Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie
Read this (late!) for the Christie challenge this year - I'm trying not to buy books this year so was at the mercy of library queues. That fact that I was number twenty something in line when I ordered this in January says something about the popularity of the challenge maybe?
This is only the second Christie novel I've read, and the first Poirot - although I'm aware of the general idea from a kind of TV and film zeitgeist, despite never having watched one. It was alright I guess - it feels like a period piece now, and that aspect is fascinating enough. The actual whodunnit - hard to do without giving spoilers. But there were loads of potentials (of course). And two people of a certain, er, category. And almost everyone in the story made a point of saying that someone in that category couldn't possibly have done the crime. Which highlights especially to a modern reader that it must have been one of them. Plot twist! (Not really) It was one of them. Hm. Next up for the challenge is a Tommy and Tuppence collection - again I'm at the mercy of the library queue, I'm somthing like tenth in line.
JL Carr - A Month in the Country
Brilliant. A re-read - it's a favourite. Just a wonderful novel really, the kind that I'm not even sure anyone writes any more. Or maybe it's just that I'm old and so things written in the late seventies, early eighties, when I was growing up, hold more power over me than newer things. Anyway, there are three stories really: the "now" timeline of the 1920s summer, when the action takes place; buried underneath that, like the painting that our hero is slowly revealing, are the memories of 1914-1918; and underneath all that (I think) is an almost unconscious commentary on the way things changed during the author's lifetime.
Some things seem incredibly modern:
"I never exchanged a word with the Colonel. He has no significance at all in what happened during my stay in Oxgodby. As far as I'm concerned he might as well have gone around the corner and died. But that goes for most of us, doesn't it? We look blankly at each other. Here I am, here you are. What are we doing here? What do you suppose it's all about? Let's dream on. Yes, that's my dad and mum on the piano top. My eldest boy is on the mantelpiece. That cushion cover was embroidered by my cousin Sarah only a month before she passed on. I go to work at eight and come home at five-thirty. When I retire they'll give me a clock - with my name engraved on the back. Now you know all about me. Go away: I've forgotten you already."
And after the discussion of eye accent in writing earlier in the thread, how could I not share this:
'T'missus and me, yam's doon a claay laane, a lang clay laane, and roond ooor spot t'claay's claggy. Yan sabbath t'missus says "Faither, ah'll nut be gannin ti t'chapel, t'muck'll be ower me beeat tops." "Nay," I says, "thu maunt let a bit o'muck keeap thee yam, ah'll hump thi on me back an' thu m'clag on till we git ower t'wast o't'claay ..." '