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A Town Like Alice (Anglais) Poche – octobre 1987
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James Macfadden died in March 1905 when he was forty-seven years old; he was riding in the Driffield Point-to-Point. He left the bulk of his money to his son Douglas. The Macfaddens and the Dalhousies at that time lived in Perth, and Douglas was a school friend of Jock Dalhousie, who was a young man then, and had gone to London to become junior partner in a firm of solicitors in Chancery Lane, Owen, Dalhousie, and Peters. I am now the senior partner, and Owen and Dalhousie and Peters have been dead for many years, but I never changed the name of the firm.
It was natural that Douglas Macfadden should put his affairs into the hands of Jock Dalhousie, and Mr Dalhousie handled them personally till he died in 1928. In splitting up the work I took Mr Macfadden on to my list of clients, and forgot about him in the pressure of other matters.
It was not until 1935 that any business for him came up. I had a letter from him then, from an address in Ayr. He said that his brother-in-law, Arthur Paget, had been killed in a motor car accident in Malaya and so he wanted to redraft his will to make a trust in favour of his sister Jean and her two children. I am sorry to say that I was so ignorant of this client that I did not even know he was unmarried and had no issue of his own. He finished up by saying that he was too unwell to travel down to London, and he suggested that perhaps a junior member of the firm might be sent up to see him and arrange the matter.
This fitted in with my arrangements fairly well, because when I got this letter I was just leaving for a fortnight's fishing holiday on Loch Shiel. I wrote and told him that I would visit him on my way south, and I put the file concerning his affairs in the bottom of my suitcase to study one evening during my vacation.
When I got to Ayr I took a room at the Station Hotel, because in our correspondence there had been no suggestion that he could put me up. I changed out of my plus-fours into -a dark business suit, and went to call upon my client.
He did not live at all in the manner I had expected. I did not know much about his estate except that it was probably well over twenty thousand pounds, and I had expected to find my client living in a house with a servant or two. Instead, I discovered that he had a bedroom and a sitting-room on the same floor of a small private hotel just off the sea front. He was evidently leading the life of an invalid though he was hardly more than fifty years old at that time, ten years younger than I was myself. He was as frail as an old lady of eighty, and he had a peculiar grey look about him which didn't look at all good to me. All the windows of his sitting-room were shut and after the clean air of the lochs and moors I found his room stuffy and close; he had a number of budgerigars in cages in the window, and the smell of these birds made the room very unpleasant. It was clear from the furnishings that he had lived in that hotel and in that room for a good many years.
He told me something about his life as we discussed the will; he was quite affable, and pleased that I had been able to come to visit him myself. He seemed to be an educated man, though he spoke with a marked Scots accent. 'I live very quietly, Mr Strachan,' he said. 'My health will not permit me to go far abroad. Whiles I get out upon the front on a fine day and sit for a time, and then again Maggie - that's the daughter of Mrs Doyle who keeps the house - Maggie wheels me out in the chair. They are very good to me here.'
Turning to the matter of the will, he told me that he had no close relatives at all except his sister, Jean Paget. 'Forbye my father might have left what you might call an indiscretion or two in Australia,' he said. 'I would not say that there might not be some of those about, though I have never met one, or corresponded. Jean told me once that my mother had been sore distressed. Women talk about these things, of course, and my father was a lusty type of man.'
His sister Jean had been an officer in the WAACs in the 1914-1918 War, and she had married a Captain Paget in the spring of 1917. 'It was not a very usual sort of marriage,' he said thoughtfully. 'You must remember that my sister Jean had never been out of Scotland till she joined the army, and the greater part of her life had been spent in Perth. Arthur Paget was an Englishman from Southampton, in Hampshire. I have nothing against Arthur, but we had all naturally thought that Jean would have married a Scot. Still, I would not say but it has been a happy marriage, or as happy as most.'
After the war was over Arthur Paget had got a job upon a rubber estate in Malaya somewhere near Taiping, and Jean, of course, went out there with him. From that time Douglas Macfadden had seen little of his sister; she had been home on leave in 1926 and again in 1932. She had two children, Donald born in 1918 and Jean born in 1921; these children had been left in England in 1932 to live with the Paget parents and to go to school in Southampton, while their mother returned to Malaya. My client had seen them only once, in 1932 when their mother brought them up to Scotland.
The present position was that Arthur Paget had been killed in a motor accident somewhere near Ipoh; he had been driving home at night from Kuala Lumpur and had driven off the road at a high speed and hit a tree. Probably he fell asleep. His widow, Jean Paget, was in England; she had come home a year or so before his death and she had taken a small house in Bassett just outside Southampton to make a home for the children and to be near their schools. It was a sensible arrangement, of course, but it seemed to me to be a pity that the brother and the sister could not have arranged to live nearer to each other. -I fancy that my client regretted the distance that separated them, because he referred to it more than once.
