Guided to change.

Publisher: Quercus
Pages: 551
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-784-29145-7
First Published: 9th April 2015
Date Reviewed: 8th October 2015
Rating: 4/5

Aurelia, heiress to her parents’ fortune, finds a baby in the snow and takes her home. Her parents are furious but they love their daughter and give in to her pleas to keep the child. And so the girl grows up amongst the servants in the kitchen and later with Aurelia as a companion. Later, Aurelia becomes sick and goes travelling whilst she still can, stating she’ll be a few months but remaining away for longer. Upon her death Amy is thrown out of the house with the ten pounds left to her. Only it’s not ten pounds, it’s more, and Aurelia is sending her on a journey from beyond the grave.

Amy Snow is a long historically-rich story of self-discovery and friendship. Written with close attention to detail it is as much about the Victorian period as it is the mystery.

Because, truly, the mystery isn’t much of one. The story is simple and the answers very predictable but this was the intention – Amy works out the most likely scenario long before she learns it officially; this leaves her able to contemplate what happened otherwise. You could call this a cosy mystery – the answer is not imperative, though of course you want to know it, and the pacing is slow. But that is the beauty of the book.

Why? Because it’s not the mystery you want to read this book for, it’s its atmosphere. Amy Snow is a blending of Jane Eyre and any work of Austen. It is a classic Victorian novel written in the 21st century. It’s not perfect – there are some anachronisms, for example – but this book is the book for any reader who has looked at their finished collection of 19th century British novels and wished those authors were still writing today. It’s quite the feat.

So it’s a slow novel, full of waiting around and going to balls and dressing up. It’s got your evil Lady and your awesome elder who defies convention. It’s got your respectable gentleman suitor and your average shopkeeper’s son suitor. It’s got letters and calling cards and upstairs downstairs and your walking around looking at bonnets in the window and exclaiming at their beauty. Rees has worked hard to get it right. Yes there are anachronisms and even more exclamation marks than the Victorians used (this is something you get used to as you settle down into it) but by and large the writing style fits beautifully. It’s obvious that Rees has spent time working through the differences between modern and Victorian speech, and it lets you get pulled back in time. Amy Snow is not as confident as Elizabeth Bennet and whilst she is in a not dissimilar situation to Miss Eyre she spends too much time on herself; but she can be placed beside these two heroines with ease as far as feelings go.

Before I leave off from the writing I want to show you an example of Rees’ metaphors. She favours a certain sort of style that is quite fun, however much it becomes noticeable later on for its repeated use:

He proceeds to grill Mr Garland as thoroughly as a fish for his views about the railway.

The mystery in this book takes second place to Amy’s self-discovery. Aurelia’s treasure hunt, as it were, is important and ought to be followed, but Amy’s journey towards acceptance and who she wants to be takes centre stage. Amy’s journey whilst journeying is of course set apart from Aurelia. It comes with the baggage of knowing she wasn’t wanted by anyone but her friend and is something Aurelia knew but would never understand completely due to their difference in station. Amy struggles with her sudden fortune. At home with the relatively wealthy but down-to-earth family who accept that she would prefer to wear more modest dresses, she finds it difficult adjusting to her next situation which requires her to mix with the upper echelons and dress accordingly. Rees’ novel is somewhat the Cinderella story but unlike Cinderella, Amy can’t simply abandon her past. She has to learn for herself that Aurelia, by giving her riches, is giving her a choice – she can live as a virtual Lady; she can be amongst the gentry; she could become a servant. Aurelia was a Lady who wanted to be independent, see the world, speak to those lower than her, but could do none of those things precisely because she was a Lady. In Amy she posthumously lives her dream.

The self-discovery is where the main flaw of the book lies, one I must discuss if I’m to be objective. (This book left me in raptures, I loved it and it’s joined my all-time favourites, but I can’t deny there are flaws.) A lot of Amy Snow is composed of naval-gazing. Amy thinks a great deal, she over-thinks, re-hashes, and whilst it’s very realistic and happens to the best of us when in a situation where we have to choose and aren’t sure, or have had a sudden change that we’re adjusting to, it doesn’t work in a book. It becomes boring, as do her moans that she doesn’t want to keep following Aurelia’s treasure hunt. If you’re enjoying the rest of what the book does, it’s not going to be enough to make you abandon it, but it does affect it.

Apart from the anachronisms and exclamation marks there are sentences that use American grammar. As the spelling is American it can be assumed the erroneous grammar is not accidental, though of course it should be.

