“Everything amazes me when I go back to the past.” (Banine, Days in the Caucasus)

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“We all know families who are poor but ‘respectable’. Mine, in contrast, was extremely rich but not ‘respectable’ at all.”

I don’t often write about memoir on the blog, but Days in the Caucasus by Banine (1945, transl. Anne Thompson-Ahmadova 2019) was just irresistible. Detailing her childhood in Baku, capital city of Azerbaijan, it is the next stop in my Around the World in 80 Books reading challenge, and my final read for this month’s #ReadIndies, hosted by Kaggsy.

Banine’s style is energetic, direct and engaging. Although chronological, she doesn’t attempt to capture a full picture of her life, but rather a patchwork of people, places and events. It reads like a novel, and this description of her relationship to inanimate objects as a very small child gives an indication of the writer who would emerge:

“But not many people understood it, and when Fräulein Anna caught me in conversation with a tree or bench, she would take exception and threaten me with punishment. ‘What for?’ I would ask in surprise. Adults’ blindness towards my world seemed to me a fundamental injustice.”

Her family were farmers who made a lot of money unexpectedly in oil. This has caused tension as her father and his brother have disagreed about how the inherited wealth has subsequently been distributed:

 “[Uncle Suleyman] let his wife live with us, on the sole condition that she had the occasional row with my father.”

Banine has never known it to be different, and her imperious grandmother rules over their privilege with a rod of iron:

“Like Louis XIV she found it practical to spend much of her time on a commode, a jug for ablutions within reach. Sitting regally on this throne, she received her supplicants, including men.”

“She was highly suspicious of any country outside of circumference of fifty kilometres. Once past the fifty-kilometre mark they were all equally far away—France, Crimea, America or Batumi.”

However, the world will soon impose on their way of life. Banine lives through the Russian Revolution and the invasion of the Azerbaijan Democratic Republic. As a teenager, she is torn between her Islamic upbringing and Communism, specifically, falling in love with a Bolshevik while the family arrange her marriage to a man she despises.

“I didn’t know that a long, hard war and a long, hard revolution would one day open up to me the land of my most cherished dreams. No, I knew none of this then. I was preparing for a very different life that I thought I already knew.”

Her cousin Gulnar is more rebellious and unashamed of her considerable drives, announcing to her much more innocent cousin:

“It can’t be as much fun to write a novel as to live one.”

The politics don’t detract from Banine’s love of family and love of her land though. I enjoyed this description of female-only hammam parties:

“The dense steam went to their heads like wine. Between washing their hair and depilating their thighs, they would on occasion be bold enough to arrange a marriage, which only increased the prestige and renown of the hammam parties.”

And her uncle’s whimsical home:

“The house had an inner courtyard for elephants (who never did take up residence) and a roof where jasmine could grow (but never did).”

Eventually though, the family have to decide whether to stay or go as they will not be able to continue the lives they are used to under Russian occupation:

“Uncle Suleyman had, therefore, decided to ‘escape’. This heroic verb pleased him greatly: he conjugated it with sensual delight, repeated it with satisfaction all day long, artfully using it to impress his audience.”

Days in the Caucasus captures a time of great upheaval and change, both personally and politically for the young Banine. War, Turkish occupation, British occupation, establishment of the ADR, then Russian occupation. But even for those of us that haven’t lived through such immense events, she remains recognisable and relatable as she struggles find her place in her family, her culture and society.

Banine is such an endearing narrator too: unsentimental, loving, and funny. I’m looking forward to catching up with her in her second memoir Parisian Days, also published by Pushkin.

“Who can tell the importance of dreaming? And of reading!”

“The simpler the words, the more significant their meaning.” (Narine Abgaryan, Three Apples Fell From the Sky)

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After The Glass Pearls I needed a comfort read, and so I turned to Three Apples Fell From the Sky by Narine Abgaryan (2014, transl. Lisa C Hayden 2020). I had originally picked it up for my Around the World in 80 Books reading challenge as it is by an Armenian author and set in a small village in that country, but happily it also works for #ReadIndies hosted by Kaggsy all this month, as it is published by Oneworld.

The story opens with Anatolia Sevoyants, a lifelong resident of the remote clifftop village of Maran, experiencing significant post-menopausal bleeding and deciding her time is up.

“She had decided to die with her dignity and tranquillity intact, in peace and quiet, within the walls of the home where she’d lived her difficult, futile life.”

