Ever wanted more time? Wouldn’t it be useful to live longer, learn more, have more experience, travel…
How about 600-700 years?
That’s the premise of How to Stop Time – a type of people, referred to here as Albas, who age very slowly.
The story is narrated by Tom, very much in the present day, yet born in the 1500s. Tom is part of the Albatross Society, a band of people led by mysterious millionaire Hendrich, who protect and help Albas when they run into trouble. Tom’s past includes a meeting with Shakespeare, travel with Captain Cook and playing a range of instruments – sounds glamorous doesn’t it? But his appearance is a front for a troubled soul. Tom’s mother was drowned as a witch when his condition caused suspicion among the townspeople where they lived and her death haunts him, as does his promise to her on the ducking stool that he live.
One hundred years later or so, Tom falls for Rose and marries her. Their love is sweet and kind, but his condition makes this difficult too and they are estranged for a time before Rose dies of the plague. This too haunts Tom. But it is his love for his daughter Miranda, herself an Alba, that troubles him the most. After he left Rose, Miranda ran away and for 400 years he’s tried to find her.
This is an ambitious yet easy to read book – encompassing observations on human nature, Donald Trump, greed, death, love and pride. Haig explores what makes us human and what we do to protect ourselves and those we love.
Today I welcome Andrew Crofts onto the blog as part of the blog tour for his new paperback title: Secrets of the Italian Gardener.
You may have read Andrew Crofts before, without knowing it. He’s a ghost writer. I’m always impressed by the idea of ghost writers, putting all that work in and not getting the credit. I think the attraction comes from the lingering idea of writers being dreamy inspired types, rather than thinking about it as an actual job.
Secrets of the Italian Gardener is Crofts as himself, although his main character is, you guessed it, a ghost writer. And the main question behind the plot is a simple one – what would make someone ghostwrite the story of a dictator? Would that make you complicit in their crimes? Do you need to be emotionally invested in your subject to be able to write about them?
‘Secrets’ is a novella, a slim 145 pages with the most gorgeous cover. It tells the story of a ghost writer trying to cobble together enough details of a Middle Eastern dictator, in order to write his biography. To do so, once in a while he is granted a few moments with Mo, the dictator, in his palace – a character we rarely meet but who in my mind became a mixture of Saddam Hussain and Colonel Gaddafi. The ghost has little to do with the rest of his time but brood on personal matters, and talk to the Italian gardener Lou.
We know fairly early on, that the ghost (who I think is unnamed – I’ve just scoured the text for his name. I don’t think I noticed this before – it’s written in the first person so it’s not immediately obvious) has had something awful happen at home and is separate from his wife and daughter. We can only speculate on what would drive someone to leave home and family to talk to a dictator about his life choices. And there is a safety, a cushioning, to the job. Not only is the ghost cushioned from facing whatever his reality at home is, but safe within the palace walls, all the inhabitants are shielded from the realities faced by the citizens outside, and further abroad.
A showdown is inevitable and comes in the form of a revolution, like the Arab Spring. We witness the downfall of a dictator and get a glimpse into who holds the real power in a society different to our own – a novella of political intrigue then. But it’s also a portrait of a marriage and how two people try to hold themselves together when faced with great tragedy. Finally it’s a question of ethics. Where do you draw the line, what’s your breaking point and how much are you willing to sacrifice your principles when you need to?
Some writers could, and would, make this into a longer thriller; a full novel of excitement and intrigue. But it’s not really necessary. There’s enough backstory and context laid out for you to imagine the rest and what you get here is a tightly plotted story with enough moments of reflection to provide clarity and depth of character. The result is still exciting but retains an air of realism (and cynicism, may I suggest?) about how the world really works. It doesn’t resort to cheap tricks for entertainment and is therefore unlikely to star Tom Cruise in any film adaptation. I say this as a good thing.
Laura Barnett’s The Versions of Us still sits on my TBR pile but I was interested in the idea of her second novel, especially when it was announced that Kathryn Williams would be providing an accompanying soundtrack.
