Tom Palmer keeps them coming; the wonderful stories from WWII and after, some of them set in the Lake District. Angel of Grasmere is the latest, beginning in 1940, soon after Dunkirk.
Tarn and her friends roam the fells, partly looking for invading Nazis, but also because it’s what children did. Tarn’s older brother was lost in the retreat from Dunkirk, and her family no longer feels complete.
But Tarn has her friend Peter and their new pal Eric, an evacuee from Manchester. Their story is a good way of learning what life during the war might have been like, and it’s shocking how close the was came, to somewhere that feels quite distant both from Europe and the south of England.
There seems to be an angel in the neighbourhood, someone who carries out acts of kindness in various ways. It makes people feel better, thinking someone is looking out for them.
In a way their lives are quite ordinary, and yet not at all. This is a lowkey kind of war story, making you feel good about seeing the actions of this angel, as well as seeing how grown up these 11-year-olds could be. Because they had to.
And the setting is lovely, between Grasmere village and up towards Easedale Tarn.
Your witch has a guest on here today; Barbara Henderson on her new novel:
“Isn’t language wonderful? Some words have an impact far beyond their literal meaning. How apt then that I should write about the witchcraft angle in The Boy, the Witch and the Queen of Scots for the Bookwitch blog. Nothing could be more fitting!
Scotland has form when it comes to witches and warlocks, particularly following the Scottish Witchcraft Act of 1563 when both the practice of witchcraft and consulting with witches became capital offences, punishable by death. Shockingly, Scotland executed at least 15 times as many witches as England relative to its population. The act came into effect during the troubled reign of Mary, Queen of Scots. In 1597, her son King James VI of Scotland (and later I of England) became the only European monarch to publish a treatise defending the reality of witchcraft. Is it the dark nights of winter|? The dreich, foggy weather? Whatever the reason, the supernatural has always occupied a key place in the Scottish psyche.
My book, The Boy, the Witch and the Queen of Scots, is set just before the Scottish Witchcraft Act comes into force – but my characters already inhabit a world which is steeped in religion and superstition. It was an age of fear – the plague was ravaging Europe, wars and counterwars spilled across borders and as if that wasn’t enough, you had to remain wary of witches and devils, too.
The idea to make a little more of this angle in the story arose when I read up on one of the villains in my story, the Earl of Huntly, also known as the ‘Cock o’ the North’ on account of his showy and proud conduct. Keen on a Catholic counter-reformation, the Earl staged a revolt against the newly arrived Queen when she refused to be manipulated by him. And guess what – his wife, the Countess of Huntly, is rumoured to have been partial to witchcraft. Soon, the very association with sorcery was to carry the death penalty. It inspired fear. It generated power. It made one feel invincible, perhaps. It is said that the Earl’s wife received a witches’ prophecy that her husband would emerge from the final battle without a wound on his body. This proved true, if not in the way she expected – the Earl was captured and died of ‘apoplexy’ (probably a stroke or seizure). Queen Mary was victorious.
Of course, prophecies and witchcraft also gave me the opportunity to put one of my main characters in danger through vicious and false accusations: a young seamstress called Lizzie simply repeats a prophecy she has overheard. When the events prophesied come to pass, she is accused of witchcraft and treason, and dragged away to Edinburgh’s notorious Tolbooth prison. Witchcraft may not carry the death penalty yet, but treason most certainly does. The stakes could not be higher for my young protagonists.
And then there is the title. Initially, the book was called The Queen’s Hawker. Not bad – but where was the jeopardy? A rethink was needed. The Spy and the Queen of Scots? Yes, better. But then I discovered the existence of a novel for teens called Spying for the Queen of Scots, by Theresa Breslin, an author I respect and admire greatly. Time for another rethink, no doubt about that. The Boy and the Queen of Scots? It was one of my teacher friends, Steven Kenyon, who had read the novel draft and suggested the threefold title: The Boy, the Witch and the Queen of Scots.
Once more, aren’t words great? My work here was done. That single additional word delivers threat, drama, jeopardy, intrigue, and an echo of the iconic The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It took me a while to get there, but I have arrived – with the supernatural angle firmly embroidered into the story, as if by Mary’s own hand.
