THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY

At the country estate of kindly Colonel Rostanev, parasitic houseguest Foma Opiskin has brought everyone under his sway. Now Opiskin plans to marry off his host to a wealthy widow. Will the Colonel give way to Opiskin’s bullying and sacrifice the love of his life, Nastasya? Or will he finally resist the petty tyrants demands?

Farcical and effervescent with absurdity, this short novel is a sparkling example of Dostoyevsky’s comic side – and a microcosmic portrait of Russia on the verge of upheaval and transformation.

Yegor Ilyich Rostanev is the sweetest guy you’ll ever read. Think Cinderella, crossed with Snow White and Kronk (minus the evil henchman element). He’s the living embodiment of childlike innocence, only seeing the good in people, and altruistic to a fault.

Apart from being unusually kind-hearted, my uncle, in spite of his somewhat rugged looks, was the most delicate and sensitive person imaginable; he was a man of the utmost nobility of soul and of courage tried and tested. I say ‘courage’ without reservation, because no matter what the obstacles, he never neglected or shirked his obligations or hesitated in the performance  of his duties. In spirit he was as innocent as a child. Indeed, he was a child at the age of forty: totally uninhibited and full of good cheer, he considered all men to be saints, blamed only himself for other people’s shortcomings and exaggerated their virtues out of all proportion, even ascribing them where there were none.

And much like the fairy tale princesses of yore (and I guess Kronk fits into this as well), he’s got a wicked parental figure to deal with. In Ilyich’s case, it’s his selfish, self-centred mother who somehow doesn’t see how good-natured her son is, gaslighting him in to believing he’s a terrible person, and her late husband’s most recent employee, Foma Fomich Opiskin, Ilyich’s complete opposite.

Foma Fomich Opiskin was the embodiment of the most boundless vanity, but vanity of a peculiar sort, to be found only in complete nonentities; vanity nurtured by crushing past injuries, long-festering, and from then on oozing envy and poison at every human contact, every encounter with another’s good fortune. Needless to say, all this was seasoned with the most exaggerated sense of offence, the most insanely developed mistrust in the world.

Foma suffers from a martyr complex, likes to behave the injured party in any given situation, never gives a genuine apology, and has no accountability whatsoever. And he has the nerve to call Ilyich vain! As far as he’s concerned, everything is Ilyich’s fault, and more often than not, Ilyich agrees with him (along with the rest of the household). And with noone in his corner, the poor guy needs help. Enter Sergey, Ilyich’s nephew and our protagonist and story teller, who recounts the events that unfold at Stepanchikovo.

Ilyich has asked Sergey to visit out of desperation, threatened by a looming engagement he’s had no say in, and absolutely doesn’t want. Sergey sees Foma for the type of guy he really is, and does his best to try and make his uncle see sense regarding his live-in leech, made all the more difficult as  Ilyich’s mother, hateful sister, and everyone else in the household (barring Ilyich’s distant cousin Mizinchikov and Ilyich’s young daughter Sasha) are just as obsessed with Foma, and hate to hear a bad word said against him.

But despite Mizinchikov, quiet and observant as he is, being the only other normal one there, he’s not without his own calculating designs. Another houseguest, Tatayana Ivanovna, a simple-minded girl with a romantic nature and a lot of money, is seen as fair game where marriage is concerned, and Foma and Ilyich’s mother plan to have Ilyich marry her for her fortune (ultimately putting it at Foma’s desposal). When Foma suspects that Ilyich has feelings for the governness, he plans to have her sent away so Ilyich can marry the wealthy weirdo.

Friend of the Family is about how an insufferable guy manipulates his way into taking control of a household, while mentally and emotionally ruining the life of the man who owns the place.

(The part that’ll have you cheering)

No sooner had Foma Fomich uttered these last words than Uncle grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him round like a wisp of straw, and hurled him violently through the French window into the courtyard. The blow was so violent that the doors, standing slightly ajar, flew wide open and Foma Fomich rolled head over heels down the seven steps and ended up in the yard flat on his face.

And with twenty-four more pages to go, you know it isn’t the last you’ll see of Foma, but what a perfect ending that would have been!

N OR M?