So rather than see her neighbour and friend Yasaman who is something of a naturopath and healer, Anatolia takes to her bed.

We are alongside as she lays reminiscing about her life. My favourite of these (unsurprisingly) is how Anatolia beautified the library, caring for books, plants, birds and the building in her own unique way:

“After assessing the intolerable heartlessness and arrogance in his treatment of his heroines, she classified Count Tolstoy with other petty tyrants and despots, and stored his fat tomes out of sight to make herself feel better.”

Although Three Apples… is a gentle tale, it is not without violence. Anatolia had an extremely violent and abusive husband, and some animals are treated badly at times, which I skipped.

But this all occurs towards the first third of the book, and soon it settles into its tale of Anatolia’s unexpected recovery and even more unexpected life events, amongst the fellow older inhabitants of the  village and the drama and domesticity of their lives.

“The village was meekly living out its last years as if condemned, Anatolia along with it.”

There is a fairytale quality to the story as the village is entirely cutoff, the residents grow older with no new generation, white peacocks make an appearance, and this pastoral world is touched at moments by magical realism.

But any magical occurrences or whimsy is tempered by what the villagers have to face; mudslides, war and famine. These are evocatively described and devastating. The stoicism of the villagers is never undermined by a sense that these events are not very real in their destruction.

“And that was how she aged, slowly and steadily, alone but contented, surrounded by ghosts dear to her heart.”

Three Apples… expertly balances fabulism with a grounded reality. Lives are tough, but also filled with love and friendship. Among despair is the surprise of new hope.

It’s also worth mentioning that part of the resilience is food, prepared with love for friends, family and neighbours. There were so many delicious dishes described in this novel! It’s definitely not one to read when you’re hungry – it had me googling ‘local Armenian restaurants’ 😀

“That’s probably how things are supposed to be because that’s just the way it is.”

“Every night he tried himself and every night he acquitted himself.” (Emeric Pressburger, The Glass Pearls)

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Well, it’s only February but I already think that I’ve read one of the most extraordinary books of my year: The Glass Pearls by Emeric Pressburger (1966).  Most pleasingly, it was a twofer for reading events this month, #ReadIndies hosted by Kaggsy as it is published by Faber as one of their Faber Editions series; and Hungarian Literature Month hosted by Winston’s Dad as Emeric Pressburger was born in Miskolc, Hungary.

Pressburger studied in Prague, moving to Weimar-era Berlin and then escaping the Nazis by moving first to Paris then London. It was there he met Michael Powell, and the powerhouse filmmaking duo was formed. I’m a big fan of Powell and Pressburger films, and it was this that led me to read The Glass Pearls (and a nice chat with the bookseller who is also a P&P fan.) But it absolutely stands on its own terms, not simply as curio for cinephiles.

At the start of the novel, Karl Braun is moving into a lodging house in Pimlico, unloading a few items from a piano tuner’s van. His neighbours are curious, but mild-mannered Karl soon fits in. His fellow lodgers, Strohmayer who always has a deal on the go, and Kolm, a concert-loving chemist, are also European émigrés who escaped Hitler’s regime and assume Braun is the same. But the reader soon knows something the characters don’t: Braun is a Nazi escaping justice from the trials.

“I have lived for twenty years according to self-imposed rules; it wasn’t easy and I’m not going to change my ways now. I denied myself everything I used to enjoy most.”

Pressburger’s mother died at Auschwitz, as did many members of his extended family. In this astonishing novel he writes from the point of view of a Nazi doctor who carried out atrocities at Wittau concentration camp.  It is so brilliantly done. The third-person narrative means it is presented as this is the man, this is what he did and how he now lives, which means as a reader you can stick with it where a first-person narrative would be too much to ask. But in writing from Braun’s point of view, it is also made personal, and you are asked to spend time alongside someone who has repeatedly taken unforgivable actions, for which he feels no remorse.

Braun frequently has nightmares about pursuit and capture, and justifies himself at imagined trials thusly:

“He would never do anything to serve only his own purpose unless it served the common purpose as well. He would go to any length to help others, disregarding his own interest. He loved his work; he was a good family man; adored his wife and child; he was religious, prayed to God and respected his laws. He was a romantic and romantics were the salt of this earth.”

And in this way Pressburger consistently shows us the man, his complete and utter delusion, his cruelty and vanity, and also makes him recognisable.

