Tag: 1970s

The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch

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I’ve read very little of Iris Murdoch’s work – her Booker Prize winner The Sea, The Sea many years ago, which I can barely remember but know I struggled with, and a lesser known novel, A Word Child, which I really enjoyed. When picking another book by Murdoch for my new Classics Club list, then, I had plenty to choose from and decided on The Black Prince almost at random. I started to read it in March for Reading Ireland Month (although the book is set in England, Murdoch is an Irish author) but I had too many other books needing to be read at that time, so I put it aside and came back to it last week.

Published in 1973, The Black Prince is presented as a manuscript written by Bradley Pearson who has recently retired from his job as Inspector of Taxes to concentrate on his writing. Bradley’s book – an account of some life-changing events which occurred when he was fifty-eight years old – is framed by a foreword from his editor, P. Loxias, and a series of postscripts written by the other characters in the story. Although it’s easy to become absorbed in Bradley’s narrative and forget that it’s a book-within-a-book, the different perspectives we see at the end are a reminder that Bradley isn’t necessarily the most reliable of narrators and may not have been entirely honest with us. Of course, there’s no guarantee that the other characters are telling the truth either, so be prepared for a novel that’s ambiguous, thought-provoking and doesn’t tie everything up neatly at the end.

Bradley’s story begins as he decides to leave London for the summer and rent a cottage by the sea where he can work on his book in peace. Before he manages to depart, however, he is repeatedly delayed by a sequence of frustrating and unwelcome incidents. First, there’s an urgent telephone call from his friend and rival, Arnold Baffin, a much more successful and popular author than Bradley himself. Arnold is convinced he has killed his wife, Rachel, so Bradley rushes to their house only to find that it’s a false alarm and Rachel is not dead after all. Bradley’s involvement in the Baffins’ domestic disputes, though, leads to Rachel believing she’s in love with him. Then, Bradley’s sister, Priscilla, arrives at his flat tearful and distraught; her marriage has broken up and she’s depressed and homeless. And a third woman has also reappeared in Bradley’s life – his ex-wife, Christian, who has just returned from America along with her annoying brother, Francis.

The first half of the novel deals with Bradley’s relationships with these people as he tries to disentangle himself from the various situations he’s become caught up in and I have to admit, at this point I was finding the book a bit tedious and didn’t think I was going to enjoy it. That changed halfway through when Bradley falls in love with the Baffins’ twenty-year-old daughter, Julian, who has been pleading with him to tutor her in classic literature, particularly Shakespeare. Needless to say, Arnold and Rachel are not happy when they find out – there’s a thirty-eight year age difference – but the ensuing drama makes the second half of the novel much more compelling than the first.

Before I started reading, I wasn’t sure of the relevance of the title. In history, the Black Prince refers to Edward of Woodstock, the eldest son of Edward III, but in the context of Murdoch’s novel, the reference is actually to Hamlet. The play is alluded to many times during the novel and specifically discussed by Bradley and Julian (it’s while Julian is describing how she once dressed in black to play Hamlet that Bradley discovers he’s in love with her). I’m sure it’s no coincidence that Bradley Pearson himself shares initials with the Black Prince. Other names are also significant, including P. Loxias, the name of the fictional editor – Loxias is another name for Apollo, the Greek god of truth and prophecy, very appropriate in a book that makes us question what is true and what isn’t. And I spotted other examples of symbolism throughout the novel, such as the bronze water buffalo lady, an ornament which is passed from one character to another and is broken and mended at various points in the story.

This is a fascinating novel, then, and although I found it slow to start, I had been drawn in by the middle of the book and was glad I’d persevered. I’ve also been left with a lot to think about; as I said, it’s all very ambiguous and there are lots of unanswered questions at the end. If you’ve read it, let me know what you thought.

This is book 3/50 from my third Classics Club list.

Rainforest by Michelle Paver

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When Dr Simon Corbett, a British entomologist, arrives in the Mexican rainforest in 1973 he has two goals in mind: first, to study the rare mantids that live there – and also to try to make contact with Penelope, the woman he loved. However, both of these things prove very difficult. The mantids live in the sacred ceiba trees and Simon’s guide is reluctant to let him touch them. As for Penelope, she’s dead and Simon is hoping to obtain a special Mayan drug that will allow him to summon her spirit. No one seems prepared to cooperate with him on this either, but Simon is determined to get what he wants, one way or another.