He wanted to revise his will. His existing will was a very simple one, in which he left his entire estate to his sister Jean. 'I would not alter that,' he said. 'But you must understand that Arthur Paget was alive when 1 made that will, and that in the nature of things 1expected him to be alive when Jean inherited from me, and 1 expected that he would be there to guide her in matters of business. 1 shall not make old bones.'
He seemed to have a fixed idea that all women were unworldly creatures and incapable of looking after money; they were irresponsible, and at the mercy of any adventurer. Accordingly, although he wanted his sister to have the full use of his money after his death, he wanted to create a trust to ensure that her son Donald, at that time a schoolboy, should inherit the whole estate intact after his mother's death. There was, of course, no special difficulty in that. I presented to him the various pros and cons of a trust such as he envisaged, and 1 reminded him that a small legacy to Mrs Doyle, in whose house he had lived for so many years, might not be out of place provided that he was still living with them at the time of his death. He agreed to that. He told me then that he had no close relations living, and he asked me if I would undertake to be the sole trustee of his estate and the executor of his will. That is the sort of business a family solicitor frequently takes on his shoulders, of course. I told him that in view of my age he should appoint a co-trustee, and he agreed to the insertion of our junior partner, Mr Lester Robinson, to be co-trustee with me. He also agreed to a charging clause for our professional services in connection with the trust.
There only remained to tidy up the loose ends of what was, after all, a fairly simple will. I asked him what should happen if both he and his sister were to die before the boy Donald was twenty-one, and I suggested that the trust should terminate and the boy should inherit the estate absolutely when he reached his majority. He agreed to this, and I made another note upon my pad.
'Supposing then,' I said, 'that Donald should die before his mother, or if Donald and his mother should die in some way before you. The estate would then pass to the girl, Jean. Again, I take it that the trust would terminate when she reached her majority?'
'Ye mean,' he asked, 'when she became twenty-one?'
I nodded. 'Yes. That is what we decided in the case of her brother.'
He shook his head. 'I think that would be most imprudent, Mr Strachan, if I may say so. No lassie would be fit to administer her own estate when she was twenty-one. A lassie of that age is at the mercy of her sex, Mr Strachan, at the mercy of her sex. I would want the trust to continue for much longer than that. Till she was forty, at the very least.'
From various past experiences I could not help agreeing with him that twenty-one was a bit young for a girl to have absolute control over a large sum of money, but forty seemed to me to be excessively old. I stated my own view that twenty-five would be a reasonable age, and very reluctantly he receded to thirty-five. I could not move him from that position, and as he was obviously tiring and growing irritable I accepted that as the maximum duration of our trust. It meant that in those very unlikely circumstances the trust would continue for twenty-one years from that date, since the girl Jean had been born in 1921 and it was then 1935- That finished our business and I left him and went back to London to draft out the will, which I sent to him for signature. I never saw my client again. It was my fault that I lost touch with him. It had been my habit for a great many years to take my holiday in the spring, when I would go with my wife to Scotland for a fortnight's fishing, usually to Loch Shiel. I thought that this was going on for ever, as one does, and that next year I would call again upon this client on my way down from the north to see if there was any other business I could do for him. But things turn out differently, sometimes. In the winter of 1935 Lucy died. I don't want to dwell on that, but we had been married for twenty-seven years and - well, it was very painful. Both our sons were abroad, Harry in his submarine on the China station and Martin in his oil company at Basra. I hadn't the heart to go back to Loch Shiel, and I have never been to Scotland since. I had a sale and got rid of most of our furniture, and I sold our house on Wimbledon Common; one has to make an effort at a time like that, and a clean break. It's no good going on living in the ashes of a dead happiness.
I took a flat in Buckingham Gate opposite the Palace stables and just across the park from my club in Pall Mall. I furnished it with a few things out of the Wimbledon house and got a woman to come in and cook my breakfast and clean for me in the mornings, and here I set out to re-create my life. I knew the pattern well enough from the experience of others in the club. Breakfast in my flat. Walk through the Park and up the Strand to my office in Chancery Lane. Work all day, with a light lunch at my desk. To the club at six o'clock to read the periodicals, and gossip, and dine, and after dinner a rubber of bridge. That is the routine that I fell into in the spring of 1936, and I am in it still.
All this, as I say, took my mind from Douglas Macfadden; with more than half my mind upon my own affairs I could only manage to attend to those clients who had urgent business with my office. And presently another interest grew upon me. It was quite obvious that war was coming, and some of us in the club who were too old for active military service began to get very interested in Air Raid Precautions. Cutting the long story short, Civil Defence as it came to be called absorbed the whole of my leisure for the next eight years. I became a Warden, and I was on duty in my district of Westminster all through the London blitz and the long, slow years of war that followed it. Practically all my staff went on service, and I had to run the office almost single-handed. In those years I never took a holiday, and I doubt if I slept more than five hours in any night. When finally peace came in 1945 my hair was white and my head shaky, and though I improved a little in the years that followed I had definitely joined the ranks of the old men.
