Tag Archives: WW2

Inspector Imanishi Investigates by Seichō Matsumoto (tr. Beth Cary)

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Born in Fukuoka in 1909, Seichō Matsumoto was one of Japan’s most acclaimed crime writers, publishing over thirty novels and several short stories during the course of his prolific career. His books, which often explored elements of human psychology and the broader social context of post-war Japanese life, made him popular with the country’s readers and critics alike. More recently, a handful of his books have been published in translation by Penguin Books, introducing Matsumoto’s work to a much wider audience.

I’ve already read and can highly recommend Matsumoto’s debut novel Tokyo Express (1958), an excellent howdunnit-style mystery, taking in elements of duplicity, intrigue and corruption, partly played out across Japan’s rail network, and Suspicion (1982) a tight, noirish novella about a suspicious death, which explores how public opinion and media reporting can influence the justice system. This brings me to the 1961 novel, Inspector Imanishi Investigates, one of Matsumoto’s best-loved novels, and an ideal read for Karen and Simon’s #1961Club. Ostensibly a complex, slow-burning police procedural, Inspector Imanishi Investigates also offers an intriguing insight into Japanese society in the early 1960s, a time when social inequalities and post-WW2 malaise characterised the social landscape. While the pace is more leisurely than in the other two Matsumoto novels I’ve read, there’s plenty for fans of his work to enjoy here – not least Inspector Imanishi himself, who proves to be a very likeable detective with a fondness for collecting bonsai trees and composting haikus.

From the opening pages, Matsumoto pitches us straight into the action when early one morning, the mutilated body of a man is found on the train tracks at Tokyo’s Katama Station. Naturally, the police are called in, and Inspector Imanishi quickly establishes himself as a leading player in the team. Despite some dogged detective work, the victim’s identity proves stubbornly hard to establish. A man resembling the victim was seen in conversation with another man, possibly the murderer, at a nearby bar the previous evening, but interviews with the bar staff identify just two potential clues – the name ‘Kameda’ and a distinctive accent native to Tohoku, the northeastern part of Japan’s Honshu region.

What follows is a lengthy, complex investigation as Inspector Imanishi and his younger colleague, Yoshimura, try to unravel the mystery surrounding the victim’s death, which an autopsy soon establishes as strangulation. The case takes the pair on a journey across Japan, exposing readers to a cross-section of Japanese society at the time, from modest workers in traditional rural communities to the more glamorous and murky lives of bar hostesses and their clients in the capital city.

‘…One case after another, the work keeps coming. But even though you’re assigned to something else, this kind of case stays on your mind. I’ve been a detective now for a long time, and I’ve been involved with three or four cases that were never solved. They’re old cases, but they’re always in a corner of my mind. Every now and then they pop up. It’s strange. I don’t remember anything about the cases that were solved, but I can recall clearly the faces of each of the victims of the unsolved cases. Well, now there’s one more to give me bad dreams.’ (pp. 57-58)

Central to the mystery are the Nouveau group, a collective of groundbreaking musicians, directors and critics eager to revolutionise various aspects of the creative arts, and possibly politics as well. One member, the composer, Waga Eiryo, is widely feted for his mission to ‘destroy the nature’ of conventional music’, attracting legions of adoring fans. His engagement to the daughter of a former cabinet minister – also an artist in her own right – adds another touch of prestige to Waga’s standing in the public eye. Also key to the group is Sekigawa, an influential critic who will stop at nothing to keep his affair with a vulnerable bar hostess under wraps. The deeper Imanishi delves, the more convinced he becomes of the Nouveau group’s involvement in the victim’s murder, but precisely how and why remain tantalisingly out of reach…

He left Club Bonheur feeling that he had been put in a difficult position. As he walked Ginza’s back streets, he realized his own contradictory thoughts. Neither Emiko nor Sekigawa was the object of his investigation. It was absurd for him to be pursuing them. Yet he could not figure out Emiko’s sudden move from his sister’s place. He connected this hurried move to the fact that she had found out he was a detective. The elaborate precautions she took in moving were suspicious. She appeared to be hiding something. But strange behaviour wasn’t reason enough for a detective to pursue her. (p. 196)

Part of the pleasure of this absorbing novel is spending time with Inspector Imanishi, who comes across as a courteous and meticulous man, slightly troubled by his advancing age and wasting police resources on an investigation that is proving remarkably challenging to crack. There are various false leads and loose ends along the way, many of which prove frustrating for the seasoned detective, but some lucky breaks prove fruitful, too. In fact, one criticism of the mystery part of the novel might be the numerous coincidences that crop up during the plot – probably too many to be true! However, I’m giving Matsumoto a pass on this, particularly given his interest in the murkier aspects of Japanese society.

The killer’s identity is rooted in the destruction Japan experienced during WW2, a time of great devastation for some and new opportunities for others. The stigmas associated with poverty, disease and homelessness are also significant here, prompting the murderer to disassociate himself from his origins at a formative age. These themes of shifting identities and reinvention are often part of the fabric of British mysteries set during wartime, but it’s interesting to see them in a parallel context here.

It had been very clever of him to establish his supposed parents at number 120, 2 Ebisu-cho, Naniwa Ward, in Osaka. This was an area where all the original family registers had been destroyed in an air raid. His school and the city had also been largely destroyed during the war. There were traces of his past, but nowhere was there concrete proof to establish his personal history, a history he had taken such pains to hide. (p. 322)

The solution to the crime, which includes a scientific element, is somewhat far-fetched, but as with many mysteries of this type, it’s the investigation itself and the insights into human nature that are more engaging than the resolution itself.

So, all in all, an absorbing, slow-burning mystery that offers readers many interesting insights into Japanese society at the time. There are signs of a country grappling with the balance between traditional societies with formal customs / hierarchies and progressive groups eager to push more radical thinking – a tension that provides plenty of opportunity for intriguing fiction, as Matsumoto discovered during his illustrious career.

Inspector Imanishi Investigates is published by Penguin Books; personal copy.

The Levant Trilogy (Books Two and Three) by Olivia Manning

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One of my informal reading aims for 2026 is to read Olivia Manning’s Levant Trilogy, which, together with her earlier Balkan Trilogy, forms The Fortunes of War, a superb, largely autobiographical series of novels based on the author’s experiences during the Second World War. Viewed as a whole, the series offers a unique insight into lives lived on the advancing edges of war as the Germans closed in on Eastern Europe and North Africa. Moreover, it also provides an acutely perceptive portrait of the early years of a fraught marriage unfolding against the backdrop of displacement and uncertainty. In these books, we meet Guy and Harriet Pringle as they embark on married life, firstly in Bucharest, where Guy is employed by the British Council as a University lecturer, then in Athens, and finally in Cairo, where he initially finds himself sidelined with fewer opportunities to put his teaching skills to good use. The Pringles are, of course, based on Manning and her husband, Reggie Smith, and the fictional couple’s movements across the Balkans and the Levant mirror those of the author and Smith.

While this post covers books two (The Battle Lost and Won) and three (The Sum of Things) in The Levant Trilogy, I’m going to keep major plot developments to a minimum to avoid spoilers. Instead, this piece is more about the characters, along with some thoughts on Manning’s themes. (I wrote about the first Levant book, The Danger Tree, back in January; so, if you need a refresher, just click on the link.)

As The Danger Tree ends, the Pringles are still in Cairo, but their marriage appears to be in more trouble than ever, with Guy continuing to put the emotional needs of his friends, acquaintances and students ahead of Harriet’s. Meanwhile, Guy wonders if Harriet would be better off in England, particularly as her physical health seems to be suffering in Egypt.

Developments come thick and fast in these novels, taking in adulterous affairs, chance encounters, dramatic separations, numerous close shaves, a murder in the ex-pat community, severe fevers that sometimes end in tragedy, and death in the desert conflict. At one point, a character is declared missing (presumed drowned) following a tragedy at sea, but to say any more would be a spoiler, I think.

While the Pringles remain the beating heart of Manning’s trilogies, we see less of Guy in books two and three of the Levant than in earlier instalments of the series, partly because Guy’s insensitivity over a personal matter prompts Harriet to strike out on her own. 

Dissatisfaction – chiefly Harriet’s – was eroding the Pringles’ marriage. Harriet had not enough to do, Guy too much. Feeling a need to justify his civilian status, he worked outside of normal hours at the Institute, organizing lectures, entertainments for troops and any other activity that could give him a sense of purpose. Harriet saw in his tireless bustle an attempt to escape a situation that did not exist. Even had he been free to join the army, his short sight would have failed him. He thought himself into guilt in order to justify his exertions, and his exertions saved him from facing obnoxious realities. (p. 241)

Harriet’s spur-of-the-moment travels take her to Syria and Palestine, where she demonstrates impressive levels of independence on limited resources while also seeing more of the Levant. Meanwhile, Guy continues to be Guy, throwing himself into his work, partly as a means of justifying his existence. (Again, it’s tempting to say more about the Pringles, but I’ll leave it there to avoid spoilers.)

Manning is especially adept at capturing the social circles in which Harriet and Guy move, including Dobson, the British Embassy official with a comfortable Garden City flat which becomes home to the Pringles, and Edwina Little, a bright young thing with a string of eligible suitors at her fingertips. In truth, Edwina is something of a gold-digger, setting her cap at Peter, an Irish peer stationed in Egypt with the army.

Perhaps sharpest of all is Manning’s portrayal of the wealthy and rather louche British ex-pats determined to carry on dining and drinking in the best restaurants in Cairo, irrespective of the war. Lady Angela Hooper, a good friend of Harriet’s, is a case in point. To the Pringles’ initial surprise. Angela begins a passionate affair with Bill Castlebar, a married poet and lecturer colleague of Guy’s. However, with his possessive wife, Mona, stranded in England, Castlebar is uninhibited by his married status and spends most afternoons closeted together with Angela in her room at Dobson’s Embassy flat. As Harriet reflects at one point:

She had seen common-place English couples who, at home, would have tolerated each other for a lifetime, here turning into self-dramatizing figures of tragedy, bored, lax, unmoral, complaining and, in the end, abandoning the partner in hand for another who was neither better nor worse than the first. Inconstancy was so much the rule among the British residents in Cairo, the place, she thought, was like a bureau of sexual exchange. (pp. 336–337)

As ever, the sense of place here is superb. Manning excels at portraying the cultural feel of her settings, and her depictions of the different pockets of Cairo are especially vivid.

