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A couple of jewels and a few disappointments amongst these nine recent reads, including a rare one-star for a Booker-prize shortlisted book. I’m happy to recommend The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo (which I came across on TikTok) and Mrs England, but do browse through the others – you might find something that appeals. |
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Summer of '76 by Isabel AshdownMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
Dialogue-heavy coming of age story set on the Isle of Wight. I found the pace rather slow, especially as there is a strong hint of the family secret in the prologue.
The Bead Collector by Sefi AttaMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
An insight into middle/upper class Lagos life in 1976, but not enough story for me (or character).
View all my reviews
The Cloths of Heaven by Sue EcksteinMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
Fun story of expats in West Africa (or should we say economic migrants?) – some cartoonish characterisation (the racism, the exploitation, the double standards) was sadly credible but redeemed by enough other people doing their flawed best.
Francis Plug - How to Be a Public Author by Paul EwenMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
I thought it would be funnier.
Treacle Walker by Alan GarnerMy rating: 1 of 5 stars
The fact that I spent most of the time worrying about who was keeping this boy fed and watered shows I'm not this slim book's ideal reader. Had it been marketed as a short story, I might have smiled at the whimsy, but sold as a novel? Short-listed for the Booker? Proof the Emperor has no clothes. Luckily, it wasted only an hour of my time.
Mrs England by Stacey HallsMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
When Ruby escapes her troubled family to work as a nanny to the children of a Yorkshire mill owner, she is plunged into more confusing family dynamics. Enjoyable Gothic historical mystery touching on mental health issues.
The Girl Upstairs by Georgina LeesMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
When her noisy neighbour goes silent, Suzie feels alone in her concern. Driven by her own tragic loss, she risks her sanity and safety to discover how and why her neighbour has disappeared. Mediocre domestic noir that seems to have sold well.
Songbirds by Christy LefteriMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
Nine years earlier, Nisha left her two-year-old daughter to be brought up by her grandmother and travelled from Sri Lanka to Cyprus to work as a domestic drudge. Now she's disappeared.
The police don't care. I wanted to care but it was hard when her story is mediated by two unlikeable characters: her employer who, in nine years, has failed to recognise that Nisha is a person, a mother and widow much like herself; and her lover who hunts songbirds to sell on the black market.
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins ReidMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
When an elderly actress relates her glamorous career and scandalous love life to a novice journalist, we don't realise how much their lives are intertwined. An engrossing novel about celebrity, love and ruthless ambition.
View all my reviews
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Even though I wasn’t particularly taken by the novel, I’ve drawn my inspiration for this week’s flash fiction challenge from Francis Plug. Maybe something in that book got to me after all, as my 99-word story is about how we can be disappointed by authors we’ve put on a pedestal. The prompt was something squeaky and I didn’t want to write about my annoying desk chair.
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The master’s voice
Although I had all his novels as audiobooks, I preferred to feel his words on the page. Literally, as my fingertips danced across the dots. So when he came to talk at the library, Rover and I went along.
From my front-row seat, I heard the clink of his water glass. Heard him inhale, ready to read. But the squeaky voice so startled me, Rover growled. Flustered, I asked the person next to me if this was really Hilary Mantel. I hadn’t realised my favourite author was a woman. I assumed only a man could produce such powerful prose.
Although I had all his novels as audiobooks, I preferred to feel his words on the page. Literally, as my fingertips danced across the dots. So when he came to talk at the library, Rover and I went along.
From my front-row seat, I heard the clink of his water glass. Heard him inhale, ready to read. But the squeaky voice so startled me, Rover growled. Flustered, I asked the person next to me if this was really Hilary Mantel. I hadn’t realised my favourite author was a woman. I assumed only a man could produce such powerful prose.
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