Bev Spicer's Blog, page 27
February 21, 2015
Simone, Simone by Peter Davey
I loved this story. So well written. So engaging. The only reason I've given it a four-star rating is because, for me, the magic stalled just a little when Simone and Alain were talking about Alain's writing career in the cabin. The rest of the time, I was held in Peter Davey's spell. He really can evoke those feelings we all have of missed opportunities and sinking regret. That's not to say that this is a sentimental story. Not at all. The plot is clever. And the ending has a very satisfying twist.
I read 'Loved and Lost in Lewisham' some time ago and enjoyed it very much. 'Simone Simone', in my opinion, is even better. Highly recommended.
Amazon UK
Amazon US
I read 'Loved and Lost in Lewisham' some time ago and enjoyed it very much. 'Simone Simone', in my opinion, is even better. Highly recommended.
Amazon UK
Amazon US
February 14, 2015
HAVE FUN WITH BEV AND CAROL!One Summer in Franc...
February 12, 2015
A Good Day for Jumping
They made breakfast together in Blair’s kitchen. She knew her way around now. There were lots of gadgets. Blair loved that kind of thing. He had a huge coffee machine that made noisy cappuccinos; a juicer that took the whole fruit, skin and all; and a toasted sandwich maker that looked as though it had come from the next century. She watched him making ham and cheese toasties with English mustard. His hands were elegant, like the hands of a piano player. There were tiny crinkles around his eyes that made him look as though he were always about to smile. Now, with his head bent forward, he looked vulnerable – the soft down of hair on the back of his neck gently curled, his long intimate eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. Sarah thought him beautiful this morning. But she kept him back a little, knowing that she was not in love.“Shall we go out somewhere after breakfast?” He handed her a toastie.“Okay, if you want to.” She sat on the small sofa, with one leg tucked under her. She hadn’t planned on staying all day.“How about a spot of shopping in the King’s Road?”“Bit skint at the moment. The agency’s always late with my cheque. Do you know how much they make out of it?”“A disgusting amount, inevitably.” He watched her talking about things that didn’t matter and thought her all the more enchanting.“You wouldn’t believe it! But it’s not forever. They only get commission until the end of the year. Leeches!” She had the impression he was not listening to what she was saying. “This is a great toastie!”“I noticed. Want another?”“Yes please.”She had shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and started laughing because she couldn’t speak. She covered her mouth with her hand while Blair shook his head and grinned.They had more breakfast and drank strong coffee, sitting close together on the couch, looking out at the leaves of the trees scintillating against the blue of the early spring sky. Sarah’s mouth was greasy and she wiped it with the back of her hand. It was something she would not normally have done, but she knew that Blair would be shocked, and so she was brazen. It made him giggle like a schoolboy. He took the plates and cups and tidied everything up. Sarah watched him and thought him obsessive. He wiped the sideboard with a new cloth, lifting the jars and cleaning underneath them. He unplugged the toastie machine and cleaned it carefully so as not to get water on the electric cable. He even swept the floor, twice. Sarah wondered how long she could stand all this if they lived in the same house together. Did he have equally fastidious habits in the rest of the house that she hadn’t noticed yet? Certainly, the bathroom was spotless and the towels were always clean and folded. Blair folded the dishcloth and clapped his hands together.“Finished?” she asked.“Finished what?”“Practising to be old?” she laughed.He stared at her, not knowing what she meant.“Who ever folds the dishcloth?” She stood up and dangled the cloth in front of his face.“Oh. Ha! Ha! Very funny.” He didn’t want her to make a fool of him.“Here!” she dropped the cloth into his hand, bored by his lukewarm reaction.She imagined what Andy would have done in the same situation. Not that he would have tidied up in the first place. But if she had held a dishcloth to his face he would have snatched it and chased her, finally rubbing it in her own face and holding her down until she begged to be let go. She couldn’t imagine Blair doing anything like that. “Hey, it’s sunny, lets go out, see what happens.” His optimism was unkillable. But the day was bright and it would do her good to be in the fresh air for a while. There was no rush to get home, after all.
