Review of She Was the Quiet One, by Michele Campbell


When we break a good resolution, we usually tell ourselves that it is only this one time and for a good reason. In my case, asking She Was the Quiet One from NetGalley after swearing only to request review copies of new books by authors I had previously read and liked was the specious attraction of the setting—Odell, a boarding school in New Hampshire. I had just completed a novel of my own set at a boarding school in New England that I thought it would be fun to compare notes on how it is done. In this case, Michele Campbell ought to have known that teachers are mandated reporters; that means they are required to report any instances of what they reasonably believe to be physical or sexual abuse to the appropriate authorities. In the case of Sarah and Heath Donovan, who are the housemasters of Moreland Hall, they are informed of a hazing incident when a girl in their dorm beaten on her bare buttocks with a leather slipper and a video posted on Snapchat, and they first concern was how it might affect Heath’s chances of becoming headmaster. As it turns out, the girl withdraws from school but her family sue the perpetrator’s family for the absurdly astronomic sum of $20 million, though the only lasting injury was to the victim’s self-esteem. I doubt law school was part of the author’s formation: later we see a lawyer imagining that asserting girl’s Miranda rights means that she cannot co-operate willingly with the police.

Two sisters are involved. Rose and Bel, fraternal twins. (Is it sexist to refer to twin sisters as “fraternal”? My dictionary doesn’t have an adjective derived from “soror.”) Orphaned, they are sent off to boarding school at the behest of granny’s lawyer (the one who’s not so up on Miranda) boyfriend. They are opposite personalities: Rose is studious and serious; Bel is unfocused and pliable, and finds herself involved in an affair with housemaster Heath Donovan, who is definitely the instigator and consummates their relationship at midnight in the laundry room of the dorm. There’s “a contest, which senior girl can bed Donovan”—I wondered why.

If one is going to portray illicit relationships between teacher and student, make it attractive; feature some class. Have the teacher at least pretend to sophistication, caring, attentive and considerate sexually, devoted to the student-lover’s intellectual maturity. What the Greeks called paidea. Instead Heath makes Bea slog through muddy winter woods to meet him in a car park and then he drives her to a sleazy motel where she finds out that his amatory technique is of the wham-bam variety. On route he orders her: “A car’s coming. Get down.’ She ducked into the passenger-side foot well, and rode down there the whole way to the motel.” Not exactly a romantic relationship.

Campbell provides us with the stock characters who populate the run-of-the-mill prep school story. There’s Darcy, the classic mean girl: “Life in Darcy’s circle was a big joke. The terrible pressures of Odell—the crushing workload, the college-admissions race, the sane three-hundred-page code [sic] of conduct manual—vanished at the flick of Darcy’s shiny, blond hair. Bel needed to be part of that.” Of course she’d be a blonde. Interestingly though, she hang around after her expulsion and contribute to a minor plot twist. And of course there’s the school bully. “Brandon was a mouth-breathing delinquent. He was also very, very rich, his dad being a real-estate billionaire”! Um! I wonder who he might be based on! And Heath and Sarah’s imagining that promotion to Headmaster and “first lady” (that’s really what somebody calls it in this book) will give them a life of abundance and easy and luxury instead of the endless rounds of fund-raising, ingratiating themselves to parents and potential parents, and scrupulous devotion to the welfare of every single student that the responsibilities of a real school head require.

Stylistically, Michele Campbell scarcely misses a cliché: “He bolted down the front path like he’d been shot from a cannon”; “Sarah was weak as a kitten”; “you scream like a banshee” are a few samples.

So, I have to add She Was the Quiet One to my growing list of bad school stories, that is to say, badly told stories about bad schools. Usually the implicit author of such novels seems to be suffering from a terminal case of class envy, portraying an institution run by bullies and snobs. I’ve written my own story about a school afflicted with some very evil characters. But if an author is aspiring to tragic dignity there should also be characters who genuinely care about formation and education and understand that the welfare of their students is their primary duty, however short they fall of their responsibilities. In this story we have instead an unintentional comedy with teachers who never engage in anything that remotely resembles education, a lawyer who knows nothing about criminal law, police detectives unacquainted with police procedure (they leave a suspected murderess in the school infirmary because she has flu symptoms), and a sleazy seducer whose idea of a love nest is the basement laundry room. Which last pretty much sums up the artistic, moral and educational values this school story inculcates.

