Random Jottings

Review Round up- What if your child was a Murderer?

Trying to get the show back on the road at Random having spent the last few days hunkered down and feeling a bit miz; pouring with rain and grey and ghastly all weekend which did not help. Monday today and the sun is shining, naturally...

OK I am having to blitz my reviews and am doubling up in some cases and the two books I am mentioning today have a link which makes it easier.  The Good Father by Noah Hawley and Spilled Blood by Brian Freeman both deal with parents whose child has been accused of murder.   Of course it is natural when we read the papers and there is some dreadful crime to feel for the victim's parents and this is right and proper, but there is the odd case when I do wonder how the parents of the accused feel.  I am sure there are many cases where it is clear that the person in the dock has come from a broken home, or had an abusive childhood or who has got caught up in the gang culture, and precious little sympathy is wasted on the families.  Where we do wonder is in the case of the accused coming from a privileged or comfortable background, a good school, good parenting, lots of love and a happy childhood and the question of Why comes to the fore.   The bewilderment and shock of this seemingly out of character crime is clear when we see the faces of the parents who, no doubt, have done the best they can and now feel incredibly guilty. 

Anyway, forgive the long ramble, and let's get to the books: the Good Father is Dr Paul Allen.  He is married to his second wife and has a comfortable settled life with her and his children.  All is serenity and contentment until there is a knock on his door one night and he is told that his son Daniel, from his first marriage, has shot and killed a hugely popular presidential candidate.   Immediate reaction is that this is a ghastly mistake - Daniel has always been a quiet and well behaved boy and he sets off to discover how his son lived his life and why, seemingly, he has turned into a murderer.  And, of course, the first thing he asks himself Was I a bad father?

"He was a smart kid. He had a good handshake and a ready smile, and he was strong where it mattered. I've known a lot of men in my life and your son struck me as one of the better ones"  Outside I climbed into my rental car and fumbled for the keys.  Tears were pouring down my face and it was all I could do to put the car in gear and drive away..........."

A rather moving book about one father's personal search into his own life to see if things could have been different.  Elegant, clear writing and nothing sensationalist about it.

Brian Freeman -Spilled blood is totally different.   One night three teenage girls meet in a ghost town and become involved in a terrifying game of Russian Roulette.   By morning one of them is dead and the other is in jail.  Olivia Hawk says she did not kill Ashlyn Steele but nobody believes her.   Ashlynn is the spoiled daughter of Florian Steel owner of a local chemical research centre in St Croix. There have been several deaths from cancer since this facility opened and the people of Barron, a nearby town, are involved in a bitter feud with the other town.   Olivia's parents are separated when her mother decided to return to her home town and become involved in the community, but her father, Chris Hawk who is an attorney from the city, rides to the rescue.

Ok no prizes for guessing that there is a cover up and that the research centre is breaching safety guidelines all in the cause of profit.   The characters in this book are drawn with very broad brush strokes indeed and though it ends in a huge climax: dam bursting, water flooding the towns, death and destruction it was a tad predictable.  The writing is a bit more Grisham like than I care for and some of the prose is positively purple.   Lots of action and pace but, on balance, I preferred the Hawley book.

In these books, one child is innocent, one is guilty but am not going to tell you which.

When reading these titles I could not help but think about We Must Talk about Kevin by Lionel Shriver which I read with horror a few years ago.  Excellent book but I had a hard job finishing it.   Kevin was a difficult baby and grew up into a difficult and manipulative child. His mother found herself disliking him intensely and later when he committed his dreadful crime, it was clear that he was doing it to get her attention and her guilt was enormous.   She is shunned by the parents of the children he killed in his rampage through the school but feels this being despised and hated is a price worth paying as she realises that, despite it all, she finally loves Kevin.  This is the chilling ending of the book and I remember thinking How Could She?   Impossible to put oneself in her shoes.

Reading the Shriver book recalled a time when I had a friend who had a little boy a few months before Kathryn was born. We had met at ante-natal clinic and became friends and we used to visit each other regularly.  Difficult to explain my feelings here, but I really disliked her baby. I mean how can you dislike a baby, but there was something about him that was hard to love.  He would look at me in a very adult way almost as if to say I know you don't like me and I don't like you either.  You may think I am being fanciful but it got worse not better, though I tried my best to talk and chat and play with him but I found him impossible to get on with and his mother was having trouble with his tantrums and tempers.  I noticed that Kathryn did not like being with him much and one day, when they were both about 18 months old, we were in the garden and I turned my back for a moment and when I turned round he had got hold of Kathryn and was just about to bash her head on the path. I let out a shriek, grabbed him by his hair and yanked him back, and swept a howling Kathryn up in my arms.   His mother rushed out and accused me of hurting her child and hurled a stream of abuse at me and held him tight. All the time this upset was going on that boy was looking steadily at me and I did not like what I saw in his face.  I put Kathryn in her buggy, left the house and that was the end of that friendship.

I heard that she had another baby, a little girl, a year later and then she and her husband returned to Ireland to be with her family.  I sometimes wonder why as I am certain that my erstwhile friend was just as worried about her son as I was.

All in my mind?  I don't know but I wasn't going to risk it....

Blimey, this is a pretty scary post - Sorry!