Rainforest is written entirely from Simon’s perspective in the form of diary entries. He tells us that his doctor has advised him to keep a journal to help him cope with the ‘thoughts going round and round like angry wasps’ – although this doesn’t seem to work, as Simon’s thoughts simply become more and more unstable and obsessive as the book progresses. Simon is a man consumed by grief, remorse and guilt, yet he’s such an unlikeable narrator I found it impossible to feel any real sympathy for him. He’s also not being completely honest with the reader, even in his own journal, because the impression he initially gives of his relationship with Penelope is very different from the truth that emerges later in the novel.

This is the second book I’ve read by Michelle Paver, the first being Wakenhyrst, a Gothic novel set in the Suffolk Fens. Although I enjoyed Wakenhyrst, I remember being surprised that it wasn’t scarier, having heard her previous novels Dark Matter and Thin Air described as very creepy horror novels. Rainforest is also not a particularly scary book, despite the cover claiming that it’s a ‘terrifying supernatural tale’. I think it’s best to know that going into it, as some people may be disappointed that it’s not more terrifying, while others will be pleased! Like Wakenhyrst, though, it is still very atmospheric; the rainforest is beautifully described – Paver mentions in her author’s note that she has visited rainforests herself – but, seen through Simon’s eyes, it becomes an oppressive, claustrophobic, menacing place.

Rainforest is a fascinating novel in many ways. As well as the setting which I’ve already mentioned, Paver also explores the arrogance of the white explorer and the lack of respect for the environment and the indigenous people – referred to specifically as the Yachikel, a term Paver says she made up and based on other Mayan peoples. I also learned more about Simon’s beloved mantids than I ever knew I needed to know! Simon being such an unpleasant character, though, meant that I struggled to care about what happened to him and this stopped me from engaging with his story as much as I would have liked. Despite this, I did enjoy the book overall and will catch up with her earlier ones at some point.

Thanks to Orion for providing a copy of this book for review via NetGalley.

Surfacing by Margaret Atwood – #MARM2025 #NovNov25

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This isn’t the book I really wanted to read for this year’s Margaret Atwood Reading Month (hosted by Marcie of Buried in Print) – that would have been The Blind Assassin, but it’s such a long book I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish it in time. Surfacing is much shorter – in fact, at just under 200 pages in my edition, it also qualifies for Novellas in November – so I decided to read it instead. I suspect I would have enjoyed The Blind Assassin more, though; I found a lot to interest me in Surfacing, but I can’t say that I particularly loved it.

First published in 1972, the book is narrated by an unnamed woman who travels to her childhood home on a remote island in northern Quebec in search of her father, who has gone missing. She’s accompanied by her boyfriend, Joe, and another couple – her friend Anna and her husband, David. The narrator has never been back to the island since getting divorced years earlier as she felt too ashamed to talk to her parents about her marriage and why it ended. Now her mother is dead and her father’s old friend, Paul, has contacted her to tell her that her father has disappeared from his cabin by the lake.

Joe and David have brought a camera along with them, hoping to find some interesting scenes to film for a documentary they’re making called Random Samples. While they focus on that, the narrator tries to find out what has happened to her father, but it’s clear that even if she finds him she doesn’t particularly want to speak to him and that the whole experience is bringing back memories she has been trying to forget.

Suppressed memories coming back to the surface could be one explanation for the title of the novel; another is the psychological resurfacing of the narrator as she tries to move on from the past and go forward with her life. The lake which forms such a big part of the setting is also symbolic of hidden depths and things rising to the surface. As the book progresses we begin to see just how much the narrator has been hiding from us, from her friends and even from herself.

This is a sad, poignant story in many ways and the narrator is obviously deeply damaged by the traumatic events of her past. All she tells us about her marriage at first is that she had a husband once and there was a child, but it eventually emerges that there was more to the situation than she has revealed – and her failure to come to terms with what happened is impacting her new relationship with Joe. Meanwhile as we learn more about Anna and David, we see that their marriage is not a happy one either and is quite disturbing on several levels. There also seems to be a strong anti-American sentiment running through the book, with the narrator and her friends very hostile towards any Americans they meet; it’s not really explained why they feel like that, but I’m assuming the book is a product of its time. I did like the Quebec setting as I’ve read very little fiction set there and I was interested in the way Atwood writes about the barriers to communication between French and English speakers and how the narrator feels like an outsider in her father’s community because of her inability to speak fluent French.

