4.5★ “It was after a particularly fierce row over some obscure political point, that Rowland had retreated to Sydney and Woodlands in a bid escape the 4.5★ “It was after a particularly fierce row over some obscure political point, that Rowland had retreated to Sydney and Woodlands in a bid escape the straightjacket of propriety and responsibility that came with being a Sinclair.”
What a lot of fun Gentill’s Rowland Sinclair and his friends are! Of course, one is never too certain who is on whose side, as evidenced by the quote above, where Rowly (as he’s known) is often at odds with big brother Wilfred, who is a staunch conservative.
This is the prequel to The Rowland Sinclair mystery series, of which I’ve read only the first couple, but I’m hooked. Rowly actually isn’t particularly political – which is his point – but after returning to Sydney from his studies at Oxford, he’s talked into going to art school, where he makes some colourful friends, some of whom are very political. Very, as in ducking out of the way when spotting a police uniform somewhere. They are well-known, outspoken, card-carrying Communists! Most importantly, he meets Edna, Ed, the sculptress, our beautiful, independent heroine, who captures the hearts of all men, including Rowly.
Each chapter opens with an excerpt from a newspaper of the day, which gives an added layer of authenticity. I actually looked up the one that introduces the first chapter, and yes, it’s real. Here are the first couple of sentences.
“The greatest disaster that has ever occurred on Sydney Harbour took place yesterday afternoon about 4.30 o’clock, when the Union Steamship Company’s R.M.S. Tahiti rammed and sank the Sydney Ferry Company’s steamer Greycliffe, off Bradley’s Head. The accident was accompanied by appalling loss of life. . . . The Sydney Morning Herald, 1927”
Rowly has moved into the family’s Sydney home (mansion), where housekeeper Mary Brown, who’s known him since he was born, disapproves of the disreputable-looking lot of friends he’s attracted, and tries to maintain some control. His uncle Rowland, on the other hand, has a different view. When Rowly describes the students, Uncle Rowland smiles.
“‘A louche, disreputable lot, of whom your brother would most strenuously disapprove, I expect.’
‘Somewhat.’
The elder Rowland Sinclair grinned broadly. ‘Well done, my boy, well done. I must admit I had begun to fear that your blasted British education had beaten the adventure out of you.’
‘Not quite, Uncle.’
‘Well then, I am delighted with your decision to take up the brush. For one thing you seem to be moving with a more interesting crowd.’
He lit his pipe, and pointed at Rowland with it. ‘You and I, my boy, are younger sons. We have the privilege—nay the responsibility—to visit as much scandal upon the family name as possible.’”
While Rowly never intended to visit scandal upon the family name or buck the system, he finds himself agreeing with his uncle – these artists are indeed a much more interesting crowd.
Good fun and good history. I love the way the author blends the real people, like William Dobell and the politicians of the day, with our cast of characters. I’m fond of them all, and it’s a delightful way to learn a bit about Australia between the wars.
This one is free on Amazon (Kindle), so pick it up and get hooked!
Merged review:
4.5★ “It was after a particularly fierce row over some obscure political point, that Rowland had retreated to Sydney and Woodlands in a bid escape the straightjacket of propriety and responsibility that came with being a Sinclair.”
What a lot of fun Gentill’s Rowland Sinclair and his friends are! Of course, one is never too certain who is on whose side, as evidenced by the quote above, where Rowly (as he’s known) is often at odds with big brother Wilfred, who is a staunch conservative.
This is the prequel to The Rowland Sinclair mystery series, of which I’ve read only the first couple, but I’m hooked. Rowly actually isn’t particularly political – which is his point – but after returning to Sydney from his studies at Oxford, he’s talked into going to art school, where he makes some colourful friends, some of whom are very political. Very, as in ducking out of the way when spotting a police uniform somewhere. They are well-known, outspoken, card-carrying Communists! Most importantly, he meets Edna, Ed, the sculptress, our beautiful, independent heroine, who captures the hearts of all men, including Rowly.
Each chapter opens with an excerpt from a newspaper of the day, which gives an added layer of authenticity. I actually looked up the one that introduces the first chapter, and yes, it’s real. Here are the first couple of sentences.