There are some very convenient second meetings where people Amy leaves behind just happen to turn up where she travels to – absolutely understandable when she’s mixing in high society and it’s a high society person she sees as they tended to stick together across the country, but less believable when it’s your average Joe. In this way you’ll need to put on your Rochester’s-voice-echoes-all-these-miles-away hat – is it lovely or just deus ex machina?

Lastly, there are many proof reading errors, distinct from the copy editing problems.

Amy Snow is a trip to the classics section of the bookshop. It’s a dream of a book for anyone who wants their Victorian-setting 21st century novels to be wonderful. It has the sort of epic story vibes, romanticism, that tend to make half of all readers swoon and the other half label it sappy. It’s both phenomenal and flawed.

This reviewer read the epic story and swooned just as she did when she read Brontë; her opinion on whether or not one should read this book is of course going to be ‘yes’ and for that reason she’s going to suggest you decide for yourself.

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Speaking to Tracey Rees about Amy Snow, Florence Grace, The Hourglass, Darling Blue, and The House At Silvermoor (spoilers included)

Charlie and Tracy Rees discuss Richard, Judy, Dickens, Austen, and Brontë – not all at once – coffee houses in Victorian times, landslides and hourglasses, changes to the Yorkshire mines in the late 1800s to early 1900s, and the inclusion of the average person in historical fiction.

If you’re unable to use the media player above, this page has various other options for listening.

Be aware that whilst I don’t discuss the ending here, I do talk about some of the themes. Some genre tags have been left out on purpose.

If you’re not happy or having trouble you sweep it under the rug and plaster a big ol’ smile on your face.

Publisher: Hot Key Books
Pages: 223
Type: Fiction
Age: Young Adult
ISBN: 978-1-471-40398-9
First Published: 13th May 2014
Date Reviewed: 23rd September 2015
Rating: 5/5

The Sinclair family holidays on their private island every summer. It’s a paradise where they can enjoy their time away from the world. Have fun, spend time together, not discuss anything of importance. Because the Sinclairs don’t do problems. They are normal, perfect, wealthy, and heaven forbid anyone who rocks the boat.

I knew within the first few pages of this book that it was going to be exceptional. I’ve never experienced that before – going in knowing nothing but recognising excellence straight away. The best way to describe We Are Liars is to say that it’s uniquely unique – there’s the thought that all stories have been told, all books now just variations, but this one seems far from it. The basics may have been told but the way Lockhart handles the situations makes it individual. You’ve never read a book like this.

The author favours a particular style of writing. She uses the same colloquialisms as many others but you’d be hard-pressed to be unable to tell it apart from the rest. Lockhart interweaves her prose with the concept of poetry, pieces of sentences set one line after the other without applying the same amount of effort, so to say, as your usual poet does. The poetry aspects do read as poetry but whether there’s rhyming or a steady pace is not important, rather Lockhart uses the concept of poetry to get the reader focusing their attention on the exact words, thoughts, she wants you to focus on, to emphasise her meaning. It’s amazing.

Both plot and characters are important to Lockhart, who greatly favours showing. So much does she show, in fact, that you may well miss the hints she provides as to what happened. But this is not a bad thing. The author abides by the sentiment expressed by one of her characters, who says:

“Someone once wrote that a novel should deliver a series of small astonishments.”

This well describes Lockhart’s method: draw the story out. Let the findings start small, slowly building before the crescendo. Slow it down without increasing the word count. This method means you’ll think you’ve discovered the essence of the book only to realise there’s far more to it, and far more to that and so on. Even though there’s a definite end to the book that rests on plot, mini themes abound and are important.

Most obviously there’s privilege. The whole set up, the private island with its big houses and staff and owners who have enough money to be able to call the island a summer holiday home whilst owning even more property elsewhere, is almost unbelievable. The set up is paradise for rich white people, people who don’t even know the names of the staff who’ve stocked their fridges for years. Lockhart need say little; whilst it may be fun, an escape from the reader’s own life to read about this ideal, it’s also uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable on its own and because of the way white is supreme. You could almost call this book delicious in its handling of the subject of racism. By this I mean there’s a lot of racism but it drifts out, ripples in a soft, slow, motion. It’s the subtle sort, the oh my gosh darling we must be polite but try not to shake their brown hands sort. Thus Lockhart demonstrates the sort of prejudice that can be difficult to call out because it’s deftly handled by those who own it, deniable because it’s kept under the surface. Warnings, such as the hints at what could happen to those who overstep their mark are couched in nice terms that fly over others’ heads.