Friday Thoughts

Weather today is positively schizophrenic- blue skies one moment, bucketing down the next.  One of my hanging baskets has been pulverised with all the pansies totally flattened, but I must say that all the bedding plants I put in last week are positively sprouting with joy at all this lovely rain.

Staying quiet at the moment as I really seem to be feeling tired and listless and I know this is grief and will pass and no point fighting it.   I have already said thank you for all the comments left under my post about Sue, but am going to say it again.  We all know that the internet has a dark side, people can be vicious and nasty and say horrid things, but I have had no experience of that whatsoever.  I have had nothing but support, encouragement and help from people I have never met but who read Random and, in times of trouble, have taken the time to leave messages full of kindness and good advice.   It is a timely reminder that there are many many good people out there and so I thank you all once again.

Books pouring in at the moment, some twenty plus have arrived in one week and, though I know I read quickly, even I feel a bit overwhelmed by them all.  I have sifted through them and have had to be quite ruthless in choosing what I will read and review.   Books I have expressed an interest in, or have asked for, go on top of the list as I feel that a contract exists between myself and the publisher as I have made it clear I would like to read a particular book.  Then there are those who come to me unasked - not complaining that these are sent, oh dear me no, but they will be reviewed second.   Of course, there have been many occasions when a book I know nothing about has landed on my doorstep and I have picked it up, read the first page and then I am off.   So I check them all carefully and, without sounding as if I jump the gun, I can usually tell if a book is for me almost immediately.  They are put to one side, but ones I am not sure about wait for me to take a second look.

OK end of boring paragraph.  Lots of lovely thrillers awaiting my attention, but yesterday stayed in bed till nearly 11 am reading a lovely book by Trisha Ashley which was delightful and really just what I needed.

Back tomorrow I hope and will get back to my review pile.   Bear with me!

Oh, I might start painting the kitchen tomorrow as well so wait in breathless anticipation for the next DIY update....

My Friend Sue

This is a book blog but I have never been shy of involving you in all sorts of other matters in my life, some funny, some sad and today I want to share my memories of my friend Sue whose funeral I attended yesterday.    I certainly did not imagine when she called me recently to moan about her eyesight and how useless her opticians were and I joked  'Should have gone to Specsavers' that this was the beginning of a devastating illness which would take her from us in barely six weeks, but so it was.

Sue and I were friends for over 25 years.   I remember so well the day we met.  I was working for a firm of chartered accountants in Colchester and a new partner had joined us and a new secretary was needed – Sue was appointed and would be sitting in the desk next to me.

She arrived and we were introduced and I took one look at this very elegant, beautifully dressed and very SLIM woman and thought to myself ‘Mmm not going to like you!”   When I told her of this some years later she laughed and told me in return that when she had met me she had found me rather formidable and a bit scary.....   We became very good friends and became even closer some years later when both our marriages came to an end within a few months of each other.  Sue was alone in her house, feeling lonely and unhappy and I needed a place to stay while I got myself sorted out, so I moved in with her and spent that summer supporting each other and keeping both of us going.

I was commuting to London at this time and up at 6am in the morning. I would come out of the shower and find that Sue had made a pot of coffee for herself and a pot of tea for me and we would sit outside in the garden quietly drinking it.  We very rarely spoke, just sat in silence but it set me up for the day.  When I came home in the evening, tired after work and the train journey, my supper was waiting for me.  It was rather like having a wife and it was, well, nice.

By the end of the year our situations had begun to sort themselves out and we both moved into new homes.   The friendship continued, as always.   It was during the next few years that my admiration for Sue increased. I had always admired Sue for the way she coped with lupus, a chronic illness, which caused her constant pain.  Sometimes she could not walk as it was too painful.  Other times her hands were twisted and knotted and she would cry they hurt so much, but she soldiered on and most of the time those who met her did not know she was in any discomfort at all as she made light of it.  In the aftermath of her marriage breakdown she was unhappy, often lonely and she had troubles which upset her deeply.  She had relationships which did not work out, but though she was hurt on many occasions, she got up and carried on.  'What else is there to do Elaine? Give up?'    I had my ups and downs  as well and many a night was passed with us knocking back a bottle or two of red and generally commiserating with ourselves over our problems and our terrible taste in men....

Sue was delighted when her daughter Mary Lou became engaged to Graham and later rejoiced in their marriage.   The best was yet to come - she became a grandmother when Henry was born.  I remember her calling me when she had been told a baby was on the way, but under strict instructions not to tell anybody as it was early days.   'Elaine I HAVE to tell you'.   A few months later I learned my darling Helen was expecting a baby - 'Mum you are not to tell anybody, it's early days'.  'Of course darling' says I.   No prizes for guessing who I telephoned as soon as I could!

She was also the first person I called when I heard the news of the arrival of my darling Florence.  I was ricocheting off the walls with joy and happiness and we both shrieked and cried down the phone at each other - it was early on a Saturday morning but within half an hour she was on my doorstep with an armful of yellow tulips.  More tears, more shrieks.

The last few years of Sue's life were more peaceful and serene.  She was the happiest I had known her for a long time and oh how she loved being a grandmother.  She and I shared so many hours of grandmotherly chat extolling the virtues of both Henry and Florence. We both acknowledged that our own grandchild was simply perfect, wonderful and a genius and I have a feeling we even hatched a plan that when they grew up they would get married.  Yes, I know...