It was springtime in Hyde Park, and there were people out together enjoying the sun. Sarah wore a red floral dress and sandals, feeling a little cold in the shade. The trees in the park were huge and she wondered what kind they were. They should be something magnificent, like oak. Blair would know. He knew a lot of things that she didn’t. She didn’t want him to tell her, though. The trees did not need names.They walked along the path next to the Serpentine. There were boats, ice-cream salesmen, even a restaurant by the lake. It had everything.And it had nothing. Sarah was on the outside of this world, where colours were bright and gaudy and sounds rang out audaciously across the park. She watched a child throwing a stick for her dog, a group of boys playing football, a woman reading on a bench. It was like looking into a fairytale, or a painting, it wasn’t real. She thought about Andy. Where he was, there was a different sun that hardened the earth and cracked the skin on her brother’s face. His heavy boots blistered his soft flesh and his weapon pressed hard into his shoulder where it dug in as he moved. The weapon that he used to fire at the soldiers of the Taliban. Men of flesh and blood who were themselves sons, brothers, husbands, fathers. This world was real. It mattered more to her. “What’s on your mind, beautiful girl?” Blair had stopped walking.“Nothing,” she lied. “I wish I hadn’t worn these sandals, that’s all. They’re pinching.” As she said it, she noticed the pettiness of such a complaint. “Take them off, then,” he said, laughing. “Oh, they’re not that bad. I’ll get used to them.” She looked at him and was suddenly moved. “Kiss me!” “Here? With all these people watching?” He was laughing still.“Yes, why not?” It was already too late. He looked around and took her hand to lead her away from the path. They sat under the branches of a huge tree and Blair kissed her. She could not lose herself, but for a moment the sunlight glinted through the green canopy and made a part of her brain spark. She felt warm and wanted. She felt Blair’s love, even if she was not able to return it. “What kind of tree is this?” she asked, her voice distant.“It’s an oak,” he said looking up through its branches.“I thought it was.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and felt a shudder run through her.“Are you okay, Sarah?” He drew back from her.“Yes. Yes, just cold in the shade. Can we go back to the path? We could get a coffee if you like?” She was babbling.Blair stood and held out his hand to help her. He was a handsome, kind boy. She could see the damage she would do to him when she left him.“Maybe I should go home. I’m spoiling your day,” she said.“Don’t be absurd. Come on, let’s get a coffee.” Inside, his chest constricted. He knew that she did not love him as he did her. But it was a passive knowledge and he chose to keep it unspoken, even to himself. There was still more he could do to win her; he would not give up easily. He thought of his own parents. Of how they had married, not for love, but because their families had brought them together. They were suited to each other. He saw that their love for each other now was enduring, based on respect and compatibility. It was not what he wanted for himself though, and when he looked at Sarah he knew that he had found the girl he wanted to marry, only for love. “Do you think you’ll stay at Firth’s forever?” she asked him, to break the silence.“I don’t know,” he replied.“I won’t,” she said.He was glad she had turned her face away from him when she had said it.
It was almost dark by the time Sarah got back to the flat. Wendy had gone away for the weekend and the place was quiet. She sat in a chair and got out Andy’s letters. He would be coming home at the end of June, in just over three months. He was almost half-way through his tour of duty, but this gave Sarah little comfort. She was not at all sure that he would not decide to go back. She would do everything she could to stop him.
Amazon
January 29, 2015
My French Life - At last! The house of our dreams.
(If you would like to read previous posts, please go to My French Life.)
