The author’s bookshelves

When I feel really confused I believe that one of Helen Grant’s bookcases is a fireplace. But apart from that I am completely normal.

(It’s because it looks a little fireplace-ish. More than mine, anyway.)

The Resident IT Consultant and I enjoyed looking through Helen’s shelves when we were waiting for her to get lunch ready the other week. (She had declined my help. I let her. That’s the kind of visitor I am.) They are shelves that anyone would enjoy browsing for unexpected – or for that matter, totally expected – books. We flitted from side to side, since there was no discernible system. Lovely.

They are nice bookcases. The furniture, I mean. Dark brown. Not too plain and not too ornamental. Just right. And one of them sits where the fireplace would be if there was one. Hence my understandable memory lapse. As befits a proper library, the room boasts leather sofas. And cats.

I am sure that Helen, or the younger Grants, own every one of the Harry Potter books. But they are so nicely spread out that you could never accuse the family of believing in alphabetical order. The HPs are not even in the same bookcase, or along the same wall!

And they have at least two copies of a book about witches and magic. Either they don’t know this, or they need both. I felt suitably appreciated, anyway. There are books by Johan Ajvide Lindqvist, or what I call horror of horrors. Someone likes outdoorsy books. They have books on food. On health. And, er, some by Helen Grant.

Some books stand in front of other books. In other words, the Grant book collection is very, very normal. I suspect they haven’t acquired books with an eye to what others will think. Which is just as well, since when they moved (I have forgotten now if it was to Germany or to Belgium) their new neighbours asked why they’d bothered dragging all those old books with them.

Yeah, I mean, you’d think people wouldn’t take things they’d already used when moving house.

Ach, it’s Auchtermuchty

‘Did you bring even more books I have to read?’ asked Daughter. ‘Yes!’ I did. With a car you should make the most of not having to carry stuff back and forth.

It was student moving day. While the more normal parents had come from Berkshire and beyond, to convey their little darlings back home after a year at uni, us abnormals traversed half the country (in the last few days I’ve been on more scenic routes than I thought possible) in order to give a lift to someone’s belongings from one room to another, two minutes down the road. And then go home again, with as empty a car as when we arrived.

So naturally I took the opportunity of providing more reading material seriously. Meanwhile, the Resident IT Consultant checked out the new landlady’s library, and found it reasonably satisfactory.

En route for this mini-move we stopped in Auchtermuchty for elevenses at the Tannochbrae Tearoom. Very Dr Finlay it was. Strangely quiet little town, but with lovely cake, and a refill of coffee for the Resident IT Consultant. I was a little taken aback to find a portrait of Alex Salmond perched on the cistern in the toilet, but each to their own, I suppose.

(For anyone who fancies running a tearoom, I gather it’s for sale.)

Oddly enough it was my second ‘Finlay sighting’ in two days. Helen Grant lives near a street called Rintoul Avenue, so my mind was already on Dr F.

If I’d had my wits about me you could have been admiring a picture of the tiny, but lovely, Auchtermuchty Library here. But I didn’t, so you can’t. I blame it on the lemon & lime cake. And the portrait in the WC. (I’d have understood if they’d put David Rintoul there.)

While all this was taking place, Son and Dodo set off for Sweden, to cut some grass, encountering rather hot weather. Son had a meeting to go to, so parked Dodo in the library park in the sunshine while he talked business.

It strikes me that that’s two pretty long trips for two small jobs. I’m glad insanity seems to be hereditary.

Innerpeffray Library

You know when people share their favouritest place with you, and you’re afraid you’ll hate it and that it will cause problems between you and all that? Helen Grant has been going on and on about Innerpeffray Library – almost in the middle of nowhere in Perthshire – for so long, that I thought she might, just possibly, be deluded.

Dear reader, she’s actually right. Innerpeffray is the place to go (especially if it doesn’t rain) for the library experience with a difference. (Pardon me if I sound like an advertisement.) It’s a beautiful old building, next to an old chapel – with graveyard – in the loveliest of settings; green fields with sheep in, a grassy ‘drive’ covered in tiny daisies, lovely plants along the path there, future nettle soup on the side, and a warm welcome when you arrive.

The librarian is called Lara, and I have rarely had such a fantastic guide anywhere. She talked history with the Resident IT Consultant and Helen, while I listened to these well educated, knowledgeable people, pretending I was too. For any little topic that came up, she found the book to illustrate it. (It’s almost as if Lara reads the books they have in there.)

She found me a Swedish book. They have two, but the other proved elusive when searched for. There was a book on witchcraft, which I gather is the vilest of crimes, trumping everything else. Hmm. This year’s exhibition is on crime, since that’s what we mere mortals like.