The taxis had taken them past the Esbekiyah into Clot Bey where women stood in the shadows beneath the Italianate archers. From there they passed into streets so narrow that the pedestrians moved to the walls to enable the taxis to pass. No one, it seemed, needed sleep in this part of the city. Women looked out from every doorway. It was here that the squaddies came in search of entertainment and every café was alight to entice them in. Loudspeakers, hung over entrances, gave out the endless sagas relayed by Egyptian radio, while from indoors came the blare of nickelodeons or player pianos thumping out popular songs. (p. 230)

Of all the characters in this trilogy, Simon Boulderstone is the one who grows and develops the most over the course of the story. After arriving in Egypt as a new junior officer barely out of his teens, Simon must cope with the senseless loss of his brother, Hugo, who bled to death in the desert. Despite his recent marriage, Simon gives little thought to his new wife while in Egypt. (In truth, they only had days together before he had to leave for the war.) Instead, his mind turns to the attractive young socialite, Edwina Little, whom he still thinks of as Hugo’s girl. Now that Hugo has been killed in action, Simon wonders if he might stand a chance with Edwina himself, especially given the family resemblance…

As Simon drove back, Edwina was still on his mind. He tried to order her away but she stayed where she was, smiling down on him from the balcony. The desert to air was a sort of anaphrodisiac and he and the other men were detached from sex, yet he could not reject the romantic enchantment of love. (p. 262)

Simon’s story is a coming-of-age of sorts, one that requires him to face emotional and physical challenges in the most trying of circumstances. However, by the end of The Levant Trilogy, he is a new man, free of the burdens that have been holding him back for months.

She [Edwina] had been a fantasy of his adolescence but now he had not only reached his majority, he was verging on maturity. He had been the younger son, Hugo’s admirer and imitator, and Edwina’s attraction had lain not only in her beauty but the fact he had believed her to be Hugo’s girl. He had wanted to be Hugo and he had wanted Hugo’s girl, but now he was on his own. And Edwina had been no more Hugo’s girl then she could be his. (p. 538)

War has changed Simon beyond his wildest expectations. Now he wishes to stay in the army, preferably in the thick of the action. After all, what else can he do? The thought of home doesn’t appeal to him anymore. He knows he would feel out of place there because too much has happened for him to go back.

Thinking of his return to a wife he had almost forgotten, Simon wondered how he would fit into a world without war. He would have to begin again, decide on an occupation, accept responsibility for his own actions. What on earth would he do for a living? He had been trained for nothing but war. (p. 357)

As this wonderfully immersive series draws to a close, there are hints that Guy might be more conscious of Harriet’s emotional needs than he was before, but in practice, one wonders if his day-to-day behaviour will ever change. (Probably not!) Nevertheless, Manning absolutely succeeds in portraying both Pringles as complex, authentic and flawed individuals – just as we all are in life. I’ve loved spending time with these characters and will miss them greatly. Both trilogies are very highly recommended, especially for readers interested in this period.

The Levant Trilogy is published by NYRB Classics in the US and by W&N in the UK; personal copy.

London novels – another ten favourites from my shelves

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Back in July, I put together a list of ten favourite novels set in London. It seemed to strike a chord with many of you, so much so that I thought I’d pick another ten, including some of the books recommended by readers when that post came out.

As in my previous list, many of these novels portray lives lived on the fringes of society, from lonely women isolated in spinsterhood or unfulfilling marriages to younger outsiders marginalised from the mainstream for one reason or another. There are some brighter, funnier novels here too, shot through with a sense of adventure. Here are my picks!

The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett (1902)

I loved this hugely enjoyable, fast-moving caper, set for the most part in a high-class London hotel. Fashioned on the Savoy in London, the Grand Babylon is expensive, exclusive and efficient, a model of discretion and quietude favoured by royalty and other dignitaries from the upper echelons of society. Newly arrived at the hotel are Theodore Racksole, a wealthy American magnate, and his daughter, Nella, a self-assured young woman full of initiative. Following a run-in with the haughty head waiter at dinner, Racksole buys the hotel, and within hours, strange things begin to happen, culminating in a sudden death.

What follows is a gripping sequence of escapades taking Theodore and Nella to the darkest corners of Ostend while also embroiling them in the romantic entanglements of a missing European prince. Along the way, there are kidnappings and disappearances, disguises and concealed identities, not to mention various political machinations afoot. There’s even time for a sprinkling of romance, adding greatly to the novel’s elegance and pleasures. In short, it’s a delightfully entertaining story imbued with glamour, suspense and a great deal of charm!

The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen (1938)

One of my favourite novels by this excellent writer. When both her parents die in fairly quick succession, sixteen-year-old Portia is sent to live with her half-brother, Thomas, and his wife, Anna, in their large house near London’s Regent’s Park. It was her late father’s wish that Portia should live with Thomas for a year, after which time she might move on to stay with an aunt. In truth, neither Thomas nor Anna is particularly keen to have Portia, although Thomas does feel some sense of duty towards the girl. Bowen is brilliant at capturing the sheer awkwardness and uncertainty of adolescence, particularly as Portia has very little understanding of how to behave around Anna, Thomas and their friends; her understanding of the workings of the adult mind is minimal.

Mostly left to her own devices, Portia falls in with Eddie is a selfish, uncaring young man with no real sense of integrity or responsibility. What follows is a very subtle exploration of the pain and confusion of adolescence, of how easy it is for an adult to toy with the emotions of a teenager, especially someone as vulnerable and as trusting as Portia. Bowen excels at capturing the central London setting with its cold, wintry days and brittle atmosphere – a reflection of the chilly mood in Thomas and Anna’s house.

The House Opposite by Barbara Noble (1943)

There is often something very compelling about fiction written and published during World War II, when the outcome of the conflict raging across Europe would still have been uncertain. Set during the turmoil of the London Blitz, Barbara Noble’s novel The House Opposite is one such book, a very absorbing character-driven story in which the tensions underpinning the lives of two families are contrasted with the mundanity, unpredictability and daily destruction unfolding across the city. Noble centres her story on two main protagonists: Elizabeth Simpson, a twenty-eight-year-old secretary living at home with her parents, and Owen Cathcart, an eighteen-year-old boy whose family live in the house opposite the Simpsons’, hence the novel’s title. Elizabeth and Owen don’t much like one another at first, but as the pair share fire-watching duties on Sunday nights, a tentative friendship develops, opening their eyes to the realities around them.

Noble excels is in her portrayal of London during the Blitz, and the novel is peppered with vivid descriptions of the sights, sounds and smells of a city under attack. The images she paints of landscapes devastated by a combination of bombings and the resultant fires, are especially evocative. It’s a thoughtful and absorbing read, ideally suited to lovers of home-front stories from World War II.

Our Spoons Came from Woolworths by Barbra Comyns (1950)

One of my favourite novels featuring a highly distinctive female narrator – in this case, Sophia, a young woman who is looking back on her unhappy marriage to a rather feckless artist by the name of Charles. In writing this book, Comyns has drawn heavily on experiences from her own life. It is, by all accounts, a lightly fictionalised version of her first marriage, a relationship characterised by tensions over money worries and various infidelities on her husband’s part. Sophia and Charles’ hardscrabble bohemian lifestyle and North London flat are vividly evoked. Although it took me a couple of chapters to gel with Sophia’s unassuming conversational style, I really warmed to her character, particularly as the true horror of her story became apparent – her experiences of the insensitive nature of maternity care in 1930s London were especially disturbing to read. This is a wonderful book, by turns humorous, sad, shocking and heart-warming.

Under the Net by Iris Murdoch (1954)

My first experience of Iris Murdoch’s fiction but hopefully not my last. Under the Net – Murdoch’s debut novel – is a subtly clever blend of the picaresque and the philosophical, all set within the bohemian milieu of London and Paris in the early 1950s. The novel is narrated by Jake Donaghue, an impoverished hack who scrapes a living by translating mediocre French novels into English when in need of some ready cash. As the story opens, Jake arrives back in London following a trip to France to discover that he is being thrown out of the flat where he has been living virtually rent-free for the past couple of years. Thus, Jake must find a new place to live, a quest that sets off a sequence of misadventures, chance encounters and close shaves, all of which shape his outlook on life in subtly different ways.

This novel is witty, engaging and fast-paced, with the humour in particular coming as a complete surprise. Along the way, the action takes in various scuffles, the theft of a manuscript, a break-in, a kidnap and a spontaneous night-time dip in the Thames. There’s also some glorious writing about London here, very atmospheric and evocative; on one level it’s all tremendous fun. Nevertheless, debate and self-reflection play their parts too. Central to the novel is the exploration of one of Wittgenstein’s theories, the idea that our deepest emotions remain trapped ‘under the net’ of language, inaccessible to others despite our best efforts to express them through dialogue or the written word. I loved this novel and hope to read more Murdoch very soon!

The Ballad of Peckham Rye by Muriel Spark (1960)

The gloriously off-kilter world of Muriel Spark continues to be a source of fascination for me – she’s a writer whose intense, imaginative visions seem playful and  distinctive. The Girls of Slender Means featured in my first ‘London novels’ post, but this time I’ve chosen The Ballad of Peckham Rye, in which the mercurial, malevolent Dougal Douglas brings chaos into the lives of everyone he encounters. Spark makes excellent use of dialogue here to move the story along, and the setting – a South London borough in the 1960s – is captured to a T. It’s the sort of community where everyone is desperate to know everyone else’s business, and the pubs and shops bristle with gossip and rumour. There’s a touch of the dark arts about this novella with its slyly manipulative protagonist, who always strikes me as an older incarnation of Timothy Gedge from William Trevor’s brilliant novel The Children of Dynmouth.

Turtle Diary by Russell Hoban (1975)

First published in 1975 and now well established as a modern classic, Turtle Diary is a charming, piercingly perceptive exploration of different facets of loneliness and the fear of stepping outside one’s comfort zone in the maelstrom of middle age. The novel’s premise seems at once both simple and eccentric – and yet, it all works remarkably well.

Divorced bookseller William G. lives in a London boarding house run by a landlady, Mrs Inchcliffe – a far cry from his former life in Hampstead as a husband and father with a job in advertising. While his work at the bookshop brings William into contact with the smart ladies of West London, his personal life is a desert – dry, lonely and painfully directionless.