“Watch yourself, young man,” said Granddad, sharp and sudden.
“Pardon me?”
“Your head. You could get hurt.”
“You’re right,” said Gat. “You’re right, I could get hurt.”
“So watch yourself,” Granddad repeated.

This deals with Gat, the only non-white family member on the island whose presence signals a new episode of sorts to this pristine family. As he says himself, he is Heathcliff, a good person, family – sort of – who is expected to become angry in time and ruin things because that’s what outsiders are supposed to do.

Along with privilege and trying to keep everyone away from the family comes the drive to be ‘normal’. You cannot show feelings, no one is an addict or a criminal, everything must be nice, normal, at all times. The media and the world must see perfection. This has a huge affect on the family. Your father leaves? No tears, pick yourself up. Don’t reference your dead grandmother. Forgetting people is a large part of keeping up appearances – taking down photographs is very important. We see the affects mostly in our narrator, Cadence, who finds it difficult to stay silent, who grieves for longer than she would if she were allowed to express her thoughts. A lot of metaphorical bleeding and falling goes on in this book.

The island is a paradise away from the world that never changes and can’t be ruined by life in general but as Cadence says in one of the many variations of a fairy tale she writes (in order to further explain situations):

If you want to live where people are not afraid of mice [Gat], you must give up living in palaces.

I can’t neglect friendship here. It’s what holds the novel together from the beginning, the emergence of a generation that sees the falsehood in the world their parents have created. The title has as much to do with the teenagers – literally the liars – as with the whole family. The false happiness shrouded by a one-upmanship as the sisters try to gain daddy’s love and property.

If you work out the truth of what happened before it’s revealed you may find it easier, if you don’t, and in a way I hope you don’t because it would lose its impact, it’s both satisfying in a literary way and emotionally draining. Lockhart provides all the answers, preferring to restrict vagueness to the middle of the story, leaving the end complete. You need to know what happened to understand a lot of this book and to appreciate what Lockhart is saying about impact.

We Were Liars is awesome. Individual, beautiful, wretched, poetic and embedded in life as much as it’s a blissful escape from it. Let the prose warm you as the story leaves you chilled. Even paradise must face reality.

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All for one and one for… sort of.

Publisher: Pushkin Press
Pages: 402
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-782-27123-9
First Published: 1977
Date Reviewed: 21st September 2015
Rating: 3.5/5

Original language: French
Original title: Fortune de France (Fortune Of France)
Translated by: T Jefferson Kline

Pierre was born in a time of war. Some time before his birth, his father, Jean de Siorac, made a pact with Jean de Sauveterre; whilst the Siorac family grew in number, de Sauveterre stayed with them, sharing leadership duties. The war is as much about land and rulings as it is about religion: as Calvin states his ideas reform begins to sweep across France and the people of Mespech begin to join them.

The Brethren is historical fiction, the start of a series that suggests the rest will be epic. A fairly long story, it focuses on Pierre’s childhood and the background of the family. Heralded a modern Dumas, though not quite the same, Merle looks at those who were both at odds with and in favour of the crown.

This book requires a fair amount of attention, composed as it is of battles both factual and not so, other pieces of information, and a number of characters. You’re forgiven for confusing people on occasion – Merle tends to include descriptions with his references and dialogues (for example Colondre’s lack of speech, Coligny’s battle experience). Though technically repetitive it never seems so as it’s helpful. The story is very well set in its era with the benefits of hindsight the author can include. The women are occasionally allowed to be involved in battle (to an extent) and Jean de Siorac’s understanding of health and hygiene is ahead of its time. (As far as the latter is concerned, it’s interesting to note the way what we would now consider common sense is discussed as an unhealthy obsession. Needless to say, however, the good hygiene pays off!)

This book sports action but it’s mostly related third-hand as I’ll be discussing shortly. The story therefore deals more with the domestic side of the sixteenth century – Pierre’s upbringing, the effect of reform on a divided household, childbirth and wet-nursing, and relations between masters and their servants. The family at Mespech have a good relationship with their tenants – they don’t offer in the way of money but there is a relative equality and no one goes hungry. This element, the relationship between the well-off and not so, is perhaps the strongest element of the book.