By the end of January 2009, we still had no house of our own. We wanted something habitable, in the countryside, with land and outbuildings for my husband, Al to renovate. It had to have a nice garden and it had to have a garage to fill with motorbikes. The list had been growing for over a year! You may notice the total absence of practical concerns, like schools, transport, shops…
I’d already been to see a fair number of places, and had gone back to a few with Al and the boys for a second look. There was always something wrong. Mainly low roofs (we are a very tall bunch of people), lack of original features (ancient fire places replaced with shiny storage heaters), price (mythical) and condition. We came close with a couple and went so far as to make an offer on a huge house which had been half renovated and which we would have bought if the price had come down just a little more. The other offer was more of an act of desperation – so glad we didn’t go through with that one!
Then it happened! I was out with my favourite estate agent and she brought me to a house in Corme Royal – very posh! It’s a medium-sized village with all the amenities you could ask for, and elegant buildings around its own busy market square. I loved it as soon as I saw it. But where was the house? Would it be next to a power station? Would it be big enough for four giants? Would it have a garden? On top of all these questions, it occurred to me that we hadn’t really considered buying in a village.
Just opposite the bakery, Anna took a left into an Impasse and pulled up in front of the third terraced house along. Terraced! The façade was in need of attention, its tired paint flaking. And it didn’t look very big at all. There was just enough room to park outside and no sign of a garage. I looked at Anna. She was wearing her ‘don’t make up your mind yet’ expression.
Somebody didn't set the date!
Inside, the long hallway had an 80s disco feel, with enormous swirling patterns of very loud wallpaper and, half way along, a central heating boiler that looked as though it had been chosen as a feature, jutting out like a 19th century Dalek. But, the floor was covered in 17th century tiles and, looking up, the ceiling had its original beams (generously glossed and yellowed by time). After that, it only got better. Two Charentaise fireplaces. Two! (Although they too had been recently slathered in white gloss). Massive oak beams, solid hardwood floors and, piece de resistance! I glimpsed a walled garden of, as they say in every programme about house buying, a very good size. Yipee!
Non-drip gloss!
There were two large reception rooms: one done out as a bedroom, complete with open plan toilet, lid up but luckily sans organic interest. A dining room, a kitchen, three upstairs bedrooms and, surprisingly, along the back of the neighbouring house, a utility room, shower room, separate wc and a large chai (store room), which could be converted into more accommodation (bingo! – Al’s renovation project).
Outside, the garden was about as big as one and a half tennis courts, with a couple of small stone outbuildings and a shelter for wood. It was perfect. Stone walls all around and no viz a viz! What’s more, the neighbours’ gardens were strewn with beautiful mature trees to the right and centre. To the left, there was the enormous 12thcentury village church! I couldn’t believe it. Magnificent. The clock chimed and I laughed. Anna looked relieved – she’d shown me a lot of houses by this time.
January 2009! Before we moved in.
Back outside, I was beginning to take ownership already, assessing the shutters, which seemed in excellent repair. Then I remembered – garage! It would be, as they say, a deal breaker. I turned to see Anna unlocking a large double door in a lovely stone built building opposite the house. Thank the Lord and praise the angels! There it was. Big enough for a couple of motorbikes and plenty of other tools and junk.
Anna drove me back to the gite and I fell upon Al, gushing with enthusiasm. You have to come and see it! This is the one!
Happy Days!
To be continued…
By the end of January 2009, we still had no house of our own. We wanted something habitable, in the countryside, with land and outbuildings for my husband, Al to renovate. It had to have a nice garden and it had to have a garage to fill with motorbikes. The list had been growing for over a year! You may notice the total absence of practical concerns, like schools, transport, shops…
I’d already been to see a fair number of places, and had gone back to a few with Al and the boys for a second look. There was always something wrong. Mainly low roofs (we are a very tall bunch of people), lack of original features (ancient fire places replaced with shiny storage heaters), price (mythical) and condition. We came close with a couple and went so far as to make an offer on a huge house which had been half renovated and which we would have bought if the price had come down just a little more. The other offer was more of an act of desperation – so glad we didn’t go through with that one!
