Or is she?…

Publisher: Viking (Penguin)
Pages: 275
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-0-241-00350-3
First Published: 13th March 2014 (in translation); 5th June 2014
Date Reviewed: 21st March 2015
Rating: 4.5/5

Maud can’t seem to get through to her family (or anyone else for that matter) that her friend is missing. Everyone says that nothing is wrong, that Elizabeth isn’t missing, but all the signs seem to point towards the opposite. As a child post-WWII, Maud lost her sister, Sukey, and as she goes about her search she remembers this.

Elizabeth Is Missing is a rather excellent novel about old age and the way others treat the elderly.

Our narrator, accidentally unreliable, is an octogenarian who has become very forgetful. Maud thinks the same things over and over, says the same things, and forgets where she is moment by moment. It is in the details that Healey shows us what she is trying to get across: it’s all very well getting frustrated by those who forget, but remember to view things from their perspective. Maud is patronised and knows she is patronised; she also knows that no one is listening to her even when they should. And the reader knows, even when Maud doesn’t notice, that people are not respecting her, are laughing at her. In amongst this is the question of care homes, of old age care in general, and how the wishes of the person should be respected.

Healey’s writing of Maud is simply incredible. She is believable and, though it does not matter in regards to whether it would affect the tale, very likeable. Because you’re on this journey with her, in her head, you don’t feel any frustration or boredom; Healey makes you understand what it is like. You’re able to chastise Maud’s daughter, Helen, for not listening to her mother (whilst understanding the pressure Helen is under); you’re able to think up the rest of what Maud should say yet be satisfied that she does not say it.

Maud’s memory isn’t static – Healey’s story incorporates the progression of memory loss. She manages to make you feel upbeat whilst you begin to loiter on the edges of upset for the character. Something that is never answered (this is not a drawback) is how long we are with Maud. It’s plausible that we spend a few weeks or months but it could just as easily be days.

The structure of the book is quite simply genius. It makes you keep questioning what snippets of information relate to which part of the story, and of course, ultimately, you have to decide which versions of Maud’s many retellings are true. It’s prudent to say that this book isn’t a thriller in the usual sense – ‘thriller’ is the description on the book, but it’s far from edge-of-seat nail-biting drama. You soon work out a few possibilities for Elizabeth and none of them are particularly amazing. The page-turning factor of this book lies in the way Healey makes you want to stick around, to hang out with her expertly-written main character.

What you may find irritating is the almost predictable way no one will tell Maud where Elizabeth is even when it’s obvious they know. There are two points to this withholding. The first is that there would be no story if people told Maud where her friend is. Of course. And as much as this in itself is obvious, you have to just accept that you’re going to have to keep reading to find out for certain, even if you don’t feel it’s much to look forward to. The second point is that it makes perfect sense no one is telling Maud where Elizabeth is. Maybe they have; she’ll have forgotten. Maybe they don’t because they’re sick of repeating themselves. Maybe, if Elizabeth is dead (which is of course possible given her age) they don’t want to upset her. The end of the book is very much a look at the entirety of this second point.

The second ‘plot’, then, concerns the disappearance of Maud’s sister. It’s a long time before the reason for its inclusion, its creation, comes to light. You’re invited to feel confused and perhaps a bit miffed that Sukey gets all this time when the book is about Elizabeth. This plot is confined to Maud’s childhood so the book is effectively part historical fiction. Maud’s long-term memory allows her to tell the reader about this period of her life in a generally usual way.

The only shortcoming can be found in the words Healey uses for Maud’s own descriptions. Some of the terms are too modern or colloquial and not what a British person of Maud’s age would use. These terms are therefore jarring and can pull you out of the text for a bit if you’re susceptible to them (for example, this may not affect American readers but it is going to affect British readers old enough to have witnessed the introduction of the terms). This, however, is a minor issue overall.

Elizabeth Is Missing is driven by all three ‘drivers’ – character, plot, and society. (I realise society isn’t generally thought of but this book’s commentary on issues requires it.) It’s fabulously character-driven, slow but steadily plot-driven, and what it offers for thought will stay with you for a long time and likely affect the way you think and deal with others (or at least make you constantly aware). It’s not going to take you on a whirlwind journey – Maud can’t take the bus with you alone – but it is going to leave you highly satisfied no matter what conclusions you reach in regards to the excellent and superbly devised climax. (Some questions are left unanswered, but there are enough hints.)