I am grateful to NetGalley and St Martin’s for an ARC.

Review of The Lucifer Chord, by F. G. Cottam


As authors mature they sometimes bring together the themes and characters from their earlier books and it is a pleasure that F. G. Cottam has chosen to do so with The Lucifer Chord, which combines elements from his first out-and-out supernatural novel The House of Lost Souls, featuring human sacrifices on the Isle of Wight staged by Klaus Fischer, with such infamous characters as Hermann Goering, Aleister Crowley and Dennis Wheatley (who wasn’t a villain in real life, just a poseur and snob without anything to be snobbish about who wrote enjoyable black-magic and witchcraft stories). There is also a reappearance by the insalubrious Jericho Society which first appeared in Dark Echo. Our principal character in The Lucifer Chord is Ruthie Gillespie, who herself first figured in the last volume of the Colony trilogy, Harvest of Scorn. As a preliminary to this novel, last year the author gave us his novella The Going and the Rise, which set us again on the IOW with Ruthie, the architect Michael Aldridge, and the Jericho Society’s demolished keep.

Again, Cottam uses a favourite device of the quest motif that he employed in The House of Lost Souls. A character is given a project that involves solving a mystery, that leads into a dark perilous journey into the past. In this case it is the disappearance of the rock musician Martin Mear: “He was believed to have been killed by electrocution while rehearsing for a concert in Morocco.” Observers at his concerts claimed they had witnessed him levitating. (In Fairfield, Iowa, not far from where I live, this is an almost routine occurrence!) Ruthie, who is a professional nonfiction writer as well as an author of children’s fiction, is commissioned by a dubious American referred to as “Carter Fucking Melville” to write a 20,000 word (at a quid a word) on Martin and his rock group The Ghost Legion, who after nearly half a century still have a fanatical following, somewhat like the Dead Heads. As the title of the book suggests, Cottam draws on folklore – the story of a guitar player so extraordinary that it was believed he had been taught to play by the Devil. Martin Mear is supposed to have invented a previously unknown guitar chord. (As did my idol Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders as well.) Legionnaire’s reunions feature some strangely spooky occurrences. In her quest Ruthie’s journey covers the entire length of Britain, from Ventnor IOW to the Scottish Highlands, and involves encounters with mediums, Ouija boards, and a ghost driving an ancient grey Morris Minor, as well as a ghostly milk bar. (How it would have depressed David Holbrook to know that these destroyers of traditional working class culture would enjoy future life in the spirit world!) Finally we discover what became of Martin Mears, as well as for Ruthie’s relationship with the architect Michael. The pseudo-history in the background to the Jericho Society was not completely convincing. Supposedly in the early 1920s “two powerful exorcists” from the Archdiocese of Boston deactivated the American headquarters of that diabolical organization which was subsequently demolished by the FBI (which did not add “Federal” to its name till 1935) and that their “chalice now rest[s] in the trophy room at Quantico” (where surely Agent Clarice Starling was allowed to drink from it before encountering Hannibal Lector! That was a trifle too cute – I hope the author will forgive me!).

F. G. Cottam ranks alongside Andrew Taylor as the top current British authors of supernatural fiction. (Susan Hill is no longer at the top of her game, I fear.) In terms of the tradition of the classic English ghost story, I’d place Taylor in the line of M. R. James. Cottam reminds me more of Algernon Blackwood. Cottam’s fans will definitely enjoy how The Lucifer Chord ties together the complex mythological system that began with The House of Lost Souls and Dark Echo, and continued through The Colony trilogy. If you are new to Cottam, I’d recommend you first read his novella The Going and the Rise, as well as Jan Olandese’s Infectious Ghosts: Contagious Magic in F. G. Cottam’s Dark Echo and The House of Lost Souls. It is a huge privilege for contemporary readers of supernatural fiction to have the chance to enjoy so productive a writer as Francis Cottam.

Review of Sweet Days of Discipline, by Fleur Jaeggy

A beautifully restrained and austere depiction of a schoolgirl crush at its most intense, and the ashes it leaves behind.