It is World War two, and while the RAF struggles to keep the Luftwaffe at bay, Britain faces an even more sinister threat from ‘the enemy within’ – Nazis posing as ordinary citizens.

With pressure mounting, the Intelligence service appoints two unlikely spies, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford. Their mission: to seek our a man and a woman from among the colourful guests at Sans Souci, a seaside hotel. But this assignment is no stroll along the promenade – N and M have just murdered Britain’s finest agent and no one at all can be trusted…

The third book of the Tommy & Tuppence mystery series sees our main characters married, parents, and disregarded for their age. (Not me being fresh off of reading Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, and reading more over the hill fourty year olds. How do I do it??) Fortunately Tuppence is of the ‘I can still do stuff I’m not that old’ mindset, but it was still a shock to learn they now had two children, fully grown, and doing their part for the war effort, something Tommy and Tuppence also want for themselves, so they eagerly grab the first (and only) opportunity that sees them leave their flat to go undercover and weed out some bad guys! Because as Mr Grant put it,

“The rot is in the department itself. One hint that I’ve got my eye on Sans Souci for any reason – and the organisation may be put wise. That’s where you come in, the outsider. That’s why you’ve got to work in the dark, without help from us. It’s our only chance.”

So off they go to a little seaside guest house to uncover the identities of the mysterious N and M. And at the guesthouse with them are:

Mrs Perenna, proprietress of the guests house along with her rebellious daughter Sheila. Miss Minton, an elderly woman who wore a lot of beads, and spent her time knitting. Mr Cayley and his many ailments, Mrs Cayley, ‘an anxious-faced woman who seemed to have no other aim in life than to minister to Mr Cayley’s wants,’ Carl von Deinim, a German defector and research chemist who escaped Germany after his brothers had been killed in concentration camps, and he’d lost his mother to grief.

“I fled from my own country because of injustice and cruelty. I came here to find freedom. I hated nazi Germany. But, alas, I am still german. Nothing can alter that.”

Tuppence murmured:

“You may have difficulties, I know -“

“It is not that. I am a German, I tell you. In my heart – in my feeling. Germany is still my country. When I read of german cities bombed, of german soldiers dying, or german aeroplanes brought down – they are my people who die.”

(I was actually surprised to see his character being treated with such compassion from Christie, given that the novel was published in ’41, two years into the second world war, where public opinion of any Germans was probably unfavourable).

There’s also Major Bletchley, who I’d regularly confuse with Commander Haydock, the retired Naval gentleman living in the house on the hill, Mrs Sprot, a young mother with her toddler Betty, and Mrs O’Rourke, a ‘terrifying mountain of a woman with beady eyes and moustache’, who always has eyes on Tuppence.

“Im interested in my fellow creatures, that’s why I sit in this chair as often as I can. You see who goes in and who goes out and who’s on the veranda and what goes on in the garden.”

And Tommy and Tuppence watch them all carefully, and suspect them all equally. (Well. Most of them). But despite some red herrings, they uncover the identities of both culprits. (Although discovering one by accident doesn’t really qualify as intuitive sleuthing).

As it’s a story of international espionage, the plot is less action driven than other crime novels, even a little meandering until we near the end, and  they uncover the identities of N and M.

I liked the intimidating O’Rourke and the poor, stigmatised Von Deinim. (And I’ll overlook the unnecessary reveal, because Christie’s show of compassion toward Germans who also suffered through the war and likewise disliked the Nazis, is still pertinent).

MISS PETTIGREW LIVES FOR A DAY

Miss pettigrew lives forward day is about a down-on-her-luck, middle-aged governess, sent by an employment agency to the wrong address: instead of a household of unruly children, she encounters a glamorous nightclub singer named Miss LaFosse. Over a period of 24 hours her life is changed – forever.

Miss Pettigrew, ‘permanently seeking a new job, nervous, incompetent, dowdy and shy’, who’s only source of a good time is a solitary trip to the cinema (there is such a thing as a character being a little too relatable, you know?) is hopeful of securing a position as governess, despite admitting that she’s terrible at it. But when she’s greeted by the beautiful, yet panic-stricken Delysia LaFosse, she finds herself being unduly roped in to help the hapless club singer deal with her three love interests, especially the attentions of the handsome, compelling yet troublesome Nick.