Take your place at Maud’s side and prepare to take note of when the gas needs to be turned off and when the kettle’s on the boil. This is a journey without travel and one you’re likely to enjoy very, very much.

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He knows when you are sleeping; he knows when you’re awake.

Publisher: Picador (Pan Macmillan)
Pages: 424
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-447-25089-0
First Published: 3rd July 2014
Date Reviewed: 16th March 2015
Rating: 2.5/5

It’s 1686 and Nella moves to the home of her new husband in Amsterdam. She expects happiness but instead receives a frosty reception – she’s not particularly wanted, her sister-in-law is clearly mistress of the house, the servants seem too big for their boots, and her husband makes no move to consummate the marriage. Instead of the life she thought she would have, Nella finds herself living in a mystery and this only increases further when her husband buys her a miniature of their house and the creator she assigns to complete it appears to know an uncanny amount about the family.

The Miniaturist is a book that could have been amazing but is sadly held back by a lack of focus, poor writing, and a decisive gap between the characters and the readers.

Burton seems to have chosen the 1600s to gain the attention of history lovers. The book could have been set at some other time at no cost, and the characters do not at all conform to the time period. By this I do not mean the way they defy convention – indeed servants on a par with their masters is not unbelievable – more it’s the way Burton wields power that is an issue. As an example, Nella has a fit over something most of her era would naturally have a fit about, before doing an about turn and completely changing her opinion within hours, emulating views of the present day.

Is Nella confident or nervous? Burton cannot decide. One moment her character is close to being obnoxious, the next she’s a delicate flower who will not speak a word. She leaves the house without question one day, then stays in her room and lets people make all the decisions for her the next. It is clear that Nella is a device – this is a plot-driven novel – but there is nothing to hang on to, so to speak. Burton hasn’t made up her mind and wants both worlds.

The characters never come into their own. You’re never given a reason to care about them; they are distant from the first page to the last. A lot of this is down to the way the author chose to write her story – the particular way she uses the present tense, third person narration, does not allow the reader to feel they are at all close to what’s happening. Instead there’s the sense Burton realised, at some point, that she should have been writing in the first person but didn’t want to rewrite what she already had. Nella does lots of thinking and imagining when dialogue would work better. Everything is too detailed, info-dump is common.

Much of the issue is that The Miniaturist is full of drama. Full of drama to a melodramatic, unnecessary degree. As the book progresses it reads ever more like a prose version of a theatrical production, the problem being that theatre has to be expressive to reach the audience at the back of the room but a book by its very nature has no requirement for it. Disaster follows disaster to a silly level and social issues are packed in like sardines.

As said, this book is not very well written. Whilst modern language is natural – a book in old English would be difficult to read – very modern slang and colloquialisms pull you out of the story. Burton moves between ‘oldy-worldy’ English grammar, modern English grammar, and American grammar, making for dialogue that doesn’t ring true. (The characters may be from Amsterdam, but they would not have peppered their language with Spanish grammar, for example.)

Lastly, it must be said questions are not answered. The question of the miniaturist is never answered. There is a half answer that spells out who they are in terms of background, but you never learn the mystery nor do you ever really meet the miniaturist. The question of what will happen to these characters now they are in a bad position is completely forgotten.

The Miniaturist is strictly okay. Read it if you will, but don’t pass up the chance to read another book for this one.

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The eternal ‘what if?…’

Publisher: Weidenfeld & Nicolson (Orion Books)
Pages: 442
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-474-60016-3
First Published: 4th June 2015
Date Reviewed: 10th March 2015
Rating: 4.5/5

Eva takes her bicycle; she’s on her way to her university tutorial. Whether it’s a nail in her path, a dog she must swerve to avoid, or a dog she tries to move around but cannot, this day is accompanied by the presence of a boy she could meet. We follow three possible futures: one in which Jim and Eva meet and go for a drink, one in which they don’t, and one in which they do but then continue their day apart.

The Versions Of Us is a fine novel that takes its time to reveal its point. A decidedly average, run of the mill, set of lives, you will be forgiven for the times you wonder whether you should keep reading and will be rewarded at the end with a small yet very important thought. Indeed it’s not a lesson or message, as such, that Barnett wants to leave us with, it’s a notion. A notion and a reminder that whilst we can have regrets, few will ever have a perfect life no matter which choices they make.