Then it happened! I was out with my favourite estate agent and she brought me to a house in Corme Royal – very posh! It’s a medium-sized village with all the amenities you could ask for, and elegant buildings around its own busy market square. I loved it as soon as I saw it. But where was the house? Would it be next to a power station? Would it be big enough for four giants? Would it have a garden? On top of all these questions, it occurred to me that we hadn’t really considered buying in a village.
Just opposite the bakery, Anna took a left into an Impasse and pulled up in front of the third terraced house along. Terraced! The façade was in need of attention, its tired paint flaking. And it didn’t look very big at all. There was just enough room to park outside and no sign of a garage. I looked at Anna. She was wearing her ‘don’t make up your mind yet’ expression.
Somebody didn't set the date!
Inside, the long hallway had an 80s disco feel, with enormous swirling patterns of very loud wallpaper and, half way along, a central heating boiler that looked as though it had been chosen as a feature, jutting out like a 19th century Dalek. But, the floor was covered in 17th century tiles and, looking up, the ceiling had its original beams (generously glossed and yellowed by time). After that, it only got better. Two Charentaise fireplaces. Two! (Although they too had been recently slathered in white gloss). Massive oak beams, solid hardwood floors and, piece de resistance! I glimpsed a walled garden of, as they say in every programme about house buying, a very good size. Yipee!
Non-drip gloss!There were two large reception rooms: one done out as a bedroom, complete with open plan toilet, lid up but luckily sans organic interest. A dining room, a kitchen, three upstairs bedrooms and, surprisingly, along the back of the neighbouring house, a utility room, shower room, separate wc and a large chai (store room), which could be converted into more accommodation (bingo! – Al’s renovation project).
Outside, the garden was about as big as one and a half tennis courts, with a couple of small stone outbuildings and a shelter for wood. It was perfect. Stone walls all around and no viz a viz! What’s more, the neighbours’ gardens were strewn with beautiful mature trees to the right and centre. To the left, there was the enormous 12thcentury village church! I couldn’t believe it. Magnificent. The clock chimed and I laughed. Anna looked relieved – she’d shown me a lot of houses by this time.
January 2009! Before we moved in.
Back outside, I was beginning to take ownership already, assessing the shutters, which seemed in excellent repair. Then I remembered – garage! It would be, as they say, a deal breaker. I turned to see Anna unlocking a large double door in a lovely stone built building opposite the house. Thank the Lord and praise the angels! There it was. Big enough for a couple of motorbikes and plenty of other tools and junk.
Anna drove me back to the gite and I fell upon Al, gushing with enthusiasm. You have to come and see it! This is the one!
Happy Days!
To be continued…
January 26, 2015
Review of The Song of The Cypress by Tonia Parronchi
I won’t give a summary here, as other reviewers have already very efficiently done so.
I really enjoyed reading this book. Tonia Parronchi’s practically flawless prose flows beautifully and is at times poetic. The story itself is a mix of fairytale romance and mystical folklore, which I haven’t come across before. I must say that the enchanted Cypress did not appeal to me much to start with, but as I progressed with the story, I understood that it added an interesting dimension to Annie’s new life in Italy.
I generally read two or three books at a time, and The Song of the Cypress was the one I wanted to settle down with an hour or so before bedtime because it is so uplifting and positive. Rural Italy comes alive, with fabulous descriptions, traditional anecdotes and a welcome helping of local produce served up at sunny picnics, village feasts, or cosy meals for two in front of the fire. Everything is rather perfect, but I enjoyed this indulgence – it was refreshingly uplifting and a great way to de-stress at the end of the day.
If I had to mention something negative, I’d say that the pace did stall from time to time, where there was occasional repetition, verbosity or inaction. However, if you’re looking for a nice dose of romantic escapism, coupled with an authentic overview of life in a Tuscan village, written by an author who knows how to write, this book definitely fits the bill.
View on Amazon
I really enjoyed reading this book. Tonia Parronchi’s practically flawless prose flows beautifully and is at times poetic. The story itself is a mix of fairytale romance and mystical folklore, which I haven’t come across before. I must say that the enchanted Cypress did not appeal to me much to start with, but as I progressed with the story, I understood that it added an interesting dimension to Annie’s new life in Italy.
