Deadline

First published in 1957, Deadline by Bill Knox which has just been reissued by Zertex/J D Kirk/Barry Hutchison shows what you can do when you happen to run a small publishing business. When he discovered his first second hand Knox, Barry was so excited, and when he’d been excited enough, he realised he could actually publish these books anew. So that’s what he’s doing. Deadline came in January, and two days ago the second Knox novel – Death Department – hit the world.

Just as the time travelling reader from the past might be a little shocked by the profanities and the violence and the sex in our current crime novels, so the reader travelling back to the 1950s is stunned by how polite they are, how much the police care about crime and about being fair. I was mostly taken aback by how much staff time they have at their disposal, and also how sensibly proactive even quite junior detectives are.

The reader knows from the start who the killer is and why (and I have come to the conclusion that I don’t much like that format of storytelling), and you are left to discover how the police will work out who killed their colleague, and no effort is spared.

It’s fascinating. I came to like, not to mention trust, Thane and Moss, a well functioning duo who will not tolerate a ‘cop killer’ in their midst. This is Glasgow, so not much cosiness among the landladies, wives and demanding girlfriends.

We’re still in the capital punishment era, so you worry that the slightest mistake will mean the end for the wrong suspect. But Thane is not easily fooled, and he is very fair. Did I already mention that?

Anyway, there will be a new title monthly.

Lessons from Bonnie

Bonnie Garmus, author of the incredibly best selling Lessons in Chemistry, talked to Piers Torday for the Society of Authors’ online afternoon tea earlier today. She wrote her first book, a one page novel about a Princess, at the age of five. Her very normal sounding ‘kids’ are threatening to go public with it. The next book was a full length affair when she was twelve, but it was never even taken out from the school library, however many times she checked.

Then, some fifty years later, she struck gold with her chemistry [which I have not read, having heard widely opposing opinions on the book…], and I understand that the way to success was paved with sort of setting fire to her home with the help of pistachio nuts. ‘I don’t really love cooking’, she said.

You can’t be too old to write books, but many people believe this, and keep asking. It is however an endurance thing, and Bonnie credits her rowing skills for getting to the end. You can’t stop rowing in the middle of the water. Her book was a case of writing many small parcels, which then had to be joined together to make the whole story.

And, I’m sorry, but if she told you what she was writing about for her next book, she lied. Not intentionally, but it has changed en route. So Bonnie is back to not saying anything about that at all.

There was a slightly incomprehensible question based on some television exercise person. He had a dog, apparently. Bonnie doesn’t like writing classes or clubs. There can be much unhelpful advice from people who know very little.

Asked what she’s reading now, she apologised for mentioning a couple of great novels, but which aren’t published yet. Such is the life in publishing, but rest assured, Percival Everett and Rosie Pike have got good stuff coming. Just not yet.

Later this spring Bonnie is meeting the Queen, who is a great reader. And last but not least, she was awe struck being shown round the Library of Congress by the top US librarian they have there. Strangely enough one of my correspondents also managed to mention these two people in the same breath. Must be a thing.

Geschenkbuch

Aren’t they all?

I recently enjoyed a flashmob performance of a song in a Berlin bookshop. By which I mean it was online. I didn’t actually go there.

The singer, whose name escapes me, stood on a table, and the camera panned from him to around the shop, which is when I saw the shelves in the corner, labelled Geschenkbuch. Or was it Geschenkbücher? Whatever.

They were – probably – of the coffee table variety, along with little diaries and similar. What you buy – might buy – if you want to gift someone a book. In a way I am grateful for this, as without such a useful label, many people might not give any kind of book.

But really, any book is a potential Geschenk, is it not? I would probably, definitely, welcome a normal average kind of book more. But they are hard to buy, whether or not you yourself are a reader. You might know what the recipient reads, but what if they already have that book? Give them something you have enjoyed? They might have read that too. Or their tastes are not the same as yours.

I’m now trying to think whether having a Geschenkbuch corner is a good idea or not. Possibly better than I thought fourteen lines ago. Oh dear.

A Song for Summer

Let’s get romantic!

I don’t often say this, but it is Valentine’s Day after all.

Wasn’t altogether sure about reviewing [one of] Eva Ibbotson’s adult romantic novels, because what can you say? Do we know at the outset that the couple will end up happily ever after? Well, I’m not telling you.

This is another of Eva’s stories set in Austria, and Britain, before and during WWII, but written in the 1990s. She does it so well, knowing her Austria, and her London among the better educated. Except here we have Ellen who prefers to cook and grow a garden. Her mother and her aunts are horrified. When she could have a proper education!

The reader will be happy when Ellen sets off to work in a school in Austria, where she will work her magic on pupils and adults alike, and she does much cleaning and cooking. There is a man, of course. There are several, but one special one, even if they sometimes have to fight over who gets Ellen.

It’s a lovely period piece, if somewhat rosy. Except, the war does make itself known and it has effects, and I especially resented the death of Xxxx. And Ellen is terribly dutiful and will do what seems best, and isn’t necessarily what she herself wants, or the reader.

I loved it.

Meet the Britwitch

Every year, without fail, on this day I tell you how old Bookwitch is now. And in case you want the latest figure, she is 17.

But today I have other news. I can now call myself the Britwitch, after spending vast amounts of money, and some time, on acquiring British citizenship.

Many thanks to my dentist, and to Helen Grant, who both put their reputation on the line to vouch for me being me. I did sit the Life in the UK test, but in the end I grew so old it wasn’t necessary; nor did I have to prove I can speak English. Old age has something to say for it. The biometric man who was too cool to like ABBA when he was younger, being punk, was also very helpful and friendly. And Daughter has cajoled and helped fill stuff in and organised ghastly photos in Sainsbury’s, as well as coming along today to ‘hold’ my hand. And the Resident IT Consultant rushed home from his morning walk to come along as well.

This is turning into a veritable Oscars acceptance speech, isn’t it? There was a medal for me.

The Registrar was nice too. I even managed to speak my Affirmation properly, only stumbling a little bit on the wrong Monarch, but remembering the new one is Charles, he is King, and his number is three. We didn’t have to sing the national anthem, although I could have. It’s the kind of thing us little foreigners learned at school. In my case close to sixty years ago. The recording of the anthem played was rather lovely, sung by someone with a much better voice than the three of us could have managed.

It didn’t even rain. The storms held off with no rain, some sunshine, and very little wind.

It’ll be back to books tomorrow. Or next week.