Barnett favours a style of writing that is simple on the surface. Stripped of embellishments, the prose often reads as a bullet-pointed list, yet it is nevertheless detailed and literary. It’s the sort of writing that may take a few pages to get used to but urges you to read on. Yes, of course, every author wants you to keep reading, to keep turning those pages, but there’s a subtle difference here that is hard to pinpoint exactly. “Read,” Barnett seems to be saying, “not because I think you should love my book but because I know what you wonder about and I think I’ve found a way to help us all.”

It would be silly to deny that a reader will never be confused by this novel. Barnett doesn’t set her ‘versions’ out to be too different to each other – whilst there are differences, the basis is the same – and this was obviously a decision made to match the aim of the book. She’s not showing how wildly different our lives could have been if we’d said ‘yes’ to that man at the bar, or if we’d said ‘no’, or if we’d danced with the girl at the party or turned her down – she’s showing that our regrets shouldn’t have so much of a hold on our lives. She reminds us that yes, it could have been awesome, but it might have been mundane or even bad. Too often we look through rose-tinted glasses.

So you’re going to muddle these versions as you read, and that’s okay; it’s expected. Barnett ensures you know everything that’s important to know – when the versions match up (for example, an event that was always going to happen because it’s to be hosted by a third party) she includes the most pertinent details in at least one version so that you’re always up to speed. If there’s anything to gripe about, it’s the oft-repetitive nature of the book – Barnett is dedicated to keeping the stories in the same time frame, never jumping ahead. However the repetition itself is a good reminder that some things are out of our control. Obviously more time is spent on some versions than others at any given time, and the version that deals with Jim and Eva together at Cambridge often makes way for the versions in which they are apart so that both sides can have their say.

Barnett never suggests there is a right way to live; in keeping with the notion of possibilities she shows that there will be flaws and unhappy moments in even the best lives. She delves into the fact that something can look amazing on the surface whilst being fraught with difficulties behind closed doors. One good choice is unlikely to set the tone for the entirety of your life.

And this is why the story itself is average. Jim and Eva’s three versions are meant to represent lives that you can relate to. There may be the riches and fame, but they’re accompanied by the everyday, and likewise there are silver linings to the dark days. There is Cambridge and then your standard art college. There is the well-known author and the low-wage copy-editor.

Whether you prefer one version to the others is entirely up to you. Barnett doesn’t seem to have a favourite; she is simply studying a concept. It’s likely you will change your thoughts as you continue, as you see the various good things that can happen when the assumed best route is not taken.

The Versions Of Us is super. It takes the film it is compared to, Sliding Doors, and provides what that story lacked, showing that it’s not just the conclusions that may be humbling but the middle part, too. It’s confusing and you may want to put it down sometimes, but doesn’t that just echo life?

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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Heads held high as others fall.

Publisher: Michael Joseph (Penguin)
Pages: 450
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-075-38232-48
First Published: 22nd May 2014
Date Reviewed: 1st March 2015
Rating: 4/5

When Lady Jane Grey is killed the future becomes uncertain for her mother and sisters. Regulars at court and related to Queen Mary, no one knows whether or not they will be safe and as time goes on and this doesn’t change, it’s up to the family to try and find a solution.

Sisters Of Treason is the second novel by Fremantle, which looks at the trials (sometimes literal) of the Greys that remained. It also looks at the little known life of minature artist, Levina Teerlinc, filling in the gaps in the history.

It has to be said that this is no Queen’s Gambit, however this is not entirely down to the author. Whereas previously Fremantle chose to write about a queen with plenty of history behind her, this time her subjects are somewhat obscure and did not lead as eventful a life as Katherine Parr. This, then, presents a conundrum: the book is not particularly riveting, but then Fremantle has followed what is known of the history.

Essentially this book was always going to be limited in scope; yet this limitation itself is worth discussing. Katherine and Mary were rarely away from court and, in Mary’s case especially (at least here in this book), they are not particularly fond of court. This means that whereas we are often told – by teachers, television, evidence – that court was a blustering, busy, exciting place, this novel shows us that actually in many ways it was boring. We all know it was stifling, rife with jealousies and full of backstabbing, but ‘boring’ is rarely a word used.

This is to say that Fremantle effectively shows the reader how dull Katherine and Mary’s lives were. Not dull as in to say unworthy of study, but dull because they had to remain at court when they may not have wanted to. There is the threat of death ever lingering in the background, but as a conflict it is not very strong – it could be said that this is a character-driven story when generally factually-based historical novels straddle both plot and character, tending towards plot as their backbone. It could thus be said that this would have made better non-fiction.