I am sitting here writing this with tears trickling down my face at the thought that this joyous period in Sue's life was so short.   It seems so unfair that just when she was entering a phase of her life that was bringing her so much happiness it was brought to an abrupt end.

I visited her in hospital several times and the speed and ferocity of the illness that killed her was frightening to see.  I remember one day I visited her with Mary Lou, her daughter, who said ‘Mum Elaine is here’.   By this time Sue could not focus or see me properly but as soon as she heard my voice she held out her arms and hugged me tight ‘Oh my precious girl’ she said.  Next time I saw her she had slipped into unconsciousness and though I sat and talked to her, I am not sure that she knew I was there.

I understand from a study I read somewhere that most of us have lots of acquaintances but only two or three close friends.  I have been lucky in my life to have such good friends and Sue was one of them. I spoke at her funeral yesterday as I wanted those attending, and oh my goodness the church was packed, to know how much I appreciated her.   Looking back I cannot recall that we ever had a serious falling out - the odd mini-spat maybe, we are both strong characters, but never anything that affected our friendship.

Good friends are a vital and nourishing part of our lives.  We have our families, though there can be times when familial relationships can be fraught or take a blip now and then, but a good friend is always there in times of trouble and times of happiness.   I have cried all over Sue, she has sat on my sofa and wept on several occasions, we have also knocked back a drink or two and had a laugh and a joke and we have both shared our moments of happiness and joy, as we have done over the last three years when we became grandmothers.  

She was a loyal, true, faithful and loving friend and I am going to miss her quite dreadfully.  I will never forget that last hug and her words 'Oh my precious girl'. They will stay with me always.  Not ashamed to say I am crying as I write this and I hope that all Random Readers will understand and remember their good friends today.

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As a footnote I am posting a link http://www.justgiving.com/susanjanepotter to a page set up on Facebook by a friend of the family.  It is in support of the CJD network who research into the disease that struck Sue down.   There is no pressure and no obligation on any Random visitor to donate but if you feel you can, then of course you have my grateful thanks.

Before the Poison - Peter Robinson

Peter Robinson is the author of the bestselling DCI Banks crime novels and last year I came across one in a charity shop and thought I would give it a go.  One of the later ones so found I was a bit at sea with the background and history of the characters, but enjoyed it and made a mental note to save this series up for further reading when I have exhausted all my current crime crazes.  There are an awful lot of them which is a bonus.

However, Before the Poison is not a DCI Banks story but a stand alone fiction so had no idea if I would enjoy it or not - the answer is I certainly did.   Chris Lowndes returns to his native Yorkshire after the death of his wife. He is a composer, writing music scores for movies in America and, now he is on his own, he needs time to recover from his loss and to write his piano sonatas which he has wanted to do, but never had the opportunity after years of soul destroying, albeit lucrative, work in Hollywood.

He buys a house in Richmond in Yorkshire - it is bought long distance and he knows very little about it. 'I walked up the path between the trees and the overgrown lawn, a broad symmetrical oblong of limestone with a hint of darker millstone grit here and there.....there was an arched stone porch at the front, with wooden benches on either side which reminded me of the entrance to an old village school.... I had a curious sensation that the shy, half-hidden house was waiting for me, that it had been waiting for some time"....

What Chris does not know is that a murder took place in this house in 1953. Grace Fox was found guilty of murdering her husband, the local GP, and met her end on the gallows.  As Chris learns about the troubled history of Kilnsgate, he becomes fascinated by her story and the more he discovers about her, the more certain he becomes that she did not murder her husband.

OK so the scene is set nicely for an atmospheric and slightly scary investigation - Chris feels there is a presence in the house and that this presence is Grace.  There are several threads to the narrative and one of my favourite devices is used, the time line flitting backwards and forwards - we have Chris's searching and questioning alongside the report of the trial at the time from which it is clear that the jury and judge are prejudiced against Grace as she was a free spirit and had taken a young lover, and Grace's journals written in wartime when she was a nurse.  These journals are set in Singapore, North Africa and Germany and, for me, were the most fascinating and interesting part of the story.  Reading these I found a deeper understanding of her personality and character and came to the conclusion that she was a brave and principled woman who did not have it in her to commit murder.

Chris has his own issues to deal with and feels the need to bring closure to his doubts, not only about Grace, but where his life is now going to lead.  He finds that his sonata is inspired by the conundrum that is Grace and he also finds a slow growing relationship with Hester, the estate agent who sold him the house and was the first one to tell him its history.

An ending I was not expecting, not clear cut by any means, but in a way satisfying.    On checking I see that Peter Robinson has written two other stand alone books which I may read before I embark on the DCI Banks series. Good to know I have all these to come.

I thought this was a simply terrific book - I have been lucky in the last few weeks with my reading. No sooner have I put one great read down than I pick up another. I read this after my perusal of The Good Wife's Castle by Roland Vernon which was quite marvellous and I thought it would be rather difficult to follow that, but Peter Robinson gave me another day of total concentration while I read this straight through.

Flowing narrative, seemingly written with ease so that the reading experience is the same.   Highly recommended by Random.

Two Lady Writers - Eleanor Prescott and Fanny Blake

These two authors will have to forgive me reviewing you both in the same post, but my review pile really needs to be tackled and there are good reasons for reviewing these two books at the same time.  Both Eleanor and Fanny tackle the perennial problem of finding true love, hence my linking them together..