And there is humour. Some of it must be seen in its historical context to work, for example the woman who always talks of being ‘forced’ into having intercourse, who is always the brunt of laughter because everyone knows she went willingly, enjoyed herself over the course of fifteen times, and uses the notion of being forced to mitigate the problems that would accompany infidelity. Such comedy wouldn’t work nowadays, would be awful. Whether or not Merle’s humour here is comfortable enough for the reader is something else, of course.

The characters are okay – the men developed, a pun that’s intended because the women, as much as they can talk and banter with the men and as much as they don’t have to stay in the kitchen, are somewhat reduced to body parts – again, explained in a moment. Due to the way the story is narrated by a child rather than any of the adults there is not quite enough development for you to feel particularly strongly but then this is the start of a series.

Amongst all the goodness, then, are a fair few problems. The first is the way so much of the book is non-fictional. Historical fiction often deals with fact but Merle has included information as though he were writing a text book, whole swaths of historical information which is often background context rather than anything that affects the characters directly. This means the book is semi-non-fictional and begs the question of how smaller the page count could have been without it.

Merle is absolutely obsessed with breasts. Almost every time a woman is mentioned, so too are her breasts as well as, often, her size. (Most older women are very large, most young very thin.) The female characters are mostly servants of the household but one would not be remiss in believing they’re also there to serve lusts. There are two scenes wherein all heads turn, all gazes fix, upon the firm buxom wet-nurse who takes out her beautiful white breasts during dinner to suckle the lucky little babe the men wish they could replace. Talk of heads enveloped by chests almost forms a theme. Doubtless the male characters would not gawk so much if Merle wasn’t forcing them to do so.

There’s distance between narrator and reader. Where Pierre narrates what happens to his father, third-hand, there is distance and the story is perhaps not as interesting as it could’ve been if, say, these adventures had happened to Pierre himself. This looks set to change in book two, but for this, book one, it’s very much the case.

Finally, exclusive to the English translation, is the language. Merle wrote his story in a sort of sixteenth century French which may sound hard going and potentially off-putting but that’s the way it is. The translator has written the English version in modern English, a little on the Victorian side; what you’re getting is one person’s interpretation more so than you would usually. The lack of comparable sixteenth century English may entice some readers but those wanting to read Merle may find the English drier and less thrilling than the French.

The Brethren has a lot going for it but also a fair amount that’s not in its favour. It is quite fascinating, the modernity of the characters is capable of winning you over, and most importantly it will make you want to continue to book two; but it is best noted that it’s far from flawless and has the ability to disappoint in places.

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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Taking on a rich lout.

Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Pages: 416
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-0-544-40991-0
First Published: 1st September 2015
Date Reviewed: 15th September 2015
Rating: 3/5

1914: Constance and her sisters were riding their buggy when a car hit them. The owner, the manager of a silk factory, is unwilling to pay the damages and soon the girls find themselves being harassed by his group of thugs. The law courts and detectives aren’t interested and there’s little the police can do until a threat is put into action.

Girl Waits With Gun is an historical novel loosely based on true characters. Constance Kopp and her sisters are people history has forgotten. Presumably the beginning of a series, the book focuses on the sisters’ lives before Constance became a deputy.

Though there is of course a lot of almost forced helplessness, warranted for the time, the book goes a long way in showing the way women could on occasion take control of their destinies. Constance, Norma, and Fleurette are quite fearless and whilst Fleurette is flighty, Norma’s seriousness and Constance’s common sense add up to a good team. That it’s based on truth only makes it better. The social elements are well shown – the frustration of not being listened to compounded by a villain who won’t give up. Stewart talks you through the process of the courts and all the things that wouldn’t happen today.

Great is the application of humour. There are some very funny scenes, particularly near the start, that beg to be highlighted. The domestic/social issue Stewart has added, the fate of unwed mothers, holds much promise and is a good feature, as is the way she moves the sisters from the emotional and social isolation their mother’s worries left them living in to a more open environment. (In this respect, aside from Constance’s later role as deputy sheriff, Fleurette is served best, her extroversion suddenly given full reign and her desires to be the centre of attention taking to the stage, almost literally.) The sisters have been written very well; they read as real as they obviously were and interesting enough that you’ll likely want to do some research.

The book is evidently the introduction for a series; there is a lot of information in it. This means all the ground work is set and in all likelihood the next books will be thrilling, but it also means that Girl Waits With Gun is missing the necessary grip it needed in order to keep the suspense up and the plot moving forward at a steady pace. The thrill, the mystery and suspense that should have accompanied the constant threats of Kaufman’s men is not here; instead we have a general lack of the feeling of danger – staying at home, not being watched over enough – and a pacing that’s frustratingly slow.

