The Small Hand

Having recently re-read The Woman in Black I decided to read Susan Hill’s most recent ghost story “The Small Hand”. I wanted to try and review it without giving the ending away as I felt that this would spoil a truly wonderful piece of traditional storytelling.

Hill’s gentle nod to M R James is not just in the structure of this slight tale, but also in the emotionally barren life of her central protagonist, who is a dealer in antiquarian books.

The plot structure is straightforward and uncomplicated. Adam Snow takes a wrong turn down an overgrown country lane and discovers a derelict Edwardian country house which seems to draw him into its abandoned garden. As he explores he experiences the strange sensation of a small child’s hand creeping into his own. This sets off a train of events which becomes progressively more sinister and malign, prompting Adam to experience debilitating panic attacks and nightmares as he tries to unravel the secret of this small hand.

 

Hill’s skill as a writer is to create ambiguous space between her sparse lines, almost as if constructing a poem. She has an unrivalled ability to make your nerve ends tingle with her precise and carefully structured prose. Her contemporary tale distils the essence of a ghost story, distorting the reader’s perceptions like shifting reflections in a pool, which seems an entirely appropriate image.

The Woman in Black

As a precursor to going to the cinema to see Daniel Radcliffe’s “Woman in Black” I decided to re-read Susan Hill’s original novella, particularly as I understand that Jane Goldman has taken a number of liberties with the source material in her screenplay.

Hill’s prose is astonishing; beautifully crafted to recreate an authentic Edwardian voice, reminiscent of M. R. James. In fact in a nod to the master Hill even titles one chapter “Whistle and I’ll come to you”. I was fascinated by the way she deftly handles time within the narrative. The opening chapter alone has six time shifts, from the present to the near past, to the far past and back, yet seamlessly interwoven into a deft linear tapestry.

The storyline is deceptively simple, yet the overall tone that she creates reminds me greatly of Jack Clayton’s 1961 film “The Innocents” (based on Henry James’ “The Turn of the Screw”). That was a movie which provided a host of nightmares for me as a youngster, with a saturated Miss Jessop standing amongst the reeds in the lake. That powerful image kept surfacing as I rattled my way through Susan Hill’s dexterous prose, which creates a wonderfully chilling sense of unease. The sense of speed that she gives the climatic last two pages of the book is an object lesson to any aspiring writer, with a truly satisfying final line: -

“They asked for my story. I have told it. Enough.”

Rage

Rather uncharacteristically I find that I suffer from bouts of uncontrollable rage.

A typical example occurred during the World Cup in 2010. England were playing the old foe Germany. Having made an abysmal start we had gone 2-0 down after Terry and Upson had decided to let Klose and Podolski waltz past them in a display of tactical naïveté reminiscent of Laurel and Hardy. This was much to the delight of the German fans, still smarting from the 5-1 mauling we had given them nine years earlier, who were singing “Wo ist Michael Owen jetzt?”. Great.

However rather against the odds we fought our way back into the game and a somewhat fortunate rebound from Steven Gerrard off Matthew Upson’s face had put the game back to 2-1. Fifty seconds later in the thirty-ninth minute Frank Lampard (never one of my favourite players) then hit an absolute peach of a shot which looped over the keeper, rebounded off the bar and landed a good two feet inside the goal, prompting delirious scenes of wild celebration amongst all England fans in pubs and bars the length and breadth of the country. I had leapt from my chair and was dancing around my lounge with glee. As you’ll no doubt be aware, unless you’ve been living under a rock, in a monumentally inept piece of refereeing the goal was unbelievably disallowed as the ball had allegedly not crossed the line. The referee who perpetrated this outrage was Uruguayan Jorge Larrionda (oh to meet him in a dark alley one night).

However at this point my rage was totally uncontrollable; a seething cauldron of righteous anger and misguided patriotism.

I fully accept that we might well have gone on to lose anyway (given the total ineptitude of our so-called “defenders”) but that goal should have stood, and we should have walked in at half-time on level terms, which could have changed everything.

My rancour was intense and ugly, sanctimonious and xenophobic. The sense of injustice still burns in me and can be ignited by any similar incident in any football match. What is it about football that can turn an otherwise intelligent man into The Incredible Hulk?

Dangerous Days

I bought the two disc special edition of “Blade Runner - The Final Cut” at the weekend, and I sat and watched the whole of disc two: - “Dangerous Days: Making Blade Runner” last night, which made me feel a bit of a geek....but proudly so! Ridley Scott is one of my all-time movie heroes...I still love “Alien”. I know Blade Runner had really mixed reviews upon it’s release but I think it’s masterful; dark, complex and ambiguous, even thirty years on (how can it be thirty years?).

It has a wonderful screenplay by Hampton Fancher and David Peoples, but apparently Rutger Hauer ad-libbed one of my favourite speeches: -

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time....like tears in rain....time to die”. 

A Spot of Bother

I decided to re-read Mark Haddon’s “A Spot of Bother” over the weekend. I first read it back in 2008 and felt that sufficient time had elapsed to enjoy it all over again.

Haddon’s prose is a joy; lean and sparse with a wry sense of the absurd. He seems to possess an innate ability to know what works, with an instinctive sense of timing. He has a wonderful gift for comedy, writing situations which are both poignant whilst also being riotously funny. In George Hall he has created a sympathetic Everyman, in whom we can all recognise our own fears and concerns, sharing George’s growing realisation of his own mortality.

Warm and wise this is a book to be savoured, and I feel certain that I will return to it again, renewing acquaintance with an old friend.

Wintering

Season of broken glass;
the windows fragments
shatter beneath our feet.

This wintering
creeps its slow advance.
Powder white blanket
quilts our sleeping.

Snow swathed
our passion has chilled.
Within the darkened room
the embers still glow,
but the fire is spent.

And quietly
we await the thaw,
ice dripping from the gutter.

Lizzie Enfield "What You Don't Know"

Having stumbled across Lizzie Enfield I felt compelled to write a brief review of her superb debut novel “What You Don’t Know”. I really enjoyed Lizzie’s writing, and found the novel to be entertaining, relevant and thoroughly engaging. Her characterizations were deftly handled and I found myself really believing in the portrayals of Helen, Alex and Graham. The plot centres around Helen’s mid-life crisis moment, triggered through interviewing ex-soldier Graham. Despite the fact that he doesn’t fit the obvious visual mould she is drawn to him, and is tempted by the possibility of an extra-marital affair, partly due to her actor-husband’s preoccupation with his new co-star. Her indecision and the accompanying moral dilemma becomes the main theme of the novel, providing both its structure and its ultimate resolution.

The commonly held advice is to write about what you know, so given Lizzie’s background it should come as no surprise that Helen is depicted as a journalist. This provides many opportunities for insightful observations about journalistic distance and objectivity. My feeling is that many of Helen’s motivations and character traits are possibly the author’s own, although this could simply be her skill as a writer in giving Helen a believable voice. There is a beautifully crafted description of Helen’s indecision early on in the novel (which made me laugh out loud) and which then echoes throughout the rest of the book.

Minor criticisms are the fairly contained focus of the plot and the rather abrupt ending, which felt a little rushed, but these very minor gripes do not detract from the overall strength of the piece.

Intelligent, perceptive and wise, I would highly recommend this well-written book.