The title sounds like a metaphor, but there really is a theatre made of a whale’s ribcage in this sweeping historical epic. It stands on a grassy headland on the Dorset coast, draped in scenery, the creation of young Cristabel Seagrave, whose passion for amateur dramatics ropes in family and servants alike at the Chilcombe estate. Here we have the country set in all their jazz-age glory, with cocktails at breakfast, costumes at teatime and a general sense that the world is a peach ripe for plucking.
Joanna Quinn, a creative writing teacher, has gone big with her first novel, following the fortunes of the Seagraves from 1919 to 1945. The focus is mainly on Cristabel, feisty and imaginative, though the narrative flits to other characters including her flighty stepmother, Rosalind, and her step-siblings, sensitive Digby and romantic Flossie. Social variety is provided by a visiting painter, Taras, whose wild black beard and Russian elan establish him as the essence of Louche Bohemian Artist. (“You know Paris?” someone asks him. “As I know the bodies of my lovers,” he replies.)