“The greatest disaster that has ever occurred on Sydney Harbour took place yesterday afternoon about 4.30 o’clock, when the Union Steamship Company’s R.M.S. Tahiti rammed and sank the Sydney Ferry Company’s steamer Greycliffe, off Bradley’s Head. The accident was accompanied by appalling loss of life. . . . The Sydney Morning Herald, 1927”
Rowly has moved into the family’s Sydney home (mansion), where housekeeper Mary Brown, who’s known him since he was born, disapproves of the disreputable-looking lot of friends he’s attracted, and tries to maintain some control. His uncle Rowland, on the other hand, has a different view. When Rowly describes the students, Uncle Rowland smiles.
“‘A louche, disreputable lot, of whom your brother would most strenuously disapprove, I expect.’
‘Somewhat.’
The elder Rowland Sinclair grinned broadly. ‘Well done, my boy, well done. I must admit I had begun to fear that your blasted British education had beaten the adventure out of you.’
‘Not quite, Uncle.’
‘Well then, I am delighted with your decision to take up the brush. For one thing you seem to be moving with a more interesting crowd.’
He lit his pipe, and pointed at Rowland with it. ‘You and I, my boy, are younger sons. We have the privilege—nay the responsibility—to visit as much scandal upon the family name as possible.’”
While Rowly never intended to visit scandal upon the family name or buck the system, he finds himself agreeing with his uncle – these artists are indeed a much more interesting crowd.
Good fun and good history. I love the way the author blends the real people, like William Dobell and the politicians of the day, with our cast of characters. I’m fond of them all, and it’s a delightful way to learn a bit about Australia between the wars.
This one is free on Amazon (Kindle), so pick it up and get hooked!...more
4.5★ “It was the look that the killer had given Bailey before he charged into a hail of police gunfire. Their eyes had met. A moment of familiarity. Th4.5★ “It was the look that the killer had given Bailey before he charged into a hail of police gunfire. Their eyes had met. A moment of familiarity. That smile. The killer had recognised Bailey. But how?”
A lot of people met Bailey in his past, especially when he was being tortured in captivity in Iraq, back in 2004. They may recognise him, but my guess is he wouldn’t have been in any condition to even see all of their faces.
This is the second book of three, but I’m sure it could be enjoyed as a standalone. There’s enough background given to understand the history, but the action is all current. Bailey, who is always called by his last name, was a war correspondent in the hot spots of the time.
Gerald Summers is his editor and friend, the man who looked after Bailey’s adored daughter, Miranda, when he was kidnapped or otherwise incapacitated.
“They’d been through three wars in three decades of friendship. Iraq, Afghanistan and then Iraq again. Gerald had been on assignment with Bailey in Fallujah when he was kidnapped by Mustafa al-Baghdadi’s Islamic fundamentalists back in 2004.”
He was also the one who picked up the pieces when Bailey had become a falling-down-drunk. He still keeps an eye on him.
“Gerald had teamed up with Bailey’s partner, Sharon Dexter, to confront him about his drinking. It was mainly Dexter’s idea. Her ultimatum. Whisky had become the third wheel in their relationship. It had to go. Bailey knew that his life was better with Dexter in it, so he hadn’t put up a fight. He had been doing well these past few months. He’d even been to a few Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and got himself a sponsor.”
Bailey’s been very good about staying off the booze, but he hasn’t mentioned his actual sponsor to Dexter – yet. She knows all of his history. His sponsor, Annie, was a war correspondent girlfriend back in Beirut.
“They shared information. Travelled together. Drank together. And from time to time, they even slept together. Aid workers liked to call it ‘emergency sex’. It was basically the same thing for correspondents. Sex on the fly. A moment of intimacy. Something that connected them to an ordinary life.”
Meanwhile, another old friend, Omar Haneef, Bailey’s driver and ‘fixer’ in Baghdad, now lives in Sydney with his family, and shows up out of the blue at the paper with disturbing news. His 15-year-old son, Tariq, has disappeared, and they’ve found evidence on the family computer that indicates he may have been radicalised.
Detective Chief Inspector Sharon Dexter, who is keen to prove herself, takes charge with her police force while Bailey’s been relegated to journalist and family friend. Bailey turns to another old friend who has been staying with him for the last few months - the enormous, cigar-chomping ex(?)-CIA agent, Ronnie Johnson, who claims to be there to enjoy the fishing.
