s nothing wrong with John Smith—but why not Buncle? A good name, Buncle.

Her face blanched. But I live there! she cried breathlessly.

Mr. Abbott caught her meaning at once. (How quick he was, thought Miss Buncle. Lots of people would have said, Where do you live? or What has that got to do with Buncle? but this man grasped the point in a moment.)

In that case, he said, and raised his hands a little, palm upward—they both laughed.

Contact was now definitely established. Miss Buncle sat down and refused both kinds of cigarettes (he did not offer her the cigars, of course). Mr. Abbott looked at her and wondered. How had she felt when she wrote Chronicles? Was it a straight story or a satire? He was still in doubt. She was obviously a simple sort of person—shabbily dressed in a coat and skirt of blue flannel. Her hat was dreadful, her face was pale and rather thin, with a pointed chin and a nondescript nose, but on the other hand her eyes were good—dark blue with long lashes—and they twinkled a little when she laughed. Her mouth was good too, and her teeth—if they were real—magnificent.

Meeting Miss Buncle in the street, Mr. Abbott (who was rather a connoisseur of feminine charms) would not have looked twice at her. A thin, dowdy woman of forty—he would have said (erring on the unkind side in the matter of her age) and passed on to pastures new. But here, in his sanctum, with the knowledge that she had written an amusing novel, he looked at her with different eyes.

Well, he said, smiling at her in a friendly manner, I’ve read your novel and I like it.

She clasped her hands together and her eyes shone.

This made him add—quite against his principles—I like it very much indeed.

Oh! she exclaimed ecstatically. Oh!

Tell me all about it, Mr. Abbott said. This interview was proceeding on quite different lines from what he had imagined, arranged, and decided; quite differently, in fact, from any other interview between an author and a publisher in which Mr. Abbott had ever participated.

All about it! echoed Miss Buncle helplessly.

Why did you write it? How did you feel when you were writing it? Have you ever written anything before? he explained.

I wanted money, said Miss Buncle simply.

Mr. Abbott chuckled. This was a new kind of author. Of course they all wanted money; everybody did. Johnson’s dictum that nobody but a donkey wrote for anything except money was as true today as it had ever been and always would be, but how few authors owned to the fact so simply! They either told you that something stronger than themselves compelled them to write, or else that they felt they had a message to give the world.

Oh! I am quite serious, said Miss Buncle, objecting to Mr. Abbott’s chuckle. You see my dividends are so wretched this year. Of course I ought to have known they would be, after all the papers said, but somehow I didn’t. The dividends had always come in regularly and I thought—well, I never thought anything about it, said Miss Buncle truthfully, and then when they didn’t come in—or else came in only about half the usual amount—it gave me rather a shock.

Yes, said Mr. Abbott. He could visualize Miss Buncle sitting there in the midst of a crashing world waiting with perfect confidence for her dividends to come in, and the dividends failing to come in, and Miss Buncle worried about it and realizing at last that her world was crashing as well as the outside world. He could visualize her lying awake at night with a cold sort of feeling in her heart and wondering what she had better do about it.

So then you thought you would write a book, suggested Mr. Abbott sympathetically.

Well, not just at first, replied the author. I thought of lots of other things first—keeping hens for one thing. But I don’t care for hens much. I don’t like touching them; they are such fluttery things, aren’t they? And Dorcas doesn’t like them either. Dorcas is my maid.

Susan? inquired Mr. Abbott with a smile and a motion of his hand toward the manuscript of Chronicles of an English Village, which lay between them on the table.