Also feeling lost is Neaera H., a writer and illustrator of children’s books who works from home with nothing but a water beetle for company. Middle-aged and unmarried, Neaera is adrift in a sea of loneliness, lacking a clear purpose or direction as she struggles with writer’s block. When the novel opens, these two individuals are unaware of one another, but as Hoban’s narrative unfolds, their lives become inextricably entwined, setting up the premise for this marvellous story. An unexpected gem tinged with sadness.

Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym (1977)

First published in the late ‘70s, at the height of Pym’s well-documented renaissance, Quartet in Autumn is a quietly poignant novel about loneliness, ageing and the passing of time – how sometimes we can feel left behind as the world changes around us. The story follows four work colleagues in their sixties (two of whom are spinsters) as they deal with retirement from their roles as clerical workers in a London office. Pym brings some lovely touches of gentle humour to this bittersweet gem, and the loneliness of life in a big city is sensitively evoked. 

As is often the case with Pym, it’s the small things that prove to be the most revealing, hinting at trouble brewing or secrets yet to be revealed. As the novel draws to a close, the group come together in a time of crisis, reaching out to one another in ways they have not managed to do before. For two of the quartet at least, there are decisions about their futures to be made, showing us that life still holds choices and new possibilities in the autumn of our years.

A Private View by Anita Brookner (1994)

This superb novel is somewhat different from Brookner’s trademark stories of unmarried women living quiet, unfulfilled lives while waiting for their unattainable lovers to make fleeting appearances before disappearing into the night. In this instance, Brookner turns her gaze towards the aptly named George Bland, a quiet, respectable, recently retired man in his mid-sixties, living a dull, highly ordered existence in a comfortable London flat. In many respects, he is the male equivalent of Brookner’s archetypal spinsters – a man adrift, marking time in a narrow life on the periphery, while the excitement and passion take place elsewhere.

As the novel unfolds, Brookner explores what can happen when such a life is disrupted, raising the tantalising possibility that it might veer off course. With Brookner’s A Private View, the catalyst for the potential derailment is the arrival of an alluring, infuriating young woman, who takes up residence in the flat opposite George’s. Every time I read another Brooker, I find a new favourite, and this proved no exception to the trend!

Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson  (2021)

This gorgeous, lyrical novella – which focuses on two central protagonists, one male, one female, both black and in their early twenties – is at once both a tender love story and a searing insight into what it feels to be young, black and male in contemporary South London. Nelson writes beautifully about the sensation of a relationship progressing from friendship to love, how our innermost feelings can be exhilarating yet also expose a noticeable sense of vulnerability. The story is imbued with a wonderful combination of intimacy and immediacy, a feeling that fits so naturally with the novella’s intertwined themes.

Nelson is particularly strong when it comes to conveying the experience of inhabiting a black body, that sense of being stared at but not seen – certainly not as a human being with emotions and feelings. What really comes across here is the fear young black men experience on a daily basis, and the South London setting forms a key part of this. Will today be a day when they are stopped and searched? Will today be a day of confrontation? Will today be the day they lose their life? It’s a story for our times, an exploration of love, creativity and the need to be seen, especially in a world where fear and prejudice seem ever-present.

Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them or are thinking of doing so. Or maybe you have some favourite London novels of your own – if so, feel free to mention them in the comments below, especially those from the 20th century.

My Books of the Year, 2025 – Part 1

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I seem to say this every year, but 2025 really has been a great reading year for me. From new releases to treasures from the TBR to brilliant reissues and rediscoveries, the books have been excellent, with very few misses.

As before, I’m splitting my favourite reads of the year into two parts, with thirteen highlights in each post; however, in this instance, the split is fairly arbitrary. Today’s post covers my favourites from the first half of the reading year (roughly speaking), while part two (coming at the weekend) will feature the standout reads from the second half of 2025. I couldn’t bear to leave any of them out, even though it means a total of twenty-six books.

So, without further ado, here are my favourite reads from Jan – May 2025! These are the books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the books I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. As ever, many of these titles were first published in the 20th century, although there are a few recent releases as well. I’ve summarised each one in this post, but in each instance, you can find my full review by clicking on the relevant title.

The Fate of Mary Rose by Caroline Blackwood (1981)

With its undercurrent of domestic horror and flashes of pitch-black humour, this unnerving novel is a brilliant exploration of our collective fascination with gruesome true crimes, how sometimes we can become emotionally involved in a media story with which we have no personal connection. Blackwood seems particularly interested in how a mother’s protectiveness towards her child can tip over into an unhealthy obsession – in this instance, the transition is prompted by the brutal assault and murder of a young girl in the local community, fuelled by media reports and underlying social anxieties. It’s a fascinating, disturbing book, reminiscent of Shirley Jackson in its darkness and unflinching pursuit of a singular vision.

The Odd Woman and the City by Vivian Gornick (2015)

First published in 2015 and reissued this year by Daunt Books, The Odd Woman and the City is Gornick’s ode to New York, a book that captures the rhythms and idiosyncrasies of this vibrant metropolis in sharp, insightful prose. Presented as a sequence of beguiling vignettes, the book delves into Gornick’s reflections on friendship, romantic love, childhood memories, ageing, navigating life alone in a busy city and the kaleidoscopic nature of New York itself. The relationships other writers enjoy with major cities are also briefly featured. The vignettes are not grouped chronologically or by topic; rather, Gornick moves seamlessly backwards and forwards in time and from one theme to the next, sharing insights and confidences on a variety of different subjects as she goes. In fact, the book’s rhythm – vibrant, fast-moving and constantly changing in nature – reflects the city’s character itself.

There is so much insight, honesty and intelligence in these vignettes, and Gornick is a delightful companion – smart, curious and ever-observant. If, like me, you enjoy exploring cities on foot, soaking up the atmosphere of the urban streets, you will likely love this one.

Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper by Donald Henderson (1943)

I can’t quite recall where I first heard about Donald Henderson’s excellent novel, Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper, a wickedly satirical portrayal of a murderer operating under the cloak of the London Blitz. It may have been on Backlisted, always an excellent source of lesser-known gems, or possibly during a discussion about boarding-house novels, a genre close to my heart. Either way, I’m very glad to have discovered it. That said, this pitch-black wartime gem might not be to everyone’s tastes. If you’re a fan of Patrick Hamilton’s Hangover Square, William Trevor’s The Boarding-House or Patricia Highsmith’s The Blunderer, chances are you’ll enjoy this book. If not, you might want to steer clear! I loved this darkly satirical portrayal of Henderson’s twisted, opportunistic killer, and the Patrick Hamilton-style vibe really drew me in. Not for the sensitive or faint-hearted, but a wickedly compelling novel nonetheless. Raymond Chandler was a huge fan!

A Little Luck by Claudia Piñeiro, 2015 (tr. Frances Riddle, 2023)

A fascinating, utterly gripping novel about chance vs fate, split-second decisions and their irreversible consequences, guilt vs responsibility and condemnation vs redemption. In short, this thought-provoking story follows a middle-aged woman, Mary Lohan, who returns to her old neighbourhood in Temperley, Buenos Aires, after an absence of twenty years. At first, we don’t know why she has come back, or the reasons behind her earlier departure, but things gradually become clearer as the novel unfolds. Piñeiro is very skilled at withholding key information, and the novel is a masterclass in measured pacing and the piece-by-piece reveal. The compelling first-person narrative reads like a kind of confession, establishing a level of intimacy with the reader and drawing them into Mary’s story from the opening pages. An outstanding, beautifully written novel that’s hard to shake.

Box Office Poison by Tim Robey (2024)

There is something genuinely fascinating about raking over the coals of a humungous financial disaster – a point eloquently illustrated by film critic and writer Tim Robey in his hugely enjoyable book, Box Office Poison, a catalogue of cinematic catastrophes from the past hundred years. In some respects, this roll call of wreckage presents an alternative history of Hollywood through its most costly failures, and it’s a delight to read!

Robey’s definition of a flop is simple. Crucially, the film must have made a significant loss at the box office. In other words, flops are defined in commercial terms rather than ruinous reviews by critics (although in some instances, the two go hand in hand). Moreover, the production must have been truly insane in some way for a film to qualify for inclusion, thus making the story suitably interesting to recount. From outright horrors with few redeeming features (such as Jan de Bont’s pedestrian actioner Speed 2: Cruise Control and Thomas Lee’s ‘textbook shambles’ Supernova) to genuinely decent films that flopped due to unfortunate circumstances (e.g. William Friedkin’s Sorcerer), this is catnip for the cinephile in your life!

The Sweet Dove Died by Barbara Pym (1978)

Barbara Pym has made several appearances in my reading highlights over the years, and she’s here again in 2025 with a fairly recent reissue. First published in 1978, The Sweet Dove Died is one of Pym’s post-wilderness novels, and as such, the tone feels somewhat darker than her earlier work. There’s a genuine poignancy here, a sense of a woman losing her beauty and allure as younger, more attractive rivals threaten to supersede her in the search for affection. While the novel’s tone is poignant, especially towards the end, there are some wonderful touches of humour here, too. Pym’s fiction may at first seem light or inconsequential, but it’s a testament to her skill as a writer that she captures the delicate tension between humour, pathos and absurdity that characterises so much of our lives. I adored this beautifully written exploration of the narrowing opportunities for love as we age and lose our lustre – it’s top-tier Pym for me!

There’s No Turning Back by Alba de Céspedes, 1938 (tr. Ann Goldstein, 2024)

Groundbreaking on its initial publication in 1938, There’s No Turning Back can now be viewed as a prescient, transgressive exploration of women’s desire for independence, autonomy and self-expression. By weaving together the stories of eight young female students living in the Grimaldi, a convent-style boarding house in Rome, de Céspedes presents the reader with a range of different experiences as each of these women must find a way to live, to shape her future direction for the better.

In essence, each student is trying to bridge the gap between the role society has deemed for her and the one she herself wishes to adopt. Moreover, she must consider what challenges must be overcome and what sacrifices need to be made to achieve her aspirations. With many of these women looking to branch out beyond the traditional gender-based roles of wife and mother, the novel explores themes such as female friendship, agency, independence, autonomy, ambition, desire, and fulfilment in a wonderfully engaging way. By focusing on the choices these characters make to break free from their constraints, de Céspedes explores the upsides and downsides of progression through education vs work, love vs independence and personal desires vs familial duty. An immersive, richly imagined novel that deserves to be better known.

Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood (2023)

Strange, unsettling and beautifully written, Stone Yard Devotional is a quiet, meditative novel that explores themes of loss, grief, forgiveness, guilt, atonement and death – the kind of mysterious, slow-burning narrative that gets right under the skin. Written partly as brief diary-style entries and partly as a series of reflections on events, the novel is narrated by an unnamed woman in late middle age. With her marriage crumbling and a loss of faith in her environmental work, Wood’s narrator has come to an isolated retreat in New South Wales to reflect and contemplate her existence. All proceeds smoothly until the retreat’s peaceful atmosphere is rudely disrupted by three unsettling visitations (more of which in my full review).

Wood’s style is subtle and understated, leaving much unsaid for readers to contemplate and fill in for themselves. Forgiveness and atonement are recurring themes here as the author invites us to consider what it means to forgive someone who has wronged us and what we truly want when attempting to atone. An absorbing, thought-provoking book – one of the best new novels I’ve read in recent years.

It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over by Anne de Marcken (2024)

This strange, magical, exquisitely written book is a tricky one to summarise in a few lines, but I’ll give it a go! On one level, it’s a remarkably poignant reflection on what it might be like to exist in the afterlife, how it feels emotionally to be caught between life and death, to be a member of the undead. In other words, it’s a zombie story, but not as we know it – de Marcken’s vision is much more inventive and beautiful than that brief description suggests. Alongside (and perhaps entwined with) its themes of yearning, loss and grief, the book can be viewed as a metaphor for our current existence in an isolated, alienating 21st-century world, where the overwhelming horrors and uncertainties of modern life leave us feeling disillusioned and numbed. The ending, when it comes, is beautiful, enigmatic, sad and strangely fitting. I adored this deeply affecting exploration of grief and all the longing, pain and sadness this all-consuming experience evokes. A highly original novella that deserves to be widely read.

Turtle Diary by Russell Hoban (1975)

First published in 1975 and now well established as a modern classic, Turtle Diary is a charming, piercingly perceptive exploration of different facets of loneliness and the fear of stepping outside one’s comfort zone in the maelstrom of middle age. The novel’s premise seems at once both simple and eccentric – and yet, it all works remarkably well. Divorced bookseller William G. lives in a London boarding house run by a landlady, Mrs Inchcliffe – a far cry from his former life in Hampstead as a husband and father with a job in advertising. While his work at the bookshop brings William into contact with the smart ladies of West London, his personal life is a desert – dry, lonely and painfully directionless.

Also feeling lost is Neaera H., a writer and illustrator of children’s books who works from home with nothing but a water beetle for company. Middle-aged and unmarried, Neaera is adrift in a sea of loneliness, lacking a clear purpose or direction as she struggles with writer’s block. As the novel opens, these two individuals are unaware of one another, but as Hoban’s narrative unfolds, their lives become inextricably entwined, setting up the premise for this marvellous story. An unexpected gem tinged with sadness.

The Reef by Edith Wharton (1912)

Over the years, Edith Wharton has become one of my favourite authors. She writes precisely and perceptively about the cruelties embedded within the upper echelons of American society in the early 20th century. For instance, the tensions that exist between restraint & passion and those between respectability & impropriety. These qualities are central to Wharton’s much-loved society novels The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth, both of which I adore. The Reef could easily be added to this list, particularly given the devastating nature of the premise. It’s a story of indiscretions, deceptions and complex romantic entanglements where what remains unsaid can be more damaging than the details revealed.

Central to the novel, which revolves around a love triangle (or possibly a quadrangle), are questions of trust and integrity. For instance, it is better for us to be honest about our past mistakes, even when we know such revelations will hurt the ones we love, or should we lie and cover our tracks to avoid undue distress? And if the terrible truth should come to light, will it be possible for our loved ones to forgive and forget?

The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enriquez, 2009 (tr. Megan McDowell, 2021)

Last year, I read and loved Mariana Enriquez’s Things We Lost in the Fire, a superb collection of macabre, deeply disturbing short stories in which elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery mingle with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present. Enriquez grew up during the Dirty War, when several thousand Argentine citizens were murdered or disappeared. Consequently, the ghosts of the vanished – both literal and metaphorical – haunt many of her stories, bringing the country’s horrors to life in vivid and compelling ways.

Translated into English in 2021, The Dangers of Smoking in Bed is in a very similar vein to Fire – another unnerving collection of stories with the power to destabilise and disturb contemporary readers. Enriquez excels at weaving together the surreal and supernatural, embedding these into the real-world socio-political horrors of life in Argentina, from poverty, parental neglect and sexual abuse to disappearances, murders and other criminal activities. There’s a wildness or sense of craziness to many of these stories, twisting the recognisable into distorted, destabilising shapes – and it’s this rooting in reality, the real and inescapable, that makes Enriquez’s stories so horrifying and impactful to read. Unnerving, alluring and inventive, these stories are not for the faint-hearted; otherwise, very highly recommended indeed!

The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett (1902)

I loved this hugely enjoyable, fast-moving caper, largely set in a high-class London hotel. Fashioned on the Savoy in London, the Grand Babylon is expensive, exclusive and efficient, a model of discretion and quietude favoured by royalty and other dignitaries from the upper echelons of society. Newly arrived at the hotel are Theodore Racksole, a wealthy American magnate, and his daughter, Nella, a self-assured young woman full of initiative. Following a run-in with the haughty head waiter at dinner, Racksole buys the hotel, and within hours, strange things begin to happen, culminating in a sudden death.

What follows is a gripping sequence of escapades taking Theodore and Nella to the darkest corners of Ostend while also embroiling them in the romantic entanglements of a missing European prince. Along the way, there are kidnappings and disappearances, disguises and concealed identities, not to mention various political machinations afoot. There’s even time for a sprinkling of romance, adding greatly to the novel’s elegance and pleasures. In short, it’s a delightfully entertaining story imbued with glamour, suspense and a great deal of charm!

So, that’s it for Part 1 of my favourite books from another year of reading. Do let me know your thoughts on my choices – I’d love to hear your views.

Join me again for Part 2, when I’ll be sharing another thirteen favourites, this time from the second half of my reading year.

The House Opposite by Barbara Noble

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There is often something very compelling about fiction written and published during World War II, when the outcome of the conflict raging across Europe would have been uncertain. Set during the turmoil of the London Blitz, Barbara Noble’s 1943 novel The House Opposite is one such book, a very absorbing character-driven story in which the tensions underpinning the lives of two families are contrasted with the mundanity, unpredictability and daily destruction unfolding across the city. It’s an excellent, well-written novel ideally suited to fans of Persephone Books and the British Library Women Writers series. In the UK, this novel is in print with Dean Street Press, which Liz is currently spotlighting through her DSP December event.

Noble centres her story on two main protagonists: Elizabeth Simpson, a twenty-eight-year-old secretary living at home with her parents, and Owen Cathcart, an eighteen-year-old boy whose family live in the house opposite the Simpsons’, hence the novel’s title.

Careful and self-contained by nature, Elizabeth has been embroiled in a love affair with her married boss, Alex Foster, for the past three years – a relationship that seems to be going nowhere as Alex is unwilling to leave his wife due to their children. While Alex does seem to care for Elizabeth, one gets the impression he is being rather selective with the truth, creating the impression that his relationship with wife, Naomi, is rather distant, both emotionally and physically. Naomi has moved to an Oxfordshire village with the couple’s two children, largely to escape the bombings. Consequently, during the week, Alex stays in a service flat in London, giving him plenty of opportunities to spend time with Elizabeth before travelling to Oxford to see his family at the weekends. For Elizabeth, the situation is far from ideal as she loves Alex and would like to be more than just his mistress. Nevertheless, she went into the relationship with her eyes open, and the benefits still outweigh the downsides – for now, at least.

In some respects, Owen Cathcart is the most interesting character here. Quiet and sensitive at heart, Owen is struggling to understand and reconcile the deep feelings he has for his older cousin, Derek, who is now in the RAF. The boys have spent many holidays together in the past, and Owen has developed something of a crush on Derek, whom he plans to follow by joining up. Noble excels at capturing the maelstrom of emotions Owen experiences as he wrestles with his sexuality, highlighting the uncertainty, embarrassment and self-loathing that accompany some of the joy.

He was overwhelmed once more with all the symptoms of acute neurosis which had tormented him so recently—self-disgust, terrified and terrifying ignorance, above all, a loneliness of spirit which made him sometimes want to beat his head against a wall. Everyone but himself, and an unnumbered, faceless, untouchable horde of others like himself, walked in light and fellowship; only he and his kind crawled miserably in darkness and despair. His mind could evoke nothing but images of separation, which cut him off from ordinary, normal people, the fortunate ones, the well-beloved. Most of all, he knew, he was cut off from Derek. Derek would not understand at all. He would be incredulous, embarrassed, concerned and utterly uncomprehending if Owen were ever to try to explain. (pp. 68-69)

Owen has taken a dislike to Elizabeth, having overheard her referring to him with an unfortunate turn of phrase which seemed to raise questions about his sexuality. For her part, Elizabeth considers Owen uncommunicative and ‘wet’, which makes the prospect of sharing Sunday night fire-watching duties with him very unappealing. Nevertheless, as these weekly sessions unfold, Elizabeth and Owen get to know one another a lot better, opening their eyes to the realities of their own lives and those around them. In particular, Owen becomes aware that Elizabeth is in an illicit relationship with Alex – probably a troublesome one – which evokes in him new feelings of sympathy and concern for her happiness.

They had arrived now at a point where they could be silent together without embarrassment and this evening they were both glad to take advantage of the fact. Elizabeth wanted to think about Alex, and Owen wanted to think about Elizabeth.

He did not himself realise what enormous advance this was. In the past he had been forced, against his will, to think about her; he had been obsessed by her, and always in relation to himself—what she thought, said or guessed about him. Now, for the first time, he was interested in her as an individual, with a separate, surprising and rather mysterious life of her own. (p. 111)

Noble’s depiction of the affair between Elizabeth and Alex is insightful and perceptive, replete with all the lies, frustrations and crushing humiliations Elizabeth experiences, particularly when circumstances force her to interact with Naomi. The doomed nature of the relationship is there for the reader (and Elizabeth) to see.

Another area where Noble excels is in her portrayal of London during the Blitz, as the novel is peppered with vivid descriptions of the sights, sounds and smells of a city under attack. The images she paints of landscapes, devastated by a combination of bombings and the resultant fires, are especially evocative.

