Juice, by Tim Winton.

 

            An old man and a little girl travel east in a land turned to ash and desert;  eventually they stop for shelter at an abandoned mine works – except that it isn’t abandoned:  a bowman is in residence and fancies the look of their transport, and the batteries that power it.  He takes them prisoner and, to play for time, the old man tells him the story of how they arrived at this last Godforsaken place in the southeast of what used to be Australia – before human greed and power-hungry tinpot dictators wrecked the planet by fossil-fuel extraction – Juice.

            Tim Winton has written a frightening, dystopian and brilliant story in spare, beautiful language of the consequences of climate change, global warming, and how the remainder of the population survived ‘The Terror’ – when nature got payback for all the overuse of precious resources;  now survivors use all their ingenuity to keep batteries going so that they can have light and transport, and formerly big cities are now walled to repel lawless bandits.  The old man paints a stark picture of his childhood in a hamlet near the tropic of Capricorn, raised by his strict but loving mother as a plantgrower:  money no longer has any power;  food of all kinds is the currency:  food can be traded for other commodities – building materials, fowls for eggs and spare parts for the vehicles.  It is a very simple, lonely life, but when he is seventeen, he is recruited into a secret organisation called the Service, where all members are Operators, and trained in many and various ways to ‘acquit’ the world’s polluters – ‘acquit’ being a euphemism for assassinate:  the teen doesn’t tell his plantgrower mum that he has been recruited;  he just says that he has to go foraging for whatever he can find that is useful, even though he sometimes sustains serious injuries, but he doesn’t want to worry her.

            Or Sun, his great love, and the daughter he has with her, Ester (The only two named characters in the book), who eventually abandon him when he is absent ‘foraging’.  Now he is self-appointed guardian of the mute little girl, and wants to team up with the bowman;  he feels that they would survive well as a team – unfortunately, the bowman doesn’t feel the same way; he covets the old man’s transport:  who will survive?

            Tim Winton is an enormously respected Australian novelist – this could be his magnum opus, especially as the theme he tackles affects us all, and no-one could be more adept at describing our headlong rush to wreck the planet than he.  This is the best book I have read this year.  SEVEN STARS.

 

Pãtea Boys, by Airana Ngarewa.                      NZ Fiction

 

          Airana Ngarewa has already made a tremendous impact with his first novel ‘The Bone Tree’, a Take-No-Prisoners exposé of racism, colonialism and every other shameful ‘ism’ that Aotearoa New Zealand is guilty of, but ‘Pãtea Boys’ is different, for he has written about his home and upbringing in a small Taranaki town – chiefly famous for the NZ-wide top hit song ‘Poi E’ (check out YouTube!) performed in the 0ughties by the Pãtea Maori Club -  all the Nannas when they were young and full of rhythm and, with the advent of this wonderful collection of stories Pãtea will once again be rightly famous for producing a son who cherishes his history and community, and writes of it superbly.

            ‘Bombs for the Bros’ concerns Turi, who wants to make the biggest Bomb(splash) in the local pool’s history, gaining the undying respect of all his mates – and the bigger Bros who are his idols.  The way to do that is to launch himself off rails that are higher than anyone has tried before and to do it when the lifeguard is distracted – no easy task because she’s pretty fearsome, but!  He does the business – the biggest bomb ever!  The only problem being that the lifeguard (who is his Nan) saw everything and her rage is incandescent:  he’s barred from the pool FOREVER, and just wait till they get home!  Was it worth it or not?

            Each story illustrates the closeness of a small community and their Marae, and how Maori deal with different aspects of life, especially if they leave, as so many had to, to find work elsewhere – automatically, leavers lose a certain amount of influence if they return home only occasionally, then try to put their opinions forward:  ‘Why’s he putting his oar in?  He’s never here!’  Marae funerals are written of with great affection, too, with enormous respect for all the old people looking down at their descendants from their photos on the walls, and once again Turi features with his little sister, both consigned to the kitchen to help with the funeral feast – because they’re not related to the dead person, so not grieving.  The conversation they have as they work is a demonstration of their affection for each other, and the life they have with their Nan, the strongest wahine they know.

