Walking past an antique shop, I spot a pair of attractive platters. I am surprised – this shop isn’t known for its treasures. Business must be bad because the doors are open only two days a week and those intrepid enough to venture inside are invariably followed by an intense pair of eyes. I examine the platters as best I can through the window and brave entry only once I’m certain I want to do some haggling. I say haggling, but muttering would be closer to the truth. The owner of the shop is the sort of man who hungers after customers until they actually appear. He frowns as I awaken him to the peculiarity of one platter being £70 dearer than its twin. Rescued by his assistant, I escape with both and toddle off to take a neighbour to church. I realise what a Pym-ish day I am having. 

I had not read much Pym until I was unexpectedly invited to address the Barbara Pym Society two springs ago. You will not be shocked to learn that one cannot very well address the Barbara Pym Society without being reasonably versed in Barbara Pym. Members are more than fans of her work. They have an admirable kind of reverence for her that verges on the religious.

I have been reading a new little book produced to mark the thirtieth anniversary of the society’s founding. It transpires that Pym’s war work amounted to more than her documented service with the Wrens. We now know that during the preparations for D-day, Pym received correspondence at an address used