Secrets abound, and nobody is ever quite sure who knows what. We see Bailey approached by someone who says Mustafa wants to talk to him, and gives Bailey a piece of paper, supposedly with the phone number of the world’s most wanted terrorist. Mustafa is targeting him, but Bailey doesn’t know why. He was the tortured prisoner, after all.
It’s a terrific read, one of those excellent books where you don’t get side-tracked trying to figure out who is who or who is speaking or why the dialogue is so unnatural or where you are in the timeline, or whatever. It’s just a great story from beginning to end. And you don’t need to know anything about Aussie history or politics, either.
I should add that Ayliffe is good with atmosphere and place, too, none of which I’ve quoted, so here’s what Bailey saw in 2005, when Mustafa finally took him outside the room he’d been held in.
“He looked past Mustafa at the rooftops of the city. It was a place that Bailey knew well.
Mosul.
‘How are you feeling?’
Bailey ignored him. He hadn’t been outside for weeks, and he was revelling in the fresh air, away from the stink of Mustafa’s goons. From where they were standing in Mosul’s right bank, the view was mesmerising. Date palms along the mighty Tigris. A barge packed with produce for the market, drifting slowly on the water. Blocks of white and yellow apartments. Clotheslines pegged with symbols of ordinary life. Fields of sun-kissed grass. And the Grand Mosque, its beautiful golden domes glistening in the sun.”
I enjoyed it so much, I’ve just started the next one!
4.5★ “It was the look that the killer had given Bailey before he charged into a hail of police gunfire. Their eyes had met. A moment of familiarity. That smile. The killer had recognised Bailey. But how?”
A lot of people met Bailey in his past, especially when he was being tortured in captivity in Iraq, back in 2004. They may recognise him, but my guess is he wouldn’t have been in any condition to even see all of their faces.
This is the second book of three, but I’m sure it could be enjoyed as a standalone. There’s enough background given to understand the history, but the action is all current. Bailey, who is always called by his last name, was a war correspondent in the hot spots of the time.
Gerald Summers is his editor and friend, the man who looked after Bailey’s adored daughter, Miranda, when he was kidnapped or otherwise incapacitated.
“They’d been through three wars in three decades of friendship. Iraq, Afghanistan and then Iraq again. Gerald had been on assignment with Bailey in Fallujah when he was kidnapped by Mustafa al-Baghdadi’s Islamic fundamentalists back in 2004.”
He was also the one who picked up the pieces when Bailey had become a falling-down-drunk. He still keeps an eye on him.
“Gerald had teamed up with Bailey’s partner, Sharon Dexter, to confront him about his drinking. It was mainly Dexter’s idea. Her ultimatum. Whisky had become the third wheel in their relationship. It had to go. Bailey knew that his life was better with Dexter in it, so he hadn’t put up a fight. He had been doing well these past few months. He’d even been to a few Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and got himself a sponsor.”
Bailey’s been very good about staying off the booze, but he hasn’t mentioned his actual sponsor to Dexter – yet. She knows all of his history. His sponsor, Annie, was a war correspondent girlfriend back in Beirut.
“They shared information. Travelled together. Drank together. And from time to time, they even slept together. Aid workers liked to call it ‘emergency sex’. It was basically the same thing for correspondents. Sex on the fly. A moment of intimacy. Something that connected them to an ordinary life.”
Meanwhile, another old friend, Omar Haneef, Bailey’s driver and ‘fixer’ in Baghdad, now lives in Sydney with his family, and shows up out of the blue at the paper with disturbing news. His 15-year-old son, Tariq, has disappeared, and they’ve found evidence on the family computer that indicates he may have been radicalised.
Detective Chief Inspector Sharon Dexter, who is keen to prove herself, takes charge with her police force while Bailey’s been relegated to journalist and family friend. Bailey turns to another old friend who has been staying with him for the last few months - the enormous, cigar-chomping ex(?)-CIA agent, Ronnie Johnson, who claims to be there to enjoy the fishing.
Secrets abound, and nobody is ever quite sure who knows what. We see Bailey approached by someone who says Mustafa wants to talk to him, and gives Bailey a piece of paper, supposedly with the phone number of the world’s most wanted terrorist. Mustafa is targeting him, but Bailey doesn’t know why. He was the tortured prisoner, after all.