“You see, Nick’s a very dangerous person. That’s why he hadn’t to learn of Phil. He’s more money than Phil. He’s more influence than Phil. He’s might quite easily do something that might hurt Phil. I couldn’t have that happen. I mean, it wouldn’t be fair. After all, I led Phil on. Phil’s willing to back me in a show. Nick won’t. He’s too jealous. He wont help me an inch with my career, and however much you like a man you still want your career. So you see I couldn’t have Nick trying to hurt Phil.”

“No,” agreed Miss Pettigrew firmly. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

She’s just a business woman doing what she has to for the progression of her career, and the virtuous Miss Pettigrew finds she absolutely loves the thrill of Miss LaFosse’s outrageous lifestyle, and all the excitement she’s never got to experience for herself.

Shocked, excited, and, yes, thrilled. Thrilled right down to the very marrow of her bones. Why pretend? This was life. This was drama. This was action. This was the way the other half lived.

Thank’s to Miss LaFosse’s friendly and easygoing nature, and her equally accepting friend Miss Dubarry who arrives at the flat with her own relationship woes, Miss Perrigrew goes through some fast character development for what is a fairly modest circadian novel, going from a meek, nervous woman with little life experience, to suddenly a vital resource, and dear friend. All in a day!

Hardly anyone had ever troubled to talk to her about anything at all: not in a personal sense. But these people! They opened their hearts. They admitted her. She was one one of themselves. It was the amazing way they took her for granted that thrilled every nerve in her body. No surprise: they simply said ‘Hallo’, and you were one of themselves. No worrying what your position and your family and your bank balance were. In all her lonely life Miss Pettigrew had never realised how lonely she had been until now, when for one day she was lonely no longer.

How nice must that be? To just wake up one morning when you’re going through a bit of a shit time, and inadvertently end the day with new friends and good memories, with no effort whatsoever.

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day is a light, fluffy and whimsical novel, humorously told, with sweet characters and a gentle plot. Is there some…shall we call them…outdated ideas? Yes. (Outdated, though sadly, not as obsolete as they should be), and honestly out of the three guys we meet, Phil, a laidback guy with a sense of humour seemed like the best choice, but we can’t have that, because he looks a little jewish? And Michael didn’t seem any better than Nick when we’re introduced to him. Just as much of a bully. The only thing that saved his character for me, was learning that he was aware Miss LaFosse was also seeing Nick, and that his future with her depended on whatever decision she made.

The novel also depicts Miss Pettigrew’s age (dangerously close to my own), as being over the hill and closing in on a retirement home. (The amount of times she mentions how much older than the other characters she is, ‘I’m too old for this’ and ‘when you get to my age’ etc etc, I thought for sure she was somewhere in her fifties. She’s only fourty! I felt my bones crumble to dust when I read that) so obviously I had no choice but to deduct half a star for those reasons.

Overall, it’s a hopeful, lighthearted feel-good read. And there are pictures!

THE MYSTERY OF A BUTCHER’S SHOP

When Rupert Sethleigh’s body is found one morning, laid out in the village Butcher’s Shop but minus its head, the inhabitants of Wandles Parva aren’t particularly upset. Sethleigh was a blackmailing money lender and when Mrs Bradley begins her investigation she finds no shortage of suspects. It soon transpires that most of the village seem to have been wandering about Manor Woods, home of the mysterious druidic stone on which Sethleigh’s blood is found splashed, on the night he was murdered, but can she eliminate the red herrings and catch the real killer?

It’s been a few years since I’ve read Speedy Death, but I remember it taking place almost exclusively within the confines of a manor house, but with The Mystery of a Butcher’s Shop, there’s a little more breadth of space between a manor house, vicarage, Stone House, and Manor Woods, where in a clearing, there’s the ominous Stone of Sacrifice.

Mrs Bradley walked up to the Stone of Sacrifice and laid a claw-like yellow hand upon its surface. The stone was reptile-harsh and curiously cold to the touch. She drew her hand away and gazed benignley at the strange old rock.

‘It reeks of evil,’ she said solemnly. ‘What blood was shed; what wicked deeds were done; what screams, what torture, and what agony this ancient monument has heard and seen, by Great good fortune we shall never know.’

Spooky!