Braun leads an ordinary life in post-war London. He has a love interest who he takes to concerts in a sedate courtship; he has to navigate his workplace politics; he chats to his fellow lodgers. No-one knows he is Dr Otto Reitmüller.

“He made enough money for his needs, he even had a little in the bank. He enjoyed a good book, a good play, a good concert, a good talk. What else does a man want from life?”

We know one thing he wants: his wife and child back, killed in Hamburg bombings. Braun wasn’t with them, called back to camp to continue his horrors, which are portrayed clearly, sickeningly, but not sensationally.

Braun isn’t pretending to be cultured, or bereaved. He is both those things and an unrepentant torturer. It is powerful portrait that demands responsibility from those who enact war crimes, but also from those who witness, to acknowledge how it could happen again when the people who did it were ordinary – friends and neighbours.

His paranoia steadily grows as the newspapers report on the trials, the deadlines are extended, and a fellow fugitive urges him to get the money they stashed in Swiss bank account and join ‘the Brotherhood’ to live out their days in Argentina.

“He knew he could never have stuck it out in prison. His strong sense of justice would have reared up against petty persecutions by his warders.”

Braun becomes more fearful and restless. Two men seem to be watching him, the tension mounts, and while I didn’t want him to escape, The Glass Pearls absolutely worked on the level of a thriller where you are speeding through it to know the outcome.

“One had to be careful about the deductive powers of a fertile brain. Once trained for critical examination and to present the fullest picture of possible dangers to its master, the brain tended to overdo things were not watched too closely.”

It felt Hitchcockian in many ways, but a reversal of the innocent man pursued by shady forces.

“Suddenly he knew that all he was yearning for was peace.”

There’s a very interesting Afterword in this edition from filmmaker Kevin Macdonald, who is also Pressburger’s grandson. He movingly describes Pressburger’s survivors guilt and how when he developed dementia, he had delusions of being chased by Nazis. Astonishingly, he also says:

“Emeric went so far as to imbue the Braun character with certain traits of his own; such that, to some degree, Braun is a self-portrait.”

To end, a trailer for a delightful Powell and Pressburger film that is slightly less well-known than some of their big hitters. I’m not the biggest fan of romance but it would take a heart of stone to resist the charm of I Know Where I’m Going!

“It’s not a brandy sour if it doesn’t make you bitter.” (Constantia Soteriou, Brandy Sour)

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I first heard about Brandy Sour by Constantia Soteriou (2022, transl. Lina Protopara 2024) on Winston’s Dad’s blog – I thought quite recently but I can see it was August 2024! I get there eventually…

This is a contribution to the marvellous #ReadIndies event hosted by Kaggsy, and it also means Cyprus is the next stop on my Around the World in 80 Books reading challenge (3 stops to go!)

Brandy Sour published by Foundry Editions, an independent publisher focussed on Mediterranean authors who are new to Anglophone readers.  I love their styling, where their (French flap!) covers are “designed to capture the visual heritage of the Mediterranean”. This one is based on a third century BCE Hellenic vessel.

This short novella builds the stories of a cast of characters around two central constructs: their relationship to the Ledra Palace Hotel, and the drinks they have (with one colourful exception – I was relieved the chapter’s titular fluid was not imbibed!) The 22 vignettes work brilliantly, as Soteriou charts the history of Cyprus in the latter part of the twentieth century with the lightest of touches.

It begins with the bartender who takes the recipe for the titular drink to the new hotel, having first made it for King Farouk of Egypt:

“It’s a Cypriot drink, with ingredients from our island, that you serve in a tall glass after you sugar its rim, a drink full of cognac and lemonade that seems and tastes innocent but is not. It’s a drink worthy of kings who want to deceive people, a drink that isn’t what it seems to be, that looks like iced tea and that you can drink publicly without anyone knowing what it contains. It’s a drink full of secrets — that’s why it was made here.”

We meet the staff of the hotel and the guests, as it offers luxury and glamour through the 1950s and 1960s, from colonialism to independence. But as we know from ‘The Guerilla Fighter’ and his VSOP brandy straight from the bottle, discontent is brewing.

When the coup occurs ‘The Turk’ can no longer move freely past the hotel and the street vendor for his salted yogurt drink:

“The last time he attempts to walk past the big hotel, they stop him and tell him he needs to go back. He needs to find another way to work, another way to get his ayran; or maybe he needs to stop drinking it altogether—or find another place to buy it from. In a matter of days, everything will change.”