Greatest Hits is the story of Cass Wheeler, a retired folk-pop singer-songwriter from the 1970s who takes a day to listen to her back catalogue and choose 16 songs to represent her life and work. As she does so, the story of her life emerges and we find out more about why each was written and what Cass has gone through to get to where she is, isolated and alone, but about to emerge with an album of new material.
Each chapter starts with a song and charts a part of Cass’s life, from her entrance into the world as the daughter of a vicar who christens her Maria because he feels she should, leaving Cassandra as her middle name. Cass’s mother has depression and leaves her husband and daughter to run away to Canada when Cass is a young girl. This act changes Cass’s life – emotionally in ways she takes years to recover from, and physically as she moves from her devastated father to live with her aunt and uncle. It is there that she takes her first real steps to a musical career.
Told purely from Cass’s point of view, the book is nevertheless a clear-eyed account of the mistakes we make as we get through life, and is unskimping on the details – the drug taking, drinking, domestic abuse. This is a novel about consequences, how we live with them, and about the elusive second chance.
Greatest Hits by Laura Barnett is published on 15 June 2017 by Weidenfeld and Nicolson
Laura Barnett’s The Versions of Us still sits on my TBR pile but I jumped at the chance of reading this because I LOVE the idea of a book with an accompanying soundtrack. There aren’t many books that do this; there are variations, obviously, such as playlists featuring songs mentioned in all the Rebus books, for example, and Vikram Seth’s An Equal Music has an accompanying CD. Greatest Hits, however, has an accompanying soundtrack that was written especially for the book – performed by the lovely Kathryn Williams – and I’m looking forward to hearing the songs when my pre-order arrives.
Greatest Hits is the story of Cass Wheeler, a retired folk-pop singer from the 1970s who sits one day and evaluates her life while choosing her favourite songs from her back catalogue. Each chapter starts with the lyrics to the song and tells of a period in Cass’s life starting with her childhood as the daughter of a vicar whose mother suffered from depression and PND and then ran away to Canada with another man. The fallout from this changed Cass’s life, emotionally and practically, as she moved to live with her uncle and aunt.
We know from the present-day parts of the book that Cass has undergone some kind of tragedy that has meant she retreated from the world and that she is about to re-emerge with some new material. The details of this are made clear as the book progresses, in heartbreaking fashion.
Told purely from Cass’s point of view, Greatest Hits is nevertheless a clear-eyed account of mistakes made – and is unskimping on details, including drugs and domestic abuse -and about consequences and how to live with them. If this sounds pretty depressing, don’t depair – it’s a really enjoyable read.
Thanks to NetGalley for their advance copy. Greatest Hits is published on 15 June 2017 and the accompanying CD by Kathryn Williams is also available on that date.
Some of you may know of my love for the US author Richard Russo. When I heard he was making a rare UK appearance at Damian Barr’s Literary Salon at the Savoy I knew I had to make the effort to go. A Monday night and a trip from Nottingham and back for work the next day – all doable with planning and caffeine.
Imagine, if you will, a local government worker with a book to sell, a working parent whose little spare time is spent reading and writing, a comfortable if tiring routine to the days, little social life, an introvert with a hint of shyness (laying it on thick but still…) Now imagine The Savoy, all 1930s decor, hushed corridors and doormen, the Lancaster ballroom a swirling light blue, plaster detail, gilding and mirrored doors. FULL of people many of whom know each other, all of whom appear to be fully au fait with their surroundings. And take a breath.
Obviously, there was no need to worry. Everyone was friendly. The room was a lovely atmosphere and I sat and chatted to those on my table – all seemed to think I was slightly bonkers to be here from Nottingham for the evening, and none of whom had heard of Richard Russo before. I did my best to recommend books for them to start with, and said he was very funny.