I reviewed Fanny's first novel What Women Want here, and had the pleasure of meeting the author at the top of the Oxo Tower in London whence I, and several other bloggers, were being treated to a delicious Not Afternoon Tea (ie it was cocktails and desserts rather than Early Grey and cucumber sandwiches) by the publishers HarperCollins. I hasten to add that this largesse in no way affected my review....I loved her book straight away.

And here is her second, Women of a Dangerous Age, and, at the risk of sounding like a character from Miranda, this is What I Call Romance for mature ladies.  Lou is off to India. Her marriage is an empty one and she wants to start a new life and a new business venture.  It is in India, having her photograph taken on 'that bench' where Princess Di posed that she meets Ali.  She feels frazzled and uncomfortable, in comparison 'Ali was taller than Lou, younger, trimmer (not hard) and more elegant than her too.....her oval face was framed by bobbed dark hair whose neat shiny finish gave away a small fortune spent on hairdressers and products'

Seemingly the polar opposite of each other they find a friendship forming.  Lou confides in Ali about her marriage and, in turn, Ali tells her all about her latest boyfriend.  Ali only dates married men, it is less messy and safer, but now her latest lover has offered marriage '...perhaps it's time to make a commitment to someone else'

Now experienced readers will already have sussed that this is not going to work out.  The Lover will turn out to be a Cad, a Rat and a Bounder and Ali is heading for disaster.  So it proves, BUT not in the way one anticipates.  There is a real twist slap bang in the middle of Women of a Dangerous Age which I did not see coming and you can either view as sad or funny whichever you prefer.  The fledgling friendship between Lou and Ali is in danger of foundering on the rock of this discovery, but as all sensible women will appreciate and cheer (this one did), No Man is going to get in the way of a good friendship.

They go into business together and gradually their entangled lives begin to sort themselves out but not without lots of self doubt along the way. 

Fanny has been working in publishing for over twenty years and is currently Books Editor for Women and Home Magazine.  She won't be offended, I know, when I say she is a mature lady and her maturity and understanding of human nature and all its daftness and foibles, comes through in this and in her previous book.   As I feel I may be at the Dangerous Age described in this book (OK I am well beyond it, let's be honest), I loved every page and know you will too.

I hope No 3 is already being written.

Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating by Eleanor Prescott had me curled up in an armchair all one afternoon reading this straight through. I am pretty sure that the reading demographic for this book does not include a twice divorced grandmother cynical and disbelieving that the Man of Her Dreams exists, so when I picked it up I was not expecting to be totally engaged from the first page - which I was.

Our Heroine is Alice Brown. She works for a dating agency, Table for Two, and despite her vague air and drab appearance, she is a romantic '.....she was forever staring out of a window...underneath the cardigans and the corduroy there was probably a decent figure....whatever her age Alice was too old for plaits'

Into this agency comes Kate with a list as long as your yard arm of all the attributes she expects in her perfect man.   She is five years behind in her life plan and the knows what she wants but Alice soon realises she has set her standards too high and is being too demanding.  Alice is determined to find her a true mate.

Alice's boss is Audrey, the boss from hell  'At fifty one years old and a bracing five foot ten, Audrey was what was kindly described as 'solid'. Her bosom was a large and heavily bolstered shelf. Sturdy underwear ensured it rarely, if ever, moved...'   She is wildly jealous of her rival in the business, Love Birds, run by Sheryl Toogood whose awfulness is going to be hard to describe in this post without quoting the whole book and if I do that, then you may not buy it as I so want you to do.

Audrey has a devoted husband. John sends her flowers every day to the agency and is attentive and loving when Alice and her staff meet him at public functions.   They seem to have the perfect marriage.  Please note I said seem....

The lovely thing about this book is that there is not a character in it that the reader will not like. OK, well apart from Sheryl - each of them is portrayed and described in such warm terms, one feels that Eleanor had a soft spot for all of them (not going to mention Sheryl again) and I suspect she had a soft spot for Audrey, deep down.  I know I did.

Lovely gorgeous read.   This twice divorced grandmother has tried internet dating in the past and even for one mad moment did go to an agency like this, but sadly there was no Alice around to find me the Perfect Man and after a few disastrous dates decided to retire from the lists.  All the men I met were laden with baggage and either self obsessed or incredibly boring and losers all.  And before anybody accuses me of being too damning, I will say here and now that it did cross my mind when I went home after one of these evenings, that they might not find me so wonderful either....

This is a debut novel and I am already very much looking forward to her next.  Simply delightful, warm, witty, engaging and full of happiness. What's not to love?

Weekend Ramblings with a Gnome

When chatting to neighbours about our communal gardens I said there were no rules or regulations regarding same but I drew the line at Gnomes.  I will admit to finding them rather endearing but they do tend to populate and take over if you allow just one to take up residence.

So it was with some shock I awoke from my afternoon nap yesterday (oh I do love my zzzz after lunch), glanced out of my window to check that my plants which I had put in that morning were growing (yes I know) and SHOCK HORROR there in the middle of my rose bed was a GNOME.   I immediately knew who was guilty, step forward my neighbours Alison and Gary, and I nipped out and picked Norman up, for that is now his name, and reached inside their kitchen window and popped him on the work surface.   