Already it was an effort to remember what some of the shops had been. Bombed, blasted, burnt out—they had all become anonymous in their misfortune. Only here and there a display of muddy, soaked dresses clung limply and incongruously to their stands, no longer protected, no longer needing protection from the passer-by. A menu still hung on the lintel of a door which framed only rubble. Heavy shutters had been wrenched off and curtains blown into the street. Outside the least damaged buildings, commissionaires and assistants armed with brooms and shovels were clearing the pavement of an indescribable litter of glass and window fittings. The acrid smell of dust and charred wood filled the air. (p. 160)

Impressive too is Noble’s ability to convey a sense of normalcy amid the bombings, with Londoners going about their daily business as far as possible despite the destruction visible around them.

Not many people were about, even in Oxford Street, and those who were walked purposefully, all hurrying home to their little burrows–the inadequate protection of bricks and concrete, the far greater protection of dispersal, the law of averages and the anonymous ruling that many should be threatened but few harmed. Life was acquiring a large simplicity, all lesser insecurities swallowed up by that one enormous vulnerability. Time enough to worry tomorrow, when tomorrow might never come for you. (pp. 4–5)

As the novel unfolds, London adapts itself to the situation, responding with a mix of co-operation, compassion, bravery and resilience in the most testing of circumstances. There are eye-opening descriptions of nightly patrols, anxious waits at home, people camped out underground stations during bombing raids, and the aftermath of a direct hit on a dance hall and nearby pub – as readers, we see some of the casualties through Elizabeth’s eyes during one of her voluntary shifts as an auxiliary nurse.

Both sets of parents – Elizabeth’s and Owen’s – are brilliantly drawn, and everyone, it seems, has a secret to conceal. While Elizabeth’s mother gets drunk on a hidden supply of rum to blunt her anxieties over the bombing raids, Mrs Cathcart ponders the secret she is harbouring about her former lover, one that goes some way to explaining the emotional gulf between her husband, Lionel, and young Owen. Meanwhile, Lionel has serious troubles of his own, having been caught selling timber illegally on the black market. To his wife’s disgust, he shows no signs of remorse, only annoyance at being rumbled by the authorities.

“…I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done—so get that clear in your mind! It’s no worse than hundreds—thousands—of other men are doing every day, and getting away with it. What sticks in my gullet is that it’s come out. And not through my own books, but just because some snivelling, long-nosed busybody had to talk.”

Everything he said made it worse. She listened to him with increasing horror. If he had been unhappy, conscience-stricken, apprehensive, she would have closed the door on all her personal scruples and standards of conduct in order to comfort and reassure him. But how could she console him for the ignominy of being found out? They stood on opposite sides of a frontier. They did not even speak the same language. (p. 135)

Elizabeth’s father, Henry, is a calming, supportive presence in the Simpson household, an idealistic solicitor who also volunteers for fire-watch duty. Not only does he avoid judging Elizabeth when she confides in him about Alex, but he also helps Owen to appreciate that feeling deeply for another boy might not be an unusual experience in adolescence. Henry too has been carrying his own emotional burden, a form of guilt over the death of a close friend back in the days of his youth.

As this excellent novel draws to a close, there is a sense of closure on old issues and new beginnings for some, but not all, the main characters here. All in all, Noble paints an engrossing picture of what it must have felt like to live through the London Blitz, seen through the eyes of two ordinary families. It’s a thoughtful and absorbing read, ideally suited to lovers of home-front stories from World War II.

Crooked Cross by Sally Carson  

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For a novel first published in 1934, Sally Carson’s Crooked Cross feels remarkably timely, charting, as it does, the rise of Nazism in the early 1930s, the falling apart of a country’s fundamental codes of decency and the moral fortitude required to stand against persecution. Recently republished by Persephone Books, a fervent champion of neglected women writers, the book makes chilling reading in 2025, a time when far-right extremism, hate-speech and inhumane discrimination against various groups continue to increase. It’s a brilliant, terrifying novel, a highly compelling combination of the personal and political – easily one of the best books I’ve read this year.

Carson was a frequent visitor to Bavaria in the early 1930s, and her insights into what was happening there fed into Crooked Cross. In some respects, she was writing in real time, sounding a warning alarm on the pernicious rise of fascism and its grip on the nation. By scrutinising the broader political developments spreading across Germany through the lens of the Klugers, an ordinary middle-class family living in the fictional town of Kranach, close to the Austrian border, Carson illustrated the allure of the fascist movement, particularly for disaffected young men. Lacking the structure and focus of regular work, these men saw the Nazi Party as providing many of the things that had been lacking in their lives, from stability, status, power and responsibility to purpose, direction and a reason to exist. Moreover, the movement gave young Germans a convenient scapegoat – i.e. the Jews – to blame for everything that had been denied them in the lean post-WW1 years.

Crooked Cross opens on Christmas Eve 1932, enveloping the reader in the warmth and comfort of the Klugers’ seasonal celebrations. A close family of modest means, Hans Kluger, his wife, Rosa, and their three grown-up children – Helmy, Lexa and Erich – are joined by Lexa’s fiancée, Moritz Weissmann, a bright, much-loved doctor with a promising future ahead, and his recently widowed father, a gentle man whose sight is now fading. It’s a beautiful, loving scene, infused with the glow of candles, the glittering Christmas tree, presents waiting to be unwrapped and festive fir sprigs decorating every available surface. Even Helmy’s picture of Hitler, proudly standing on the Klugers’ piano, has been adorned for the season.

Warm and generous by nature, Lexa wants to hold onto this sense of joy, love and permanence surrounding her family at Christmas, hoping to take it with her into the forthcoming year. She and Moritz are due to be married in June, enabling them to start their life together with the family close by. Nevertheless, this idyll is soon to be shattered as fascism exerts its iron grip, not only on the country but on the Kluger family, too…

As 1932 hurried amid storms and rain to its end, political events in Germany began to move with an unexpected rapidity. […]

The flame of unrest was fanned by the careful attitude of newspapers, by spasmodic outbursts of lawlessness all over the country, and by the constant danger at all times to both Communists and Nazis. Sometimes it was a fight between two or three men; personal grievances to be settled, anger flaming up under insolent aggression. More often whole streetfuls of people were involved; instead of one or two deaths and a handful of men injured, the numbers would run to alarming proportions. Occasionally a whole town would be implicated. Quiet, non-political, peace-loving people waited behind closed doors for the shooting and the hurrying footsteps to cease; the streets were unsafe; the very nights were restless. (pp. 38–39)

While Erich was able to find temporary, seasonal work as a ski instructor at a hotel, Helmy had, until recently, been out of work for three years, leaving him feeling redundant and adrift. Now his role as Secretary in the local branch of the Nazi Party has given him a new sense of purpose, plus a regular salary to boot.

It was Helmy who was different. Helmy, quiet, reticent, tired, almost old-looking last year, had an eager look in his thin face; his step was quicker, his laugh readier. Helmy had a future, something to look forward to; he had an ideal, something bigger to work for than a woman, a family, a business firm. That was what Helmy had always wanted out of life. It was what he was trying now to find in the Party. (p. 135)

In short, the fascist movement is creating a sense of buzz and excitement, giving many young Germans something to feel good about following years of scant hope.

All felt the power, the seduction of Hitler’s voice and its promises. Young people were enthralled by it, captivated. Older people realised its significance too. (p. 64)

As the spring of 1933 unfolds, bands of workers in slum districts are murdered, concentration camps are opened, prominent Jews, Communists and others hostile to the Nazi party are shot dead or tortured by young fascists, all in the name of patriotism. The horrors spread across Germany ‘like a slow stain’. By extending its network into small towns and villages, the Nazi Party strengthens in size and organisational structure, enabling it to pursue the war against Communism with increasing ruthlessness. Now controlled by the government, the German press is silenced; the country’s ears are closed to counterarguments or protests from elsewhere.

As the New Year rings in, Moritz loses his job at the Munich clinic, ushering in a new period of fear and uncertainty for him and Lexa – their wedding, for instance, is indefinitely postponed. Moritz has never been politically active; in fact, the closest he has ever come to politics was to give first-aid lectures to the workers’ guild in Munich. Now he is being accused of having Communist sympathies. In reality though, he knows it to be a trumped charge due to his Jewish heritage. Despite being a practising Catholic, Moritz is considered a Jew by the Nazis due to his Jewish surname, Weissmann, therefore his card is marked. As he searches for new work, this heinous discrimination continues. Younger, less experienced Aryan men are taken on ahead of him; doors are repeatedly closed, while restrictions on the civil liberties of Jews rapidly increase.

Open taunts to Jews and Communists were made, and there were isolated cases of people like Moritz who began to suffer while the days of doubt, hope, indecision, bravado, drew January to a close. The country was like a person tossing in a frightened sleep, half conscious yet half unconscious of the nightmare into which, on awaking, it was to be so abruptly plunged. (p 63)

Soon, Moritz and his ailing father have little option but to move to cheaper accommodation, keeping their heads down while struggling to survive as the unrelenting grind of poverty kicks in. Except for Lexa, former friends are nowhere to be seen, unwilling to stick their necks out by associating with Jews. Meanwhile, Helmy warns Lexa against continuing her relationship with Moritz, particularly given the current political climate.  

A cruel insult as a dance marks a tipping point for Moritz, heightening the seriousness of the situation for Lexa; nevertheless, she vows to stick by him, even if it puts her own happiness and safety at risk. Carson holds us close to Lexa’s point of view, occasionally slipping from a third-person narrative to the second person (where Moritz becomes ‘you’) in scenes of heightened emotion. At first, Lexa finds it difficult to understand these sudden shifts in the nation’s mood, but as the discrimination becomes more brutal, the reality of the situation kicks in.

What has happened at the Bar on the night of the ball had been far more of a shock to her than she had realised. The composure she had shown and her quickness in handling the situation only served to show up to her in sharper contrast how frightened she had been by it. The vague, half-formed fears, the persistent muddle into which her thoughts, actions and whole plan of life had been thrown so abruptly in the New Year, had now suddenly crystallised into an open-eyed realisation of what Moritz, and she because of him, were facing. (p. 115)

Lexa realises that her feelings for Moritz have the potential to cause a deep rift with her family, but she continues to see him in secret, concealing her movements from Helmy and Erich. By now, it’s considered a crime for a girl to have any sort of association with a Jew, especially if her family is integral to the Party. Consequently, the risks for Lexa are particularly high.