Mrs Bradley is staying at the Stone House not far from the manor, where its owner, Rupert Sethleigh, has disappeared. Possibly to america, as his cousin Redsey claims (while also acting suspiciously wary of the woods). He’s been staying with Sethleigh in the hopes of gaining a monetary advantage, but it ends in an argument the day before Sethleigh’s disappearance, and the unfortunate coincidence of human remains being discovered chopped up, and hanging from the hooks in the butcher’s shop in town. Yikes!

Now. There is something to be said about having a book on your tbr for the longest time, and only re-reading the blurb when you’re about ninety-eight pages in. Because I was like “oh, guess that was Sethleigh in the butcher’s shop, then…” and “he was blackmailing people?” and “everyone was in the woods??” Because suffice it to say, at nine chapters in, none of this had been made evident yet. And if I’d only just read the blurb before diving in, I might have been be a bit bored, because I’d already know what was what. (Bit of a mistake on the publisher’s end, imo).

But before Mrs Bradley makes her appearance, we’re kept informed, entertained, and slightly troubled by Sethleigh’s cousins Rupert and Aubrey, Aubrey’s mother, a “tall, large, and spirited” woman, and the vicar’s daughter, Felicity Broome. (And if you think the relationship between Felicity and her dad is a bit weird with all the times she calls him ‘darling’, and ‘dearest’, and other terms of endearment, then same! Because who talks to their dad like that? Just WEIRD).

Then there’s the trio of unconventional londoners that have recently moved to the area for reasons unknown, a disgruntled gardener, a secret marriage, a secret child, a secret affair, unknown siblings getting a bit too close for comfort… a bloodied suitcase, and a skull.

Plenty of people have motive to kill Sethleigh, of course… but who would have the stomach to carve up a corpse? And not only that, but to hang it all up in a butcher’s shop? That’s a special kind of messed up, and an idea I feel Mitchell was really taken with, but failed to give the guilty party a good enough reason behind it.

Fifteen year old Aubrey, at the very least, has a fun time helping Mrs Bradley work out who committed such a heinous crime, despite finding her a bit creepy. (Along with Felicity and Redsey and everyone else she meets), but you can’t blame them. As Redsey puts it:

He thought he had never seen such a wicked old woman. She reminded him of some dreadful bald-headed bird he had seen in a picture at some time. Not that she was bald-headed, of course – but you got the same sort of sick feeling when you looked at her. And yet, on second thoughts, wasn’t she more like one of those reptiles – no, not reptiles! What was that word? – Saurians! When she was amusing herself at your expense, which was ninety per cent of the time – and the other ten per cent was when she didn’t even seem aware that you were on the map at all! – her little smile was like that he had seen on the face of a newt – no, a sand lizard! No, one of those repulsive-looking giant frogs.

And she doesn’t give a FUUUUK (I don’t know how she ever had a kid lol).

The pacing was good, kept up by regularly switching from one character’s pov to another, something I think was lacking in the first novel. I liked the interesting characters, like the assertive, no-nonsense Mrs Bryce Harringay, the overly relaxed and forgetful vicar (who reminds me of Freddy Pelham from Patricia Wentworth’s Grey Mask), and even Mrs Bradley herself (despite, yet again, deciding on the outcome). But I definitely feel I warmed up to her in this one, the creepy old bird lol.

A MONTH IN THE COUNTRY

One summer, just after the Great War, Tom Birkin, a demobbed soldier, arrives in the village of Oxgodby. He has been invited to uncover and restore a medieval wall painting in the local church. At the same time Charles Moon – a fellow damaged survivor of the war – has been asked to locate the grave of a village ancestor. As these two outsiders go about their work of recovery, they form a bond, but they also stir up long dormant passions within the village. What Birkin discovers here will stay with him for the rest of his life…

A Month in the Country is a slow, gentle reminiscence from the protagonist Tom, as he recounts a summer spent away from London (and his cheating wife), after the great war, to spend a month in a rural village uncovering the hidden artwork on the church’s wall.