Lara climbs on the exceedingly tall ladder as though she was born to it. Apparently you have to go on a ladder-climbing course before you can work there. (Very relieved to hear that volunteers aren’t allowed to. So I could volunteer…)

They do events. Helen Grant did something spooky there recently, and has vowed to return for Halloween (which sounds great; if a little scary). Alexander McCall Smith is appearing at Innerpeffray to play very bad music. In fact, this coming weekend is full of fun sounding things to do. At one point Lara had to go off to see to some champagne. Later there was smoked salmon business needing her attention.

And even though it is now in a deserted corner of Perthshire’s lovely fields, when I asked that most commonly asked question ‘why is it here?’ I learned that when it started, it was a very busy part of the world, what with the river below, and all sorts of things.

People came to borrow books, and you can see the register of borrowers, which includes servants, and I found ‘a serf’ as well. This freedom with the books remains today. Unlike other museum type places where you can touch nothing; here you are allowed to. (Only not if your fingers are covered in clotted cream.) In the end I was frightened I’d tear one of the pages, so hardly dared to leaf through the witchcraft tome.

So, I can totally identify with Helen who comes here a lot. She suffered over the winter when they were closed, and could hardly wait to pop over when the library winter came to an end.

And you know, somewhere that has a purple panelled toilet, as well as a chapel where you can get married, beats a lot of places you might visit. If you can find it. You go down that road, and then you take that almost invisible turning, and later on you go left, follow the winding road and at some point you turn down some other road, at the end of which you will find you’ve arrived.

Unless you approach from some other direction.

Only politeness made us leave when it was Lara’s lunch break. That, and the fact that we too needed lunch. We went back to Schloss Grant and shared bread and cheese and salad, with fresh strawberries (which were very nice), and after that we actually ate some Battenbergs too. We talked books and publishing. The cats were woken so they could say hello.

Helen told me something I mustn’t repeat, which I won’t, because not only am I nice (so so) but I have forgotten what it was. She gave me her new collection of short stories, which I hope won’t scare me too much (I’ll get back to you on that) and then she showed us the door. Very politely.

I would recommend this outing to anyone. Unfortunately, not all of you can do the last part, but Lara and the library are waiting for you. Perhaps get married there, and provide them with some essential, financial support!

(My apologies for the numerous photos. It’s the kind of place where you just can’t not take pictures. Besides, Adèle Geras has demanded them. I’d recommend going now. It’s sunny, and nature is at its prettiest.)

Bookwitch bites #105

Do you remember Reading Matters, the new bookshop that opened late last year in Chapel-en-le-Frith? Well, as befits an ambitious shop, they have a variety of events planned, and next Saturday they have ex-Chapel author Bernard Hardy coming to read from his local novel, Savannah Bound. This is an historical novel with its roots in the textile industry, and it’s precisely the kind of book I’d have read prior to my growing tbr pile problems. It’s also the type of book event that should do well, with both readers and author coming from not too far away.

And believe it or not, but through my letterbox the other day, came a sheet of A4, telling me about another local historical novel. Alice Frank has written A Bowdon Romance, which begins in Edgeley, and moves on to Bowdon, and features servant girl Charlotte.

Maybe it’s a recent bug, or it could be that people are always busy writing novels set locally. It’s admirably forward thinking to leaflet houses with what amounts to a home made version of the press releases I see every day. A Bowdon Romance is available to buy at the Book Exchange at Stockport Market.

It’s been a Grant kind of week for books being published. I reviewed Light by Michael Grant yesterday, and the day before was publication day for Silent Saturday by Helen Grant. Both the Grants like to scare and creep us out, and they do it so well. That’s two different kinds of gruesome for your pleasure reading…

Melvin Burgess also has a new book out. The Hit. For good measure he has two covers. You can have blue, or you can have red. I got a little confused over this, since I was convinced my copy was green. Or possibly yellow.

I suspect what I am remembering is the green spine. The yellow could be drugs. Or maybe the proof copy. Or not.

Anyway, there are masses of books out there for you to read!

Silent Saturday

I loved Silent Saturday. I also loved Helen Grant’s earlier German novels, but something tells me I love this one even more. Silent Saturday is the first of Helen’s new Belgian trilogy, and if a horror thriller can be described as comfortable, then this is it.

Set in and around Tervuren on the outskirts of Brussels, it begins with seven-year-old Veerle seeing something which scares her very very badly. It was so bad that ten years later she has forgotten all about it. But then her past seemingly comes back to haunt her, and her childhood friend Kris, who was with her when whatever it was happened.

Now she is in love with Kris, and she happily joins him and his group of associates in breaking into people’s houses when they are away. They only do this for the thrill, to see something new and, supposedly, to ‘put something back’ by doing simple repairs.