Very soon Lexa began to learn that when she had thrown in her lot with Moritz she had never reckoned the full score that she would have to pay. Perhaps she had guessed even vaguely at the amount, for her imagination was keen and quick, but of the subtle methods of payment she had never known. Week by week, day by day even, she was learning them, discovering fresh injuries to Helmy, to her mother, to all of them, and through that to herself. […]

For Lexa, there was not even the possibility of still going forward but keeping her eyes shut to certain things; with her temperament and her imagination this was impossible. The immensity of what she had undertaken was multiplied by the fact that she not only had her eyes open and saw everything clearly and yet still went on, but that she stared at the things, recognised them and felt them with every fibre of her being. (p.155 –156)

As this gripping novel plays out, Carson shows us the degree of moral fortitude Lexa must draw upon to remain loyal to Moritz, standing against the horrors being perpetrated as patriotism. Amongst her peer group, Lexa is also the only one with the courage to speak out against the Nazi’s atrocities when their friend, Hermann, is taken away to Dachau for refusing to join the Party and to give the Nazi salute. It is Lexa who confronts her friends’ willingness to condemn Hermann for thinking differently – and by doing so, she alienates her longstanding but temperamental friend, Elsa, now firmly ensconced in the Hitlermädchen.

One of the most impressive things about this novel is Carson’s ability to show how rapidly a society’s fundamental moral codes and structures can fall apart, allowing a new, relentlessly destructive ideology to take hold. With the possible exception of the Klugers’ youngest son, Erich, most of the German characters we meet in Crooked Cross are not inherently evil; rather, they are ordinary men and women swept along by the prevailing winds of change.

Carson takes great care with her characterisation here, depicting these young Germans as nuanced and sometimes conflicted individuals fired up by the political developments swirling around them. Helmy, for instance, isn’t cruel by nature. In reality, he is far from the stereotypical figure of a brutal, ruthless Nazi; rather, he simply wants the best for his country, himself and his family, genuinely believing that the Nazi Party will deliver this in time. To Helmy, and thousands like him, Hitler represents a new beginning and a brighter future for Germany with promises of work, money, food and freedom. Nevertheless, as a nation, Germany has failed to learn the lessons from WW1, which highlighted all too clearly the emptiness and destructive nature of a relentless drive for nationalism.

In many respects, this is one of the most frightening aspects of the picture Carson is painting here – just how easily ordinary human beings can be seduced by an inherently evil ideology when it steps into a vacuum of disaffection, offering people a new purpose and direction with financial rewards.

Through Helmy, Carson also shows us how doubts in the moral acceptability of Hitler’s project begin to creep in. In truth, Helmy is looking for genuine benefits for Germany in the Nazi ideology. However, he and other young men are working so hard for the Party that there is little time to think or question anything when the movement becomes violent…

For events had not happened exactly as he [Helmy] had imagined, Hitler had promised to unite Germany, to put her on an equal footing with other European nations, to improve unemployment, to exterminate the Jew. Helmy in his heart had agreed to all these things. As a loyal Nazi, confident in the righteousness of his party and his leader, he had given his promise to help to achieve these ends. When this confidence weakened and wavered he was lost in a sea of doubts and misunderstandings with himself. The things he had not promised to aid and abet were crime, bloodshed, lawlessness; what he had not counted on finding in the Party was a complete and rigorous stamping out of freedom and individuality. (p. 262–263)

Carson doesn’t pull any punches here, illustrating some of the horrific consequences of this heinous violence, not only for the victims, but the perpetrators too, as a young Nazi is destroyed by the devastating emotional fallout after participating in a fatal attack.

Rather ironically, Erich – selfish, materialistic and hot-headed – is shown to be something of a hypocrite in prizing loyalty to the Nazis above all else, even his family. In his former role as a ski instructor, Erich provided certain ‘services’ to married women staying at the hotel, thereby benefiting financially from their infidelity. Considering this, his faithfulness to the fascist movement infuriates Lexa, who clearly sees it for what it is – cruel, destructive and morally wrong.

Moreover, Carson scrutinises the horrors sweeping across Germany through the presence of an outsider, Michael, an English friend of a family in the Klugers’ circle, visiting Kranach to improve his language skills. With his objective, clear-eyed views, Michael can see just how blinkered young Germans have become, whipped up in a frenzy of excitement by Hitler and his acolytes. He also senses a vague, underlying sense of fear or doubt about the movement amongst some Germans. Are they simply exchanging one form of uncertainty for another? What good, if any, will come of it all?

As you can probably tell by now, I was knocked out by just how rich and prescient this novel feels in 2025, especially given the recent rise of far-right extremism and the vilification of various groups across Europe and elsewhere in the world. The book asks searching questions about our moral values and whether we, both as individuals and as part of a supposedly civilised society, have the courage of our convictions when faced with racial discrimination and persecution. How would we react if our political principles came into conflict with our own personal affections and family loyalties? Which way would we turn? Who would we stand by and support?

It’s also a remarkably gripping and immersive read with characters – particularly Lexa, Moritz and the latter’s father – the reader can really invest in. The novel ends on Midsummer’s Eve, 1933, but Carson also wrote a couple of sequels – The Prisoner (1936), which Persephone will be reissuing next spring, and A Traveller Came By (1938). It feels apt to give the last word to the author, so I’ll finish with a short quote that seems to capture something of the horrors people were facing back then. As a society, we desperately need to learn from history to prevent these atrocities from happening again…

People had a way of suddenly disappearing, no trial, no explanation, and then you never knew when you would see them again. (p. 288)

Suddenly at His Residence (aka The Crooked Wreath) by Christianna Brand

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A few years ago, I read and thoroughly enjoyed Christianna Brand’s Green for Danger (1944) ,a very clever ‘closed circle’ mystery set in a military hospital in Kent in the midst of WW2. The novel features Brand’s regular detective, Inspector Cockrill, played in Sidney Gilliat’s excellent film adaptation by the formidable Alastair Sim.

First published in 1947 but set in 1944, Suddenly at His Residence is a country house murder mystery in which the culprit is one of a small pack of potential suspects Brand shuffles during her story, shifting the focus from one person to another until the perpetrator is finally revealed. Inspector Cockrill makes another appearance here – and while the novel doesn’t hit the heights of Green for Danger, there’s still a good deal for Golden Age crime fans to enjoy.

As the London bombings rage away in the background, Sir Richard March gathers his remaining family around him at Sawnswater Manor in Kent. The occasion is the anniversary of Sir Richard’s first wife, Serafita, a former ballerina who died many years ago at the age of fifty. The elderly patriarch – a rather impulsive, truculent man – has made certain areas of the Manor into a kind of shrine for his late wife, particularly the lodge house where she died. Now the family must come together at Swanswater for the annual ceremony to mark Serafita’s death, after which Sir Richard will spend the night alone in the lodge house as a mark of respect. It’s a time-honoured ritual he repeats year after year.

Present at the gathering are Sir Richard’s second wife, Bella (his longstanding mistress before Serafita’s death), family friend and lawyer, Stephen Garde, and the patriarch’s four grandchildren, Peta, Philip, Claire and Edward – more about them shortly. Sir Richard’s children are all dead, hence Bella and the four grandchildren are the patriarch’s only living dependents.

While all four grandchildren are named as beneficiaries in Sir Richard’s will, Peta (who is in love with the family’s lawyer, Stephen, and vice versa) stands to inherit the most due to her deceased father’s position in the family hierarchy. Peta (currently working as a VAD), Philip (a doctor) and Claire (an aspiring journalist with limited talent) are directly related to Sir Richard and Serafita. However, Edward, the fourth grandchild, is Bella’s descendant, which differentiates him from his cousins. (If that all sounds rather complicated, Brand helpfully includes a compact family tree, which illustrates the connections succinctly.)

Another noteworthy point about Edward is his tendency to fall into a temporary fugue state every now and again, where he remains conscious and active but recalls nothing of his actual actions afterwards – a complication that proves troublesome to the family as this mystery unfolds.  

Also in attendance are Philip’s wife, Ellen, who is well aware that her husband is having an affair with his cousin, Claire, and the Manor’s servants – Brough, the gardener, and his wife, Mrs Brough, who helps the cook at the main house.

While we get the feeling that Sir Richard enjoys playing up to his role as the rather grumpy patriarch of the family, the old man is furious when he learns of Philip and Claire’s affair. Moreover, Peta’s girlish flippancy and Edward’s general flakiness only exacerbate the situation, prompting Sir Richard to declare his intention to alter his will, disinheriting all four of them as soon as possible. Usually, this wouldn’t be too troublesome for the quartet, largely because they know their grandfather is an impulsive man, liable to reverse this decision once the dust has settled. However, with a serious heart condition affecting his health, Sir Richard may not live long enough to change it back again – it’s difficult to tell.

Naturally, the inevitable happens, and Sir Richard is found dead at the lodge house early the next morning, having spent the night there alone. Enter Inspector Cockrill, who is called in by Stephen Garde to investigate the situation. The post-mortem points to a lethal overdose of Sir Richard’s heart medication, a supply of which was taken from Philip’s medical bag, along with some strychnine and a hypodermic syringe.

So, with one murder down and the potential for another (should the missing strychnine be used), Cockrill must unravel the mystery, disentangling a complex web of family dynamics while he does so. The Inspector’s main approach seems to consist of watching and listening as the occupants of the manor house start to speculate about who could have murdered Sir Richard, encompassing elements of motive, means, and opportunity. Various hypotheses are generated and aired, creating tensions and exposing fault lines within the group.

And while, miserably, the family eased their tortured nerves in accusation and argument, wrangling unceasingly among themselves, siding now with one and now with another, irritable, dejected, over-excited, ashamed, Inspector Cockrill prowled, ever watchful, through the house and grounds. Now and again he put a sharp question; now and again he stood unblushingly outside a door to listen; now and again he appeared among a group of them, stirring up with a sort of mischievous joy those easily-ignited fires… (p. 183)

While some characters feel a little stereotypical – Peta, for instance, with her fluttering hands and girlish behaviour – they’re well drawn and recognisable. Edward, with his troublesome fugue states, is particularly interesting as we don’t quite know what he might have got up to without realising it himself, and Brand cleverly keeps this under wraps until the end. The other grandchildren are desperate to find an explanation for the murder that will rule Edward out, knowing that his fugues make him a convenient suspect.