As well as the hints of his broken marriage, there are suggestions of the horrors he faced during the war sprinkled between descriptions of the surrounding countryside, and his fascination with the artwork and artist as he uncovers it. He’s joined in his restful reprieve by Charles Moon, another soldier who also survived the war, although not without his own hardships, but he’s full of good humour and friendship, and with other members of the village warmly accepting them into their fold, his journey of healing finds its end as summer draws to a close, and the picture is finally complete. The healing power of art and nature, everyone! But not too healing, because occasionally future Tom recounts his days with a tone of bitterness over past regrets that leave the reader a bit disheartened about getting a happy ending. (I’d put this down to the fact future Tom had also had to deal with the second world war, and was no doubt envious of his younger self’s blissful ignorance).

I’d describe A Month in the Country as quiet whisper of a novella. A very sedate, meandering sort of book. The literary equivalent to sprawling in the middle of a field on a hot day, if you will. Bees buzzing, the long grass swaying in the breeze, the slow, endless hours stretching before you… Carr definitely manages to capture the feeling of a slow summer, but if you’re after something with more of a plot that picks up the pace, this isn’t it.

THE BOOK OF PARADISE

On being expelled from Paradise, young Samuel Abba pulls a craft trick, managing to arrive on earth with his memory intact. He quickly begins regaling the humans around him mischievous stories of a Paradise far from their expectations: lewd patriarchal and the same divisions and temptations that shape the human world.

Book of Paradise is a comic masterpiece, and the only novel by one of the great Yiddish writers. Written in the midst of rising anti-semitism in the 1930s Europe, its raucous blend of sacred and profane is a slyly profound reflection of the author’s turbulent times.

The frame narrative is the angel Samual Abba’s birth on earth, and his subsequent retelling of life in Jewish Paradise to his new parents, a rabbi and his assistant, and the town magnate, who all gather together to listen. And not one of them is surprised that a newborn baby is already forming complete sentences.

And Samual Abba decides to tell them all about jewish paradise and his best friend, an angel called Little Pisser, who’s streetwise, and likes to prank people. The many angels of Paradise have jobs, shops, schools… it’s Earth with wings.

Samual tells them about the interesting characters he’s come across, such as the lovelorn angels who despair over the same girl. David (of David and goliath fame), who’s a bit of a sex pest and slave driver where the angels working in his fields are concerned. Simon Bear, the drunk angel who beats his wife and is responsible for sending babies to earth (someone gave him that job??) There’s also a brief mention of Adam and Eve (who are both german, which was weird, but funny), desperately trying to get back into Paradise, when they’re not squabbling with each other. St. Nicholas (we all know that guy), and some well known Jewish historical figures like the Maggid (storyteller) of Dubno, who tries desperately to tell his parable, only getting as far as saying “Once upon a time, there was a king. Now, this king had three -” but he doesn’t get any further, because no one wants to hear it. Poor guy!

There’s also an anti-Semitic angel from Gentile Paradise (because even paradise is separated by border control, and bigots and bullies are found on earth and up there). But it’s a reflection on Manger’s own life, as he was stripped of his citizenship from his home in Romania, left without a passport, and nowhere to call home. But he also calls this his happiest book, where he managed, despite it all, to find small moments of joy in his loneliness. A testament to creating something positive out of the negative.

The Book of Paradise has singing angels, an escaped behemoth, and jewish words you might have to look up if, like me, you’re not jewish, like ‘purim plays’ (basically jewish pantos?) the ‘tzaddikim’ (moral spiritual leaders who decide they’re more superior than actual angels. The nerve) and my personal favourite, ‘shlimazel,’ because it’s nice to know there’s a word for me in every language lol *cries* But if you’re familiar with the bible (which I’m not) then you’ve got a good head start. (And obviously if you’re jewish none of it will be new to you).

First published in 1939, The Book of Paradise reads like a modern novel. It’s fun and playful in a Terry Pratchett sort of way, whimsical, lighthearted (despite some mean behaviour), and makes you think. Mainly why Little Pisser’s mum named her child Little Pisser. What a loving mother lol.

A ROOM WITH A VIEW

In A Room With a View, E.M Forster explores the transformative power of travel and love through the story of Lucy Honeychurch. Set against the backdrop of Edwardian society, Lucy faces a choice between convention and passion, tradition and independence. Forster’s novel is a masterful critique of societal norms and a celebration of personal freedom, making it a timeless exploration of self-discovery and the courage to live authentically.