Fremantle makes as much as she can of the known history, and chooses to incorporate less reliable evidence only when it suits her plot. As an example we have Mary, who has a crooked back, scoliosis perhaps. It is interesting to look at this example in light of the recent discovery of Richard III’s body. It was constantly debated whether or not Richard had scoliosis, whether or not we should trust the words of those historical figures who may simply have hated him, and in discovering his body it was found that those people were speaking the truth. All this to say that, given Richard III, if Mary was reported to be crook-backed then it’s very possible she was and thus despite the general lack of evidence in the pictures we have of her, Fremantle’s decision to incorporate a disability into her fictionised Mary’s life is something to savour. Fremantle makes a point of studying the culture in terms of disability, which is aided by her extra focus on Levina Teerlinc.

Teerlinc, a rarity in medieval history – a female artist – is little known, and so Fremantle’s dealing of her is largely similar to the character of Dot from Queen’s Gambit. Through Teerlinc Fremantle explores not only the Tudor working woman but the world beyond the court and the politics in the wider world that merit a totally difference handling when discussed inside the privy chamber.

It should be noted that the dispositions of queens Mary and Elizabeth are not favourable, which in the case of the latter may surprise you. However it is perfectly reasonable considering the viewpoints used – Katherine and Mary were not going to like Bloody Mary and if Elizabeth held them prisoner, it’s safe to say they wouldn’t have considered her especially wonderful, either.

Sisters Of Treason looks at the life of those who might have wished for something that would have rendered them even less well-known. Whether you will like it or not really depends on how open you are to the idea of sitting sewing beside the window whilst the world passes you by. It is likely to interest those with a prior interest in the sisters; as for others it is hard to say. The book is certainly well written and full of factual information you won’t forget in a hurry. Indeed the only written element that is cause for thought is the French of Frances Brandon, of which there is a lot.

Sisters Of Treason focuses on hope when everything else is lost. It’s packed with history and is an excellent example of good research and writing. It is respectful of the historical figures it uses, but it should be noted that it is steeped in anxiety and sadness and that the conflict is less apparent then is generally expected.

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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The last natural famine.

Publisher: Peirene Press
Pages: 130
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-908-67020-5
First Published: 2012 in Finnish; 2015 in English
Date Reviewed: 26th February 2015
Rating: 3.5/5

Original language: Finnish
Original title: Nälkävuosi (Hunger Year)
Translated by: Emily and Fleur Jeremiah

As the Finnish famine makes it impossible to remain at home any longer, Marja leaves her dying husband and begins a journey, on foot, across the continent with her two children. In a wealthier place, the senator looks to the new railroad to solve the issue, and a doctor lives away from the horror until it creeps into his life, too.

White Hunger is a novella about the effects of the Finnish famine, particularly in the year 1867. It may be short but it illustrates the famine at large; what would have happened over a period of a few years. The text, in terms of the translation, is generally clear and an unexpected joy to read when considered alongside its subject. There are a few places that may invite confusion but not for long.

Marja and her children set out in the dead of winter in the hope of reaching St Petersburg, so the journey is particularly brutal. Snow is waist deep, they live from one day to the next at the mercy of the households they come across, and are subject to the horrors of desperation and the breakdown of social order.

Whilst the need for food forms the reason for the story, it’s this desperation and breakdown that is the major theme at hand. In a way very similar to Némirovsky’s Suite Française, White Hunger looks at the effects a disaster can have on people, the way that class systems can remain when it would be best they too were destroyed. Marja is labelled a whore because the higher classes are able to take advantage of her physical weakness, and the educated and political elite are in no danger of starvation. The poor are to be given but ‘thin gruel’, and whilst this makes sense – as one man says, a sudden lot of food in an emaciated body will cause more harm than good – most of the time this ‘thin gruel’ is a symptom of a people unwilling to help those with nothing, unwilling to share the food they have that for them is easy to replace.

Death is never far away in this book, but neither is hope. The balance makes it easier to keep going, even when the hope is comprised of an arrival in St Petersburg, a dream the reader will understand as one of the characters does – as improbable.

The sole drawback of this book is, surprisingly, the length. Whereas in everything else the length is a boon, when it comes to events in the story it means the events seem closer together than they truly are, which can lessen the effect they have. Due to this it is best to read the book slowly, perhaps in more than the usual one sitting, and to keep track of the passing of time.

Focusing on a well-known period of Finnish history and looking at the constant divide between those who have and those who have none, White Hunger may be short and sparse in overall detail, but it succeeds in making its crucial point in the limited time it has.

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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