It’s a terrific read, one of those excellent books where you don’t get side-tracked trying to figure out who is who or who is speaking or why the dialogue is so unnatural or where you are in the timeline, or whatever. It’s just a great story from beginning to end. And you don’t need to know anything about Aussie history or politics, either.
I should add that Ayliffe is good with atmosphere and place, too, none of which I’ve quoted, so here’s what Bailey saw in 2005, when Mustafa finally took him outside the room he’d been held in.
“He looked past Mustafa at the rooftops of the city. It was a place that Bailey knew well.
Mosul.
‘How are you feeling?’
Bailey ignored him. He hadn’t been outside for weeks, and he was revelling in the fresh air, away from the stink of Mustafa’s goons. From where they were standing in Mosul’s right bank, the view was mesmerising. Date palms along the mighty Tigris. A barge packed with produce for the market, drifting slowly on the water. Blocks of white and yellow apartments. Clotheslines pegged with symbols of ordinary life. Fields of sun-kissed grass. And the Grand Mosque, its beautiful golden domes glistening in the sun.”
I enjoyed it so much, I’ve just started the next one!
4★ “The only real sign that the embassy is an embassy at all is the little brass plaque on the door (which reads, ‘the embassy of cambodia’) and the na4★ “The only real sign that the embassy is an embassy at all is the little brass plaque on the door (which reads, ‘the embassy of cambodia’) and the national flag of Cambodia (we assume that’s what it is—what else could it be?) flying from the red tiled roof.”
‘We’ are the people of Willesden (an area of north-west London), which actually has a number of more buildings more surprising than this. There’s a health center next door and some very fancy houses, assumed by the residents to belong to wealthy Arabs.
Fatou is a young woman from Ivory Coast who’s working for a well-to-do family, using their membership card to swim in the health center pool, without their knowledge. Before going in, she likes to sit across from the embassy to watch and hear the “Pock, smash. Pock, smash” of the badminton rallies.
I wondered if she wondered if the high walls were hiding people, and if so, whom. Did the pock, smash of the shuttlecock possibly serve as a reminder of battles and aggression?
She happens to see an article about a Sudanese ‘slave’ in London in a rich man’s house and reflects again about her own situation. Her father had taken her first to Ghana, where they worked in a hotel, and then he moved her on.
“Two years later, when she was eighteen, it was her father again who had organized her difficult passage to Libya and then on to Italy—a not insignificant financial sacrifice on his part. Also, Fatou could read English—and speak a little Italian—and this girl in the paper could not read or speak anything except the language of her tribe.”
Fatou discusses history and world events with her friend Andrew Okonkwo, a night guard who is studying business and can access the internet with his student card.
Zadie Smith gives us a sharp reminder that privilege and opportunity are not handed out equally at birth. How long will those of us who were born ‘lucky’ be able to fool those who’ve been born in such appalling conditions that we are doing them a favour by hiring them for menial jobs and restricting their movements?
How many of the people who employ women like Fatou can read in a second language and have a smattering of a third, as she and many refugees do? A lot of those in the privileged world speak only the language of their tribe, like the Sudanese slave.
4★ “I am telling you the truth, guys! It was a terrible, terrible first day at school.
The bell rang, and then the teacher said, ‘Come on, everyone, tel4★ “I am telling you the truth, guys! It was a terrible, terrible first day at school.
The bell rang, and then the teacher said, ‘Come on, everyone, tell your name and age to the class.’ ”
Poor kid. Whispering isn’t going to work.
[image]
“ ‘I can’t hear you over here. Louder, please’ the teacher said. And I nervously screamed: JACK-RUSSELL BEAGLE VAN DE HOUND age 6’ ”
Sitting alone on a little stool, contemplating names, ‘Jack’ says to us:
“What was going through my parents’ minds when they were choosing my name? Really… what? Awful, awful day. I hate my name. Like I am some kind of dog… Jack-Russell… ugh!”
On the next page, we have a dog asking if they have something against dogs. Oops! Turns out the dog has an odd name, too. Then we meet other animals who aren’t happy with their names.
[image]
“ ‘Do I look to you like Marshmallow Stripes? I am a leopard, you know!’”
There are even a couple of characters who love their names and brag about them, but they aren’t allowed to join the club. This is an exclusive club.