Lucy just wants an adventure, and her wish comes true while holidaying with her older cousin Charlotte Bartlett in Florence, where she witnesses a murder. If that wasn’t bad enough, George Emerson, another guest who’s staying at the hotel with his father (and who are of a lower social class to Lucy and charlotte) is also present at the scene of the crime, and kisses her when he sees her looking pretty in a field of flowers.

George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.

(Trauma bonding? He is depressed and already struggling to find a reason to live before witnessing a murder, and she’s quite sheltered and after a change…)

Anyway. That’s it. End of part one lol

Suddenly out of nowhere Lucy’s back home and engaged to Cecil, a hot guy with high ideals who isn’t very tolerant of people he finds annoying (which is pretty much everyone besides Lucy, who he likens to a work of art). And would you believe he’s the reason the Emersons move to the area? Whatcare the chances! Was it fate? Because George definitely seems to think so.

“I have reflected. It is fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate – flung together, drawn apart.

It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George.

And Lucy is STRESSED about anyone finding out about what happened in Italy, and most of the book is taken up with her avoiding talking about anything to do with her time there, which is where Mr Beebe, the local rector, in all his hapless helpfulness, tries a bit of light hearted convo that usually begins along the lines of “hey! Remember when we were all in Italy…?” Like really putting his foot in it without realising.

And then there’s old Miss Bartlett who is the worst. One of those put-upon martyr types (we all know one) who’s more trouble than she’s worth, and is the sole reason Lucy ends up in a bad situation. And people get mad at Lucy! Even though it was all Charlotte’s fault! (Iykyk)

On a slight negative note, the romance element isn’t really developed (do they even have a conversation at any point before the kiss? Or the second one, for that matter?) But regarding the progressive themes, these are voiced by George and his father. George says of Cecil:

“He daren’t let a woman decide. He’s the type who’s kept Europe back for a thousand years. Every moment of his life he’s forming you, telling you what’s charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of your own.”

Lucy thought of a very good remark.

“You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that you have caught the habit.”

*mic drop*

A bit of self-awareness from Forster there, but despite acknowledging the problem of controlling behaviour from Cecil (and men in general) he makes her pay attention to what George tells her, then has her endure a long speech from his dad, who tells her what to do! Forster did allow Lucy to stand her ground against Charlotte (as foreshadowed through Mr Beebe) so there’s that, and she does go against societal expectation for her happiness (via an influential Mr Emerson), but its the result the reader would hope for, and maybe in the days of its publication, it helped make people look at those of a different social class in a new light. Who knows?

It’s a charming book, with some interesting characters that left me wanting to travel somewhere.

To quote Lucy:

I’ve seen the world so little – I have seen so little of life.

THE FINAL PROBLEM

Arriving on the Greek island of Utakos, ageing actor Ormond Basil hopes only for a holiday and finally to shed the mantle of his most famous role: world-renowned sleuth, Sherlock Holmes.

But when a body turns up in his hotel, the other guests, accustomed to seeing Ormond as the greatest detective of all time on the Silver screen, pressure him to solve the mystery.

Yet even with Ormond’s knowledge of plots and killers, this case turns out to be anything but elementary…

So Basil and two acquaintances of his, the director Pietro Malerba and his opera singer girlfriend Najat Farjallah (mostly referred to as ‘the diva’ for some reason), find themselves stranded on a tiny island during a storm, along with crime writer Paco Foxá, a young widowed english woman and her travelling companion, a married german couple, and a doctor. Along with the hotel owner (a jewish auschwitz survivor), and her members of staff. They all know who Basil is, of course, and have seen all his films. The embodiment of Sherlock Holmes himself, they’re all convinced he’s the man for the job to solve the crime when one of the hotel guests is descovered dead. I thought it was an interesting concept – a fish out of water type scenario, with him unexpectedly burdened with the weight of expectation to actually solve the crime, purely based on the fictional character he was known for. And that’s how I was hoping the story would play out, but it didn’t, because Basil not only accepts the role, but he fully commits to playing it as Sherlock Holmes, right down to his phrasing and mannerisms. The only divide between himself and the character he portrayed was the endless name dropping whenever Basil got a chance to talk about his glory days (which is a lot, btw).