Before long, things start to go wrong. Members of the group disappear. Dead bodies are found in various places. And they only have one thing in common. The housebreakers.

What to do? If you are breaking the law, you won’t be so keen on talking to the police.

Veerle has problems at home, too. Her mother is extremely clingy, and sees monsters everywhere. The thing is, there could well be monsters, and close by…

Great – and different – setting in what feels like ‘the real Belgium,’ featuring the language gap between the two official languages. Good use of Flemish swearing, or at least I believe it is.

Go find a sofa to hide behind. Not that it will help, but you’ll be under the impression that you’re in control.

Helen Grant, the interview

We ended up talking about languages a lot. And what it’s like living in somebody else’s country. To join in, or not?

But that’s not surprising when you meet Helen Grant. She’s lived in more countries than your average person, and insists on speaking to the locals in their own language. (Some locals, in certain countries, would insist on that as well…)

While you are waiting with baited breath for Helen’s marvellous fourth novel, read my interview with her to find out how she became such a scary lady.

For some reason Silent Saturday took me right back to my childhood, and I think that’s why the sepia photos of Helen work. (Actually, the lighting at our ‘venue’ made Helen a lot more yellow than would be considered normal. So I have resorted to borrowing some of Helen’s own, which means we get to see Flanders and everything.)

A little bit of Flanders in Scotland

After years of me bringing Offspring along to interviews, and then borrowing other people’s children for the same purpose, I have finally got to the point where the interviewee arrives with children in tow. (They were invited!) The circle is complete, and all that. And whereas I have used (my own) children’s labour to obtain photographs in the past, very little has changed. This time I borrowed the visiting Miss Grant to take pictures of Mum, aka Helen Grant.

The family involvement didn’t stop there. I might have been Offspring-free, but not only did I have the Resident IT Consultant on kitchen duty, but the Grandmother had to provide the venue. (I only asked permission after I’d set the whole thing up.)

While Master Grant made the most of the Grandmotherly wifi and charged his laptop, his sister took photos and read books, as befits the true child of an author. The mothers ate cake. Obviously. Pizza. Garlic bread. I won’t tell you how many slices Helen ate. Tea and glasses of Coke were also consumed during the process of interviewing one of Scotland’s more recently imported authors.

Helen’s new book Silent Saturday won’t be out until next year, but we need to think and talk about it before then, which is why three quarters of the Grant family kindly got themselves lost while searching for the Grandmother’s abode. The fourth quarter Grant avoided this by rescuing some mountains instead.

So, Helen and I discussed Flanders and Belgium, where the book is set, and we talked languages, because that’s important in the book. We talked background and all sorts of others stuff, and you will have to wait for all this because – as I said – the book won’t be available just yet. Helen had to restrain herself from giving away too many spoilers as regards books two and three, and since not one of you (?) has even read the first one yet, I can’t say much about that either.

After this we talked about all sorts of other things while enjoying the Resident IT Consultant’s heating-up-food abilities. Picts. Flemish lessons. Lost railway lines. You know.

What Helen is doing next

First you have to decide which Helen I am talking about.

Fine, then. I’ll help you. It’s Helen Grant. She very kindly drove all the way to Stirling when we were in Bloody Scotland weekend before last. She came just to see us. Actually, there was some kind of sleeping bag on the agenda, but mainly she was wanting to share tea and cake and trilogies.

Those being some of my main skills in life, it seemed like a good idea. Although, I always forget that whereas Helen really is a lovely person, her books feel very, sort of,  menacing? She scares me more than most, and the way she taps into spooky German places, and now spooky Belgian places is, well, spooky.

Helen has recently moved to Random House, and I like their cover for the new book. Which incidentally, and sadly, won’t be with us until some time in spring 2013. As I said, it’s a trilogy, and I’m not sure I felt reassured by the way Helen suggested the end might be a bit gruesome. Or at least, not all sunshine and happiness.

But I am looking forward to Silent Saturday, since I have every reason to believe it’s going to be as fantastic a read as Helen’s previous novels.

She seems to be out of step with the places she is being scary in. As her first German book arrived on the scene, she moved to Belgium, and it’s only now that she’s back in Britain, that her Belgian novels are ready.

So my wait for some bloody Scottish novels could be a long one.

The tea was pleasant. Despite Stirling doing its best to close tearooms as it saw us coming, we found a new one I’d not tried before, and it was good. Tea with flavour for a change, and home made quality cake. Copies of the Encyclopaedia Britannica lining the walls. Really proper for a literary chat.

Helen even brought me postcards from Gent, where the trilogy is set. I’m already worrying about someone falling off the tower. Not sure which tower exactly, but I happen to know she has done some high-up research, and someone is bound to fall off some tower or other.