I got quite a lot out of this book, then, but I also felt that there was a lot I didn’t really understand and didn’t know how to interpret. I found the insular, unreliable narrator difficult to connect with as much as I would have liked to and the other characters were either unpleasant or held at arm’s length by the narrator. It’s definitely not a favourite Atwood novel, but I’m still glad I read it and will look forward to reading The Blind Assassin when I have more time!

The Stepdaughter by Caroline Blackwood

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I’ve never read anything by Caroline Blackwood, but decided to try this book as I was intrigued by the comparisons to authors like Shirley Jackson and Patricia Highsmith. Although she wrote several novels, short story collections and works of non-fiction, Blackwood, who was a Guinness heiress, seems to have been better known as a socialite and muse (she inspired the art of Lucian Freud and the poetry of Robert Lowell, two of her three husbands). She really deserves to be known for her own work as well as her influence on other people’s and I’m glad to see that some of her books, including this one, have been reissued recently.

The Stepdaughter was first published in 1976 and is novella length, which is a perfect way to try out a new author without having to commit to something longer. The book is narrated by a woman referred to only as J, and takes the form of letters she is ‘writing’ in her mind to an imaginary friend. J has been deserted by Arnold, her husband, who has gone to live in Paris with his French girlfriend, leaving her behind in an expensive Manhattan apartment with their four-year-old daughter and an au pair, whom she dislikes. There’s also a fourth member of the household – Renata, her husband’s teenage daughter from a previous marriage. It seems clear to J that Arnold will only allow her to go on living in the apartment if she continues to look after Renata. The only problem is, she hates the girl, resents her presence and can’t even bear to look at her.

The narrator’s attitude towards Renata is horrible. It’s obvious to the reader that Renata, who is still just a child, is desperately unhappy and in need of love and affection. However, this doesn’t seem to occur to J (or maybe it does, but she doesn’t care). She sees her stepdaughter as someone to be despised – an awkward, overweight, unattractive girl whose only interests are baking and eating cakes and sitting in her bedroom watching television. J uses her imaginary letters as an outlet to express her feelings about Renata and as the book progresses she becomes more and more fixated on her hatred of the girl, blaming her for everything that’s wrong in her life.

The situation in the apartment sounds unbearable, for J but particularly for poor Renata, so it’s not surprising that eventually things do inevitably reach a turning point. It’s not a happy ending and not what I would have preferred, but at least J manages to redeem herself a tiny bit, gaining a deeper understanding of both herself and Renata and regretting that things have happened the way they have. Although J’s sheer nastiness and cruelty make this book an uncomfortable and unsettling read, it’s also a very compelling one. It wouldn’t feel right to say that I ‘enjoyed’ it, but I was gripped by it and read it in one day. It would be a good choice for Novellas in November, if anyone is planning that far ahead!

Thanks to Virago for providing a copy of this book for review via NetGalley.

Book 2/20 for 20 Books of Summer 2025.

Tea on Sunday by Lettice Cooper

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Lettice Cooper is a new author for me. I’m aware that two of her books from the 1930s, National Provincial and The New House, have been published by Persephone, but I haven’t read either of them yet. Tea on Sunday, her only detective novel, sounded appealing, though; it was published in 1973, very late in her life, but has the feel of a Golden Age mystery and has recently been reissued as a British Library Crime Classic.

The plot is quite a simple one. On a snowy winter’s day, Alberta Mansbridge invites eight guests to a tea party at her home in London. The guests include her family doctor, her ‘man of business’, an old friend, the manager of her late father’s engineering company, her nephew Anthony and his wife, and two young men she has taken under her wing – an Italian and an ex-prisoner. As the group gather outside her door that Sunday afternoon, they become concerned when their knocking goes unanswered. Eventually the police are called and force open the door to find that Alberta has been strangled while sitting at her desk.

