The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans

 

Probably unfairly, I tend to be a bit suspicious of novels which have reams of enthusiastic quotes adorning the cover ond inside pages, and which have won prizes as well. Jealousy, perhaps? Well, it's possible. So it's a good job that this book was chosen for our next book group discussion, else I would probably never have read it.

Well - I've just read it, and I loved it. Why? Well, it's about a woman in her seventies - Sybil Van Antwerp - who is stuggling to come to terms with several difficult things in her life. I too am in my seventies, so if not - I hope - sitting in Death's waiting room, I am certainly heading towards the carpark. And so... well, you do tend to contemplate things a bit, as Sybil does.

Sybil is an enthusiastic and inveterate letter writer - we take this on trust for most of the novel, which is entirely told through letters (though we do eventually find out the reason for her preference for expressing herself through letters). She has an eye condition which means she will eventually lose her sight. She lives alone. The letters are to a number of different correspondents, including Rosalie, her dear friend and sister in law, her son and daughter, her eye specialist, Harry Landy, the rather unhappy son of an old friend, her neighbour, Theodore, and the dean of the local college, with whom she is having a long-running dispute about her admission onto some courses. She also writes to famous people - mostly writers - such as Joan Didion, and gets letters back.

None of this sounds particularly gripping, does it? But it is. Partly because underlying all the apparent trivia, there are two mysteries. One relates to the death of her son, Gilbert, as a child, and the other concerns some rather disturbing anonymous letters which she begins to receive. Of course, we are invested in finding the solutions to these.

But mostly, I think, it is the character of Sybil itself which captures our interest. At first, she appears to be rather acerbic, perhaps selfish, set in her ways. But gradually, so much more emerges. She is honest. She admits when she is wrong. She is caring, even if she doesn't shout about it. She is formidably intelligent. She is willing to change - and she does change. One key scene for me is when, after years of wrangling with Melissa, the college dean, by letter, she finally decides to go to confront her. And when she sees Melissa, exhausted after a difficult meeting, she suddenly stops in her tracks and properly sees the other woman, and understands why she has behaved as she has done. And they become friends.

So she can recalibrate, she can change - she may be old, but she's not stuck. And in the end, her life does change - instead of narrowing down, it opens out. Which is a distinctly encouraging thing to read about.

As well as all that, the book is sharply written and cleverly constructed. I hugely enjoyed it.

Wild Dark Shore, by Charlotte McConaghy

This the best book I've read in quite some time. It's a gripping thriller, it's a book that's deeply concerned about climate and environment, it's about relationships between parents and children, it's a love story - and as well as all this, it's very beautifully written.

It's set on a fictional island called Shearwater - which does, however, have a lot in common with Macquarie Island, which is in the South Pacific between Australia and Antarctica. The fictional island has an international seedbank, which is threatened - as is the whole island - by rising sea levels. The island's caretakers are a close-knit family comprising widower Dom Salt and his children Raff, Fen and nine year-old Orly. 

Then one day, Fen rescues a woman who has been washed ashore after the boat which was bringing her to the island is wrecked. She - Rowan - is at first secretive about where she's from and how she comes to be in this remote spot - and she soon realises that the family has its own secrets too. But despite herself, she grows closer to all of them, and love grows.

If I told you any more than that about the plot, it would completely spoil it for you. And I wouldn't want to do that, because the author has constructed the plot with fiendish skill - just when you think you know what's going on, there's an unexpected twist, and another level is revealed.

The characters, and the relationships between them, are richly realised. Though there is one anomaly: Orly, the nine year-old, is incredibly knowledgeable about seeds and plants - about botany. This is fine - but the voice in the chapters which he narrates is absolutely not that of a nine year-old - it's the voice of an expert adult. Whereas when Orly is described by any of the other characters, he's clearly a child, and a very lovable one.

The writing is beautiful. The descriptions of the island, the sea, the wildlife - all stunning.

This is a very, very good book indeed.

Wild Journey, by A. m. Dassu, illustrated by Joe Lillington, published by Zephyr

 

NB - Although I'm a children's writer, I don't usually write here about children's books. But this one is special - AND it would make a lovely Christmas present, particularly for a child who's interested in nature.

I live near the Somerset Levels, which are famous for the murmurations of thousands of starlings which take place during the winter months. These are extraordinary events: the sound as the vast flocks fly overhead is like a rushing wind, or like great waves crashing onto the shore.

So I was immediately captivated by the murmuration pictured on the cover of A. M. Dassu’s Wild Journey, and by the subtitle: A Flight of Stories Across Deserts and Forests, Cities and Seas. And the book most definitely did not disappoint.

It is a collection of stories about children in different parts of the world, each featuring a murmuration, and with the recurring motif of a black feather. The first story concerns Jamal, who comes from London but is spending a long sort-of holiday in Egypt. Normally he loves his holidays in Egypt, enjoying days out with his mother and grandparents – but this time they are here because his grandfather is ill and confined to bed, and Jamal is bored, and misses his friends and his father.