About ten minutes later I heard a stealthy sound and when I opened my front door there he was looking at me rather sadly and wanting to get in.  Well, I wasn't having any of that and put him back on the window sill next door where was faced with the suspicious and unwelcoming gaze of Fraggle the cat.  OK back to my window, Oh Please let me in.  

I am made of sterner stuff however, and out he went to spend the night with Derek and Doris.  I thought  he looked happy in their company though I will admit to a pang when I checked he was alright with them before I went to bed and noticed they were ignoring him.

When I woke this morning I peered through my curtains.  He was GONE.  I opened my bedroom curtains and looked all round, no sign. I checked my back window, no sign.

In the end I spoke to my neighbours who had taken pity on him and brought him inside.  I asked if he could visit with me for a while as I could not resist those big pleading eyes and as I speak he is sitting on the floor reading Hello magazine and wondering Who on Earth are Liz Hurley and Shane Warne?

I have a feeling he is going to take over....

The Good Wife's Castle - Roland Vernon

Still have catching up to do with my reviews, but this book is simply so brilliant and wonderful that it is getting a post all on its own.   Two years ago I read this author's book The Maestro's Voice which, as it had an operatic background, was of great interest to me.  I thought it quite marvellous and my review is here should you wish to refresh your memory.

I will admit that a large amount of my enjoyment of that book was the fact that it had a setting and background that I love and the operatic references enhanced the reading experience, so when I was sent The Good Wife's Castle I wondered if I would like it as much.  Now that I have finished reading it I cannot imagine why such a stupid thought crossed my mind as I was totally riveted by it and its effect stayed with me for quite a few days while I thought about my review.

Granville St Clair is a middle aged clergyman, at a crisis point in his life.  His marriage is rocky, his wife is unhappy living where they do, and she is impatient and scornful of his 'visions', his moments of bliss and happiness which come to him unexpectedly ".....a sudden, silent surge of voltage, and a renewed wave of wonder passed through Granville. He quietly gasped with relief and joy at the encounter, like a diver who has pulled away from the cusp of calamity and emerges into God's clean air. He could see so clearly in that moment that everything had to change"

He wakes early one morning and goes out for a walk and it is while he is out that he meets Piet Steyn, a South African, who has recently moved into the area. He has kept himself to himself in a cottage right at the end of the village.   As they meet and introduce themselves they turn to walk past the Old Rectory and both accidentally witness the owner, Bertie Gosling, commit suicide.  They are too late to save him and they discover a young girl, Hetty, in the bedroom upstairs. She is a teenager and shaking with fright and Granville makes a decision to get her out of the house and shield from the Gosling family that Bertie had been having an affair.  After some persuasion Piet agrees to his actions and the two are now united together in this deceit.

The discerning reader will know immediately that this decision by Granville is foolish and wrong and is going to lead to nothing but trouble.  And so it begins.  Hetty turns up at the funeral and constantly makes demands on Granville, will not leave him alone and, in the end and tells his wife Edwina that they have been having an affair.  She immediately packs her bags and leaves taking their two daughters with her and refuses to trust Granville and believe him when he tells her that it is all lies. Their marriage is on shifting ground and she is not prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

While all this has been going on, Piet has been offering friendship and support to the widow, Janet Gosling, and her sons but his interest becomes more and more intrusive and takes a rather sinister turn.  The reader has already learned that he has a murky background and by this stage of the book, knows that he is a religious obsessive who is living a secret life of which the villagers, and Granville, know nothing.

Granville turns to him for help after his wife's desertion and Piet agreed to speak to Hetty about the situation.  He tells Granville that he has done so and all is well.   Then the police turn up on Granville's doorstep.   Hetty has committed suicide......or has she?

Now I am going to have to stop right here.  It is impossible to write any further without giving the plot twists away and I certainly don't want to do that as I want the creeping realisation of what is happening to sneak up on you as it did me. 

While I was reading The Good Wife's Castle I realised it reminded me of something and it wasn't long before I recalled Enduring Love by Ian McEwan.  The story is different, of course, but at its heart is an obsessive love, one which won't go away and which you know is going to cause disaster.   All throughout the McEwan book one is conscious of an underlying feeling of hidden menace, the knowledge that something horrible is going to happen and there is no way to avoid it.  The same feeling pervades Roland Vernon's book and on one or two occasions I actually had to put it down to relieve the tension, have a cup of tea, and come back to it. It was all most unsettling.

The story builds to a shattering and nail biting climax which had me pinned to the sofa and on the edge of my seat, if it is possible to do both things at the same time, and I found I was reading faster and faster as the pace picked up and I wanted to find out what happened. 

This is a wonderful book, tightly written with super characterisation - you warm to Granville, though you can also get impatient with him, and know immediately that Piet Steyn is not what he appears to be and is an evil man.  This is evident almost immediately though I would be hard put to tell you why. Just another example of the sharp edged narrative.

The ending chilled me completely and when I closed it up I found I shivered and felt most uncomfortable.  Took me an hour or two to get it out of my mind, and it keeps coming back all the time.