I took in the scene, looking from the body up to the ceiling beams and around the room. For some perverse reason I felt comfortable, or maybe that’s not the right word. I felt as though I was back in a well-known, familiar situation. I almost found myself looking for my mark on the floor, imagined the technicians and the director in the shadows waiting for my lines. The plot thickens, etc cetera.

And Foxá loves it, because he’s a massive fan boy, and spends most of the book gushing over Basil’s films and marvelling over how incredible and amazing he is.

But it did make me think that as a crime writer (someone more experienced in the ways of researching methods/motives of a murder), I wondered why it didn’t occur to anyone to ask him to try and solve the murders instead of an actor who, by his own admission, just reads from a script? But foxá was content enough to play second fiddle and look to Basil for answers, making him the stand-in Watson of the book, as they lead the charge to discover the guilty party behind the mysterious deaths, which they attempt to do by…talking. To each other. Mostly about Sherlock Holmes and how amazing Basil is, while the other characters are just sort of pushed to the background, and we the readers are left to watch Basil and Foxá smoke, talk about crime fiction novels, and quote Sherlock.

And I don’t know what makes them think crime fiction has anything to do with the killer’s motives in the first place? Because what are they basing that on? Just because they’re ‘detecting’ like they’re in a classic detective story, doesn’t mean that’s how the murderer is committing the crimes. Where’s the proof? Sounds like mere supposition if you ask me.

“In the classic detective story, he commented, “there are always three mysteries: who did it, how they did it, and why they did it. The why and the who are often less important, because the author and the more intelligent of readers are truly only interested in how it happened.”

“Still, the author will often play tricks on the reader.” I argued. “You yourself said it yesterday: when a crime seems unsolvable, it is because the author has omitted essential details.”

“Naturally. If not, they risk the reader solving the mystery before the detective.” He gave me a penetrative gaze. “Don’t you agree?”

“Of course,” I concluded, after thinking it over for a moment.

“It happens to me, or to my alias Frank Finnegan, when I write one of those stories. The novelist’s honesty can be at odds with his efficiency.”

I found the notion amusing. “The author has to be deceitful?”

“Even more so than the killer himself.”

Literally a conversation they’re having next to a dead body, by the way. Casual as you like. (And keep in mind ‘when a crime seems unsolvable, it is because the author has omitted essential details,’ because that’s pretty relevant here). 🙄

There are three victims, but the shock and fear that would otherwise be shown after a group of people are trapped on an isolated island and bodies start dropping, gets sidelined in favour of analysing the act of crime itself, and thd reader is distanced from what should be a a pretty scary situation. They’re trapped on an island with a killer! They’re all being very calm about it!

Perez-Reverte thinks he’s being clever in teasing the reader, talking about whether he can fool them or not, but he forgot one crucial component in a mystery novel, and that’s to keep the reader interested and invested in what happens. Which is where this book fails miserably. I was So. Bored.

“As an author of detective novels, you are accustomed to creating mysteries within mysteries. You know how to keep the reader fascinated and intregued so that they continue reading.”

(Sounds like he could learn a thing or two from Foxá).

The pacing is painfully slow, there’s a complete lack of urgency or actual detecting (probably because of all the talking), it’s repetitive, dull, and just altogether underwhelming. Perhaps if you’re a big sherlock Holmes fan you might enjoy it, and the reveal at the end might mean something to you (because as someone who doesn’t read Sherlock Holmes, I was like…who?) But I was still hoping for something more enjoyable, especially after I spent fifteen quid on it. Yikes!

SISTERS BY A RIVER

On the bank of the River Avon, five sisters are born. The seasons come and go, the girls take their lessons under the Ash tree, and always there is the sound of water swirling through the weir. Then, unexpectedly, an air of decay descends upon the house: ivy grows unchecked over the windows, angry shouts split the summer air, the milk sours in the larder and their father takes out his gun. Tragedy strikes the family, and before long the furniture is being auctioned off and the sisters are dispersed among relatives.

In her daring, witty first novel, originally published in 1947, Barbara Comyns’ unique young heroine relates the vivid and bittersweet story of her childhood.

Reading Sisters By a River is the same as being talked to by a little kid who’s telling you a series of rambling anecdotes in the most [blazé/indifferent] way about what most would consider a clearly troubling childhood.

