Gas

We had a domestic tragedy last week.

For weeks, possibly months, Daughter and I were sure that from time to time we could smell gas in the kitchen. Sometimes there was a logical cause – someone had turned on a ring and then not lit it – but often there was not. Eventually Husband was persuaded to call the number and report a possible leak; which he did on Thursday morning just after I had cut up several pounds of oranges and prepared them to make marmalade.

The workmen came with surprising alacrity; confirmed that there was indeed a gas leak from the oven; and, instead of just taping shut the oven door (the gas was leaking only when the oven was in use), disconnected the whole cooker and, cheerfully and full of tea, disappeared away up the road.

We looked at the dead cooker and the large pan of ur-marmalade.

There was nothing to be done but to replace the cooker as soon as possible. With a bit more notice, we might have thought carefully about all the possible alternatives, but with an immediate need we decided just to replace the cooker with one as like it as we could find. After all, for 18 years we had cooked happily on our old faithful friend and had not found it lacking in any important respect. We knew that a replacement would be difficult because our one absolute requirement 18 years ago had been an eye-level grill; and I recall vividly the young salesman explaining that only old people wanted eye-level grills, everyone else had moved on. And I recall telling him that for the purposes of cooker purchase, he had better regard me as an old person. 18 years later, we assumed that even the old people who had wanted eye-level grills then would themselves have moved on to a better place. 

Perhaps I had better explain about the necessity for an eye-level grill. I like toast. I like thick toast, crisp on the outside and soft within. I have not found anything that makes it better than a gas grill (the only alternative is an open fire and a toasting fork, and those are not to hand in the morning) – those nasty electric toasters either leave the bread damp and limp, or cracklingly dry. And when I am making toast, I am probably doing half a dozen other things at the same time, and want to keep an eye on it as I pass to and fro between clearing the draining board and feeding the cats. If it is out of sight, then I won’t notice the point at which it is absolutely perfect. 

If finding an eye-level grill was difficult 18 years ago, we were sure that it would be equally difficult, if not impossible, today. But with hope born of desperation, off we went to our usual local appliance shop. The salesman explained things slightly differently this time. Yes, there was one firm who made gas cookers with eye-level grills; and they made just the one model. He looked at us and said that he could see why we wanted one – it was more difficult to keep bending down when you were elderly, wasn’t it? I bit my tongue. The choice was remarkably easy and quick – with only one to choose from, yes, that was the cooker we would have. In black or white? We wanted green. We settled for white. I couldn’t resist telling the salesman that I would ask Husband to paint it green. He looked worried, as if he believed me. It was revenge of a kind. 

It will be a week before the new cooker arrives.

Master & commander, by Patrick O'Brian

How did I get on with Patrick O'Brian, an author and a genre that I have been rather sniffy about in the past? Very well indeed is the reply, thank 'ee kindly (that of course is one of the problems with reading historical fiction - read too much of it, and you end up sounding like an eighteenth-century midshipman).

Certainly it is true that you do not need to understand very much about the technicalities of sailing ships, which is one of the fears that have put me off this kind of book in the past.  400 pages later, I still do not know what a studdingsail is, or where you would find the mizzen. Although there is a good deal of technical detail, you can glide over it and not lose very much of the narrative. It was a romping good read, excellent for the Christmas period, when I want to escape from the festivities and jollities into a different world. This one is set in and around Minorca, familiar from family holidays, and many many miles away from where I was sitting to read. (One of the problems with reading, say, Dickens, over Christmas is that the world you are reading about looks not unlike the world outside your window). It is quite a long book but gallops along at a decent speed, and I did want to read on and on and see what happened next. I am not so sure that, if I had laid the book aside for a week or two, I would ever have gone back to it; and I am quite sure that I am not such a fan as to embark immediately upon the next nineteen (nineteen!) books in the series. But maybe I will read another one in a while.

Since starting this book I have reverted to an old habit, of reading a chapter each night in bed before I settle to sleep. It is the only way that I can read a book reasonably quickly, as I never seem to find the time and opportunity to read during the day. I never thought I would say this, but in some ways I miss the commute, which was when I used to get my reading time. However, this book wasn't ideal for bedtimes - it is hard to sleep just after reading about a fierce encounter with a xebec-frigate, shot whistling through the rigging, thundering broadsides and desperate hand-to-hand fighting. So for my next book I shall look for something a little calmer, though I do not as yet know what.