The upheaval of the war is evoked dramatically but not sensationally, through the individuals. The hotel is the site of a terrible battle, and the chapter ‘Water: The Mother’ demonstrates this with direct, effective simplicity.

The hotel ends up in the UN buffer zone, housing officials and falling to ruin.

But Soteriou also weaves in the flora of Cyprus, showing the natural beauty of the island. There is the lavender tea beloved of the architect of the hotel; jasmine tea drunk by ‘The Poet’ guest; elderflower used by ‘The Fiancee’ who bathes her eyes after her betrothed – and dreams of a wedding in the hotel – are snatched during the coup. The two mayors of the split city of Nicosia try and find common ground over spearmint tea, an old lady reminisces about Seville orange liqueur which she made and sold as a young woman.

My favourite of these was the melancholy ‘Doorman’ and his rosebud tea.

“You can have your rose tea hot or iced, you can have it in the winter and in the summer too, and it’s also good for your stomach, it helps digest the indigestible. It’s a little sweet and a little spicy – it reminds you of the village and of your mother.”

He sneaks the hundred petal Cypriot damask rose into the English rose garden in the grounds and plants it there. Later the garden is razed to build a pool, bar and tennis courts. He manages to save a few roses, but the infusion is bitter.

In just 104 pages I thought Brandy Sour was a brilliant achievement. Ambitious but never weighed down by its ambition; exploring seismic events without losing sight of the human cost; both sad and funny and always intensely readable. It consistently demonstrates the importance of small rituals shared by ordinary people as moments of resistance and resilience.  

And now my TBR will spiral as I explore Foundry Editions further… 😀

“I am capable of whim only within order” (Colette, The Evening Star)

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Happy Colette’s birthday! I love her writing, and so I somewhat erratically try and post on her birthday. This year I decided it was a perfect impetus to finally get to her memoir The Evening Star (1946 transl. Peter Owen 1973) which has been languishing in the TBR for too long…

Image from here

This memoir was written when Colette was in her seventies and experiencing significantly reduced mobility, due to arthritis. She remains sanguine:

“If we are to be shaped by misfortune, it’s as well to accept it. We do well to adapt misfortune to our requirements and even to our convenience. This is a mode of exploitation to which the young and robust are ill-suited, and I can well understand the difficulty of making them appreciate, for instance, that near-immobility is a gift.”

She is at home in the Palais-Royal:

“When I am alone, my apartment relaxes. It stretches itself and cracks its old joints. In fine dry weather it contracts, retracts, becomes immaterial, the daylight shows under all its doors, between its every hinge and joint. It invites the wind from outside and entrusts my papers to it, they go skimming off to the other end of the room. I shan’t unwind my cocoon of bed clothes for their sake. Greedy for air, I am a coward when it comes to cold.”

Her humour remains undimmed, such as after a long, poetic contemplation on pink in nature, she concludes:

“Enough of this blandness. I could enjoy a pickled herring.”

And I also enjoyed this reflection on her process:

“On the strength of those writers who do make notes, I had made notes on a sheet of paper, and lost the paper. So I bought a notebook, American style, and lost the notebook, after which I felt free, forgetful, and willing to answer for my forgetfulness.“

Written in 1946, Colette considers her home and city in the immediate aftermath of Nazi occupation:

“In its urbane, sly, stubborn fashion, the Palais-Royal began its resistance and prepared to sustain it. What resistance, what war can I speak about other than those I have witnessed?”

(Colette’s husband was Jewish and had been taken by the Gestapo, but subsequently released. He remained in a degree of hiding with the help of her Palais-Royal neighbours).

“All that offered itself insidiously, or made use of violence, Paris rejected equally. Let us caress with a happy hand it’s still-open wounds, it’s upset pillars, it subsided pavements: its wounds apart, it emerges from all this intact.”

Memories ebb and flow, and Colette reflects this in her writing. This is not an ordered – either chronologically or thematically – memoir. It is more a series of reflections and reminiscences, the past and present layered upon each other. There were times when I lost the thread of exactly what she was saying but just let her hypnotic prose wash over me. This felt an appropriate way to experience her memories and a clever way for Colette to align the reader with her experience as she reflects and writes from her bed.