The Literary Salon was set up just as I left the book industry so while it was my first time, it’s well established as a high class literary event – “always a good night out” said the man at my table. I sipped a lovely Valpolicella – recommended by another Damian Barr project A Book and a Bottle – to be drunk while reading Jessie Burton’s The Muse (on my TBR pile so now I will be forced to buy some wine – such a hard life). Fine writers, good wine, lovely surroundings – it’s all you could want if you fancy a bit of the high life once in a while.
Damian appeared with a flourish from behind the stage curtains, nattily dressed in bow tie and light blue trousers. He gave a sparkling introduction, referencing Noel Coward, the importance of diversity and tolerance and mentioning the terrible events of Saturday night not far away on London Bridge. And then our first guest was up.
The joy of all literary events, of course, is that you get to hear about books and ideas that you may not otherwise come across if just browsing. I doubt I would have otherwise found Sam Leith’s book You Talkin’ to Me? or Natalie Haynes’ Children of Jocasta but they were both terrific and obviously now added to my ever-growing TBR list.
A break before the main man appeared. I was getting slightly nervous by this point as I needed to leave soon to catch my last train home. I had planned on 9.15 leaving time but we were reconvening after the break at 9pm and I’d have come all this way and barely caught what I wanted to see. It’s a literary salon, I’m not criticising, the atmosphere was much better relaxed but… eeek!
But then there he was, reading out a selection from Everybody’s Fool, and how the people at my table laughed. I felt vindicated in my praise. It was a lovely interview, moving in places and funny in others, or it was until I finally had to sneak out.
Now, obviously the sensible person with a trek across London to make her train at St Pancras takes a cab. I am not a sensible person and I hate cabs and avoid them wherever possible (don’t ask why – it’s completely irrational of me). A combination of running and the tube was therefore my option. As I did this, I learned a number of things:
I usually run 10k twice a week so distance and endurance is not an issue but not wearing a sports bra is. Ouch.
Running while trying to preserve the lemon meringue cupcakes you bought as a treat for the hubby is a lost cause.
Running in a waterproof coat causes heat to build up from your body so that when you reach your destination, you sit and steam gently. A sauna from within. Such a great look.
My backpack, so useful for everyday life, does not take well to running and will burst open. Say what you will about London but I know of few other cities where a strange man will step into a rain-soaked road, pick up the contents of a woman’s handbag – including smashed face powder and a tampon – and return them to her without batting an eyelid. (The northern man is too preoccupied with humour for gallantry in this way.)
The Northern line from Charing Cross doesn’t go to St Pancras – only Euston where you have to catch a different train across or run down the Euston Road. No prizes for guessing which I chose.
I made the train with minutes to spare and tucked into my Savoy sandwich and smashed cupcake.
What lessons can we learn from this?
The Literary Salon events are lovely and I must come again. Next time, however, perhaps a hotel and an early morning train would be the way to go. Or even, maybe, a cab.
I was delving into the BBC’s website the other day and came across one of my favourite authors, Barbara Trapido, on the Book Club programme. She and the audience were discussing The Travelling Hornplayer. Trapido has written seven novels and four of them are linked. By linked, I mean that characters return and live on in different stories. They’re not sequels exactly, or at least not in the standard way that we expect, if only because I’m not sure if Trapido envisioned writing them all like that when she started out. From the way she describes it on the programme, it sounds a more organic process, that by thinking about a situation she also considers “Who do we know that would do this?” and sometimes that answer is a character that already lives in her head, or on her pages.
I have a complicated relationship with sequels, in that I find most of them invariably spoil the original for me. Jo’s Boys and Little Men, for example, are awful, and EM Forster wrote a brief sequel to A Room With a View, included in my paperback version as an extra ‘treat’ for the reader (every reader except me that is.) Successful sequels, when done well, can bring more to the originals, can enhance and continue the characters and answer some of the readers’ questions. The best example of this I can think of are the sequels to Rebecca – Mrs de Winter by Susan Hill and Rebecca’s Tale by Sally Beauman. They both continue the best aspects of the original while staying true to it (for example, neither of them name the main character, indeed I doubt any reader would find a name satisfactory).