Then one afternoon, his grandmother takes him to see a murmuration. He is thrilled by the spectacle – but then a falcon goes on the attack, and Jamal rescues a wounded bird which falls to the ground. They take it home, and his mother, who is a vet, binds up the bird’s damaged wing. Jamal becomes attached to the bird – it’s his new friend. But he has to learn the harsh lesson that sometimes the price of loving something is that you have to set it free, to let it go: much as he wants to, he cannot keep the bird – just as, though this is not made at all explicit, he cannot keep his grandfather.

The other stories are very varied. There’s an adventure in the Sahara, an encounter with wolves in Spain, a refugee in an English school, a boy on a French farm struggling to come to terms with a new half-sister. The starlings wheel and dive through them all, linking them gracefully together.

I love this book. There are so many fantasy books for children, often very good – but it’s comparatively rare, and such a delight, to come across a book about real children, dealing with real difficulties in the real world. The stories are beautifully told, and incidentally take the reader on a virtual visit to a variety of different countries. It’s perfect for reading aloud, in class or at bedtime, but also for reading to oneself. The illustrations and the design are gorgeous, celebrating wildlife as well as adding to the stories. This is a book to cherish.

 

 

The Covenant of Water, by Abraham Verghese

 First, an apology/admission: I finished this book a couple of weeks ago, and really should have written about it straight away while it was fresh in my mind. It was so good that I raced through it, and really I should have re-read it before writing about it, but it's over 700 pages long, so that isn't going to happen!

It is set in the southern tip of India, in what was then called Travancore, but is now, I think, Kerala. It begins in 1900, with a 12 year-old girl called Maryamma (but always to be known as Big Ammachi), who is on her way to become the second wife of a much older man, and the mother of his child, Jo-jo. Parambil, where he lives, is a remote, tiny hamlet. You might expect this to end badly, but in fact it doesn't: eventually the unlikely couple fall in love, and Big Ammachi becomes the matriarch of a successful community. 

After a few chapters, there is a sudden switch to the other side of the world - to a boy named Digby, growing up in Glasgow with a mother who is incapable of looking after him. Despite this difficult start, he becomes a surgeon, eventually joining the Indian service. A terrible accident ends his career in the service, and by happenstance, he ends up not far away from Parambil.

It takes a long time, however, before we find out how these two stories intertwine. The novel is meticulously and very cleverly structured, with one thing leading to another seemingly inevitably. Everything, it turns out, is connected: something that happens in one generation is bound to affect the lives of later generations, sometimes for good, sometimes not - there is a lot of terrible tragedy in this novel, though also a lot of tenderness, a lot of love, and quite a bit of humour. It's a family saga - it takes us all the way up to the 1970s, telling us a lot about the history of India in the 20th century along the way. The large cast of characters are beautifully realised: it's like Dickens in that way: no character is too insignificant for the author to be fascinated by him or her, to want to get under his/her skin.

I found it quite rivetting - a marvellous book. One thing - Verghese, who also wrote Cutting For Stone, is a surgeon himself. He describes medical procedures and the pathology of various diseases in considerable - often excruciating - detail: I found myself skipping paragraphs at times. And therein lies another puzzle: how on earth does he find the time to write a book - especially one of this length - alongside maintaining such a demanding career? I have no idea. But I'm glad he does.

Allan Ahlberg

 This week, the great children's writer Allan Ahlberg died. (As with everything, people will have their own opinions as to what's 'great' and what's not, but I really doubt that anyone who's read Alan's books with children would dispute that accolade.)

Some of Allan's books.

You may not be able to see it very well from this small picture, but these books are very well-worn. Pages are creased, some are even torn: one has a couple of pages missing. That's because they have all been read many, many times, first with our children, now with our grandchildren. They are very, very well-loved.

All these were illustrated by Allan's wife, Janet, who died much too soon. (He went on to write more books with other terrific artists, but I don't think they will mind me saying that his partnership with Janet was particularly special.) The illustrations are brilliant: so detailed, with so much to look at and talk about. Peepo, for instance, describes what a baby can see when he looks around him. It is set in wartime - the baby's father is in uniform - and much of what he sees is familiar to someone who can recall a fifties' childhood, but I really don't think that matters: Peepo is for small children, who take in and are fascinated by everything they see - it doesn't matter if what they see is different to their own world, the point is that it's interesting - and that it's about a family, about everyday goings-on. So on one particular spread, these are Alan's words:

He sees a bonfire smoking

    Pigeons in the sky

His mother cleaning windows

    A dog going by.

He sees his sisters searching

    For a jar or tin

To take up to the park

    And catch fishes in.

Janet takes up the pointers in the text and runs with them - but she also adds so much more: an outdoor toilet with a coal-hole next to it, an old-fashioned pram, a skipping rope, a toy tricycle, the mother's pinafore, the baby's toys, a little dog, and much more besides. So much to talk about and discuss, so much to share and enjoy.

