Travels with My Aunt by Graham Greene (1969)

 Another first exposure, and one that I'm guessing may be atypical, given what I understand about the general tone of Greene's work. This edition is part of a really clutzy series called Vintage Voyages, put out by the Random Penguin behemoth - bad because what it includes is such a peculiar mixture: from the expected, given the series title, like In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin and Shadow of the Silk Road by Colin Thubron, to the ridiculous, like To the Lighthouse and this volume. Seemingly just a repackaging excuse, or someone influential's odd idea being indulged. Anyway, none of that affects the fact that this novel is splendid. It is a comedy of unknowing in the main, or perhaps a comedy of slow dawning. Henry Pullen is a retired mid-century bank manager, having had the usual preoccupations, and led a quiet life. He cultivates dahlias, is single but interested in Miss Keene in a Pymish way. But at his mother's funeral, up pops the aunt he has rarely seen, his mother's only sister, and she acts as disturber of his peace. She reveals that his mother wasn't that at all, rather his stepmother; that his sleepy father had a louche side; that she herself has had a wild life (hints at promiscuity and prostitution, touches in the direction of international criminal intrigue!). He is captivated by her despite himself and is enjoined in small journeys around Europe with her, tasting a bit more of life than he has hitherto - pot-smoking youngsters on trains, meetings with shadowy characters (arms dealers?) in Italian hotel rooms, shepherding suitcases full of money through customs, and smuggling gold ingots too. His aunt Augusta is basically an Edwardian, so all this has an enjoyably unexpected and outrageous feel. Gradually Henry comes 'alive' via her irruption into his world. It's pretty clear early on that she's likely to be his real mother, and interestingly Greene doesn't harp on that waiting discovery - it's treated quite quietly. Toward the end, things get quite hot for Augusta and some of her long-established connections, particularly a WWII-collaborator (with anyone who'll give him a deal, and the money to keep afloat) wheeler-dealer by the name of Visconti, with whom she has been in and out of love for a good part of her life, and lost touch with for periods of time, but is well in with again now. She finally calls Henry to Paraguay, where the local dictator has created a system which will afford them reasonable protection, and various threads come to a head. Henry decides to finally leave his corner of London and the possibility of Miss Keene, to embrace the excitements of life with his aunt, ultimately realised and accepted as his mother in the last chapter. The understatement in this is delicious, the implied working away with great effect. I wonder what his converted Catholic compatriot, Evelyn Waugh, would have made of it had he still been alive? Nancy Mitford too? Perhaps her response is recorded somewhere. I can't but believe they'd have relished its impropriety. As do I.