The clothes on their backs, by Linda Grant

This is the first book in a while that hasn't been a recommendation from someone. I chose it for myself, even though it wasn't the one I really wanted, which was Linda Grant's new novel, Upstairs at the party - but this was only available in hardback at the library and I didn't want to carry such a heavy tome home, never mind lug it to and fro on the train. So much for literary discernment - my choice determined entirely by convenience.

Having said which, someone saw me reading it and started enthusing about Linda Grant's work, and isn't it wonderful? Well, yes. Even though second choice, it wasn't a disappointment. It was a strange story, taking a historical character and spinning fiction out of it, which wouldn't be strange at all if it was set centuries ago, but does seem odd (to me, at least) when the events were within my lifetime and therefore can't be described (by me, at least) as historical fiction. It was very evocative, though, and the place and time lingers with me, even if I felt less than sympathetic to some of the characters.

Now I have a mind to try some real historical fiction - Patrick O'Brian - on the back of a very enthusiastic review in the Guardian. So, watch this space.

Engleby, by Sebastian Faulks

It is pretty hard to say anything about this book without giving something away that may spoil your enjoyment - and you certainly will enjoy the book. It is about a Cambridge student who goes missing... and that's all I'm telling you.
It's a good, intelligent read (and I say this as someone who doesn't normally enjoy thrillers but who did enjoy putting the clues together in this one). It is also one for anyone who remembers being a student in the early 70s.
Go on - read it for yourself.

Cricklewood

We got to Cricklewood. The train was already fairly full, but I had a seat beside a window and near the door, so I saw the whole drama unfold. The two of them were there on the platform as the train drew in, a man and a woman, older people but not elderly – perhaps the kindest word would be “mature”. Probably about my age, in other words.  The man climbed on, and dragged a suitcase behind him, but there was nowhere for him to sit and so he was left standing beside the door. He was already wearing a backpack. I was expecting the woman to follow him on, but she didn’t. She had a bright, kind, intelligent face. They were saying their goodbyes and she was clearly telling him to take care, waving, smiling, as the doors closed and the train started to move. 

It was really only then that I looked at his face. It was a bit like hers – perhaps they were brother and sister, it seemed more likely than that they were partners – but his face was soft, blurred and flushed. I thought he was red in the face from the exertion of manhandling the luggage, but when I looked again I thought perhaps he was upset. 

So I started to wonder what the story was. Why was he upset? Had he been to stay with his sister and then, the visit over, was facing a return to a lonely life on his own? Or was he returning to an unhappy marriage, or to the duty of care for an elderly and cantankerous parent? Was his sister’s kind attentiveness genuine or was it a mask – was she pleased to see him go and was he aware of that? For her part, did she go home relieved that, duty done, she wouldn’t have to see him again for a while? Where was his journey going to end and would be back home by nightfall?

And I shall never know.

The tortoise and the hare, by Elizabeth Jenkins

This is not a book I would have been likely to pick up just on a whim, but it was recommended to me by a friend – it is a novel originally written in the 1950s but republished in the 1980s by Virago and championed by several notable writers. I will be honest and admit that I had never heard of Elizabeth Jenkins and was sceptical that it would be the overlooked jewel that it was claimed to be. I  was doubtful that I would enjoy it. But I did. 

It is a domestic drama, on a small scale, nothing epic about it. It doesn’t flash and burn. The style is impeccable and elegant and for that reason unremarkable (except that impeccably and elegantly written books are hard to find). The characters in the love triangle – for that is what it is about – are none of them totally sympathetic, none of them totally unforgivable. Not much happens, but it is minutely observed and riveting to read.

And that was the interesting thing.  Just recently I have not been reading much. I have rather got out of the habit. Given the opportunity to read, I have often chosen not to, preferring to do something else or to do nothing at all. I have enjoyed many of the books that I have read, but it has taken me a while to finish them and I found that I would have lost the thread each time I went back. This is the first book in more than a year that I have actively wanted to read and have become totally engaged with. I do not know whether this is because of the book itself or because my mood has changed again. It will be interesting to find out how I get on with the next book on the list.

Big brother, by Lionel Shriver

This is plainly and simply the best book I have read this year – and probably for several years. I recommend it unreservedly to everyone. I found it hard work at the beginning, when the American style had me stumbling over sentences that didn’t quite read as I had expected them to read (and this isn’t a fault, but only what you will get with an American writer and an English reader), but I got used to it and became engrossed in the story. And I am not going to say any more than that – go and read it for yourself!