I went looking for my rather ancient, and quite small, copy of Huckleberry Finn. It wasn’t there. OK, I thought, it was old. I was given it as a school prize in 1968.
But then the little grey cells kicked in. I thought that I have more than one place for books. And I consider Huck Finn to be a children’s book. So I’d have put it with children’s books, not with adult fiction. Dead simple. And there it was.
I have been reading about Percival Everett who has written a retelling – James – seen through Jim’s eyes. It sounds like the kind of thing I’d like to read. I think so, anyway. But 1968 was a long time ago, and I had already read the book when it was presented to me, in English. Presumably because I had been studious and did well at English. Still looked daunting, and it was only my second book in English, after the Ladybird book I bought two years earlier.
Because I did know the story, I was never tempted to try it in a foreign language. It’s just been sitting there for 55 years. It looks it, too, with its yellowing pages and brown spots.
I’m guessing it was chosen as a sequel to the likelier Tom Sawyer – which I’d also read – and as one of very few books available in English, for children, in the local bookshop. The price is still there, in pencil. Five kronor 40 öre.
Having come across more than one reference to Huck recently, I’ve felt guilty because I can only remember snatches of the plot. And I know it’s [been] considered very important in the US. Percival Everett is the same age as me. But it seems he only read an abridged version as a child, followed by the full book in his teens.
Perhaps I don’t need to feel any shame over my lack of recall. My copy of Huck is 370 pages, so I hope it’s not abridged. I think I might reread it. Then James.
How could I resist? A witch, and Stirling. Barbara Henderson’s new book was clearly meant for me. And it is as with her other historical novels; I learned so much. It’s almost like going to school, except a lot more fun.
It’s 1561. Alexander is a trainee falconer and new to Edinburgh, when he just happens to be in Leith when Mary Queen of Scots arrives from France. The Earl of Huntly, for whom he used to work, has instructed him to spy on the Queen. He desperately wants to avoid this, but how?
Based on real events, in a way this is similar to some of the other Mary Queen of Scots books I have come across. This is good, because that way you learn by repetition, and then you can concentrate on what is special about this story.
The birds, and the need to spy on his Queen. Alexander’s friendship with Lizzie who is the Queen’s seamstress.
Mary travels a lot, now that she has arrived in Scotland, and there are many opportunities for bad things to happen. She has long struck me as an interesting young woman, and this was a great way of meeting up with Mary again.
I almost wish I was twelve, coming fresh to fun history. But being old is almost as good.
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?
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 felt the vertigo as I climbed the Forth Bridge in the company of 12-year-old John Nicol, but he was braver than I was. He also climbed the bridge for real, while it was under construction. I merely read about him, and that was enough. Barbara Henderson knows how to describe our fears of heights. Her book Rivet Boy is filled with real individuals, fictionalising what might have happened to those who needed to eke out a living, building this magnificent bridge.
Some 12-year-olds had to be the breadwinner in the family, and John was one of them. Today’s 12-year-olds – in Scotland – don’t have to. They get to read about it instead, and the lucky ones might get a school visit from Barbara, which I would imagine will cement their knowledge about this bridge, leaving them wanting to cross the Forth, again and again. I know I do. I’ve crossed it on the train, and I have stood below it, in South Queensferry, so I know how high up it is.
It’s not only the courage of John that makes this story, but being told how you make a rivet safe, and meeting many of the famous people who passed by during the construction. Add a few bad guys and you have your thriller, too. And it’s always good to come across early female scientists, wannabe engineers.
Here at Bookwitch Towers we watched some train programmes, and when one ended with a good view of the Forth Bridge, I knew precisely what the Resident IT Consultant needed for Christmas. And I suppose I knew I needed it too.
One of these days I’ll understand – and remember – about cantilevers…
Our latest Christmas present rule was one only, from each person to the other persons, which in our case meant two from me to the other two. I reckoned that putting more than one book into the same wrapping paper could count as one, so I gave the Resident IT Consultant four books. All four were books I wanted to read. I was fairly sure he’d like them too. (But it does kind of deal quite nicely with what I want.)