Miss Buncle blushed; she neither confirmed nor denied that Dorcas

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4.4
90 ratings / 65 Reviews
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  • (4/5)
    A really delightful book, a pleasure to read, with some hilarious moments—be ready for many chuckles, so be sure you are alone when you read it! Incredibly, there is no sex, and no foul language; modern writers should look for some inspiration in books like this! I’m looking forward to the next book in this series of three: “Miss Buncle Married” and “The Two Mrs. Abbotts.” Incidentally, Dorothy Emily Stevenson was the cousin of famous writer Robert Louis Stevenson.
  • (5/5)
    Miss Buncle's Book is an enjoyable little romp in the small English village of Silverstream in the 1930s, where everyone knows everyone and there are no secrets. Until, of course, they find themselves written (some very unflatteringly!) into a hit new novel by the pseudonymous John Smith. This mystery author has painted the denizens of Silverstream so accurately, he must be one of them. But who could it be? No one suspects that the unprepossessing spinster Miss Barbara Buncle has turned to novel-writing as a way to eke out a living now that her dividends have dwindled to nothing. She does it quite innocently, using her neighbors as characters because she doesn't have the imagination to create her own (or so she thinks). But then her book takes on a life of its own—and life begins to imitate art, eerily so. And then she writes a sequel. This is a delightful story. Not much happens, it's really just Miss Buncle writing and visiting her publisher and the machinations of the villagers to discover (and horse-whip, preferably) the book's author, but somehow it is extremely hard to put down. The characters are wonderfully drawn and quite funny. This is my second D.E. Stevenson book and I've already requested more of her titles from the library. The only thing better than discovering a new author is learning that she wrote a hefty number of novels for your delectation. Hurrah :)
  • (4/5)
    This book could hardly be more charming. Miss Buncle is a bit of a spinster who, in a bout of financial despair, pens a little roman à clef set in her village and sends it off to a publisher under a nom de plume. The publisher is quite taken with it, and the book becomes a bestseller. All the characters closely resemble their real-world counterparts -- so closely, in fact, that they recognize themselves in the book (and some of the portraits are a little too accurate for the villagers' taste). And so the outraged villagers take it upon themselves to discover the identity of the author -- it must be one of them! The plotting and finger-pointing is delightfully serious and humorous at the same time.
  • (4/5)
    A lovely book. Miss Buncle finally finds a way to transform herself from timid mouse to a confident woman.
  • (3/5)
    "I'm an author", she said to herself, "how very odd!"By sally tarbox on 23 January 2018Format: Kindle EditionAfter reading Stevenson's lovely but lesser-known 'The Four Graces', I have to say I didn't find this novel as good.Set in a little village in the 1930s, we meet a disparate group of characters including two ladies who have fallen on hard times: but while nice Miss Buncle writes a novel based on her neighbours' lives, horrid Mrs Greensleeves is pondering how to ensnare a man with money...Then there's the nice colonel; a teenage granddaughter; a stuck-up local 'bigwig'...As local readers realise it's about them, there's a concerted effort to unmask the author.Pleasant, entertaining but far-fetched.
  • (4/5)
    A lovely little book, so glad I stumbled across it. Heading for the second in the series.
  • (4/5)
    I am almost finished with this sweet story that harkens back to a simpler time. It makes me want to get the rest of the Miss Buncle books. This is a story within a story that draws you in with its quirky characters and humorous undertones.
  • (3/5)
    Light Reading and enjoyable
  • (4/5)
    Delicious and adorable read. :)
  • (4/5)
    Glad to have met Barbara and her neighbors.Best line: "It crossed his (the vicar's) mind that Vivian had been a little inconsiderate, and somewhat domineering. Was he taking unto himself a domineering wife?...Of course he was not yet Vivian's husband, she would be different when they were married."
  • (4/5)
    In tiny, quiet little Silverstream, a young woman is in need of money. What to do? Why write a book! Write a book about your town and barely conceal the identity of the characters in it. And then see what mayhem happens!Edit More
  • (4/5)
    This was a very amusing reading. Miss Buncle, a rather gray mouse, writes a novel about the people in her village. The novel turns out to be humorous for some, and as annoyance for others as it reveals the most secret things one would rather not share with anyone. Nobody finds out who wrote the book, as Miss Buncle wrote under a pseudonym. The confusion is great and the secret John Smith is hunted. Also innocent people come to the crossfire.
  • (4/5)
    Miss Buncle is Stevenson's most famous creation, an archetypally quiet spinster living in the archetypal English village of the 1930s, who has quite unintentionally scandalised the village by publishing a novel artlessly chronicling the quirks and weaknesses of her neighbours. Miss Buncle's Book describes the comical repercussions as the offended villagers try to determine the identity of the person behind the nom-de-plume "John Smith", and inadvertently set in motion events mirroring those described in the book. Things get even more complicated when Miss B writes a second novel, which is about a village plunged into chaos by the effects of a novel... Very entertaining, but the satire is maybe just a little bit too self-deprecating and inoffensive to keep you engaged for the length of a novel. I'm not sure if I'll bother with the sequels.
  • (4/5)
    Very enjoyable novel of characters in a small English town.
  • (4/5)
    picked it up and read it one afternoon - it's not short, but I was enchanted...
    Both clever *and* intelligent, sincere *and* satirical.
    Read it yourself and you'll know what I mean.