The illustrations are just wonderful. I love them. The idea is a good one, and some of the names are quite funny. I wish the text had lived up to the artwork. The author/illustrator is definitely talented.
The final page is the whole club (so far!), and they certainly look to be a happy bunch.
[image]
I avoided (I think) saying he or she, since it wasn’t necessarily obvious, but the there are a couple of creatures with skirts or frocks, including Miss Bathilda Slimepuddle, “ ’But everyone calls me The Bad Hilda.’’ I think she is a hippo.
Thanks to the author who posted the link on Facebook to a time-limited free download of her book on Amazon for readers and reviewers. I couldn’t resist her pictures. They are worth 5★....more
3★ " 'What was that that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?'
'Nothing.' said the soldier quickly. 'At leas3★ " 'What was that that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?'
'Nothing.' said the soldier quickly. 'At least, nothing worth hearing.'
'Monkey’s paw?' said Mrs. White curiously.
'Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,' said the Sergeant-Major, without first stopping to think.
His three listeners leaned forward excitedly. Deep in thought, the visitor put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. Mr. White filled it for him again.
'To look at it,' said the Sergeant-Major, feeling about in his pocket, 'it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.'
He took something out of his pocket and held it out for them. Mrs. White drew back with a look of disgust, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
'And what is there special about it?' asked Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.
'It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,' said the Sergeant-Major, 'a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who tried to change it would be sorry. He put a spell on it so that three different men could each have three wishes from it.' "
This is a classic but the premise has been used in so many stories that I am reluctant to rate it, so I'll just put it somewhere in the middle. I have no idea when I first read this or stories like it, but it was one of the Short Story Club Group's selections, so I thought I'd share this link anyway.
It's free online, so have a read, and be reminded to be careful what you wish for.
5★ "This thing fills me with pleasure. I don’t know why, I can see it in the smallest detail. I find myself recalling it again and again, each time bri5★ "This thing fills me with pleasure. I don’t know why, I can see it in the smallest detail. I find myself recalling it again and again, each time bringing more detail out of a sunken memory, remembering brings the curious warm pleasure.
It was very early in the morning. The eastern mountains were blue-black, but behind them the light stood up faintly colored at the mountain rims with a washed red, growing colder, grayer and darker as it went up and overhead until, at a place near the west, it was merged with pure night."
I could say the same, that whenever I read this story, I also smile at the warmth of generosity on a cold morning. It was written in 1934, during the depression. His The Grapes of Wrath is well-known, of course, and this reminds me of the goodness of the people in that.
It is only a few pages and is included in his collection, The Long Valley, but you can download a PDF of this short story to enjoy.
3.5~4★ “ ‘Okay. What did he have to say for himself?’
‘If you’d read the statements like Sharp told us to…’
Travis flapped his hand with annoyance. ‘Jus3.5~4★ “ ‘Okay. What did he have to say for himself?’
‘If you’d read the statements like Sharp told us to…’
Travis flapped his hand with annoyance. ‘Just give me the headlines, all right?’”
Well, no, not all right. Detective Kay Hunter is investigating suspected arson on narrowboats, and there is now a file of witness statements. She’s also been tasked with mentoring a new recruit, DC Blake Travis, who seems in a hurry to fast-track his way up the ladder.
Travis can’t be bothered with petty details, like reading the background material. He’s trying to concentrate on the new stuff, and immediately takes over the interviewing when they go to their first port of call (pretty literally). She’s the senior officer, mind you, but when he spots the fellow they're going to see, he’s straight into it.
“ ‘This must be him. Shall I lead, and you can take notes?’
‘I––’
But he was already striding across to the boat owner, hand outstretched.
Oooo made me want to grit my teeth, and I’m sure Detective Hunter felt the same way.
This is a short story that accompanies the Detective Kay Hunter series, which I haven’t read, but I enjoyed this without knowing her background. I got a sense of her relationships with some of the other characters, and Constable Travis is perfect as an irritant.
The investigation is moving along and Kay has some ideas to pursue, but her constable knows better (of course), and dives straight in.
“When she read the text message from Christie, her heart sank. Blake Travis had made an arrest.”
Back at the station, he’s inviting everyone out for celebratory drinks. Talk about premature speculation!
This was entertaining, and I think I will like Amphlett’s people and her descriptions. While I didn’t find the plot surprising, it was a satisfying read.