I generally read two or three books at a time, and The Song of the Cypress was the one I wanted to settle down with an hour or so before bedtime because it is so uplifting and positive. Rural Italy comes alive, with fabulous descriptions, traditional anecdotes and a welcome helping of local produce served up at sunny picnics, village feasts, or cosy meals for two in front of the fire. Everything is rather perfect, but I enjoyed this indulgence – it was refreshingly uplifting and a great way to de-stress at the end of the day.
If I had to mention something negative, I’d say that the pace did stall from time to time, where there was occasional repetition, verbosity or inaction. However, if you’re looking for a nice dose of romantic escapism, coupled with an authentic overview of life in a Tuscan village, written by an author who knows how to write, this book definitely fits the bill.
View on Amazon
January 22, 2015
*** Three Free Short Stories 23rd/24th January ***
Dear blog visitors,
Thank you for popping over to see what's happening on my blog. I'm amazed and delighted to have regular page views - sometimes over one hundred per day! Most gratifying.
As you can see, I'm offering three of my short stories free for a limited time and I hope that as many people as possible will take advantage of this, so if you would like to tell your friends, please do.
Short stories are not everyone's first choice, but they really do have a lot to offer. It might be tempting to think that because they do not have the word count of a novel, they are simply dashed off in an hour or so and do not have much to offer in the way of characters or plot development.
In fact, short stories take months or even years to develop and polish. The story may take place over a few minutes or a lifetime, the characters may be many or few, nevertheless the end product must have an emotional effect, and leave the reader changed in some way. With a limited word count, there must be a potency of expression that is not present in longer works. I always know when I've read a good short story because I think about it for days afterwards.
I recently read and reviewed a wonderful short story by Alice Munro entitled 'Queenie'. I still recall the power of the last sentence. It's a story that I know I will go back to. You can read my review on this blog by clicking on 'Books I've Read'.
Of course, I do not dare to compare my stories with this great writer's masterpieces, but I do hope that I can hold my reader's attention while he reads and perhaps, just perhaps, as the last page is turned, make him glad that he chose to download one of my stories.
View book on Amazon
View book on Amazon
View book on Amazon
Thank you for popping over to see what's happening on my blog. I'm amazed and delighted to have regular page views - sometimes over one hundred per day! Most gratifying.
As you can see, I'm offering three of my short stories free for a limited time and I hope that as many people as possible will take advantage of this, so if you would like to tell your friends, please do.
Short stories are not everyone's first choice, but they really do have a lot to offer. It might be tempting to think that because they do not have the word count of a novel, they are simply dashed off in an hour or so and do not have much to offer in the way of characters or plot development.
In fact, short stories take months or even years to develop and polish. The story may take place over a few minutes or a lifetime, the characters may be many or few, nevertheless the end product must have an emotional effect, and leave the reader changed in some way. With a limited word count, there must be a potency of expression that is not present in longer works. I always know when I've read a good short story because I think about it for days afterwards.
I recently read and reviewed a wonderful short story by Alice Munro entitled 'Queenie'. I still recall the power of the last sentence. It's a story that I know I will go back to. You can read my review on this blog by clicking on 'Books I've Read'.
Of course, I do not dare to compare my stories with this great writer's masterpieces, but I do hope that I can hold my reader's attention while he reads and perhaps, just perhaps, as the last page is turned, make him glad that he chose to download one of my stories.
View book on Amazon
View book on Amazon
View book on Amazon
January 16, 2015
Review: Dare to Lose by E. L. Lindley
I enjoyed this book on my Kindle, over Christmas.