            Airana Ngarewa writes of his home, dominated by Mount Taranaki, his maunga, with great love and respect, and a restless, wonderful energy and humour that would beguile any reader and, for students of Te Reo the stories are contained in Maori in the second half of the book.  CHUR, BRO!  SIX STARS.      

 

 

 

Tell Me Everything, by Elizabeth Strout.

 

            Elizabeth Strout’s beloved characters are all lined-up here, again ready to allow us into their lives, feelings and dramas and what a privilege it is to meet them again:  Olive Kitteridge, former maths teacher in Crosby, Maine where she has lived her entire prickly, outspoken life (she is now 90);  Lucy Barton, now a respected novelist who has moved with her ex-husband William to Crosby during the Pandemic ‘to see what happens’ – to see, really, if they can be properly and permanently reconciled after William’s several affairs;  and Bob Burgess, a lawyer returned to his nearby hometown of Shirley Falls with his wife Margaret, a Unitarian Minister.  The scene is set.

            Bob and Lucy are firm friends and go walking by the river each week, rain or shine.  Lucy is privy to the fact that Bob gave up smoking years ago but at a certain place on their usual path, he lights up his verboten ciggy, then has to make sure the wind doesn’t blow the incriminating smoke onto his clothing;  Margaret would be scandalised if she knew of his lapse!  And Lucy finds in Bob the perfect listener as she bounces ideas and opinions off him;  his common-sense logic and practicality is invaluable.        

            From the distance of her retirement home Olive watches and shrewdly evaluates the growing friendship, for Lucy visits her, often with stories of her own to tell, and it’s possible that this story could have turned out differently if a local woman that everyone detested went missing, not to be found until months later submerged in a car at the bottom of a quarry:  her middle-aged reclusive son Matt is the main suspect – he was her caregiver but was also a weirdo, liked to paint pictures of nude pregnant women.  What a pervert!  Until Bob consents to defend him, should the case go to trial, and all the stories start to float up to the surface, Olive remembering many of them.

            ‘Tell Me Everything’ is exactly that, for unburdening themselves eases many heavy hearts in this beautiful little book;  every character has something that they never want to think of again, but are unable to think of anything else.  No-one is exempt from heartache, regardless of how well they pretend.  And I wonder if this is Olive’s last hurrah – her best and only friend at the retirement home seems to be sleeping more and more lately.  Olive’s still wide-awake, but for how long?  I cannot imagine one of Ms Strout’s books without her.  Rock on, Olive, rock on!  FIVE STARS

 

Death at the Sign of the Rook, by Kate Atkinson.

 

   

         Ex-Detective Jackson Brodie is now a Private Detective doing the gumshoe work usually associated with ex-coppers, which is making a living off the surveillance of extra-marital sinners and the like;  now he has been instructed to find a missing painting thought to have been stolen by an old Yorkshire lady’s last caregiver.  But his new employers do not strike him with confidence, either – they are too dismissive of the painting’s value (just an old keepsake, sentimental value only’), especially in light of the ruthless evaluation of everything else in the house:  ‘Lady with a Weasel’ (well, what else could that fur ball be, sitting on her lap, thinks Jackson when he sees a rare photo of the painting.  Jackson’s knowledge of fine art is minimal at best.)

  Something Stinks in the State of Denmark, reflects Jackson later, when another painting by Turner is audaciously removed from a stately home not too far from the first theft, the stately home now being reduced to running Murder Mystery Weekends in a part of the building converted into a hotel for paying guests by the sons of local aristocrat Lady Milton.  Sadly, it would seem that her Secretary went missing the same time that the Turner was cut from its frame:  too many coincidences, thinks Brody (and everyone else!)