There’s no real mystery regarding how the murder took place. The doors and windows had been locked and there’s no sign of a burglary, so the police are satisfied that the killer must have been someone Alberta knew and let into the house – probably one of the eight guests who arrived early, committed the murder, then left again to return a few minutes later with the others. But which of the eight was it and why did they want Alberta dead?

Tea on Sunday is a slow paced novel where, once the murder is discovered, not much else actually happens. Most of the focus is on Detective Chief Inspector Corby interviewing the various suspects one by one and delving into Alberta’s personal history to see if the answer lies in her past in Yorkshire. Despite the lack of action, I still found the book surprisingly absorbing and that’s because of Cooper’s strong characterisation. Any of the eight could be the culprit as none of them have alibis and this means Corby has to learn as much as he can about each person and whether or not they have a motive.

Corby is a likeable detective and it’s a shame he only appears in this one book by Lettice Cooper as she could probably have built a whole series around him. Although a few of his comments about women are questionable, I could make allowances for the period in which the novel was written and in general he’s respectful towards the people he interviews and doesn’t judge until he’s heard all the facts. It would be easy, for example, for him to pin the blame on Barry Slater, the former prisoner Alberta met through her charitable work and who runs away as soon as the police are called to the scene, but he doesn’t do this and waits to form his own opinion.

Of the eight suspects, the characters who stand out the most, in my opinion, are Anthony Seldon and his wife, Lisa. As the dead woman’s nephew and the only direct family member invited to the tea party, Anthony naturally comes under suspicion, so a lot of time is spent on his background, painting a picture of a young man who disappointed his aunt by refusing to go into the family business and by marrying a woman she dislikes quite intensely. Another interesting character is Myra Heseltine, Alberta’s close friend who lodged with her until discovering that Alberta’s latest protégé, Marcello Bartolozzi, whom Myra distrusts, may be moving in as well.

It’s Alberta Mansbridge herself, however, whose character comes across most strongly. Despite being murdered so early in the book, she is brought to life through the words and memories of those who knew her: a woman proud of her family’s legacy, stubbornly resistant to change and progress, who interferes in other people’s business but at the same time is generous and giving. At first it’s difficult to see why so many people may have wanted her dead, but gradually motives emerge for almost all of the suspects.

The actual solution to the mystery is disappointingly simple and there are no clever twists along the way, like we would expect from Agatha Christie, for example. I felt let down by the ending, but it was still an enjoyable read up to that point and as the first book I’ve completed in 2025 it means my reading for the year is off to a good start.

Passenger to Frankfurt by Agatha Christie – #1970Club

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My second book for this week’s 1970 Club (hosted by Karen and Simon) also counts towards the Read Christie challenge where, for the final three months of the year, we are focusing on Agatha Christie books from the 1960s and 70s. I was a bit dubious about reading Passenger to Frankfurt as it seems to be widely considered one of her worst novels, but I want to read all of her books eventually anyway, so this seemed as good a time as any.

The novel begins with Sir Stafford Nye being delayed at Frankfurt Airport on his way home to England from a diplomatic mission in Malaya. When he is approached by a young woman who tells him that her life is in danger, Sir Stafford finds himself agreeing to lend her his passport and cloak so she can safely board the next flight to London in disguise. This is to be the first of several encounters Sir Stafford has with this woman; after he returns to London himself, having claimed to have been the victim of a theft, he places an advertisement in the newspaper in the hope of tracking her down, and their paths soon cross again.

None of this may seem particularly plausible, but at least it’s fun. Once Sir Stafford begins to learn more about his new acquaintance and her mission, however, things start to go downhill. He is pulled into a web of espionage and intrigue, which should be exciting but unfortunately isn’t, partly because there’s not much action – instead there are lots of long passages in which various people hold meetings and conferences to discuss the rise in youth movements and rebellions around the world. There are discussions of fascism, neo-Nazis, student protests, anarchy, drugs and weapons; Christie was eighty years old when this book was published and it seems that her view of the future was a very bleak one, in particular regarding the role young people would play.