3.5~4★ “ ‘You’ve got three hours to hide the body,’ said Jack, flicking the spent cigarette butt to the ground. ‘What’re you going to do?’ ”
Mike is an 3.5~4★ “ ‘You’ve got three hours to hide the body,’ said Jack, flicking the spent cigarette butt to the ground. ‘What’re you going to do?’ ”
Mike is an NYPD cop, and his older brother has said he has to do this, because he will probably get away with it.
This is an extremely short story – a free sample from a popular author whose main works I haven’t read yet. But I have read a couple of longer pieces where I’ve enjoyed how she sets scenes and introduces us to characters. This is too short to do much with the characters, but I thought her descriptions of the city were spot-on.
It’s night, and they’re standing by the deserted ferry landing.
“Over on the horizon to his right, a train rattled across the Williamsburg bridge, the flicker and flash of subway cars strobing through the gaps in the steel girders as it headed into the Lower East Side.”
Everything she describes, I can clearly visualise. I saw Mike’s nervousness.
“His service pistol rested against his right hip, a knife rubbed against his ankle under his cotton socks, and his conscience weighed on his chest – just a little to the right of the badge.”
This isn’t going to be easy. The cover of night wasn’t going to last forever.
“Curtains were pulled across the south-facing panes, yellowing with age and exposure to sunlight. If those were opened while he stood here there would be hell to pay, no matter what Jack said. People here knew him. Knew his family. Knew what he did for a living.”
I enjoyed the story for what it was – a brief entertainment that shows suspense can have a lighter side.
4★ “His post was in as solitary and dismal a place as ever I saw. On either side, a dripping-wet wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip o4★ “His post was in as solitary and dismal a place as ever I saw. On either side, a dripping-wet wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of sky”
A fellow who can’t sleep wanders along until he finds himself atop a hill, looking down on the train tracks and a signalman whose signal box is on the fellow’s side of a big tunnel. When he calls down and waves as the signalman, the man seems unreasonably startled.
The fellow goes down the hill for a chat, and thus begins his relationship with a troubled, haunted man. Every once in a while, he sees what seems to be a man waving wildly at him and shouting. Within a few hours or days, a catastrophe takes place nearby.
Where he spends his time at work is so grim that it’s easy to assume he’s imagining things. Dickens knows how to set an atmospheric scene.
“On either side, a dripping-wet wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of sky; the perspective one way only a crooked prolongation of this great dungeon; the shorter perspective in the other direction terminating in a gloomy red light, and the gloomier entrance to a black tunnel, in whose massive architecture there was a barbarous, depressing, and forbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its way to this spot, that it had an earthy, deadly smell; and so much cold wind rushed through it, that it struck chill to me, as if I had left the natural world.”
Our fellow asks what’s troubling the signalman now.
“ ‘The spectre came back a week ago. Ever since, it has been there, now and again, by fits and starts.’
‘At the light?’
‘At the Danger-light.
‘What does it seem to do?’
He repeated, if possible with increased passion and vehemence, that former gesticulation of, ‘For God’s sake, clear the way!’
Then he went on. ‘I have no peace or rest for it. It calls to me, for many minutes together, in an agonised manner, ‘Below there! Look out! Look out!’ It stands waving to me. It rings my little bell—’ ”
A friend of mine had occasional premonitions, but her worst I think was when she was in Canada, and they were driving past a big airport. She suddenly shivered and asked that they get out of there quickly. She felt sick and had a strong sense of dread. I believe she said it was a week later that there was a catastrophic air crash at that place. She was a nurse, so no stranger to emergencies and injuries.
It’s one thing to sense something that has already happened, like a crash or a massacre or a murder, but it’s quite another to have such a strong, specific sense of foreboding, as the signalman does and my friend did.
I don’t enjoy horror stories, but I do have a fascination for the inexplicable that feels as if it could be explained – maybe. That sixth sense when you get a chill.
I have read that this was written not long after Dickens himself was involved in a horrific train crash and never quite recovered from the horror. His haunting may have been different than the signalman’s but just as affecting.