I don’t usually read fiction in translation any more, except from French where I feel somewhat comfortable with the original, as with The Kindly Ones. Fortunately, the edu.lib had a copy of the Italian original, and as Italian is mostly just Latin with incredibly bad pronunciation and spelling, I could cross check Tim Parks translation. It was amusing to find “in plus fours and long socks” translates “alla zuava”—what on earth can that mean, I wondered? And then a mental picture of a flashily uniformed American Civil War infantryman came to mind. Of course, Zouaves! The 19th century equivalent of Special Forces. But what did “the French were there and they were celebrating the guillotine” (“c’erano i francesi, e festaggiavano la ghigliottina”) mean? Most important, how many senses of “castigo” overlap with “discipline”? Certainly not in the B&D or S/M sense. But perhaps in the sense of military or nautical formation: a mode of life characterized by self-control, service, and devotion. The incredibly erotic relationship between the two schoolgirls is completely chaste and Platonic (in the vulgar sense); the narrator and Frédérique scarcely ever touch except when Frédérique examines the narrator’s hands. But the details of an all-consuming passion seemed perfect. When the narrator painstakingly learns to imitate Frédérique’s handwriting—that rang home for me.

As I had the good fortune to spend the summer of 1960 in Fribourg myself, much of the atmosphere brought back memories, although this book is set in German-speaking Switzerland near St. Gallen. The time is unspecified, but as one of the characters is the daughter of the president of an African country, it must have been about the same time. (That was the summer the Congo blew up.) Both the Swiss setting and the isolation a boarding school imposes create a sense of suspension in time and space—as if the rest of the world, the political world, indeed the “real” world” were on another planet. And for a teenager in boarding school, one year is almost forever.

Very little of an exterior nature passes in this slender and austere book whose principal character is almost anorexic herself. I am not sure whether to regard the ending as sad, but it certainly is tragic in the true sense: cruel, unfair, unfeeling, yet inevitable and right. Frédérique is irresistible, and unforgettable.

Review of Neverworld Wake, by Marisha Pessl


Though generically a YA, Neverworld Wake should appeal to older readers; it certainly does to this one. It is the book that I’d waited for Marisha Pessl to write, a school-story version of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History with teen-aged characters and set in New England. Pessl has delivered the whole shooting match. Five BFs, graduates of Darrow School in Rhode Island, have a reunion the summer after their first year in college: the wealthy Whitley and her boy friend Cannon, Martha a science geek, Kipling, a Louisiana gay who does Truman Capote imitations (that frankly irritated me), and the narrator Beatrice (alias Bee alias Bumble), whose family operate a tourist restaurant and is our narrator. As in Pessl’s earlier novels, there is a missing character who is a presumed suicide, Bee’s boyfriend Jim, who plunged into a quarry lake at the end of their senior year. The five friends go out in Whitley’s Jaguar convertible, get well lubricated and while returning seem to get into a car smash in the rain with the top down, but find themselves the next morning awaken all wet sitting in the car. As it turns out, they neither survived nor succumbed to the accident. Instead they find themselves caught in a strange limbo between life and death, the “Wake” which gives the book its title. Each morning they awaken in the car to relive the same day. A mysterious old man called the “the Keeper” explains to them that they will continue in that state till they finally vote unanimously for one of them to survive.

Knowing that this scenario of an intermediate state betwixt life and death is the setting of a recent piece of critically celebrated Postmodernist Flim-Flam I’d not touch with barge pole, I’d feared the worst. But received the best; spiritually and morally Pessl offers a most fulfillling exploration of friendship and love. There is also wonderfully wittly dialogue. Just as we fear a cliché, a phrase veers into a freshly minted mot–I loved the sailboats bobbing like feeding unicorns! We find that the limbo our characters inhabit turns out to be spacious in time and space, offering them the chance to explore their pasts at school and to investigate the mystery of what actually happened to Jim and for our narrator Bee to grow into the person she should aspire to be and to confront her own past. Instead of being trapped in purgatorial confinement, we move around a lot, socially, temporally, and geographically, including visits to Greece and Japan. But always under the constraint of the time limit of the Wake, that moves steadily shorter till we reach resolution. For some readers, time travel into the past will seem like science fiction (Martha is a devote of an obscure book called The Bend), but from a spiritual perspective it serves as a device to allow contemporary readers to experience the mystery that time is really illusory and simultaneous. Except for the corn-pone Kip (and I eventually got to tolerate him), I found all the characters very appealing, especially Bee our narrator. The conclusion, both what happened to Jim and to the friends caught in the Wake, was tragic, sad, serious, and yet perfectly satisfying. I love this book. It explores devotion, betrayal, sacrifice, and the journey inward of spiritual growth.