Each Peach Pear Plum takes figures from nursery rhymes and fairy tales and spins a tale that includes all of them, ending in a triumphant page turn that reveals all the characters having a joyous picnic together: the Wicked Witch chortles happily, Little Red Riding Hood strokes a sheep, Robin Hood feeds Baby Bunting, and so on. Pure genius. And the words are perfectly balanced, so that each page of text leads you into the picture opposite, and then, with bated breath, onto the next page. (This book is very well-worn.) 

The other books in the picture are for older children. They too are absolute classics. They're just lovely to read aloud. The text is perfectly paced, leading you to pause in just the right places for a reveal or a joke, and again, the pictures don't just illustrate the text, they add to it. I'll leave you with this picture of one of my favourite spreads in this or any other book. Allan, thank you for the stories. The angels are lucky to have you. I can just imagine them sitting around chortling - and asking for just one more before bedtime - please!

The Glassmaker, by Tracy Chevalier

Tracy Chevalier's new novel is set in Venice, and it's about a glassmaker named Orsola. The author - perhaps best known for Girl With A Pearl Earring, inspired by Vermeer's famous picture - does very strange things with time in this novel. I'm still not entirely sure that this aspect of it works for me: I felt mildly irritated by it as I read the book - until I reached the end, when it suddenly came together triumphantly, and I almost burst out clapping.

What she does is this. The book starts in 1486 with nine year-old Orsola Rosso, the daughter of a glassmaking family on the island of Murano. It ends in 2020, with the Covid epidemic. At this time, Orsola is sixty five. The premise is that time flows differently in Venice, so that Orsola and her family and associates live somehow outside the passage of time on Terrafirma - the world that is not Venice. This enables the author to encompass centuries of Venetian history, as she takes up Orsola's life at various key points.

As a girl, Orsola is not expected to work in the family business. But when her father dies in a tragic accident, and the business, under the direction of her brother Marco, starts to go downhill, she is determined to do something to help. She learns how to make beads - and then she goes to Venice to persuade the merchant who handles the family's exports to sell them for her. On her trip she meets Antonio, a handsome young man who wants to learn glassblowing, and his friend Domenego, a Black gondolier who is a slave. These two become important threads in her life.

At this point, Venice is a powerful trading nation. But things change, as they always do, and time moves on - though not for Orsola and her circle. She experiences the plague, the advent of Napoleon, the wars of the twentieth century, and then the Covid epidemic of the twenty first. So it goes, until that very clever, satisfying ending.

I'm still not sure about the timing device, though it certainly enables the author to convey the sweep of more than 500 years of Venetian history. But quite apart from that, the writing is beautiful; the descriptions of Venice and particularly of the glassmaking process are extraordinary. It's clear from the novel itself that Tracy Chevalier did a vast amount of research for it, and this is confirmed in her note at the end. And the portrayals of Orsola, her family and friends, are vivid and engaging - we come to care about them. In the end, a very satisfying read.

Paris '44 - The Shame and the Glory: by Patrick Bishop

 Full disclosure: someone gave this to my husband for his birthday. It joined a fairly hefty to-be-read pile, and so I decided to liberate it and read it first. I don't think he minded.

I've read quite a lot of books about the Second World War. I probably would have anyway - how can you not be interested in all the stories that emerge from such a conflict? - but my particular interest arose when I decided to write a book inspired by - but not a faithful account of - my father's experiences as a prisoner of war for five years. It's not yet been published (interested publishers, please form an orderly queue) - but even if it never is, I don't regret the years of research I put into it. I visited Kew Records Office and the Imperial War Museum, I was enthralled by the many accounts in the BBC's People's War archive, and I read many books. The ones I enjoyed most - probably because I'm not an academic or a trained historian - were the ones that told their story by focusing on individual lives. Books such as Dunkirk, The Men They Left Behind, by Sean Longden, Home Run, by John Nichol and Tony Rennell, and, by the same authors, The Last Escape (this last was particularly relevant for my book, because it was about the experience of prisoners of war, and particularly about the terrible march they were forced to make in the bitter winter of 1945, ahead of the advancing Soviet armies - my father took part in this. It's a marvellous book.)

Patrick Bishop's book is called Paris '44 - but it's about much more than that particular point in time. It's about what led up to it - about what it was like in France, and particularly Paris, during the occupation. Like the others I've mentioned, it uses the stories of individuals to tell the story, as well as focusing on the well-known leading figures: de Gaulle, Petain, General Eisenhower, Hitler himself, and people such as is J D Salinger, who took part in the liberation of France; Ernest Hemingway, who just seemed to love being wherever a war was - and Picasso, who emerges as a fairly ambiguous figure in his method of navigating the war. But there are many other less-well-known people, whose stories help to show what a complex business it was living through the Occupation: was it better to be a hero, at the risk of endangering many innocent lives (notoriously, when the Resistance shot a German, many more French people were executed in retaliation) - or to keep your head down and compromise? Easy to judge from the outside, perhaps - less so if you had to live through it. The subtitle hints at this complex picture: there is shame as well as glory. 

It's a fascinating story, as readable as any novel. As a companion piece, I'd recommend Anne Sebba's Les Parisiennes, a fascinating book about the women of Paris during the 1940s.