I find some of Colette’s views problematic but these passages are short-lived. My favourite part of Colette’s writing is always how she captures her love of nature, and even from within her Parisian apartment she engages with the natural world. (Her husband occasionally intervenes in the narrative and is referred to as “my best friend”):

“My best friend, how can you think that I might have been bored? Why, the sky alone is distraction enough.”

There’s plenty here I haven’t mentioned and Colette’s discussion of friends and colleagues would also be of interest to anyone who enjoys early twentieth century French literature. It’s a short work, just over 140 pages in my edition, but such a joy to spend time with Colette.

I’ll leave you with this short quote, helpful for those of us in the Northern hemisphere currently enduring a January at least 84 days long…

“What should I wait for, if not the spring?”

“What could be more terrifying than a devil who speaks the truth?” (Intan Paramaditha, Apple and Knife)

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I’m determined to finish my Around the World in 80 Books reading challenge this year, and yes, I did say that last year too 😀 It has got more challenging as time has gone on because I’m dependent on what has been translated, so I was delighted to find Indonesian writer Intan Paramaditha included in the Vintage Classics Weird Girls series (even if I do bristle a bit at the condescending title).

Apple and Knife (2018, transl. Stephen J Epstein 2018) is a collection of short stories, mostly set in the modern day but quickly destabilised into gothic, fairytale (in the Grimm sense) realities. They are united by a visceral, forthright sensibility.

“I want drops of blood to be ink on my book, encrusted in the lines of destiny that twist and spin history on my palm. I want to make sacrifices like blood does, play with puddles, ooze sores, flare in anger.”

The collection opens with The Blind Woman Without a Toe, a reworking of the Cinderella story, told from the point of view of one of her step-sisters. This put me in mind of fellow Weird Girls author Angela Carter, particularly The Bloody Chamber. However, Paramaditha’s voice is resolutely her own, and part of the impact of the horror occurs because a recognisable reality grows uncontrollably into something dark and unmanageable.

I’m always interested in portrayals of witches, those women who live on the fringes and often offered women healthcare. In Scream in a Bottle, Gita is a researcher who travels to Cadas Pangeran in search of a witch named Sumarni.

 “It’s as if time is gnawed away by termites here. The hours melt into the night, and the tick of the clock no longer matters.”

It soon emerges that Sumarni’s main work is ending unwanted pregnancies.

“She seems almost a smile, but no smile is reflected in her grey eyes. Gita watches as those eyes become the sky. Clouds gather within; they let loose rain, but no thunder.”

As this story develops across a few pages, Sumarni explains an element of her work that is otherworldly, both menacing and protective, a commentary on the silencing of female voices and experience. It is deeply unnerving.

One of the most disturbing tales for me was Beauty and the Seventh Dwarf, which features violent (consensual) sex and self-mutilation. But I never had the sense that Paramaditha was being gratuitously shocking. She uses the bloody and the violent to explore the insidious control of women’s bodies in the modern world; the fabulist framing highlighting recognisable horrors rather than obscuring them.

“Bathed in the blue glow, her mangled features made me feel as though I was looking at a mermaid who had been dashed against the rocks by the waves. Yet I was shipwrecked, and she was not rescuing me.”

I’ve only scratched the surface here of the settings and themes in the collection, but hopefully I’ve given a flavour of what to expect. Not a comfort read but an interesting one! I’d like to read longer fiction by this author now, to see what she does with more space to explore. Luckily her first novel has also been translated:

“I suppose we don’t know much except from the books we have read, but at least we want to live.” (Barbara Comyns, A Touch of Mistletoe)

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I’d planned to read Barbara Comyns’ A Touch of Mistletoe (1967) in December for obvious reasons, but I fell behind with my plans as always. Despite the title it’s not a Christmas book at all, and instead it’s got my 2026 reading off to a great start.

A Touch of Mistletoe is thought to be semi-autobiographical, as it follows sisters Vicky and Blanche Green from teenagers in the 1920s, to extreme poverty in the 1930s, through to marriage and motherhood in wartime, ending in the 1950s. Certainly a semi-feral childhood is something Comyns has explored before:

“Our mother rather lost interest in us after the thirst got hold of her and, although our grandfather was vaguely fond of us, he certainly wasn’t interested.”

While their brother Edward seems fairly content in a disengaged way, the sisters are desperate to leave their Warwickshire home. Vicky wants to go to art school, but the solicitor who controls her inheritance from her father does not think this is an appropriate use of funds. Blanche is yet to come of age:

“Blanche could not draw, but she had the very special gift of romantic beauty. She was extremely tall and willowy, with a flowing mass of almost black hair, classical features and a pale moon face, her skin as fine as the skin inside egg shells.”