            Ms Atkinson has decided to follow the ironclad rules of the classic Detective fictional story here:  a troupe of actors hired for the Mystery Weekend;  a motley collection of guests including the local vicar, an army major (lost a leg in Afghanistan, no less!), Jackson himself as the pillar of logic and lightning converter of clues; oh, and don’t forget the mysterious caregiver/secretary, who also returns to stir up the waters – which aren’t waters at all, but a blinding snowstorm, which traps everyone in place when the power fails.  And guess what is revealed when the lights come back on?  Well. You’ll have to read the book to find out.

            And what a book!  Ms Atkinson has never been better at setting the scene, providing each great character with a backstory that is entirely rational but exceptional, and when the plot’s end is finally revealed the reader has to take off their hat (whether wearing one or not!) to the relentlessly perfect dotting of I’s and crossing of t’s – there is absolutely nothing left to chance;  all is revealed in the most marvellous and witty manner.  And it goes without saying that the crooks are the most entertaining!  SIX STARS.   

 

 

 

Graceland, by Nancy Crochiere.

 

            Ex-TV Soap Star Olivia Grant wants to go to Memphis, Tennessee one last time:  she intends the trip to be her Swansong, her last flamboyant gesture before she takes her final wheezy breath from the oxygen cylinder that has been her constant companion for decades, thanks to her youthful 60 per day Camel habit – and she intends to expire, not in a hospital bed (she abhors hospitals) but at Graceland, home of The King Himself, Elvis.

            The glitch in all her meticulous planning is her daughter Hope, Olivia’s planned chauffeur:  she refuses to make the trip from Boston, citing heavy work commitments, not to mention parental responsibilities, but the real truth is that they do NOT get on.  The idea of spending more than hours in her mother’s company is akin to the Chinese Water Torture to Hope.  Sorry, can’t be done.

            Which is unacceptable to Olivia.  Okay, she’s prepared to admit that she wasn’t up-to-snuff as a parent, especially as she did all her filming in LA and they lived in Memphis, but the trip to Graceland is her dying wish – she’s going, dammit, and Hope’s daughter Dylan, pink-haired teenage rebel extraordinaire, will be the chauffeur in her notoriously unreliable VW Beetle.  Shove THAT up your nether regions, daughter dear!

            Daughter dear, when she realises what has happened, is naturally appalled, not for the obvious reasons that an old lady and a 16 year-old are travelling in an unroadworthy vehicle several thousand miles to grant the old B’s last selfish wish, but for the fact that 17 years ago, Hope left Memphis in a tearing hurry, pregnant and covered in shame and self-loathing, for she was paid to leave and take her secrets with her:  if ever she returned to Memphis the shite would truly hit the fan.  Now, Hope has no choice:  she has to get her daughter away from Memphis and exposure to several painful truths, not the least of which is the identity of Dylan’s father.

            This is Nancy Crochiere’s debut novel, and what a road trip it is – each protagonist has their own chapters, and their perceptions of each are a revelation, especially Dylan’s relationship with her grandmother;  sometimes being a generation removed fosters a respect and intimacy that is seen in her mother as being restrictive and smothering.  To add even more spice to the mix of characters, Hope’s travel companion is her cousin George, a true-blue friend-in-need – with one major flaw:  he’s a cross-dresser, adores women’s clothes and wears them at every opportunity.  Which creates many problems as he’s 6’5”.  Ms Crochiere has created three generations of women hampered by their perceptions, but always ready to forgive, and to love each other.  Feel-good writing at its best.  FIVE STARS.       

 

The Spy, by Ajay Chowdhury.

 

            Here’s #4 in Ajay Chowdhury’s enormously entertaining series starring Kamil Rahman, disgraced Kolkota Detective, London waiter/cook/London Detective, and in this story, MI5 Spy as he tries to dismantle and foil a heinous plot engineered by rebellious Muslims to cause death and destruction during a visit to London by the corrupt Hindu Prime Minister.