One afternoon in January 1948 I got a telegram from Ayr. It read,
Regret Mr Douglas Macfadden passed away last night please instruct re funeral. Doyle, Balmoral Hotel, Ayr.
I had to search my memory, I am afraid, to recollect through the war years who Mr Douglas Macfadden was, and then I had to turn to the file and the will to refresh my memory with the details of what had happened thirteen years before. It seemed rather odd to me that there was nobody at Ayr who could manage the funeral business. I put in a trunk call to Ayr right away and very soon I was speaking to Mrs Doyle. It was a bad line, but I understood that she knew of no relations; apparently Mr Macfadden had had no visitors for a very long time. Clearly, I should have to go to Ayr myself, or else send somebody. I had no urgent engagements for the next two days and the matter seemed to be a little difficult. I had a talk with Lester Robinson, my partner, who had come back from the war as a brigadier, and cleared my desk, and took the sleeper up to Glasgow after dinner that night. In the morning I went down in a slow train to Ayr. --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.
Revue de presse
"A Town like Alice is the most romantic book I've ever read...Jean's determination to survive is inspirational, and the love she finds later is beautiful" (Catherine Tate Mail on Sunday)
"A ripping tale of budding romance and grace under pressure" (The Times)
"A heart-rending tale of torture, human fortitude and forbearance, inhumanity and hardship" (Sunday Times)
"That supreme storyteller, Nevil Shute...I could hardly bear to put the book down. I read it voraciously for days" (May Lovell The Times) --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.
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Noel Strachan, un homme veuf et vieillisssant, avoué londonien de son état, se voit nommé exécuteur testamentaire d'un vieil homme dont les descendants vivants se trouvent en Malaisie. Peu après la seconde guerre mondiale, le vieil homme meurt et sa fortune échoit à une jeune femme, Jean Paget, qui travaille et vit plutôt chichement à Londres depuis son retour de Malaisie. Strachan est pris de sympathie pour cette jeune femme simple et directe et entreprend de l'initier aux plaisirs de la vie londonienne : spectacles, musées, opéra. En l'apprivoisant il se rend compte à quel point elle est extraordinaire, en particulier quand elle lui dévoile ce qu'elle a vécu en Malaisie pendant 3 ans lorsque les Japonais ont envahi ce pays et qu'elle a été faite prisonnière avec un groupe de femmes et d'enfants britanniques. En fait ce récit plutôt passionnant constitue les deux tiers du livre, et c'est la partie qui m'a vraiment tenue en haleine, cette marche hallucinée de femmes harassées sur des milliers de kilomètres à travers toute la Malaisie où plus de la moitié du contingent mourra. Le dernier tiers du récit nous emmène en Australie, mais il est plus convenu et prévisible.
Nevil Shute est un romancier efficace, `à l'ancienne' si l'on peut dire et les histoires qu'il choisit de nous raconter sont souvent très prenantes. J'avais lu `Le Dernier Rivage' (On The Beach) il y a plus de 20 ans et j'en ai gardé une impression très forte et très durable, même si je ne place pas Shute au panthéon de la littérature. Je comprends bien l'engouement qu'il a suscité dans les années 50 et 60 et je comprends aussi pourquoi la maison d'édition Vintage a ré-édité la plupart de ses romans récemment. Ils sont toujours très lisibles et ce sont des `page-turners' ! D'ailleurs nombre d'entre eux avaient été portés à l'écran dont `A Town Like Alice'.
Ca commence en pleine seconde guerre mondiale, et pour une fois, les mechants ne sont pas les allemands mais les japonais. Ca repose !
Nevil Shute sait tourner une belle histoire, mais d'ordinaire, ses romans sont un peu brefs. Ici nous avons 300 pages a nous mettre sous la dent, et ce n'est pas dommage. Tout est interessant : le monde anglo-saxon d'apres-guerre, la nostalgie d'une douceur de vivre (pour ceux qui pouvaient en profiter), la vie spartiate dans l'outback australien, et, pour les filles, une belle histoire sentimentale a deguster sur un canape en mangeant du chocolat.
Le livre en Anglais n'est pas traduit en Français (à ma connassance). A lire de toute urgence par les francophones possédant la langue.
le notaire anglais
la longue marche des prisonnières des japonais
la naissance d'une ville
la vie en australie
un anglais qui se lit bien (les mots que l'on ne connait pas ne gêne pas la lecture)
Ce livre a été traduit en français sous le titre "Le testament", il est actuellement difficile à trouver.
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