  • (5/5)
    A gently satirical look at English village life in the 1930s. Somewhat of a cross between Angela Thirkell and Peyton Place, I loved Miss Buncle, Silverstream and all the characters in this charming book.
  • (4/5)
    Miss Buncle lives in a small English village. Her source of income from some dividends does not meet her needs so she decides to write a book under the pseudonym of John Smith . For her subject she uses life in Silverstream and the characters are her neighbors. Her book is published and it does not take long for the villagers to realize the book is about them. Some find it amusing, some not so. The ones who find the exposure uncomfortable try to find out who was the Judas in their midst by any means and make him pull the book. The story is a total delight. As can be expected, the ones whose dark secrets were let out are embarrassed but some are inspired by the story to take steps to improve their lives. "Disturber of the Peace" is the very appropriate name of this book that stirs up life in this town that previously had sailed along its merry way.
  • (4/5)
    A fun, cozy read!! I love the Miss Buncle character - she reminds me very much of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple in some ways, and we all know how much I adore her :) If, like me, you have a penchant for British novels set in the 20s and 30s, you won't be disappointed by Miss Buncle's Book.
  • (5/5)
    I sit here deep in thought after finishing this little surprise-nougat filled-chocolate of a book. What Christopher Nolan did for Inception and Satoshi Kon for Paprika is here encapsulated in a cozy little read about life in a small English town during the 30s. Mr. Abbott, one of many secondary characters in the novel, sums it up pretty accurately:"Mr. Abbott had never before read a novel about a woman who wrote a novel about a woman who wrote a novel—it was like a recurring decimal, he thought, or perhaps even more like a perspective of mirrors such as tailors use, in which the woman and her novel were reflected back and forth to infinity. It made your brain reel if you pursued the thought too far, but there was no need to do so, unless you wanted to, of course."Well, yeah. I definitely do, Mr. Abbott...I did. And I loved it! On to the next in the series!
  • (4/5)
    I love the cover of [Miss Buncle's Book]. The book itself is a gentle and charming read, with some good snark and a winning, always overlooked, heroine in Miss Buncle. In an attempt to make some much-needed money, Miss Buncle has written a book about her pre-WWII village of Silverstream, with the names of it and its inhabitants changed. She claims no imagination, and believes she has merely described people as she sees them. Turns out she's keenly insightful, and that her village is full of characters that are entertaining to read about. She does do a bit of wish fulfillment in the last third of the book, in which she has characters fall in love, travel to exotic places, and so on. The book is published under the pseudonym "John Smith". When villagers begin to recognize themselves - warts and all - in the book, a hue and cry goes up to find the real identity of the dastardly author. No one thinks of the mousy Miss Buncle; it would be too absurd.The effect of the reader knowing Miss Buncle intimately, and seeing how she is viewed and treated, helps remind us of the short-sighted assumptions we often make about others. She is honest and innocent and altogether worthy of attention, but gets dismissed automatically by nearly everyone because of her modest manner and somewhat frumpy appearance. The head of her publisher, Mr. Abbott, sees the genius of the book but at first doesn't know what to make of her. Gradually he comes to appreciate her and prod her to write a second book. The success of the first gives her some confidence, and she has a good bit of fun being present while