As a footnote, I have mentioned Enduring Love by Ian McEwen, but I also thought of another book, read by me some years ago and reviewed here, which tells the story of a nun who has visions and is esteemed by her convent because of this.   It is then discovered that she has a form of epilepsy which could account for this seeming connection with God and she has to have an operation.  Once this has been cured she is then forced to face up to the fact that the visions have a physical explanation and this revelation tests her faith and finds it wanting.   There is a passage in The Good Wife's Castle when Granvile, at his wife's request, visits his GP to discuss his own manifestations which are becoming more frequent.  He is offered an MRI but Granville decides he does not want to do this.   Perhaps he, too, is frightened that this state of heightened sensitivity, these 'benedictions' that have been part of his spiritual life can be explained away and he might have to face up to the fact that his beliefs may be based on a false premise.

I will say it again, this is a wonderful book and is already on my Books of the Year 2012 list.   I also thank Roland Vernon for linking to the Maestro's Voice in the first chapter when Granville looks at a photograph of Rocco Campobello 'finest of all the golden age operatic tenors, a personal gift from the great man himself to Granville's grandfather in 1924'. I now feel I need to return to that book and see if I can find a mention of this gentleman as this reference has rather intrigued me.

There is also something that the two books have in common, well at least I think so, which struck me as I neared the ending of The Good Wife's Castle, but I may be imagining it and am not going to say anything about as it will give a plot line away.

Do buy and read, but be warned, if you do you will have to read it right through - once started you won't be able to put it down...

Five stars all round.

Romantic Fiction round up

Rather a sombre Titanic weekend hence my silly Ramblings yesterday which I thought might lighten things up a bit.  I am getting behind in my reviews, so am doing one of my Round Ups in order get as many done as possible and not muck those publishers about who send me books to read.   I love getting review copies but they do come with a hefty helping of guilt, mine nor theirs, I hasten to add when I realise I have yet to write about them.  So here goes:

The Village Vet - Cathy Woodman. I gather there is a series of books set in the village of Talyton St George with a cast of characters who I have yet to meet.   After reading this simply delightful book, I see I am going to have to suck up to Random House big time and see if they will send me some more.  I was lucky enough to meet Cathy at a Mother's Day evening in London last month,but it was only a brief meeting and I would be surprised if she remembered me at all.  Probably just as well we did not have a long chat as my ignorance re her books would have soon been picked up...

OK - Tessa is engaged to Nathan who, though she does not yet know it, is a cad and a bounder and not to be trusted.  Swept off her feet by a swift romance Tessa is on the way to church on her wedding day and half way through the ceremony the entire thing comes grinding to a halt when one of her oldest friends, Jack, interrupts just as they get to the I Do bit.   Chaos ensues but Tessa then realises that she doesn't want to marry Nathan after all and flees the church.

"Not stopping to pick up the shoe that I let fall, I speed up, tearing along the street, past the terraced houses, past the police station and the pub, towards the river....I continue to follow the road, passing cars and caravans....a couple of children wave from a motor home "Mummy, look at the lady in the princess dress"

She finds out later that she is saddled with debt and has bills run up on her credit cards by the ghastly ex and, with no job and no home, she is offered a position managing Talyton Animal Rescue Sanctuary (Tessa is a vet nurse).   Turns out, naturally, that Jack is in the offing as he is also involved with the Sanctuary and no guessing what happens.

Read this tucked up in bed one night, lovely and warm and relaxed and simply loved it.

The Runaway Actress - Victoria Connelly.  I took to Victoria's writing big time when I read The Perfect Hero, reviewed here, so was delighted when this one arrived.   Connie Gordon is a beautiful, rich and famous actress who, on the surface, has everything going for her.  Living in LA, wonderful house, five cars, designer dresses, jewellery blah blah but something is missing from her life. 

"I'd like to thank my agents past and present.  The ones who have ripped me off thinking I'm too busy and thick to notice and those who have put me forward for inferior jobs because they'll bring in the big bucks.  I'd also like to thank the men in my life - all the slime balls and the cheats I've had the misfortune of dating. I can safely say that they have behaved even worse than some of my stalkers....and finally I'd like to thank my fans.  Some of the letters I receive are truly mind blowing and I'd just like to settle some matters here and now if that's all right.  No I won't drop everything and marry you Mr Complete Stranger, nor will I sent you photographs of myself naked. So will you please stop asking me and leave me alone"

Fed up with ghastly ex-boyfriends, double crossing agents and the glitz and fakery, she flies to Lochnabrae in Scotland where her mother was born and where Maggie, who runs the village shop, also runs the Connie Gordon Fan Club.  She had written to Connie several times inviting her to come and stay and is totally shocked when she actually turns up and stays in the bed and breakfast down the road.

Mistrusting everyone and wary of friendly overtures, Connie gradually relaxes and begins to realise that the villagers, whilst loving the fact they have this famous beauty in their midst, also like her for herself.  She agrees to take part in the local amateur dramatic society performance of Twelfth Night which scares her out of her wits as she has never done 'real' acting before.  The director of the play is Alastair McInnes, a playwright who has fled London for reasons of his own, and who has vowed never to become involved with an actress again.

Another witty and delightful book from this author.  Alongside the romance between Connie and Alastair, there runs the story of the shy but sweet Maggie and her long unrequited love for her brother's friend, Mike.  With no idea of how to dress and totally unaware of her attractiveness, Connie takes her in hand and transforms the slightly ugly duckling into a swan.  

And does Connie find happiness? Well, what do you think?