There are various other family dynamics in the mix, too – Philip and Claire’s affair, for instance, and the impact on Ellen. If Philip and Claire are to live together, they’ll need their shares of the inheritance to support Ellen and baby Antonia. Conversely, Peta would rather not benefit financially from her grandfather’s death, as her wealth could scupper her relationship with Stephen Garde. Meanwhile, Bella might not be quite as happy to remain at Sawnswater Manor as it initially appears…

If you prefer procedurals or investigative-style mysteries, this probably isn’t the crime novel for you, particularly as we never seem to get inside Cockrill’s head until the very end. Several hypotheses are floated, but these theories are all rooted in the family dynamics generated by various members of the group to shift the blame elsewhere. Nevertheless, if this style of mystery appeals, then Suddenly is a good example.

The pace picks up significantly towards the end with a dramatic denouement I didn’t see coming, reminding us that this is a wartime mystery where danger and destruction can erupt at a moment’s notice. It’s a very striking denouement to an enjoyable novel, albeit with the caveats noted above.

Suddenly at His Residence is published by British Library Crime Classics; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper by Donald Henderson

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I can’t quite recall where I first heard about Donald Henderson’s excellent novel, Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper – a wickedly satirical portrayal of a murderer operating under the cloak of the London Blitz. It may have been Backlisted, always an excellent source of lesser-known gems, or possibly during a discussion about boarding-house novels, a genre close to my heart. Either way, I’m very glad to have discovered it. That said, this pitch-black wartime gem might not be to everyone’s tastes. If you’re a fan of Patrick Hamilton’s Hangover Square, William Trevor’s The Boarding-House or Patricia Highsmith’s The Blunderer, chances are you’ll enjoy this book. If not, you might want to steer clear!

Henderson’s central character, the eponymous Mr Bowling, is down on his luck. Having failed to make a go of things with his music, Bowling is stuck in an unfulfilling job as an insurance salesman and an even more unfulfilling marriage to his wife, Ivy.

When the couple get caught in an air raid during the Blitz, finding themselves covered by fallen masonry, Mr Bowling takes the opportunity to suffocate Ivy, largely to stop her from screaming relentlessly. The trouble is, with one successful murder under his belt, Bowling has acquired a taste for it, satisfying a deep-seated need, rooted in his psyche…

Before he killed his wife, which in a sense had not been premeditated, not really, Mr Bowling had reached such an intense pitch of despair about life, that he had thought of doing a murder and more or less making it reasonably easy for the police to catch him and arrest him. It was quite an honest thought, and it recurred now and then when he had had a drop of gin. After all he had been through since leaving school, all the bitter disappointments, and above all the drabness and the poverty, and his awful marriage, he had frequently and honestly felt that to get into the public eye in this way would be better than dying at last utterly unknown and exhausted spiritually. (p. 5)

With the payout from Ivy’s life assurance policy to draw on, Mr Bowling has money in his pocket for the first time in his life, giving him the flexibility to pursue his ‘hobby’ relatively freely. But from now on, he will focus purely on killing men, particularly those who annoy or bore him for whatever trifling reason.

One of the most fascinating aspects of this novel is Henderson’s focus on his protagonist’s psychology. Somewhat perversely, Mr. Bowling is not afraid of being caught and sentenced to death for his actions; rather, he welcomes the prospect, seeing it as a release from the interminable suffering of life on Earth. In other words, the idea of death by hanging represents a kind of freedom for him, a deliverance from ‘the horrors of peace and war, chiefly peace’.

Why was it? Why was he doing it? And why did he now know he was going to do several more murders? Murders? Don’t call them that–such a vulgar word.

Then it came to him swiftly and clearly that he was doing it because he was so thoroughly disappointed in himself and his life; he wanted to be caught.

He wanted it. (p. 36)

As the book unfolds, Henderson sheds light on Mr Bowling’s backstory, highlighting some reasons for his protagonist’s despair with life. The death of Bowling’s mother during childbirth, followed by his father’s passing some thirteen years later, are both significant here – as is his lonely adolescence, presided over by a stepmother who positively loathed him. School had not been kind to our protagonist either. Shunned by his classmates, most of whom considered him mad, Bowling had no real friends at school, leaving him hungry for friendship and love.

Henderson also helps us understand why Mr Bowling is targeting the poor, unfortunate individuals he chooses to dispatch. (Before you know it, you’ll be cheering him on!) From Mr Farthing, the loathsome caretaker Bowling encounters as he moves up in the world, to Mr Winthrop, a desperately dull fellow resident at his down-at-heel boarding house, forever trying to befriend him while banging on about the war, we can see why these people are getting on Mr Bowling’s nerves, even if his method of dealing with them is wildly out of proportion!

So far from being amused, however, Mr Bowling became suddenly aware that there would be no party upstairs for Mr Winthrop on Thursday and that in that case it was safe to accept the invitation. A black, black mood had descended upon him, and he sat trying not to glower at Mr Winthrop’s button. Mr Winthrop, completely unaware of how very fateful his intrusion was being for himself, leaned to and fro and tried to run the World War and bring it to a successful conclusion for democracy and freedom, and of course Capitalism. (pp. 48–49)

Every time Mr Bowling commits another murder, he rushes to buy the papers (hence the novel’s title), scouring the pages for reports of the dreadful deed while hoping the police are closing in. Nevertheless, despite leaving a whole plethora of clues in his wake, our protagonist seems incapable of being caught; he is, in fact, literally getting away with murder, much to his frustration!

While this probably sounds unremittingly bleak, Henderson is mindful of tempering the story’s tone, injecting Mr Bowling’s loathing of life and those sent to try him with a wicked seam of humour. If you like your comedy pitch-black and caustic, there’s plenty to relish here.

He told Mr Gunter that he was frightfully sorry to disturb him, but the poor chap upstairs [Mr Winthrop] had kicked the bucket and fallen downstairs or something.

Mr Gunter covered his queer looking nipples with his brown jacket, and looked scared stiff. Mr Bowling wondered whether he was scared at being seen with nothing on, or at anyone knowing he hadn’t got any pyjamas, or at the hearing of somebody having died. (p. 64)

Moreover, the novel has a wonderful sense of time and place, evoking the wartime era vividly and convincingly.

Mr Watson had a married daughter called Mrs Heaton who came up from Kingston about twice a year. She wore rather cheap furs and ran a baby Austin. Mr Bowling was very interested because he knew she wouldn’t get a penny when Mr Watson died, although she fondly thought she was going to get everything. Mr. Watson had one day confided his will. The money was going to a dog’s home. (p. 7)

The wartime setting seems particularly significant here, a time when millions of people were effectively given licence to kill one another under the banner of war. By setting his story in this context, Henderson seems to be inviting the reader to compare the morality of Mr Bowling’s actions to those underpinning such a bloody and widespread war. There is a certain degree of irony in the murders committed by Mr Bowling when viewed against this backdrop. For instance, is what Mr Bowling is doing really that different from the wilful killings which inevitably occur during a war? If so, what makes one type of murder more morally acceptable than another? Who decides this, and on what grounds? Can the taking of another person’s life ever be morally acceptable, even when it happens in the act of war? While the novel doesn’t pose these questions directly, they might to occur the reader as they consider Bowling’s actions.

As the novel approaches its intriguing conclusion, there’s a surprise in store for Mr Bowling in the shape of a chance encounter. Having spent months trying to get himself caught, tried and hanged for murder, our protagonist suddenly finds himself with a reason to live. But has he left it too late to evade capture? You’ll have to read the novel to find out…

I loved this darkly satirical portrayal of Henderson’s twisted, opportunistic killer, and the Patrick Hamilton-style vibe really drew me in. Not for the sensitive or faint-hearted, but a wickedly compelling novel nonetheless. Interestingly, the book was enthusiastically championed by the great Raymond Chandler, who gave copies to his friends left, right and centre. The recent Collins Crime Club edition also comes with an informative introduction by vintage crime aficionado Martin Edwards, always a bonus given his extensive knowledge of the genre.

The Party by Tessa Hadley

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Tessa Hadley is fast becoming one of my favourite contemporary writers. She writes beautifully observed character-driven stories, often focusing on women eager for new experiences or straining against the constraints of their unsatisfying lives. In her excellent short story collection Bad Dreams, Hadley seemed particularly interested in what happens when the mundanity of life is interrupted – typically by a new experience or a chance encounter with the potential to disrupt. There’s a similar idea at the heart of The Party, an evocative novella in three sections, the first of which – Vincent’s Party – was published in The New Yorker last June.

Set in postwar Bristol, as class barriers were starting to fracture, The Party revolves around two sisters on the cusp of adulthood – Evelyn, a student in her first year of a French degree, and her older sister, Moira, studying fashion at an arts college. While Moira is popular and self-assured, Evelyn is more gauche and girlish, keen to make an impression, especially with Moira’s bohemian friends.

As the novel opens, Evelyn joins the crowd at Vincent’s party, a lively affair at the Steam Packet pub, a spit-and-sawdust boozer in the Docklands area of the city. In her tight-fitting slacks and matching polo neck, Evelyn is excited to be mixing with Moira’s art school friends, eager to cross the class boundaries her parents’ generation seems intent on preserving. As ever with Hadley, the setting is vividly evoked, rich with the sights and smells of the fuggy atmosphere in the pub.

A few couples were dancing already, in a tight space where the tables had been pushed back; there was sawdust on the stone-flagged floor, the rough-hewn benches and tables and three-legged stools were scarred and gouged, and the plaster walls – stained a dark mahogany colour from tobacco smoke – were crowded with advertising for brands of beer and rum and pipe tobacco which hadn’t existed for decades… (p. 9)

Despite approaches from her gentle classmate, Donald, Evelyn is on the lookout for someone livelier and more attractive. In her eagerness to fit in, she flings herself into the flamboyant, noisy mass, telling various guests that she is Moira’s sister and studying French at Uni, but moving on before they become tired of her. Hadley has always excelled at capturing her characters’ conflicted emotions, and her portrayal of Evelyn’s excitement, tempered by awkwardness, is beautifully judged. Moira too is more complex and vulnerable than she might appear on the surface, as Evelyn duly observes.