villagers like the peremptory and ostentatious Ms. Featherstone Hogg complain about their portrayal in the book and plot to harm its author. Miss Buncle also sees the last part of the book, with its projection of the villagers' behavior into a created future, begin to have an effect on their actions toward one another.There is romance, there are villagers to cheer for, like the cheerful and wrongly accused Sarah, happily married to the village's stolid and reliable Dr. Walker, and villagers to hiss and boo at, like the gold-digging Miss Greensleeves. It reminded me in tone of [Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day] and [Diary of a Provincial Lady]. If you enjoy these kinds of "comfort" books, you'll want to give this one a try. I'll be looking for more by the Scot author [D.E. Stevenson], including the sequel to this one.
  • (5/5)
    When the artless Barbara Buncle writes a book under a pseudonym, it wakes up the sleepy little village of Silverstream, as residents recognize themselves in her book. Her book has many farcical, unintended consequences.What a delight this book was to read! I am adding it to my always-growing list of favorites. It may have been written 80 years ago, but the humor and charm are still fresh. This book is a joy!
  • (4/5)
    This is a delightful gem of a book, full of subtle humor regarding the inhabitants of a small English village during the early 1900's. The main character is an unassuming spinster who discovers her modest income diminishing to a point where she can no longer pay for her most basic needs. In order to make ends meet she decides to write a book...about the only thing she knows...the people of the village. And even though she changes their names, once the book is published, it causes a commotion as everyone tries to discover who in their midst wrote "such lies"!Recommended.
  • (4/5)
    Miss Barbara Buncle, a "maiden lady" writes a book in the hopes of increasing her dwindling income. Her story is inspired by her neighbours; in fact, most of them appear in it, under pseudonyms, and Miss Buncle publishes it under the name "John Smith". But Disturber of the Peace becomes a bestseller and pseudonyms are not enough to prevent some of her neighbours from recognising themselves, it does leave them puzzling over who on earth is the author (and what can they do to him for writing such a horrible book).It becomes rather meta - Miss Buncle's book inspires her neighbours to take certain courses of action, which in turn inspires Miss Buncle to write a sequel, which is about a woman (the fictionalised Miss Buncle) who has written a book inspired by her neighbours and is now writing a sequel about their responses to it. Mr Abbot had never before read a novel about a woman who wrote a novel about a woman who wrote a novel - it was a like a recurring decimal, he thought, or perhaps even more like a perspective of mirrors such as tailors use, in which the woman and her novel were reflected back and forth to infinity.I thought this was delightful, capturing life in a 1930s English village with perspicacity and humour.
  • (5/5)
    Sometimes you find a real treat in a Kindle Daily Deal & this was one of those times for me. I adored reading about Miss Buncle & the people in her town of Silverstream (aka Copperfield). Her book sets off a storm of fevered controversy & an all out hunt for the author that goes from nasty to downright unforgivable. It reminded me of reading Cranford & how small towns & the people who populate them are sometimes intertwined & endearing & infuriating all at once but always engaging. All the while, Miss B is doing her best to be polite & still maintain her cover. The character portrayals were vivid & I was cheering for some (the Vicar, Sally, Sarah, the Colonel & Mrs Bold) & wanted nothing but severe comeuppance for others (particularly Mrs Greensleeves & Mrs Featherstone Hogg)