Comyns is so adept with those arresting similes. Another that struck me later was:

“He looked like an ugly bird who had been given beautiful dogs eyes by mistake”

And:

“He was a great admirer of Cézanne and I did not say that he usually left me feeling rather cold and I thought his paintings looked as if he lived on sour apples.”

Vicky escapes to Amsterdam but finds herself an unpaid housekeeper for a filthy home, looking after bull terriers. (I must admit I skim-read some of the passages to do with the dogs, it was pretty awful.) She escapes, and after briefly returning home where her mother has swopped alcohol for incessant cleaning, the sisters finally get to London.

“It took us months to get used to the insidiousness of London grime and the hard water.”

They live in poverty, sharing a bed in boarding house, along with cockroaches and rats. They very nearly starve entirely, and the descriptions of hunger, inadequate clothing and squalid rooms put me somewhat in mind of Jean Rhys. Unlike Rhys the sisters are less dependant on men for money favours, and Comyns retains a cheeriness all of her own:

“Our bed sitting room was in a large Victorian house in quite a pleasant square with a garden in the centre where lime trees grew. Our room was on the hall floor and was painted a brilliant orange and blue, even the cheap china was orange and blue. The divan cover was a large damask table cloth dyed black. We thought it a wonderful room with its gas fire and ring with a little tin kettle on it.”

A striking detail of this time was their meagre meals: “To avoid spending shillings we used candles; but it was a slow way to cook—about twenty minutes to get an egg to boil.”

The situation doesn’t last forever, as Blanche finds work as a lady’s companion and Vicky falls in love with an art student. The description of married life here is very similar to Our Spoons Came from Woolworths. While Vicky’s husband Gene initially seems just as selfish as Charles in Spoons:

“Our marriage was such a happy one, perhaps partly due to the fact that Gene always had his own way over everything”

It gradually emerges that in fact he is very unwell. I thought the portrayal of serious mental illness – along with their mother’s alcoholism previously – was dealt with without judgement. There are parts of A Touch Of Mistletoe which are of their time and while I don’t think intended to be derogatory, are not language we use now. But the descriptions of Gene are sympathetic, and the outdated treatment he has sounds horrific but is never sensationalised.

Vicky worries about providing for their son Paul:

“He needed so much—good food, fresh air, clothes, education—there was no end to it and all I had to offer was love.”

Yet somehow they muddle through, with the help of kindly friends and neighbours, as well as Marcella, the family’s housekeeper of many years. Throughout it all Comyns retains her signature tone of unnerving guilelessness.

Later, Vicky remarries but her husband Tony also struggles with alcohol. Blanche has also had marriage troubles, and both feel they are entering old age as 40 looms (!)

The experience of London during the war is brilliantly evoked, as it was in Mr Fox, with enormous terrors sitting alongside the surprising smaller details:

“One evening, I think it was our wedding anniversary, we went to a famous restaurant where they had pheasant on the menu, but, when the waiter brought it to our table, it was only Spam pressed into the shape of a bird’s wing.”

A Touch of Mistletoe is longer than other Comyns I’ve read (336 pages) as she usually tends towards novella length, and I wondered if her beguiling, eccentric tone could sustain a longer novel. I needn’t have doubted. It was an absolute joy to spend longer than usual with a captivating writer whose voice is entirely her own.

To end, I can’t think of an appropriate 80s tune, so instead here’s the trailer for a film I saw twice last year, once at my local Odeon and then again with a Q&A with the writers/lead actors and director at the wonderful Prince Charles in December. It’s a gentle, beautifully observed film about grief and regret, friendship and kindness, and it’s got some silly jokes in it too. If you’ve not caught The Ballad of Wallis Island yet I do recommend it:

“Words, and for that matter cleverness, were for the common people.” (Tessa Hadley, The Party)

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New Year’s Eve seemed a good time to post on The Party, a novella by Tessa Hadley (2024). And a book is about as near as I plan to get to a party on this day 😀

Tessa Hadley is a great writer, and every time I read her I wonder why I’m not a completist for her books. Now, there’s a New Year’s resolution I could actually fulfil!