He started on the one I had expected him to reach for first, and I have to thank the facebook friend who recommended the – to me – unknown E C R Lorac. The next one was by Nicola Upson, another fb recommendation.
I have just finished reading them myself, and it’s interesting how they coincidentally are quite similar. Lorac’s Fell Murder is set in a Lancashire farming community during WWII, and also written at that time. Nicola’s book is brand new but Shot With Crimson is set in 1939, in the countryside near Peterborough.
Nicola’s style is modern, both in plot and language. The Lorac novel is its complete opposite, being a little slow – but not in a bad way – and thoroughly of its time.
Shot With Crimson doesn’t shy away from the seriousness of murder, but I found myself looking at it from my current day view point. In Fell Murder the most shocking thing to the modern reader is how the farming population refuses to speculate when urged to by the police. Because they know that the murderer will be executed, and have no wish to send the wrong neighbour into the arms of death.
You tend to forget this. You know that murder was a capital offence back then, but somehow it’s quite easy to overlook. Because I had this book in such recent memory, I was able to contemplate Nicola’s various suspects differently. Was there someone I would be happier to see die for their crime?
The death of an elderly farmer in Lancashire, with relatively few suspects, is vastly different from Shot With Crimson, which features both Daphne du Maurier, Josephine Tey and Alfred Hitchcock, with the action both in old England, and in Hollywood. (There was also an unexpected mention of George Devine, which I won’t bore you with now.)
I recommend both books, as well as the way I managed to lay my hands on them.
We’re back to reminiscing about the raisin and the nostril. Both mine. Because it’s Twelfth Night, and this time I actually have the invite for you. Apologies for the dog-earedness of it all. It’s done long duty as a shopping list template. (That’s on the back.) I used it for years. Not quite the 65 years that it might lead you to believe, but decades.
That’s why it’s so strange – or maybe it isn’t? – that I only realised what it says, some time last year. One of those times when I fondly gazed at the back, thinking back to the raisin. And the nostril.
It was Favourite Aunt’s 50th birthday dinner. As a good socialist she had obviously booked Folkets Hus for her gathering. It’s something most towns have, where all kinds of events take place. For the people. Folk.
I discovered a whole pile of these invitations when we cleared FA’s home. Nice and fresh and not used. I assumed she’d had too many printed, and had hung on to them in a frugal sort of way. Even if she didn’t use the back for shopping lists. As for me, I worked my way through the pile, until I only had the one left, which got more and more frayed over the years.
And then, last year, I could see clearly. It doesn’t say Folkets Hus. It says Folkes Hus. A typo. Folke is a man’s name, but never mind him. The missing letter ‘t’ will be the reason for the pile of cards. FA must have had the invites reprinted, whilst still hanging on to the first lot. It only took me twenty years, whereas I guess my hawk-eyed Aunt noticed in time. And Folke wasn’t gatecrashed by party-hungry revellers.
Anyway, I was still not invited. But I had raisins.
To be honest, I’d never visualised Valhalla as being in Shetland. Not even in the northernmost part of those lovely islands. But why not? That is, if Danny Weston’s characters do find it.
And characters there are a lot of, in Postcards from Valhalla. No, maybe not lots. But the ones you get are larger than life type characters. Like the super-annoying Leon that teenager Viggo and his mum meet when travelling to Lerwick where they hope to find Viggo’s older brother Magnus, who has disappeared.
I told myself – through gritted teeth – that Danny put him there, so he’d be useful for something. Maybe Leon would suddenly turn likeable and trustworthy, or he’d be collateral for some ghastly end.
I obviously can’t tell you how this worked out. Suffice to say that the three of them traipse up and down Shetland – which consists of a very long stretch of islands. Jarlshof in the south and Yell and Unst at the opposite end, with Lerwick offering up some civilisation in the middle. And not once did they drive into any ditches. (Cough…)
Magnus turns out to have decided to go looking for Valhalla and Vikings, and possibly also for his and Viggo’s father who disappeared in much the same way five years earlier. Strange stuff happens. There are visions. And cake fridges in the middle of nowhere.
The Occasional Bookwitch 