A lot of the problem is that Stewart has focused this book on the before – the events before Constance Kopp became a deputy sheriff – and has thus had to create most of the back story. There is a lot of detailing and telling, little showing. There is a lot of repetition, odd grammar choices and anachronisms. Had the book been reduced by half it wouldn’t be so noticeable, nor would the plot meander so much.

If you like learning about the era and about women who broke the mould, you may enjoy Girl Waits With Gun, but know that the title relates more to later events, at least as far as exceptions of action go. It’s a fair story but most will want to wait until book two.

I received this book for review from Historical Fiction Virtual Book Tours.

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The way it is, if it really is.

Publisher: Peirene Press
Pages: 175
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-908-67024-3
First Published: 2008
Date Reviewed: 9th September 2015
Rating: 4/5

Original language: Norwegian
Original title: Svimlende Muligheter, Ingen Frykt (Staggering Opportunities, No Fear)
Translated by: John Irons

The narrator of our tale is in the attic; presumably she’s locked in. Through the window she can see her sister, Ragna, and Ragna’s husband digging by a tree. It’s always been like this; our narrator struggles to gain recognition, Ragna’s attention and favour.

The Looking-Glass Sisters is a tale of love, worry, mental and physical health and unreliable narrators. A simple plot with a complex background, it studies the affects desire for love and companionship, accompanied with a lack of understanding and knowledge, can have on situations.

From the reader’s point of view, this book is about the narrator’s ability to relate events reliably. The set-up can be linked to the idea of the mad woman in the attic – in fact one of my own thoughts, whilst trying to root around in all the bits and pieces provided, was whether Gabrielsen was evoking Jane Eyre. This may sound odd, especially considering I don’t believe she is, but this is a point I’d like to make – The Looking-Glass Sisters presents an unstable mind and asks you to work out what is happening, what is true and what is false; the crucial element of Gabrielsen’s – the condition of the narrator – is only ever hinted at; the physical is easier to work out but you realise there is some mental instability, too. This means that there is a lot you can state about this book without knowing whether you’re near the truth and what’s so great about this is that it’s not frustrating; your interpretation, what you yourself bring to the table, is of great value. You’ve a guiding hand but in many ways, in most ways, this book will be exactly what you make it. (It’d make an excellent book club choice.)

The narrator presents herself – physically disabled (of that there is little argument) and the bane of her sister’s life. She knows she is a burden and wishes it were different, wishes Ragna gave her more time, supported her better. Shown through the text is the unrequited love of the narrator for Ragna; it’s not simply that she wants attention, it’s that she needs love.

This is how the reading goes for a time until the narrator starts to provide snippets of conversations that read as true – and they don’t conform to what she’s said in the past. Suddenly you’re presented with a different concept, that perhaps Ragna does care about the narrator and the narrator is being difficult. Perhaps it’s not that the narrator is unloved, it’s that she creates problems herself.

Again, it’s not so simple. It could be unrequited love, it could be the miscommunication, misunderstanding between two sisters who do love each other, or it could be that the narrator is unreliable due to her mental state. It could be a case of being unable to let go of past misfortunes and arguments instead of moving on. Gabrielsen has a firm hand on the story’s progression, teasing out the details so you have ample time to consider each possibility before moving on to the next. And each time that ‘next’ isn’t just a new possibility, it’s the evolution of the previous – that is to say, there’s a bit of every possibility in the whole and life is always moving forward.

It’s hard to say for certain what happens, what has happened and will happen. It’s hard to say exactly who the characters are, to come to a conclusion as to whether Ragna’s husband is someone she loves, someone whose thumb she resides under, or someone simply who’s frustrated, actually cruel. It’s hard to assign ages to the characters insofar as how they come across (their actual ages are suggested). And it’s hard to place a label on the narrator, to know who she is and what is going on with her – perhaps this is the point. This is her truth and it shouldn’t just be ignored, covered by small smiles and patronisation. Is she even alive at this point? Are there even two sisters?

In picking up this book you have to be prepared for an entire book’s worth of ambiguity – it rules here but the book would not be the same without it. It’s the lack of answers that make this novella what it is, that naturally extends the time you’ll spend thinking about it.

The Looking-Glass Sisters is an extremely slow burner, different, beautifully restrained, and full of ideas and thoughts to ponder over. You’ll want to give it your full attention and perhaps have a pencil handy which you might then offer to the narrator because she has much time to write and little in the way of tools.

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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