Even Philip Larkin had a stab at the school story, but, says Ad le Geras, his efforts are best kept among friends.

The cover image, much duller than the usual offering from this stylish publishing house, shows two uniformed schoolgirls looking as though they’re comparing the efficacy of their Philips Stick-a-Soles and Heels. Anyone who remembers these patches once used for mending shoes is of an age to enjoy much of what lies between these covers. In addition, Larkin’s attempt at a traditional school story in the Angela Brazil mould will be intriguing and somewhat baffling reading for anyone who spends much time in schools, and especially for those who admire Larkin the poet.

How to explain the perennial attraction of the school story? Life in the classroom and out of it has changed greatly since the days of Brazil, Elinor (Chalet School) Brent-Dyer and their ilk, and still the popularity of the genre persists, not only among children.

Part of the appeal is the interest we always have in a closed community with its own traditions, rules and customs, but it’s not only that. Everyone has been to school, so there are always aspects of the institutions in the books which readers can compare with their own experience. Also, we know that a young female body in uniform is an erotic fantasy for many, and it’s this aspect which seems to have drawn Larkin’s attention.

The title story of this handsome volume, which also contains its sequel, fragments from other novels and various prose pieces, is trying to be an erotic novel as well as a genuine school story of the kind made popular by Brazil and others. Larkin wrote it in 1943 under the pseudonym Brunette Coleman for the private amusement of himself and his friends and as a sort of homage to a genre he enjoyed reading. He even gave the name Amis (after Kingsley) to one of the school’s benefactors.

It goes without saying that a man who became one of the very greatest of modern poets can write very well. Many individual passages of description, many turns of phrase can make us catch our breath and wonder at his precision and elegance.

But The Trouble at Willow Gables is missing some of the most basic elements of a good novel. The story is not sufficiently interesting. The plot, such as it is, circles around a pound;5 note that is sent to one of the girls. This is stolen, given back, stolen again. Following the fate of the money and the girls who come into contact with it is not entertaining enough. There’s not enough at stake. We cannot readily identify with the characters and never become involved with them. Larkin’s own interest in the pound;5 shenanigans at Willow Gables and in its pupils is, to a great extent, erotic. He obviously found arousing the thought of young women in tunics, or getting into their pyjamas (or, even better, taking them off). There is much lingering over punishment meted out by one girl to another, and close observation of buttons being undone. One of the girls, who is revealed as harbouring lesbian desires, is expelled. She had been giving extra French lessons (yes, really) to a younger girl in the middle of the night, and close study of the work of Theophile Gautier was a pretext for much panting and yearning.

There’s nothing in the story that’s too detailed; nothing that would be classed as obscene by today’s standards. Some may disapprove, but there’s nothing here to surprise anyone familiar with what we already know about the poet.

There are, however, other unsatisfactory notes in the story. All the characters are called by similar names - we have a Mary, a Marie and a Margaret - making for unnecessary confusion. There isn’t much interaction between characters, and even though the physical descriptions are vivid and detailed, character development is sketchy. Mainly though, what’s missing is narrative drive. Julie Myerson, the novelist, wrote in a review in the Guardian recently: “Satisfying, engaging fiction has to have a thread that begins at the beginning and pulls you through, taut and unresisting to the end.” You will search Willow Gables in vain for this thread.

In the sequel, Michaelmas Term at St Bride’s, the action moves to an Oxford college. As one of the characters remarks with some accuracy: “I say, it’s hardly different from school at all, is it?” At one point Marie opens one of Philippa’s drawers and discovers 37 belts, some made of rhinoceros hide.

Beyond school story territory, there is much to interest Larkin students. The “Debats”, written in 1950 and 1951, are dialogues between two sides of the writer and throw a fascinating light on his creative process. He rails against commercialism, against having to appeal to a public that just wants stories, and one sensation after another, but then wonders if a novelist can ever be truly significant or reveal great truths. All sorts of insights are put before us, and anyone who likes to know how books are written will find them most useful.

Equally, the workbook for the unfinished novel New World Symphony is full of remarks that one wants immediately to transcribe into some private notebook. For example: “It becomes clearer to me as I write that this story will have to be broken up into different themes and angles. It can’t possibly go droning on from the standpoint of Augusta. Some scenes must be short amp; diverse. The narrator (ie 0me) must be omnipotent.”

These workbooks make one wish that the whole novel had been written. What there is of it, added to the synopses and chapter outlines, promises a more entertaining book than the attempt at a school story highlighted in the title.

In an essay called “What are we writing for?” Larkin states, “Good writing is presenting the story you are telling wellI”, and he’s right. The Trouble at Willow Gables is simply not a terribly interesting story. Still, it’s good to have all Larkin’s unpublished work gathered in one volume. Apart from the title story and its sequel, which are disappointing, there is a great deal here of interest to lovers of his poetry, and the glimpses into his writing processes are particularly fascinating.