After a gentle start, the plot gets exciting when a young waitress disappears under mysterious circumstances. Dare to Lose is essentially a ‘whodunnit’ incorporating a twist of romance, with a skilful measure of violence, danger and suspense. The story is well constructed with great tension at times, and the characters, some of them extremely undesirable, are well drawn. Nicola is a middle-aged woman who risks all she has built up over the years to start up a café, serving homemade meals and delicious cakes. She’s a kind person, who suffers from a range of mild neuroses, especially when it comes to men. She is in need of someone to love. I especially like the protagonist’s mother, who is a frank, fun-loving, well-balanced person not afraid to break the stereotypical descriptors associated with ‘being old’. Although Jack, the American love interest, is rather one-dimensional, I was interested in what would happen as his relationship with Nicola deepened.
Apart from a couple of spelling slips, the writing is almost flawless (which is important to me) with an easy style that flows and hardly ever jars.
I’d recommend this book if you like an exciting story with good pace and realistic characters.
Dare to Lose - Amazon UK
Dare to Lose - Amazon US
January 1, 2015
Review: Queenie by Alice Munro
Amongst the books I received at Christmas was a tiny sixty-page short story entitled ‘Queenie’, by an author I’d never heard of: Alice Munro, now eighty-three years old and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. As a writer of short stories myself, I was curious to find out how this author could have earned the most prestigious of prizes for such an underrated art form.
I was excited. Expecting miracles. I was not to be disappointed.
It’s a slow burn, which is what I like. Introductions are succinct and slick. No information overload here.
Queenie (real name, Lena) and Chrissy (the narrator) are half sisters, who leave their family home and follow very different paths. Their story is unremarkable, but that’s not what we’re digging for, as we read. We sift through Chrissy’s observations of the beautiful but tragic Queenie. We look for treasure, as she reveals little by little the faults in her sister’s marriage and hints at a possible alternative future. We hold our breath as, through Chrissy’s eyes, we take in the weight of a new perspective on someone she thought she knew, who suddenly seems strange to her. There is little of substance in the plot. But that is the point. This is no quick fix. The seeds are scattered and take time to grow.
What comes to the fore as we assess the girls’ individual predicaments, is the realisation that, with the passing of time, something precious, something familiar, is left behind. Not just for Chrissy, but for all of us. ‘Queenie’ captures and delivers an exquisite and ultimately overwhelming synthesis of those moments in life that pass us by and which are largely taken for granted, only coming back to haunt us later, arriving like shock waves, unsummoned and bewildering, as we perform our routine tasks, dumbed down and comfortable, as it were, in the microcosm of our present existence. A word, a phrase, a smile, the tilt of a head takes us away, then leaves us bereft, wanting to find a way back but not knowing how to get there.
This wonderful story reminds us that, at a certain point, we no longer look to the future hoping for excitement or novelty as often as we look into the past for comfort and reassurance, or, if we are honest, with regret. Alice Munro’s ‘Queenie’ once read, ripples through our minds, reminding us of those times, gone forever, that mean the world to us.
Quite simply a masterpiece.
I was excited. Expecting miracles. I was not to be disappointed.
It’s a slow burn, which is what I like. Introductions are succinct and slick. No information overload here.
Queenie (real name, Lena) and Chrissy (the narrator) are half sisters, who leave their family home and follow very different paths. Their story is unremarkable, but that’s not what we’re digging for, as we read. We sift through Chrissy’s observations of the beautiful but tragic Queenie. We look for treasure, as she reveals little by little the faults in her sister’s marriage and hints at a possible alternative future. We hold our breath as, through Chrissy’s eyes, we take in the weight of a new perspective on someone she thought she knew, who suddenly seems strange to her. There is little of substance in the plot. But that is the point. This is no quick fix. The seeds are scattered and take time to grow.
What comes to the fore as we assess the girls’ individual predicaments, is the realisation that, with the passing of time, something precious, something familiar, is left behind. Not just for Chrissy, but for all of us. ‘Queenie’ captures and delivers an exquisite and ultimately overwhelming synthesis of those moments in life that pass us by and which are largely taken for granted, only coming back to haunt us later, arriving like shock waves, unsummoned and bewildering, as we perform our routine tasks, dumbed down and comfortable, as it were, in the microcosm of our present existence. A word, a phrase, a smile, the tilt of a head takes us away, then leaves us bereft, wanting to find a way back but not knowing how to get there.