Series are different, since they aren’t sequels in the true sense. But you can still find yourself disconcerted if the author does something unexpected. I still haven’t finished Michael Tolliver Lives just because I was so thrown by the sudden switch to the first person narrative after six books told in the third person.
Trapido’s approach is rather fun. Having just dug my copy of The Travelling Hornplayer out, I found a family tree and connections map that I must have drawn years ago when I first read the books.
Isn’t it sweet? But complicated and messy in a way that suggests that a) I’m rubbish at drawing family trees or b) Trapido ended up with a set of coincidences that are as messy as life itself.
With these interactions between books, Trapido says in Book Club that she was reprimanded and “not forgiven” by some readers who didn’t like the direction that character had taken. I do understand this. My favourite Trapido book is her debut Brother of the More Famous Jack, and I love the main character Katherine so much that I am disappointed by her overbearing smothering (yet completely understandable) mothering of her second child Stella, which has such damaging consequences later. All of this comes out in The Travelling Hornplayer where, it also transpires that Katherine’s husband Jonathan has been having affairs. Of course he has. I forgive Jonathan’s transgression because it’s in character but I have trouble reconciling myself to him and his family isolating Katherine – although she chooses to travel to Ireland with him at the end of BOTMFJ, she has had a shocking bereavement and a spell of mental illness and the last thing she needs is to be alone with a baby while he writes books and philanders. Her concentration on the baby is understandable but I wonder if she would have been like this had she had a closer physical network of family and friends nearby who could have helped and lessened the focus.
What makes people feel resentful about characters changing in this way is that when you read, you accompany people through their story and, in many cases, get to a happy ending. A later volume means you’re not allowed to let them go on living happily ever after. As a reader, you’re powerless to stop the mistakes they make and this can be worse when you thought you got safely with them to the end of their first book.
As a writer though, there is an attraction to this approach. Getting to know a character can often mean that you think of them in certain situations, so why not put them through the wringer all over again? The convenience of having a ready-made philanderer on hand must have been helpful and gives you a chance to pop back and say hello to those you haven’t quite done with.
This makes it sound like the answer for a lazy writer and that’s not the case at all. Trapido’s books are intricate weavings of characters and situations, with literary references thrown into the mix. If you’ve not read her before, why not give her a try? You won’t regret it.
Novellas still seem rare but are often intriguing. There is much in the 170 pages of The End We Start From that could have been fleshed out and given more detail but I’m not sure the end result would have been as powerful.
All you need to know is that an enormous flood has wiped out London and much of England. No why, when or how. While some preparations were in place, the devastation was still hard to manage. The narrator and heroine of this book, unnamed, flees with her husband and newborn son (also unnamed, in fact characters are only referred to by their first initial in this book) to Scotland to his parents’ home. When a further family tragedy takes place the three of them up and leave again, to a refugee camp but the husband runs away, unable to cope.
Unnamed and baby leave the camp and sail to an island commune where they are safe for a while but reports of the mainland leave her feeling she must return and try to find her husband.
So far, so post-apocalyptic, but what grounds the story and makes it both powerful and relevant is the part of the narrative about the new baby. Interspersed with the devastation and fear are her experiences of new motherhood, so normal and down to earth and relatable. These serve to make us realise how and why life goes on, that for every tragedy, every natural disaster or war or attack, humans endure through devastation, panic and heartbreak.
In a world that seems every day to turn its back ever harder on those fleeing war zones and all kinds of horror, it is perhaps more important than ever that books like The End We Start From are published, and to provide a searing glimpse of “there but for the grace…” that we seem to so badly need. An excellent debut.
If you haven’t seen any of the pre-publication hype over this book, then you may have been living in a cave for the last few months. It’s been hyped. And so I will start by boldly stating: it is well worth the hype.
There’s a good chance that, even if you know nothing else about Lizzie Borden, you have heard the children’s rhyme she inspired: ‘Lizzie Borden took an axe, and gave her mother forty whacks, When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.’ Lizzie was tried, and acquitted, of the murder of her father and step-mother – though the acquittal was mainly on the basis that women didn’t do things like that. No one else was ever charged. It is still a mystery.