            Kamil is Muslim but not fanatically so until Imam Maroor, the imam of his local Mosque is kidnapped with another of his congregation, someone who is having second thoughts about helping the rebels manufacture an explosive device.  The imam is Kamil’s friend and mentor and has helped him immeasurably since his arrival in London;  Kamil cannot let the London Police proceed at snail speed in their investigations, even though one of their own, Tahir, is doing his best to keep the kidnapping in the forefront of their investigation – but everything  ramps up when a burnt body is found with the imam’s phone not far away. 

            Kamil’s sorrow and and anger are boundless:  to ruthlessly kill such a good and saintly man is a crime that he will avenge - by fair means or foul.  His initial refusal to be recruited to MI5 is overturned:  he will find the imam’s killers by every means at his disposal.  There will be no escape for any of them.

            Mr Chowdhury makes some very salient points about fanaticism, Muslim, Hindu and otherwise:  no-one gets off lightly or without a weighing-up of blame or responsibility, and his assessment of Kashmir, fought over like a bone by China, Pakistan and India is masterly.  Which is when there is a much-needed change in plot direction:  Tandoori Knights, the restaurant that has saved Kamil’s sanity on many an occasion is still flourishing, even more so because Anjoli, Kamil’s heart’s desire, has hired a new chef – baldheaded, tattooed and musclebound, whose new menu is too atmospheric and grandiose to be true – but people are flocking in.  And Anjoli seems to be attracted to him as well.  He calls himself Chanson but Kamil reckons he’s a Chancer.  And when has he ever been wrong?

            Mr Chowdhury has done it again – produced yet another feverishly fast-paced thriller, efficiently plotted and with the usual dazzling array of minor characters:  bring on #5!  FIVE STARS.       

 

Table for Two, by Amor Towles.

 

            I don’t usually read many volumes of short stories – not because they’re not an accepted form of literary endeavour, but because I prefer concentrating on one big story, with one particular set of characters.  There are very few authors who alter my mindset in that regard, Amor Towles being one of them.  After reading his previous novels, particularly ‘A Gentleman in Moscow’ and ‘The Lincoln Highway’ I bit the bullet at the appearance of ‘Table for Two’:  he is such a sublime writer that I had to  give his latest book the attention his reputation merited.  And I’m so glad I did.

            As I said (I’m at an age where I repeat myself) I don’t enjoy chopping and changing characters and themes – until in The Ballad of Timothy Touchett I met the beautifully drawn and irresistible inhabitants of the antiquarian bookshop in New York, where aspiring (but not passionately enough) young author Timothy is employed by Mr Pennybrook, not only to sell first editions, but to practice signatures, at which Timothy excels, of famous, long-dead authors.  After he realises (it takes a little while; he’s not exactly dim but …) that Mr Pennybrook is making big money from Timothy’s ‘artistry’ a new rate is negotiated and all would have been well had not a contemporary author, still very much alive, realised that he didn’t sign that particular book in that particular place. Do heads roll, or not?

            In ‘I will Survive’, a young woman is asked by her mother to follow her stepfather to Central Park:  Nell’s mum is sure her husband is having an affair – then changes her mind and begs Nell to forget she ever asked.  But Nell is curious, and we all know where that leads – nowhere good, especially when his Central Park sojourn has nothing to do with romance.

            There are seven short stories altogether, the last one a novella which continues with a character from his first novel ‘Terms of Civility’:  Evelyn Ross is on her way home to Chicago from New York, but changes her mind at the last moment much to her parents’ consternation and heads to Hollywood instead.  It is the beginning of the 40’s;  she’ll try her luck in California before heading eventually overseas – and what luck!  Her decision to stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel leads to fortuitous meetings with an overweight and ageing has-been Movie actor, and Olivia de Havilland, future star of ‘Gone with the Wind’ – if only Olivia can pay off a blackmailer!  Oh, it’s all gripping stuff, especially the blackmail outcome, and so superbly written that I didn’t want to leave behind any of characters in the seven stories:  What have you planned for us next, Mr Towles? I know it will be dazzling.  SIX STARS