"Don't go ever" Alastair said. There was a silence as Alastair and the others stared at the beautiful woman before them who suddenly didn't look like a movie star at all but very much like a friend who they didn't want to lose....Alastair swallowed and took a deep breath "We all love you" he said.

Warm, witty and delightful. A gread read.

Random Ramblings - all things underwear

It's that time of year when we notice the dirt in the corners, the paintwork that needs redoing, the dusty books etc and the urge to do something about it becomes compelling.  As you all know by now my motto is 'Housework won't kill you, but why take the chance?' but even I get this Spring feeling that I need to be up and doing and bathroom painted last week and kitchen to come. However, I have turned my attention to something which caught my eye this week and I apologise in advance if I shock any sensibilities, when I tell you that it was my knicker drawer.

Pulled it out and tipped the contents in a heap on the floor and looked at it with a growing sense of incredulity. 'Do I really have that amount of knickers?' and yes, I do.  Last count some 42 pairs.  Now, lest your imagination starts to conjour up lurid pictures, I hasten to say that my underwear is of the most boring variety consisting mainly of Marks & Spencer white cotton. I do have more interesting stuff than this which is saved for special occasions which I have no intention of telling you about and these accoutrements are kept in a special corner, but the rest of the stuff was sitting there looking at me.

I have a pecking order when it comes to underwear.   When going out, I remember my mother's stricture that you should never leave the house without clean underwear on in case you get run over by a bus and are taken to hospital.  I daresay if I was run over and was in A&E the fact that my knickers were not exactly La Perla would not worry the hospital staff for one moment, but old habits die hard and pristine white glowing cottons are the order of the day.   Of course, we then come to the top half and, once again, when I go out I put my nicest cleanest laciest white cotton bra on with the hook on the tightest it will go so that I am hoiked and uplifted and shaped and can venture forth secure in the knowledge that I am not suffering from Boob Droop.

But then we come home don't we? And what do we do?   Well, the bra comes off straight away - no point in looking like a Eva Herzigova when indoors and nobody to see. So out comes the 'comfortable bra'.  You know, the one that is now pristine, not brand new but good for sitting around in. We all have these, admit it.

So that is pecking order 1 and 2.  Now we come to Pecking Order No 3 or The Bra I wear when I am Painting/Decorating etc.   These are bras that no self respecting boobs would be seen it -they are usually grey from repeated washing, have lost all their elasticity and just contain you nicely while you wield the paintbrush or hoover or whatever is your chosen instrument of torture.   Every woman has a bra like this, everyone and if you tell me otherwise then you LIE, you LIE.  When I painted the bathroom last week I wore an old pair of leggings (won't even start on these but they have the same pecking order as the bras), old grey knickers, old grey bra and a t-shirt liberally splashed with paint from the last time I decorated.   The wisdom of wearing such old clothes was demonstrated when I got undressed to take a shower later on that day and found the bra was covered in lilac paint, how it got there heaven knows.  At the end of the painting weekend I viewed my garments and decided enough was enough and in the bin they went.

I hope you are still with me as I have yet to finish up on the Knicker saga.   After the 'ones to wear when going out' we also have the ones to slob about in (see paragraph on bras) which are usually grey or, in my case, a few pairs tinged a delicate shade of turquoise (scarf ran in the wash) which are rather fetching but definitely low down on the desirability scale.  These are my 'indoor' knickers.  

Of course, in the end you have to realise that some undies re beyond redemption and must be binned.  Before they reach this stage though, they become dusters.  My mother again - her influence is profound.  We have a slight problem here in that I don't dust, but they are enormously useful when cleaning windows, wiping paintbrushes and washing the floor (yes I do that occasionally) and then they are chucked.

There is a recycling bin just up the road from my flat which takes all materials.  I have dumped quite a lot of stuff in there but have drawn the line at knickers.  I mean, would you really want recycled underwear?  You don't know where it's been.  Well, actually, yes you do and there is the rub.  Not a lot you can do with them.  After reading a book on quilting and, in particular, crazy quilting, in which you use any old bits of material, bung them all together regardless of shape, pattern or colour and create a quilt  I toyed for a moment with the idea of such a quilt made with the old knicks but decided against it.  The thought of sleeping under a heap of underwear is not appealing. Out they have to go.  So what happens next?  The answer is 'shoddy'...

Shoddy involves collecting post-industrial waste, cloth and scraps left over from fabric and garment manufacture, and post-consumer waste – used clothes and other household textiles. All the fabric is sorted according to type, colour and grade, and then shredded into fibres. The product, known as shoddy, can, if it is of a high grade, be mixed with new fibres and then spun for weaving or knitting. At this stage, designers and manufacturers are also stepping in and making clothes from this product, making a virtue out of its recycled nature. Look out for these recycled products in the high street.

Now, I do my bit of recycling. I separate out glass, cans, plastic etc but have to be honest and say that being Green is not really my thing and, appealing though they may look on the telly, polar bears are not high on my list of priorities.  I do try, BUT doesn't this process of shoddy cause a tingle of horror to run down your spine?   'Manufacturers are making a virtue out of its recyled nature'.    

OK fine, but next time you buy a new t-shirt, just pause and think - you could be wearing my old knickers...........