A great basis, then, for a novel. Schmidt has done her research into the crime and the time and the place and it is skilfully woven into this beauty of a book. Told from the point of view of Lizzie and her sister Emma, who was away from the family home at the time of the crime, as well as two non-family members, the maid Bridget and a further potential suspect Benjamin, you get to walk around the Borden household and try to work out what could have happened. At times the narrative is confusing, especially where Lizzie is concerned, a reflection of her tangled statements to the police. You are left wondering if she is traumatised and upset or really cunning. The other characters are more lucid in comparison and their voices help to bring a context to the family, the killings, and the town they took place in.
This is a visceral book. You might expect that from a book about a double axe murder, but it’s not just from the descriptions of the grisly deaths. Vomit features heavily, as does sweat and a general sense of unwashed bodies. Mr Borden kept the house locked and the windows closed, he didn’t have an indoor toilet plumbed in and so the household all had slops pails to empty each morning. All of this features in the book and makes the reader start to itch, feeling the fetid atmosphere of the house, you can almost smell it. The publicity features flies hovering and buzzing around and the air must have been thick with them.
Fluids. Stench. Dirt. Festering. You get the picture. This is not a happy house. Even the scene where the maid is cleaning has no effect. The oppressive atmosphere builds and at times you may have to put the book down because it gets so creepy. But not for long because you HAVE to know what happens next.
As you can see, I loved this – a really riveting read and a strong sense of atmosphere.
See What I Have Done by Sarah Schmidt is published by Tinder Press on 2 May 2017. Thanks to Tinder Books and Georgina Moore for the proof copy that enabled me to write this review.
I feel perhaps I should change the target for my reading challenge this year, I’m well over halfway towards it already. I didn’t expect to get through so many books this year and still manage to keep up with writing every day but it turns out a healthier eating and exercise regime can have unexpected benefits with sleep quality too. *turns into health bore* Sorry.
My Name is Lucy Barton – Elizabeth Strout
I really enjoyed Olive Kitteridge, Strout’s previous book, and this got so many great reviews that I nearly wasn’t disciplined enough to wait for the paperback. However, I’m glad I did – because I didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as I thought I would. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but it lacked a certain something for me. Obviously the subject matter was dark, and realistic, and impressively low-key – so many lesser authors could’ve made a meal of the revelations, but still. I’m going to hang onto it for a while because I think a re-read may yield more.
The Reluctant Fundamentalist – Mohsin Hamid
I heard Hamid interviewed on Radio 4 the other week and realised I’d not read his best-known book. How I enjoyed it, once I’d got used to the style. The style is, I think, the best thing about it but its honesty about the politics was refreshing and full of things observers felt perhaps they couldn’t say in the time following 9/11.
The Last Days of Leda Grey – Essie Fox
A journalist finds a copy of a beautiful 1930s silent film star in a shop in a coastal town and sets off to find the star, now a reclusive old lady living in the ruins of a house on the cliffs. His interviews aim to find the truth about her life. I don’t want to go into more detail without giving away the plot but I found it unsettling, immersive, creepy and melancholy. I really enjoyed this!
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running – Haruki Murakami
Non fiction of the month is a running book that came into my mind when I was out for a run myself. I’ve never read any of Murakami’s novels – I find the cult of him rather offputting and really should get over myself – but I enjoyed this wander around his mind and a lot of what he said resonated with me. The comments about training yourself as a runner and writer make sense, and if I can get myself to run 10k within a matter of weeks, why do I not apply the same techniques to writing with more discipline? While I writer every day, the amounts vary and the results are less obvious – I have a feeling this is more to do with self doubt than anything else. I do like that he doesn’t really think of anything while he runs, because neither do I but I think people often assume that you do.