In her sister’s expression — vivid even in the dimness, and so familiar from their childhood — Evelyn saw recklessness, fear, concealment, power. Moira had made such efforts to transform herself, when they moved down to Bristol, into this controlled, poised young woman. Yet some essence of the fierce bold child persisted in her, and had been diverted into new channels, sexual and personal. (pp. 39–40)

As the party gets going, the sisters meet two new men, Paul and Sinden, both dressed expensively with a swish Bentley at their disposal.

They behaved with that mixture of assurance and awkwardness which was a sign of certain types, privileged and posh. (p. 14)

Evelyn takes an instant dislike to Sinden, whom she considers sly and untrustworthy. Moira, however, seems more interested, in the pair, especially when Sinden offers to put her in touch with a business colleague who might be interested in her designs. Evelyn is horrified at the prospect of being driven home by these mysterious men and urges Moira not to accept a lift. Ultimately, the girls escape intact, slipping away from the pub via a fire exit, much to Evelyn’s relief.

Part two finds the girls at home the following day, giving readers an insight into their home life on an oppressive Sunday, rich with period detail. While Moira nurses a hangover and her younger brother, Ned, messes around with his chemistry experiments, their mother, Rose, wrestles with the demands of Sunday dinner despite being a good cook.

The kitchen meanwhile was in disarray and Rose, still in her curlers tied in a scarf, sweated and cursed: Hell’s bells and blinking panthers. The sink was full of peelings, pan lids rattled and bubbled on the stove, boiling fat slopped onto the floor when the potatoes were basted, the gravy had to be made at the last minute in the meat tin, with flour and vegetable water and gravy browning from a crusted, ancient bottle. (p. 69)

The day closes with the sisters getting their mother ready for an evening out with her openly unfaithful husband, a man who is largely defined by his absence. Little happens in the way of plot in this section, but Hadley evokes such a vivid atmosphere here, true to the cosy mundanity of post-war middle-class life.

The final section revolves around another party of sorts when Sinden invites Moira and Evelyn to a gathering at Paul’s house – an invitation Moira is keen to accept. Evelyn, on the other hand, would rather stay at home and study Racine, but Moira bullies her into going along, just for ‘a bit of fun’. Unfortunately though, the evening has unexpected consequences for both girls as surprising developments unfold…

On their arrival at Paul’s house, the sisters are introduced to the others: Paul’s brittle, stand-offish sister, Doll; their brother, Tommy; a cousin referred to as ‘Podge’; and an American friend, Hal. As the martinis flow freely, a game of Truth or Dare gets going, and before long, the girls are too drunk to go home. The night plays out in unexpected fashion for both sisters, especially Evelyn, who experiences a rite of passage of sorts – one she might not care to repeat.

She [Evelyn] had meant to spend the evening reading Racine, at home with her mother and her brother. What had happened instead seemed to have two opposite faces, and she couldn’t choose between them. It was a very humiliating drunken mistake full of risk, the very thing nice girls were warned against, which would shame her and ruin her forever. But it was also a revelation of lust, savage and real, into which she must pass in order to become an adult, and sophisticated. (pp. 106-107)

Moira, too, is duped, but in a somewhat different way, leaving her angry with Sinden and his brittle, cavalier friends…

While other readers have expressed disappointment or ambivalence towards this novella, expecting perhaps a Clare Keegan-style narrative with a slightly stronger plot, I very much enjoyed Hadley’s focus on the sisters. On one level, the novella is a coming-of-age story, a tale of new realms and experiences as a character crosses over from one world into another – in this instance, from adolescence to adulthood. Moreover, the story also touches on the pitfalls of trying to transcend the social classes at a time when barriers were fracturing but still in place.

Nevertheless, Hadley weaves in other elements too, adding texture to a canvas firmly rooted in the period. Decay is everywhere in this novella, from the derelict buildings in the city and the old social order being challenged, to the death of Moira’s former boyfriend, Cass, who was killed in action in Malaya. The imminent fate of a family friend, Mrs Magnus, severely diminished by a recent stroke, is another example of the prevailing sense of disintegration that suffuses the novella. Even Paul and his siblings have been touched by death, having inherited the grand house from their aunt when her sons perished in the war.

As ever with Hadley, the writing is impeccable, beautifully structured and a pleasure to read. On reflection, I think The Party might be better suited to Hadley completists than newbies, but it’s a welcome addition to her body of work, which remains very impressive. 

The Party is published by Jonathan Cape; personal copy.

Table Two by Marjorie Wilenski

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Every December for the past few years, fellow blogger Liz Dexter has shone a spotlight on books published by Dean Street Press (DSP), an independent publisher specialising in reissuing golden age crime fiction and classic books by women writers from the mid-20th century.  Their line-up of authors includes Dorothy Wentworth, D. E. Stevenson, Stella Gibbons, Marjorie Sharp and many more. Time usually gets the better of me in the run-up to Christmas, but for once, I’ve been able to get my act together in time, largely due to a lovely birthday gift from Heaven Ali earlier this year.

First published in 1942, Table Two was Marjorie Wilenski’s only novel; nevertheless, it’s a valuable addition to the Dean Street Press list for its insights into the lives of working women during World War Two. The story is set in an office of female translators at the London-based fictional Ministry of Foreign Intelligence during the early years of the war. Naturally, as in any office environment, there are different personality traits, petty grievances and points of tension at play, and Wilenski makes the most of these in this enjoyable story.

The two central characters could hardly be more different from one another. Middle-aged Elsie Pearne is intelligent, efficient, and well-versed in various European languages from her previous experience working abroad; nevertheless, she is also bitter, short-tempered and intolerant of her co-workers’ shortcomings. Following a successful business career in Europe, Elsie has been forced to return to the UK due to the war, leaving her little alternative but the role of translator at the Ministry for a third of her former salary. Unsurprisingly, her resentment of the situation frequently spills over into her attitude at the office, and she is strongly disliked by the other translators at Table Two.

Wilenski’s counterpoint to Elsie is newcomer Anne Shepley-Rice, who starts her new job at the Ministry during the novel’s opening chapters. Young, innocent and full of the optimism of youth, Anne comes from a formerly wealthy family; however, a downturn in their fortunes has left her in severely reduced circumstances. Following the death of her parents, Anne is determined to make an independent living for herself, starting as a translator at the Ministry, which she finds rather bewildering at first. Sensing the newcomer’s malleability and eagerness to make a good impression, Elsie decides to take Anne under her wing, mainly for selfish reasons. Nevertheless, Anne is grateful for Elsie’s friendship, initially at least.

Alongside the two central characters, Wilenski quickly introduces us to the other translators at Table Two, highlighting their different personalities and eccentricities. Heading up the team is Language Supervisor Miss Saltman, a rather disorganised middle-aged woman who relies very heavily on her uber-efficient Deputy, Mrs Just, to sort everything out for her. Young, clever and well turned out, Mrs Just is smart enough to keep each translator onside, divvying up the work appropriately across the team.

Rounding out the group, we have Mrs Jolly, a generous, talkative woman who gets on Elsie’s nerves (‘Everyone liked Mrs Jolly but everyone liked her best when she was talking to someone else and leaving her in peace.’); Miss Younge, a former teacher with odd ideas about socialism; Miss Dunkerley, a middle-aged aristocrat with knowledge of the Balkans – finding little in common with her colleagues, Miss Dunkerley typically keeps her own counsel; Miss Jones, a kindly, friendly teacher from a Swiss finishing school; Bobbie Whyter, a child-like woman with knowledge of various unusual languages; Mrs Doweson, a fresh-air fanatic; and finally, Miss Purbeck, ‘a spinster in late middle-age, of the type that can be found in any boarding house in England or the parts of the continent frequented by the English’. A rather morbid woman at heart, Miss Purbeck seems to delight in catastrophes and misfortunes of any kind, much to the dismay of her co-workers.

She was one of those people who take a real pleasure in death and all its accompaniments and in bad news and disaster of any sort. She never allowed any expression of optimism to go unchallenged in her presence and she was able instantly to put her finger on the weak spot in good news of any kind. She was thoroughly enjoying the war. (p. 19)

Much of the novel revolves around the day-to-day workings of the office and the interpersonal dynamics between the women. Wilenski does a particularly good job of distinguishing between the preoccupations of translators who must work to earn a living (Elsie, Mrs Jolly, Miss Younge and Miss Purbeck) and those who are simply doing their bit for the war effort, earning a little pin-money on the side (Miss Saltman, Miss Dunkerley and various others). Elsie and Anne’s evolving friendship (and its eventual souring) also plays a role here. There is a touch of romance too as Anne is being courted by her wealthy childhood friend and potential sweetheart, Sebastian, and their on-off relationship, complete with its various misunderstandings and little jealousies, forms another of the novel’s strands.

When Mrs Just is appointed to a new role elsewhere, the role of Deputy Language Supervisor becomes free, allowing Wilenski to have some fun with the office politics in the Ministry. The mysterious disappearance of a confidential document and the fallout from its loss adds to the tensions amongst the Table Two team, particularly for Anne, Elsie and Miss Saltman.

The atmosphere in London is also vividly evoked, from the casual attitudes to the disruption in the early months of the war to the terrifying air raids as the Blitz begins to kick in.

She opened the front door and went out on the steps. The whole eastern sky was lit by a red glow. It was the reflection of a huge fire and the smell of burning, faint at first, was now stronger. Smoke clouds hung overhead and were yellow in the glare of the fire below. All London seemed to be burning. There was no one out in the street. (p. 91)

At work each morning, the translators are eager to share their stories of the bombing raids while stressing that they ‘had only been startled and not at all frightened’ once the initial shock had passed. There is always a note of poignancy and uncertainty in any fictional story written and published during the war when the outcome of the conflict was far from certain, and Wilenski captures this feeling of disquiet very well.

So from the Ministry and from everywhere else where work was done on that Sunday, the workers poured into Tubes and buses and went to their homes to meet what lay before them in the second night of the great attack upon London. They were taking part in a great page of history; but they did not know it; they only knew that danger and discomfort, boredom and hard work were their portion day and night and they just wondered how long it would all last. (p. 102)

All in all, Table Two is a very enjoyable novel, especially for readers interested in the social history of the period – it reminded me somewhat of Inez Holden’s wartime fiction, Night Shift and There’s No Story There, which explored the lives of factory workers – particularly women – during WW2. Elizabeth Bowen also praised Wilenski’s Table Two in a piece in The Tatler in 1942, highlighting the ‘subtle characterisation’ and the ‘study of female psychology under wartime Ministry conditions’, as mentioned by Elizabeth Crawford in her informative introduction to the book.