5★ “I remember clearly the emptiness in the farmhouse after that day. I also remember the relief. My mother hadn’t really been my mother for some time.5★ “I remember clearly the emptiness in the farmhouse after that day. I also remember the relief. My mother hadn’t really been my mother for some time. Watching her drift through the rooms, or stand staring at nothing for a long while, or look at me as if she couldn’t quite understand who I was or what I was doing there, had been painful. “
He’s eleven years old with a younger sister and two older brothers. He felt her odd behaviour had ruined his birthday and she’d promised him she’d be better. But she didn’t get better, so he says she lied.
Now, his father has taken her to a sanitorium to rest for several weeks. The people in the Mennonite community where they live help the lone father, even though they don’t know really the family. Dad is definitely an exceptional sort of man who makes sure they continue to do family things, watch tv together and best of all, he reads to them.
“We didn’t talk much about Mom, yet we felt her absence.
My own feelings had become more complicated, even darker. In addition to my resentment and anger, I’d begun to be plagued with worry. My mother’s disappearance from our lives, its suddenness, was like an abyss looming before me. It had already swallowed one of our family. Maybe it could as easily swallow another, perhaps even our father. And where would that leave us?”
Terrifying thought for a boy.
I loved this wonderful slice of Krueger’s childhood which you can read in this edition of Minnesota’s Star Tribune.
2.5~3★ “ ‘I do not know if it is a mental twist which I have always had, or if it is the effect of some of those silly tales which old nurses use to fr2.5~3★ “ ‘I do not know if it is a mental twist which I have always had, or if it is the effect of some of those silly tales which old nurses use to frighten children into quiet and obedience, but ever since I was very young nothing has caused me so much fright and horror as the sight, or even the thought, of a woman alone out of doors at a late hour of the night.’ ”
This is a short ‘ghost’ story by a 19th century Spanish author who tells us Gabriel is sitting with five friends, all having ridden mules up into the forest to collect specimens. They have stopped to tuck into their hamper of food and wine, when Gabriel begins to talk about a couple he knew and what happened to them. But first he offers an explanation about himself.
“ ‘You may call me a visionary if you like, but it has been my fortune or misfortune in life that I have always been regarded as a materialist, a man of modern thought, not believing in things unseen. In fact, a positivist. Well, I may be so, but my positivism includes an acknowledgment of the mysterious influences of Nature …’ ”
He says just because we can’t explain these influences doesn’t mean they don’t happen. He says he’ll tell the story – you can decide. It happened in the hot summer of 1875.
“ ‘I was not the hero of the strange occurrence which I'm going to relate to you—but listen, and then tell me what explanation you can give me—natural, physical, scientific, whatever you think will best explain the case, if explanation is at all possible.’”
He carries on with his tale of a friend who was grieving the loss of his sweetheart, and who admits to a terrible fear of seeing a woman walking outdoors alone at night. That is the friend’s remark in the opening quotation.
How he became afraid and what happens to him is the subject of Gabriel’s story to the group of men.
The version I’m reading (not this one) is translated from the Spanish by P.A. Schultz. I don’t see it on Goodreads, but the story in English is only 20 pages or so. This was the shortest edition I could find to select in English.
It may have been more impressive in 1881 in Spanish than it is in translation today, but it’s a curious tale anyway.
3★ " ‘You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of their own. There's a subject for you, by the way—The Folklore of Private Schools.”
T3★ " ‘You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of their own. There's a subject for you, by the way—The Folklore of Private Schools.”
Two men are talking about their private schools and the sorts of ghost stories people tell about them. One mentions a supposed ‘ghost’s footmark’ on a stair in his school and wonders why nobody has made up a story about it.
They compare a few more notes, talk about magazine stories and such. Then it gets personal.
“‘You never heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thought not; nobody has that ever I came across.’
‘From the way in which you said that, I gather that you have.
‘I really don't know; but this is what was in my mind. It happened at my private school thirty odd years ago, and I haven't any explanation of it.’”
From there, he recounts his experience in about 1870 or so at a boarding school which was a big old white house with enormous trees in the grounds in the Thames valley. There were 120-130 boys and a fair staff turnover. A new master arrived and was popular with the boys because he used to tell great stories from his many travels when they all went on walks.
He becomes the subject of the ghost story, which I enjoyed. If I had read this when I was a kid and before I’d seen The Twilight Zone and read other fantasies, I would have been more intrigued and possibly shocked. I could imagine a book club enjoying this as a side read.
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