Guernica – Dave Boling
I know very little about the Spanish Civil War so my non-fiction aims now include Antony Beevor’s book about it – there is so much literature based around the conflict. This was an interesting book and I think it probably benefited from me not having much knowledge of the war. The first half of the book is mainly to immerse the reader in the town of Guernica and some of the families within. There are brief cameos from Picasso and the German bomber in charge of the attack. The characters are perhaps a little one-dimensional but I didn’t think I mind this, until the main attack occurred and then I found that I wasn’t as upset at what happened as I might have been in the hands of a better author. The other problem with Guernica is that of course, there was no real revenge or conclusion to the atrocity, so the author has to manufacture a slightly contrived ending in order to bring about an end to the story. But having said all that, I still found this an interesting read and it will spur me onto find out more.
Hold Back the Stars – Katie Khan
I rarely read sci fi but I enjoyed this very much indeed. The opening chapter is astonishing, and draws you right in, hand in heart. This is a love story between Carys and Max and we find them floating in space further away from their spaceship, and with only 90 minutes worth of air left. In that time, we learn about how they met and why they’re floating in space. It turns out there’s been a massive war that has destroyed the USA and the Middle East, and much of the remaining world has joined together in a utopian system which forbids people to form close relationships until they’re over 35. And the asteroid belt has moved closer to Earth and prevented humans from exploring space any further. As you can imagine, there is a lot to cover in the book, and Khan intersperses the countdown of air chapters with the backstory with ease.
The Lauras – Sara Taylor
I thought Taylor’s first book was good but not completely enjoyable. This was different. Told in the first person by Alex, a teenager of indeterminate gender, as their mother leaves their father and goes on a road trip, just the two of them, to clear up loose ends. Alex’s mum spent her youth in foster homes and broken homes and has gone through all kinds of unpleasantness, but made friends – many of them called Laura – and promises along the way. The two of them have to stop every so often for Alex to go to school and for the mum to make some money by waitressing but essentially make their way across the US and finally up to Canada to find one of The Lauras. Along the way, Alex starts to grow up, find out more about what kind of person they want to be. It’s an occasionally bleak, but always absorbing read.
Standard Deviation – Katherine Heiny
If you ever wanted to read a book that talked about the phrase, “most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” this is it. Heiny’s first novel is a very funny story of a marriage, told from the point of view of Graham, the husband. His second wife Audra is unlike anyone I would ever want to meet in real life, and there are moments when Graham appears to feel the same. Through a string of awkward encounters at parties, with his first wife, with friends and odd acquaintances, Graham and Audra look after their son, who has Asperger’s and try and get through life as best they can. It’s insightful, bitchy, wickedly funny and a really good read.
I’m so pleased to welcome Kay Langdale to the blog today, to answer questions about her most recent book, The Comfort of Others.
Minnie and her sister Clara are two elderly spinsters living in an old house in the middle of a housing estate. They have an ordered lifestyle, trying where they can to stop decay in the house, and living quietly together. One day Minnie starts to write again in her childhood diary, finally ready to record the unspoken sadness at the heart of the sisters’ existence.
In the house opposite them, lives Max and his mother. Max has never known his father and is happy with his life until his mother gets a new boyfriend. Confused and feeling rejected, he starts to use his mother’s old Dictaphone as a diary.
The two characters become unlikely friends and their stories intertwine, each influencing the other in ways they didn’t expect. And as they do so, the ghosts of the past and the challenges of the present weave together to make an enthralling read.
I should start the Q&A by saying how much I enjoyed the book – I raced through it, reading it very quickly. It’s absorbing, moving and there’s some lovely humour and humanity in it.
What made you decide on a diary format?
I felt that the diary format allowed me to get under the skin of the characters better, especially Minnie. Her reticence meant that she would not have chosen to talk directly with anyone about what happened to her, and so allowing her to write it down felt like the most authentic means of capturing it. With Max, the Dictaphone allowed uninhibited chatting which felt somehow more age appropriate. At the beginning he says that he feels like a reporter, and so it allows him an emotional freedom to explore what’s happening to him.