Review of GBH, by Ted Lewis


A TLS reviewer was sceptical of the claim in the new biography of Ted Lewis that he was the British Albert Camus. But Jack Carter continues to haunt me nearly half a century since we first heard Michael Caine deliver the best line in his career: “A pint of bitter [pause] in a thin glass,” in a low-life Newcastle pub popularly referred to as “The Star and Vomit” with genuine locals providing the extras, including a man with six fingers holding a pint of Newcastle Brown. (Carter wanted a thin glass in case of a fight.) The screenplay for Get Carter was adapted from Lewis’s novel Jack’s Return Home. Its original location was Scunthorpe and much as I loved the scenes of the slum housing of Newcastle just before the clearers could remove it, I was glad to return to Linconshire in GBH. (Grievous Bodily Harm: I reckon the American equivalent might be Aggravated Assault.) Half the story is set in the decrepit beach holiday area of Mablethorpe (“The Sea”)


and the other half a bit earlier in London (“The Smoke”). The novel first appeared in 1980—ten years after Get Carter. The narrator is George Fowler, a kingpin distributor of pornographic films (“Blues”), who for reasons we only gradually find out has gone to ground in a bungalow near this seedy seaside resort – compared to which Skegness or Great Yarmouth is the Albert Hall. (Indeed, my first choice for contemporary successor to Lewis as author of noir crime fiction is Cathi Unworth, whose book Weirdo is set in a town that is obviously Great Yarmouth and featuring the same sort of bent coppers and kinky sex.) In the portions set in London, George, assisted by his wife Jean and Mickey his principal enforcer and a supporting cast of rival gangsters (“minions”) and bent coppers (“the filth”) has discovered that someone in his organization is defalcating.

Mickey thought about it.
“Do you really think they’d try it on? I mean Hales, Wilson, Chapman, Warren. They make a lot of bread. Would they risk what they already get? And risked what they’d get if they were sussed out?”
“Money has a funny effect on people, Mickey,” I said to him. “Corrupting. Sometimes it makes them act very peculiar.”
Mickey thought some more. . . .
“And supposing all four are at it?”
“Then we’ll find out all four of them are at it, won’t we?”
Mickey lit a cigarette. “So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to talk to them.”. . .
“So you’d like me to bring them along to Sammy’s?” [The safe house where they interrogate (i.e. torture) the suspects.]
“That’s right.”


Most of the dialogue is delivered in the same clipped understated tone, often as statements cast into the grammatical form of questions. As I read it, I could almost hear the voice of Michael Caine, which was both all wrong and perfect for Get Carter, who didn’t sound at all like a Geordie but absolutely like a gangster. He would have been perfect for George. (Unlike the reader in the audio of GBH, who from the sample sounded like an upscale version of estuary – like someone from the London suburbs who’d gone to uni.)

My recollection of reading Jack’s Return Home so long ago in an el-cheepo paperback knockoff for the movie (if I’d bought another one and sealed it in cling film, it would probably be worth a pile today) is that it was a big disappointment. Get Carter ranks at the top of my list of movies that are better than the original book. But with GBH I could almost imagine seeing the same bleak but totally arresting atmospheric shots we had in Get Carter. George is watching a young woman in an amusement arcade in Grimsby.

‘While I’m getting more change from the kiosk, I clock that this particular machine is already in use, being operated by a dark-haired girl in dark glasses. She’s wearing one of those Afghan coats and a deliberately patchy jeans and white plimsolls. A newspaper is sticking out of one of the pockets of her Afghan. I pick up my change and walk over and lean against the machine next to hers and watch her manipulating the flippers. She’s wearing a T-shirt which reads, I’D RATHER BE HANG-GLIDING. She’s clocking up quite a good score and she’s got a couple of ball-bearings to come. She takes no notice of my interest. When I notice that the paper sticking out of her pocket is a copy of The Stage, and also she’s beautiful in a way that goes with the clothes she’s wearing.’