The grownups didn’t get ill very often, Daddy did once get a stroke and go stiff all down one side, but he came loose again quite soon, the parrott missed him so much while he was ill it died, and we had a funeral, the next parrot wasn’t very nice, it smelt, Kathleen was supposed to clean it but she didn’t.

To clarify, her dad had a stroke, and she spends more time talking about the parrot. In the story Boats and Fishing, where she spends a lot of time recounting her mother’s food preparation for picnics, and swimming in the river with her sisters, and fishing for eels, the very last sentence mentions their dad finding a dead boy under his boat. And that’s pretty much the tone of the book.

The narrator (unamed) reflects on her childhood spent in the large rambling house she lived in with her sisters, alcoholic father,  disinterested mother, and stubborn, hoarding grandmother. But she loves the outdoors for its many fruit trees and the river at their doorstep, and most importantly, lack of structured schooling. Her and her sisters definitely grew up half-wild, but we learn snippets of what become of them in their adult years, so I guess it all worked out alright in the end.

The chapters are short, sporadically told vignettes, giving conscise impressions of their miserable lives with their neglectful, argumentative parents, and many mistreated pets.

It’s a short book, with darker tones that belie the cheerful cover (so don’t be fooled if you’re thinking it looks like a pleasant little spring/summer read). I mean it is charming in its own way…but only as it’s told from the perspective of childhood memories, and not the viewpoint of the grown-up woman who’s recounting them.

THE COMPLETE FAIRY TALES

Told with wonder, simplicity and compassion, Oscar Wilde’s fables and fairy stories have moved generations of readers. This collection brings together all his magical tales. Here, in far-off kingdoms and ocean realms, in the company of giants, nightingales and golden princes, Wilde speaks of heartbreak and redemption, of selfishness and sacrifice, of love lost, of love gained, of love everlasting.

The Complete Fairy Tales are made up of nine stories from two previous publications, The Happy Prince and Other Tales, and A House of Pomegranates, published three years later.

The first five stories of this collection consist of The Happy Prince, about a golden statue who feels burdened with the responsibility to  do all he can to help the less fortunate people in his city, The Nightingale (poor bird!), The Selfish Giant, who hates the local kids using his garden (I mean…he kinda has a point. They are breaking in), The Devoted Friend, and honestly fuck that guy for taking advantage of someone’s good nature, and The Remarkable Rocket, about sentient explosives who doesn’t fear the end (and a rocket who would get on wonderfully with the aforementioned ‘devoted friend’). They’re short, imaginatively told bedtime stories with sad times, and talking birds (and rockets).

But the following stories are… a bit different. They’re longer, heavier with the description, with a more religious, moral focus. I think. Because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to get from The Birthday of the Infanta, which  begins with an introduction to a sad king with a dead wife and an evil brother (a storyline that doesn’t go anywhere), then a lot of detail about his daughter’s birthday party, followed by more detail about the woods, when we suddenly follow a new character, a clueless dwarf who’s described as being a ‘hideously ugly monster’ who dances for a bit for the princess, sees how ugly he looks, and dies. And the princess just…runs out of the room. The end.

The Fishrman and his Soul was more engaging (at least the first half) it’s sort of the little mermaid meets peter pan..? Kinda? But not really? A fisherman finds a mermaid and falls in love, but can’t be with her because he has a soul. He goes to a witch for help and she tells him how to get rid of his soul, and honestly for an ‘evil witch,’ she really isn’t that bad. He’s separated from his soul, his soul leaves, but comes back after a year, and tells the fisherman about his exploits, and man that guy can talk. Brace yourself for some long-winded, monotonous paragraphs, because this is where the most interesting story turns into the most mundane.

The Star-Child is about a pretty but nasty boy on the road to redemption, and even though he starts off a little shit, you end up feeling sorry for him. (But that ending? What was that for?? Unnesessary. And a terrible way to end the book).  🫤

I think the first half is better suited to a younger readership. It’s charming and whimsical (despite some sad elements), and I love Wilde’s little talking plants and animals and rockets. It’s highly imaginative with some wonderful descriptions, and makes for a good springtime read. But as the later stories would appeal more to older readers who love longer, heavier subject matters, I’m not sure they all work well together in one book.