The Party is only 115 pages, but fully realised due to the astute observation I associate with Hadley. It follows sisters Moira and Evelyn, students living in Bristol, as they navigate young adulthood in the 1970s.

“Anything could happen between now and tomorrow. Evelyn couldn’t believe her luck, that she was going to an actual party – and not just any dull ordinary party but this wild one with her sister’s friends, in half-derelict old pub with a terrible reputation, hanging over the black water in the city docks.”

The Party brilliantly captures a time when young people are trying on who they are, desperate to spread their wings and flourish into something unfamiliar, desperate to stay in the safety of their childhood bedrooms.

“She longed for and feared the moment when she would shed her thick winter coat and reveal herself. To tell the truth she feared everything: part of her wanted to get straight back on the 28 bus and go home.”

The sisters are close in age but not emotionally, as Moira holds herself deliberately apart:

“Moira had made such efforts to transform herself, when they moved down to Bristol, into this controlled, poised young woman. Yet some essence of the fierce bold child persisted in her, and had been diverted into new channels, sexual and personal.”

The titular gathering is both exciting and disappointing. They meet Paul and Sinden, from another world in terms of experience, class and money. Neither of the sisters like these men or finds them attractive, yet a couple of days later when Sinden invites them to Paul’s house, they go.

“Having made a bet with herself – not just for this evening, but for life – on her looks and her wits, she mustn’t falter or look down, she had to carry her performance through.”

There is no nostalgia for youth in The Party, it’s too real. Yet there is compassion, and a tender realisation of coming-of-age from the narrator that the characters don’t recognise, however much they long for it.

“To lose herself properly in a book she had to be crumpled and snug, oblivious of her appearance, scrunched up in an armchair with her shoes off and her legs tucked under her. When she was really reading, she forgot who she was.”

To end, a suitably bittersweet song about people and home changing, but from a band who seem like they know how to enjoy a party:

“A quintessential English village will prove to be a hotbed of murder, mystery and intrigue” (Martin Edwards)

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Continuing my cosy mystery reads for Christmas, it was Kaggsy’s tempting review at the start of the month which alerted me to Death in Ambush by Susan Gilruth (1952), republished by the British Library Crime Classics imprint.

It opens with Liane – Lee – Crauford reflecting on what happened when she accepted her friend Betty’s invitation to stay at Christmas:

“As far as the murder went, we all disliked the victim so heartily that nobody could screw up much actual grief on that score; but all the same it was an upsetting thing to happen and caused a good deal of distress one way and another in the village.”

Betty is the doctor’s wife and has two small children. Lee is married but her husband will be joining her later, so she heads to the small village of Staple Green alone. It’s the sort of place where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and Lee soon meets several of the neighbours when Betty throws a drinks party.

Sir Henry Metcalfe is the local retired hanging judge and landowner who is given to pronouncements like:

“No wonder the Empire’s going to the dogs when people of our standing—the very ones who should know better and set an example to the working classes—behave like a set of hedonistic escapists.”

As well as smaller scale observations:

“Once a week, not to mention Sundays, we are left stranded and servantless while they frivol away their time and my money in the vulgar and overheated precincts of some neighbouring picture palace.”

In other words, his staff go to the cinema at Tunbridge Wells.

His wife Diana is universally acknowledged to be entirely lovely, not least by the land agent John Wickham – rumours abound but no-one can quite believe it of the irreproachable lady of the manor.

His tenants are the Qualnoughs, Lewis and his bright young daughter Ann, a slightly affected actress who calls everyone Darling. Sir Henry is threatening to turn them out of their home, and Ann is deemed an unsuitable match for Sir Henry’s son Michael, who also wants to pursue a career on the stage, against his father’s wishes. So it’s hardly surprising that when Sir Henry is found dead at home, Ann speaks for many when she pronounces it:

“The best bit of news we’ve had in Staple Green since they put in the main electricity cable”

While her father refuses to be hypocrite and freely admits, most entertainingly, that he found the deceased to be “a fraudulent nincompoop”  and “a pedantic popinjay”.

It soon emerges that Sir Henry was poisoned, and given that Betty’s husband Howard leaves his surgery unlocked with all manner of medications freely available, any of the neighbours could have wandered in and helped themselves, including the mysterious and glamorous newcomer Sonia Phillips…

Scotland Yard arrive in the form of Detective Inspector Hugh Gordon and Sergeant Spragg. Hugh and Lee know each other and there are clear references to a previous mystery, although I didn’t feel I needed to have read that one to enjoy this. Hugh stays at the Blue Boar in the village with its “depressing air of frowst and aspidistras” and he and Lee are soon charging about in his flashy new Lancia to find the murderer.