This could still have been interesting, but Christie doesn’t manage to balance her political commentary with any kind of coherent plot, so all those conversations about youth unrest do become very repetitive and tedious, especially as the various conspiracy theories that arise are too outlandish to take seriously. There’s also a large number of characters, many of whom are introduced and then disappear again a few pages later. Apart from Sir Stafford and his mysterious female friend, the only one who really stands out is Sir Stafford’s Aunt Matilda, one of those no-nonsense old ladies Christie writes so well. Intriguingly, Matilda has an assistant, Amy Leatheran, who I assume is the same character who appeared in Murder in Mesopotamia, although no reference is made to her earlier adventures!

I often enjoy Christie’s thrillers and spy novels (They Came to Baghdad and The Man in the Brown Suit are favourites), but this one was a big disappointment and certainly the weakest of all the Christie novels I’ve read so far. I don’t regret reading it for 1970 Club, though, because, as I’ve said, I was going to read it at some point anyway. Definitely one for completists, in my opinion, and not the place to start if you’re new to Christie’s work.

The Long Shadow by Celia Fremlin

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With its snowy cover welcoming us to ‘The Nightmare Christmas Holiday’, I wondered if I had left it too late to read this book and should have waited for December to come around again, but I needn’t have worried – there’s actually very little mention of Christmas and the cover is clearly just a marketing device by the publisher. It worked perfectly for me as an early January read and has helped my 2024 get off to a great start. It’s not really surprising that I enjoyed it as Fremlin’s earlier novel, Uncle Paul, was one of the best books I read last year.

First published in 1975, The Long Shadow opens two months after Imogen Barnicott’s husband, Ivor, is killed in a car accident. As a renowned Professor of Classics, Ivor’s death causes an outpouring of grief from students, academics and colleagues from around the world – in fact, Ivor seems to be mourned more by people who barely knew him than by members of his own family. Imogen’s own feelings certainly appear to be mixed; she can’t help reflecting on how much Ivor would have loved the attention that comes with being dead and how annoyed he must be that he’s not around to enjoy it! While she misses Ivor’s presence around the house, she also welcomes having the freedom to do whatever she wants at last. However, this freedom is very short-lived because, as Christmas approaches, her adult stepchildren descend upon the house with their partners and children in tow, as does one of Ivor’s ex-wives, who has just arrived from Bermuda.

Imogen just wants to move on with her life, but that’s going to be difficult with so many uninvited guests. And when she receives a late night telephone call from a stranger accusing her of Ivor’s murder, it seems that someone else is determined to stop her from moving on as well. As New Year comes and goes, there are more unexplained incidents: one of Ivor’s books is found open on the arm of his chair, the grandchildren insist they’ve seen a ‘wizard’ in Grandpa’s room…and Imogen’s anonymous caller refuses to leave her alone. Does Imogen know more about her husband’s death than she’s prepared to admit?

The Long Shadow is a slower paced book than Uncle Paul and although there’s plenty of dark humour, it’s not quite as funny either. However, like Uncle Paul, it has a wonderfully unsettling atmosphere and a sense of increasing suspense and tension. Fremlin does an excellent job of making the reader question everything we are being told. Is Imogen being completely honest with us or could she be an unreliable narrator? Is there a logical explanation for what is happening or a supernatural one? And is Ivor even really dead? Fremlin leads our thoughts in first one direction and then another until we’re not really sure what to think or believe.

Although there are elements of mystery, this is not really a ‘crime novel’ – we don’t even know whether a crime has actually been committed; ‘psychological thriller’ is a better description, but even then it’s not a conventional thriller either. What it is more than anything is an examination of widowhood, the process of grieving and all the little complexities that follow a death in the family. Imogen finds it particularly difficult to cope because she isn’t given the space to mourn alone; not only does she have letters of condolence to answer from all corners of the globe (How he would have loved to watch the letters pouring in, day after day, by every post, in their tens and in their dozens, each one a tribute to himself…), she also has her neighbour Edith constantly regaling her with tales of her own late husband, Darling Desmond, as well as a house full of lodgers and family members all outstaying their welcome.

The plot becomes quite gripping towards the end, when it seems that the truth is about to be revealed – but although we do get answers to most of our questions, the final sentence provides one last, surprising twist! I’m glad I picked such an enjoyable book to start the year with and I see my library has The Hours Before Dawn, so I could be tempted to read more Celia Fremlin soon.