You can almost see her. If there’s ever a movie I hope they offer the part of Emily Blunt! As the story unfolds, the girl whose name seems to be Lesley keeps morphing into different possible identities. At various points George (and we) suspect she may be a prostitute, a singer in the Carly Simon class, a car crash victim, a porn-film performer, a ghost, a spy from a rival gang, and an alcoholic delusion. (Both George and his creator were suffering from a stage-four case of the dingbats.) And George’s wife Jean in the Smoke sections is almost as enigmatic: porn-film performer, sadist, number-one henchwoman, sex partner, target for rival gangs. As with Glenda in Get Carter (who delivers that marvellous line “to the Demon King’s castle”), the women characters in GBH aren’t realistic, but they are fascinating, literally.

Even though the author and his protagonist were dissolving into an alcoholic abyss (Lewis would be dead two years later), I believe definitely that GBH is a lost classic due for revival that should re-read beautifully. Is Ted Lewis the Albert Camus of northern England? Not sure, but that picture of Michael Caine with that shotgun as Jack Carter has all the charisma of the famous picture of Bogie on the wall of Jean-Paul Belmondo’s bedroom in Breathless.


And if that’s not an icon of an Existentialist saint, what is?


Review of Our Little Secret, by Roz Nay


The first half of this story centres round two end of term parties: a high-school graduation party at a lake in Vermont and the next year at a May Ball in Oxford – surprisingly with three of the same characters present at both. You’ve read Dorothy Sayers’ Gaudy Night, so you know at least vicariously that a May Ball is about as close to being in a fairy tale as you can come and still be more or less in real life. Unlike in Gaudy Night tho’, in Our Little Secret the May Ball results not in a betrothal but a betrayal. Like the ball, this novel skirts just along the edge separating realistic fiction from dark fantasy. The principal character is Angela Petitjean aka Little John or LJ. Her high-school love is a swimmer known as HP (which kept me thinking of steak sauce and a rather sleazy British prime minister), standing for Hamish Parker tho’ he tries to keep his first name hidden. (Probably not a whole lot of people in Vermont who know it’s derived from the vocative case form of the Gaelic version of James.) LJ’s father supposedly has a friend who could pull the necessary strings to get her a place at Hertford College. I found that most unbelievable (unless he were senior tutor or something) and equally unlikely that LJ resided there but a year, especially after an Australian blonde named Saskia snatched HP off to Sydney. Instead, LJ takes an implausible job in the town library as an archivist. A few years later they’re all back in Vermont, with HP and Saskia married with a little girl named Olive for whom LJ babysits. But as the story opens, Saskia has disappeared and LJ is the prime suspect. She is being interviewed at the police station by Detective Novak, who keeps asking open-ended questions to which he gets even more expansive answers which provides the substance of the book. Even if we’re not already suspecting that LJ may be a burrito shy of the combination platter, under the circumstances anyone would likely become a somewhat unreliable narrator. Thanks to Oxford, there’s also an Englishman in the story named Freddy, who reminded me that Hertford was Evelyn Waugh’s college because Freddy talks like a minor character in Brideshead Revisited. (I have never heard anyone in real life say, ‘I’m feeling peckish’!) Both the moral guilt of the villain and the villain’s fate seemed ambiguous to me, but then I’m very broadminded about victims who need killing and very biased towards the defence in criminal cases. But especially in the earlier sections, LJ shone for me as bright as a new penny, the perfect high-school sweetheart and with HP composing the ideal couple. Like in a fairy tale (as LJ alludes later) a wicked witch enters to part the lovers, tho’ readers may differ as to which character plays which role and whether they change partners. It’s clear from her bio and Q&A that Roz Nay is an international sophisticate and the range of characters and settings pushed my limits of credulity a bit. But then we’ve had so many psychological thrillers about teenagers in small American towns, that it was a pleasure to spend a year at Oxford and have a character who ‘stalked strine’ in an unputdownable fast read.