All things Titanic - Redux

When an anniversary such as the sinking of the Titanic occurs, we all go to town - documentaries, books, articles, DVD's et al and sometimes there is so much overkill we can shy away.  I find this quite distressing as we should never forget, amongst all the hoop-la, the appalling tragedy of it all.  I will admit to finding the idea of a shipping line offering a Titanic Cruise rather distasteful and, though I should not make prejudgements on those who paid to go on it, I am afraid I do.  Pictures the other day in a newspaper of those on board sunning themselves on deck were utterly cringe-worthy, though I am pretty sure the paper in question felt this too and this is why this particular photograph was shown.

A month or so ago I was asked if I would take a book on the Titanic for review, I said yes and it duly arrived via courier.  When I opened the package I just gaped at the book inside.  Titanic Remembered 1912-2012 by Beau Riffenburgh, published by Andre Deutsch is quite sumptuous - presented wrapped in tissue paper in a box in which the names of all those who perished are listed.   I lifted it out of the tissue and opened it and was immediately caught up by the magnificent photographs and details set out.   As well as the straightforward narrative of what happened, from the day it sailed to its ghastly end, it is full of the most wonderful pictures, many of which I have not seen before.  I find it difficult to grasp just how big and how magnificent this ship was; this book certainly helps.  Last year when I was in Sydney the QEII was in harbour and people flocked to see it.  When I stood next to it and looked up at its staggering size which, again, you cannot get from looking at a picture or watching the TV, I remember thinking that if I felt this now when we are used to liners and all things magnificent, what must have been the thoughts of those embarking on the Titanic on its maiden voyage?  The excitement, the thrill, the heart stopping moment when you arrived to embark and saw it for the first time - I feel that this is what makes the loss of the ship so much more distressing than the norm; the hopes and dreams that went down that day in 1912, makes it even more poignant.

There are detailed plans of the different parts of the Titanic, architects drawings, fold out pictures and diagrams and I spent an afternoon sitting on the floor with the book open and pulling everything out of the envelopes bound into the book which contained facsimile copies of menus, tickets, passes for the  Turkish baths, a postcard sent home saying 'we are having a jolly time' and so much more.  It is a large book and sitting on the floor with it all spread around is probably the best way to read it.

 

 
This is an expensive book and a one off, but it is an account of a night that nobody will ever forget, be it one hundred or two hundred years.  The Titanic will never be forgotten and I cannot imagine that this book will be bettered.

My second Titanic book of the day is quite heartbreaking.  Titanic on Trial by Nic Compton, published by Bloomsbury.  This is an account of the sinking told through the testimonies of the passengers and crew.  Difficult to pick out which letters and accounts to quote as they are all, without exception, very moving. Moving in the matter of fact way in which they tell what happened.  Written in straightforward prose they have more impact than the most flowery words could do:

"I want to say that there was nothing but the most heroic conduct on the part of all men and women at the at time, where I was at the bow on the port side. No man asked to get in a boat....no woman every sobbed or wrung her hands and everything appeared perfectly orderly.  Lightoller was splendid in his conduct with the crew and the crew did their duty"                     Archibald Gracie - First class passenger

"They tried to keep us down at first on our steerage deck.  They did now want us to go up to the First Class place at all.  I cannot say who they were - I think they were sailors.....the gate was not locked at the time we made the attempt to get up there but the sailor, or whoever he was, locked it. So this fellow went up and broke the lock. All the steerage passengers went up on the First Class deck when the gate was broken. They all got up there. They could not keep them down...."  Daniel Buckley, Third class passenger

A ship, the SS Californian, was not far away but it seemed did not realise the ship they located was the Titanic, nor that it was in trouble.

"I was talking with the engineer about keeping the steam ready and we saw these signals. I said 'there is a steamer passing. Let's go to the wireless and see what the news is'. On our way down I met the operator coming and I said 'Do you know anything?'  He said 'The Titanic'. I said 'this is not the Titanic, there is no doubt about it"   Stanley Lord, Captain SS Californian                                                      

"About 20 minutes past one the second officer remarked to me that she was slowly steaming away towards the south-west.  He said 'Look at her now; she looks very queer out of the water; her lights look queer'.  I looked at her through the glasses after that and her lilghts did not seem natural. She seemed as if eh had a heavy list to starboard.....we were talking about it all the time, till five minutes past two, when she disappeared.  I did not think she was exactly in distress. Just that everything was not right with her. I thought she was a tramp steamer and told him so"   James Gibson - Apprentice, SS Californian

Difficult to read this without thinking well why the hell didn't you go and see what was going on?  The captain is quite keen it seems to me to defend his lack of action and find excuses. HIs crew could see the distress rockets and had reported this to the captain but nothing was done.  Seems hard to believe.

These two books are totally different, not only in size and presentation but in content, and yet the feeling of sadness and total disbelief that this tragedy happened is evident from both.  If you have read my previous post on the Titanic you will see that I do have a connection, albeit it tenuous, with the Titanic but I have found the dreadful fate that befell this ship and all its passengers incredibly moving and it has fascinated me most of my life.  I am certainly not what the papers call a 'Titanorak' and I am not a ghoul relishing all the minutiae and details, but there is something about this tragedy that strikes a chord in most of us.   That superb ship, full of light, laughter, luxury, hopes and dreams steaming away into the night never to be seen again, all so unbearably sad....