This wonderful story reminds us that, at a certain point, we no longer look to the future hoping for excitement or novelty as often as we look into the past for comfort and reassurance, or, if we are honest, with regret. Alice Munro’s ‘Queenie’ once read, ripples through our minds, reminding us of those times, gone forever, that mean the world to us.
Quite simply a masterpiece.
December 27, 2014
Review: The Secret History by Donna Tartt
American college students doing drugs, studying Greek and committing murder. Donna Tartt lures us into a world where the normal limits of college life disappear and something closer to supernatural anarchy takes over. There are half-revealed scenes of ritual horror, betrayals of trust, free love for some, tantalising frustrations for others.
The narrator, Richard Pappin, endures the agony and the ecstasy of becoming a member of an elite Greek class at Hampden College, Vermont, led by Julian Morrow, a brilliant and enigmatic professor, who remains mostly in the shadows and, despite his almost incestuous attachment to his exceptionally gifted students, is only partially aware of their extra curricular obsessions.
Richard is granted entry to this elite group and begins to find out how Bunny, Francis, Henry, Camilla and Charles tick, although there is always the notion that secrets are being withheld from him. We, too feel that we are honorary members of the group, only permitted to look through the blinds, as it were. The result of such a fragmented view is that, in addition to constantly having to second guess what will happen (which we expect to do in any good mystery), we find ourselves fretting, worrying what these dysfunctional characters will do next to sink themselves more deeply in the mire. At times, it is almost like reading something by Enid Blyton. 'The Secret Seven', grown up and with pathological tendencies. Friendship has never been quite so stressful, or downright dangerous.
I did enjoy this book immensely, but there was something so destructive woven into the fabric of the writing, that when I got to the final page and saw the full-page photograph of the author, I actually shuddered. Here was Henry, just as I had imagined him, but in female form.
Highly recommended for readers who enjoy a seriously disturbing murder mystery with more than a pinch of pure madness.
The narrator, Richard Pappin, endures the agony and the ecstasy of becoming a member of an elite Greek class at Hampden College, Vermont, led by Julian Morrow, a brilliant and enigmatic professor, who remains mostly in the shadows and, despite his almost incestuous attachment to his exceptionally gifted students, is only partially aware of their extra curricular obsessions.
Richard is granted entry to this elite group and begins to find out how Bunny, Francis, Henry, Camilla and Charles tick, although there is always the notion that secrets are being withheld from him. We, too feel that we are honorary members of the group, only permitted to look through the blinds, as it were. The result of such a fragmented view is that, in addition to constantly having to second guess what will happen (which we expect to do in any good mystery), we find ourselves fretting, worrying what these dysfunctional characters will do next to sink themselves more deeply in the mire. At times, it is almost like reading something by Enid Blyton. 'The Secret Seven', grown up and with pathological tendencies. Friendship has never been quite so stressful, or downright dangerous.
I did enjoy this book immensely, but there was something so destructive woven into the fabric of the writing, that when I got to the final page and saw the full-page photograph of the author, I actually shuddered. Here was Henry, just as I had imagined him, but in female form.
Highly recommended for readers who enjoy a seriously disturbing murder mystery with more than a pinch of pure madness.
December 22, 2014
~~~~~~~~ My Christmas Present to You ~~~~~~~~
Free download from 22nd - 27th December
Happy Christmas to all my blog visitors! I hope you enjoy my most recent short story with a glass of something fragrant and a Jamie Oliver mince pie...
Inspector Hanson and his team are perplexed by the work of a serial killer, in and around the town of Halfton. The bizarre murders seem to be unconnected, with no obvious motive. Eventually, though, the trail becomes warmer and Inspector Hanson has a hunch...
Universal link to Amazon