The next big thing is Higashoo

Those of us who braved the unexpected rain on Sunday morning, could enjoy a discussion on The Next Big Thing with Barry Forshaw, Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, editor Jade Chandler and Val McDermid.

In between pronunciation issues and translations that made sanitary towels into bath towels, Barry kept hinting he knew the answer. It’s Higashoo. Sort of. I cornered him afterwards and even he didn’t know what he’d been saying, so there is little hope for me.

The cream of Nordic crime has now been joined by less creamy novels, and the future might lie on some hitherto unheard of Scottish island. Or Man. Manx murders, anyone?

As long as president Putin doesn’t say he likes – or dislikes – what you write, you’ll be all right. Hopefully.

After Yrsa had said how she just likes creepy stuff, we crept uphill to the Highland Hotel and the one children’s books event of the weekend. It was free, which only goes to prove how undervalued children’s books are. We had the excellent Gillian Philip and Cathy MacPhail, along with the to me unknown, but now very scary, Helen FitzGerald talking to Christina Johnston.

The ladies chatted on the subject of Once Upon a Crime, and were photographed next to a clothes hanger. I worry a bit about the significance of that. They each read from their books, and Helen’s piece was about seeing your mother’s dead body. I think she said Deviant is her happiest book, so I don’t know… She road tests her books for teen authenticity on her daughter. For money.

Cathy, who does ‘like a good murder,’ learns about her genuine child characters on school visits. She likes writing from a boy’s point of view, and her next book, Mosi’s War is another boy book. What Cathy does not like is to be put in the Scottish section in shops, next to Nessie.

Gillian read from The Opposite of Amber, and said she tries to avoid slang for fear of it dating too quickly. But she doesn’t tone down content for YA. For her it simply means the protagonists are younger. And she does swear in her books.

All three bemoaned the lack of room for reviews of children’s books in the papers, and seemed to feel the answer might lie in reviews by young readers.

After getting a couple of Seth MacGregor books signed, we rolled down the hill, back to the Albert Halls for The Red-Headed League. An all star cast of crime writers read a dramatised version of one of Sherlock’s best known mysteries, with Gillian Philip as the villain. Karen Campbell had the most unlikely red hair, and Craig Robertson was Lestrade. Members of the audience – OK, other crime writers dotted about – made up the other hopeful redheads.

Waiting outside beforehand provided a parade of Who’s Who in Scottish crime, with most authors walking past our sandwich-bench under a tree. (It was still trying to rain.)

Once an arrest had been made, it was on to the Worth the Wait short story competition, where out of 232 entries, they had chosen the best 19 for their free ebook (download it now!). The winner Sarah Reynolds received her price from one of the sponsors.

And then it was time for the inaugural Scottish Crime Book of the Year  Award 2012, introduced by Sheena McDonald and presented by William McIlvanney. The winner was Charles Cumming for A Foreign Country.

Once this was done, we trooped out and most of us went home. Sort of.

Except the witch who likes to meet authors. She had tea with Helen Grant, who is even scarier (in her books) than most of the Bloody Scotland lot.

Then we went home.

Granted

We’re having the weekend ‘off’. Sort of. So you will not get a real blog post out of me, because I’ve not behaved in a terribly bookwitchy way.

Once I staggered out of bed after Friday’s graduation excesses I did, however, have a very good literary Saturday. As I mentioned a few weeks ago Helen Grant moved to Scotland in June, and I’m afraid I took advantage of her weakened state by suggesting we might meet up now that I was temporarily in the same country.

Helen was sufficiently taken aback by this and didn’t even claim a prior appointment with her hairdresser to get out of it. So she and her lovely children Blackwolf and Shardspirit along with the energetic Mr G obeyed my witchy summons and made it to Corrieri’s for pizza, pasta and proper Italian ice cream.

It was very nice. I brought Daughter along and even the Resident IT Consultant got an airing, seeing as it was his hometown. The place was quietening down as we arrived, but we soon put a stop to that, and soon we could barely hear ourselves chat. So I’m unable to report too many indiscretions, I’m afraid.

The Grant pets (no, they didn’t come) have taken well to their new home, and once Helen has finished murdering her way around Flanders, she will consider killing off some of Perthshire. I’m looking forward to that.

Both Shardspirit and Blackwolf brought books to read (I suspect they sensed I might be boring, and how right they were) which I thoroughly approve of. Daughter had nothing better to do than fiddle with her mobile. The lovely Helen gave me a devil rubber duck, which I will treasure always. Unless that cheeky Daughter steals it off me.

After a nice meal the Grants dropped us off so dangerously close to Oxfam that the Resident IT Consultant went there and ‘had an accident’. Bookaholics! Honestly!