I thought it was entirely obvious from some heavy clues at the start who the murderer was, and mostly how they’d done it too, apart from some logistics a twenty-first century reader is unlikely to pick up. But this didn’t detract from my enjoyment at all. These types of stories are comfort reads for me, and the detectives working everything out and tying it all up neatly is soothing escapism.

Lee is an entertaining narrator, clear sighted and witty. She is grumpy at not being a full confidante of Scotland Yard which seemed a bit presumptuous to me, while she lets being called “a good girl” by men who want her to be convenient slide by (no doubt a sign of the times). She and Hugh have a flirtatious relationship which provides an additional frisson to proceedings while never becoming anything more.

The story is well paced, believable and entertaining. There are also some lovely details to convey the Christmas setting:

“It was only a short distance to the village green, and we strolled up the lane admiring the wonderful patterns of filigree lace made by the spiders webs which hung festooned all over the high hedges, sparkling in the chilly sunshine, and the way each blade of grass on the verge stood out stiff and encrusted with thick frost.”

I hope this is the start of more Gilruth issues from BLCC – fingers crossed!

To end, mine is a secular Christmas, but I still have a favourite carol:

“A desire to move furniture is a desire for life. “(Celia Fremlin, The Long Shadow)

/ madamebibilophile / 22 Comments

I’ve been meaning to read Celia Fremlin for a while, encouraged by JacquiWine’s excellent reviews. Happily, this coincided with my plan to read some Christmas-set golden age/cosy mysteries in December, as The Long Shadow (1975) builds its tension through a haunted group of houseguests throughout the festive period.

I immediately knew I was in for a treat with Fremlin. We join Imogen at the first party she’s attended since her husband died two months ago. We quickly learn that while she is grieving, she also recognises that Ivor was not a pleasant person. There is no sentimentality in her reflections.

“How Ivor would have loved being dead! It was a shame that he was missing it all. How he would have loved to watch the letters pouring in, day after day, by every post, in their tens and in their dozens, each one a tribute to himself.”

She also casts a critical eye over the niceties of solo party attendance:

“She’s a widow, that’s what she is. With wooden detachment, Imogen watched Myrtle’s social aplomb faltering before the task of finding something intriguing to say about Imogen: something at least as amusing as Dutch Elm disease.

She gave it up.”

There’s also some astute observations about the deeply odd ways that the English approach the bereaved:

“Even Edith Hartman from next door had at last stopped popping in with cups of tepid Oxo and soothing stories about people who had died of cancer recently.”

But soon Imogen has more to worry about than navigating social mores, as someone rings in the middle of the night, telling her they know she killed her husband.

Told from Imogen’s point of view, she is clear she didn’t kill him. She has little time to reflect though, as it’s not long before her adult step-children turn up; the somewhat reprobate son Robin, and acquisitive daughter Dot, with her husband Herbert and their two young sons, Vernon and Timmie.

More bafflingly, Robin brings an almost silent girl to the house who wafts around preparing macrobiotic food, and Ivor’s scatty second wife Cynthia flies in from Bermuda to also take up residence. Then someone starts moving Ivor’s papers and updating them, the children have faces visiting them in nightmares and see a man in a Santa costume sat in Ivor’s study, and Imogen begins to wonder if a ghost isn’t part of the company too…

“It was high time Ivor got moving. It wasn’t fair to be dead and yet to stay around like this, in every room, in every corner of the house”

As a reader we are meant to be sceptical of ghosts and suspect everyone else, and they certainly act suspiciously! All of the adults seem to be Up To Something but I certainly couldn’t work out what was going on.

The Long Shadow is well-paced at only 242 pages, with a finale that is satisfying and believable. There’s even a final comic twist right at the last sentence. It’s certainly made me keen to read more Fremlin and thankfully Faber have made more reissues available.

Although not heavily Christmas-themed, it’s a great Christmas read with its house full of extended family, things unspoken, and would be easily digested after a dinner of heavier festive fare 😊

To end, two of my favourite folk singers coming together to sing insults at each other in honour of Christmas (please note, they have updated some of Kirsty MacColl and Shane MacGowan’s name-calling, but the language remains decidedly colourful):