The book hinges around the idea of an estate sold off with new houses surrounding a large manor house – Minnie is hemmed in. Where did this idea come from? Is the house based on anywhere in particular?
I drove past a large house once that had been similarly surrounded by an estate, and I was very struck by how it looked as if it was marooned in its own space like a vast sea creature. I felt the idea worked on multiple levels; life is going on beyond the house while Minnie is ‘encased’ within it, and also the estate has erased the parkland but it’s all still there in Minnie’s mind. It allowed the past spaces to still have a physical, ghostly presence.
The book is made up of tiny details and there’s a theme of ‘noticing’ things, overlooking people as they go about their lives. You seem to celebrate the beauty in the everyday – do you see this as part of the writer’s job?
Yes, most definitely. I also think the small things often communicate the most. So often, it is a small detail about someone’s life that tells us the truth of that life. I think that the home, and the daily round, are sacred spaces.
I loved Max’s humour – he was such an enjoyable narrator – the book has such distinctive character voices, Minnie being more formal. How did you ensure the voices were so distinctive while you were writing them? Did you write large parts in each voice and then divide them up for the smaller chapters?
I confess to hopping between them. I had a very strong sense of them as characters right from the beginning and so moving between their voices wasn’t difficult. The first time we see Minnie is the image I first had of her; waiting, hands clasped, by the bay window. Minnie’s most difficult scenes I wrote in one section, mostly because it was such an immersive piece of writing. I also listened to the Bach Goldberg sonata piece Minnie refers to – over and over while I wrote – which was a way of steeping me in Minnie’s experience. (It’s the version played very slowly by Glenn Gould and is for, me, the musical heart map of the book.)
Minnie’s formal style makes the two shocking scenes almost more shocking and sad because of the matter of fact way she relates them. Yet in some ways her sister Clara seems more repressed of the two elderly women. Was this something you consciously wanted to explore? Minnie’s experiences as a young girl, and then as a palliative nurse, make her more alive and attuned to the importance of showing kindness while we learn little of Clara and how she feels.
You are absolutely right. It was completely my intention that Clara remained ‘unexplained’. The things we know about her – that she painted a watercolour, that she sat on a bench with a boy, that a Latin teacher phoned her – is all reported by Minnie. We only see Clara through the prism of Minnie. We always see Clara behaving responsibly –as first born children often do – and conducting herself just as her mother would like. The only time Clara indirectly communicates is when she plays the piano at two key moments in the novel.
I saw Minnie and Clara’s relationship to each other like a duet, but we can only hear one voice. It was my intention that the reader has to piece together Clara’s story for themselves – to imagine how it was for her. I’m quite interested in one day writing Clara’s version. Perhaps she was not always as stultified as Minnie perceived.
The other thing I loved was a small detail about Max’s friend Eddie who has special needs. Max’s friendship with him is important to both of the boys but it’s not made a big deal of in the book. I liked how Max was able to connect with ‘outsiders’ but how he just sees them as other people – his innocence is refreshing and ideal. Was this a conscious decision to reflect something about Max or did you want to include a different character who was just part of the landscape?
It was both. I wanted Max’s world to be less confined that Minnie’s, and I thought it was important – and realistic – that he would have school friends and experiences outside of his home and Rosemount. But, the fact that Max is so intuitive about Eddie’s needs was important in the way I was trying to build his character. For Max, the quality of love is a little unreliable and as such he is watchful and alert. He is quick to sense other’s discomfort or disquietude. However, his natural warmth and sunniness means he is also quick to provide an antidote to it. With Eddie, he works within what makes Eddie comfortable. It’s that innate sweetness which I think Minnie senses in him, which is why she allows herself to begin the friendship.
Thank you for such interesting and insightful questions – I’ve loved answering them.
There we go! Thank you so much to Kay Langdale for answering my questions. The Comfort of Others is available now in paperback, priced at £8.99.
My thanks to Hodder Books for sending me a free copy to prepare the questions