    I was so taken while reading, that I stayed up late into the night. I love being so engaged by a book but sadly, it's not a weekly (or necessarily monthly) occurrence. I tend to give five stars for books that I'd read again & that held my attention so raptly that I experience some sadness when it is over. This one hit all those hallmarks for me & I'm now on the hunt for 'Miss Buncle Married' because I'd love to spend more time with her. I'd never before read anything by Ms. Stevenson so I'm thrilled to have been exposed to another author & a work I'll cherish.
  • (4/5)
    Delightful and funny, a charming read. It reminds me a bit of Elizabeth Gaskell's 'Cranford' in that it deals with the happenings of a small town, where everyone knows everyone. A lot of drama unfolds, thanks to Miss Buncle's book, but nothing really terrible happens and one is left with a happy feeling that everything has fallen into its proper place. I'm looking forward to the next book.
  • (4/5)
    A delightful little book guaranteed to lift the spirits of the most determined reader of depressing books with its gentle humor.Miss Buncle is in financial straits. Her investments are no longer bringing in what they once did, and, although frugal to the point of frumpishness, something must be done. Although her maid, Dorcas, wants to begin raising chickens as a source of income, Miss Buncle decides to write a book. Such is the genesis of Disturber of the Peace, a bestseller about the inhabitants of a small English town, whose peaceful existence is shaken by the arrival of a piped piper. Miss Buncle is unprepared for the book's success or the turmoil it causes when some of the inhabitants of her village see themselves in the book's characters. Determined to track down the author who characterized them so well, too well, if truth be told, the villagers are swept up in a manhunt with unintended consequences. A humorous look at art mirroring life, and life mimicking art, as well as a satire of life in a small town.Sarah laughed softly, and Nell (the setter) stirred in her sleep and raised her beautiful head."You know, Nell, you miss a lot by not being able to read," Sarah told her. "These people are real live people—they are quite delicious."
  • (4/5)
    What a clever, darling, lovely, little novel. I enjoyed this immensely. The characters have a lively depth and wit, and I laughed many times at their antics. The romance is sweet but not cheesy and I enjoyed seeing the good people find their way. There is no wild action or danger - just people, doing what people do. But Stevenson infused something normal with a magic that delights. I highly recommend this work and I'm eager to read the sequel!
  • (3/5)
    Well, to be fair to Buncle, I had just come off of Wild and Night Film, so Buncle had some telling to live up to! Miss Buncle's Book is cute and fun and ok. It wasn't terrific, it certainly wasn't terrible.Miss Buncle lives in a small countryside-ish type town in England. She has money troubles so she writes a book in an attempt to solve them. However, Miss Buncle cannot (as she says) write about something about which she has no knowledge. So she writes about her town and the people within it. The publisher loves the novel, thinks it's either the work of a simpleton or a genius, and seeks to publish it in short order, under a pen name for Buncle, to protect the not-so-innocent. The name of the town and the name of the characters have, of course, all been changed, but it is clear to the townsfolk that they are the subject of the book. As might be anticipated, chaos ensues. The townspeople are in an uproar about the book and react in humorous, over-the-top, caricature-like fashion. The book is a sweet little thing, a quick read, a pleasant romp through this 1940s (I think -- around that time) small town in England. The personalities are strong, the story is fun, and it was an entertaining way to pass the afternoon. Not spectacular, but recommended for readers to whom the above-paragraph appeals.
  • (5/5)
    When Barbara Buncle published her first novel under the assumed name of John Smith, it set off quite a storm in her village. Claiming she could only write about what she knew, Barbara used her keen powers of observation to develop characters based on village inhabitants, and then put them in situations ranging from probable to well-deserved. The book went viral, in an early 20th century sort of way, becoming the principal topic of conversation and, in some cases, consternation or outrage as people see themselves in the story. Barbara is surprised by her novel's success and the resulting financial dividends, and also by the outrage. But she remains anonymous, continuing to collect anecdotes for a sequel. No one suspects she's the author; in fact, Barbara is such a peripheral figure in village life that she is practically invisible. Then, little by little, Barbara's book infiltrates real life, as villagers are inspired to act in ways either supporting or preventing outcomes described in the novel.This "book-within-a-book" approach makes for delightful reading, and perhaps most delightful is the way the experience transforms Miss Buncle herself. Because the story is told from her perspective, it takes a little longer to realize what is happening, but when this piece of the puzzle is fully developed, everything snaps into place in a most satisfying way. By the time I turned the last page of this book, I was grinning from ear to ear.
  • (4/5)
    Six-word review: Perfectly delightful feelgood novel charms gracefully.Extended review:A novel about a woman who writes a novel about a woman writing a novel. With remarkable depth and insight, this gentle satire entertains while showing us the absurd and the admirable in a motley cast of village characters. I enjoyed every page of this down-to-earth narrative and look forward to meeting some, if not all, of the characters in one or more sequels.Three and a half stars signify a thoroughly satisfactory read that does not aspire to venture into serious literary territory but does what it does very well indeed.