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The tide brought the child in,’ he said, ‘he was laid in a barrel.’ Attempts were made to get sense out of him. ‘Who’s he belonging to?’ asked Justine O’Donnell. ‘He’s a gift from the sea,’
this was before contraception so things were simpler, so simple some of us went a year or two unsure if we were technically virgins or not.
By making it clear he wanted to impress her, Ambrose had handed Christine the role of being hard to impress, and therefore put her in command. She decided to keep hold of this position.
fundamentally, every child comes in from the sea, washes up against the ankles of their parents, arms outstretched, ready to be shaped by them but with some disposition already in place, deep-set and never quite knowable.
When Ambrose was young, shortage still looked like it did in history books: poor people had no electricity, no bank account, no teeth, but they didn’t have debt either; they lived outside money, in inherited cottages and supported by relatives and the community. But those people were gone, everyone had money now, just not enough. Shortage had become pernicious and harder to recognize. It crept into your brain and gave you no peace, keeping you at every moment aware of your home’s easy crushability. And it was almost impossible to talk about. Many families were this way, but you still felt alone with it, so alone.
1944, Italy. As bombs fall around them, two strangers meet in the ruined wine cellar of a Tuscan villa and share an extraordinary evening.
Ulysses Temper is a young British soldier, Evelyn Skinner a 64-year-old art historian living life on her own terms. She has come to salvage paintings from the wreckage of war and relive memories of her youth when her heart was stolen by an Italian maid in a particular room with a view. Ulysses’ chance encounter with Evelyn will transform his life – and all those who love him back home in London – forever.
Uplifting, sweeping and full of unforgettable characters, Still Life is a novel about beauty, love, family and friendship.
The man was a dreamer, he said. Had a loser’s luck and a winning smile and was never happy unless he had a churn in his guts that denoted money riding on an outcome. A feeling he often equated to love.
We like beauty, don’t we? Something good on the eye cheers us. Does something to us on a cellular level, makes us feel alive and enriched. Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, Ulysses. It repositions our sight and judgement. Captures forever that which is fleeting.
She’s gone up in the world. Typist. Sixty words a minute and that’s just her gob.
You’re a good mum, Peg. No I’m not but it’s good of you to say. Your mum was a good mum, Temps. That’s what a good mum is. Mine was competition.
Her beauty had been her currency. Always had been. No one talked about when the bank ran dry as it inevitably would.
We shall be at war one day with your European brothers, as you call them, Mr Collins. It’s inevitable, said Mr Lugg. They’re not like us. But they want what we have. And do we not want what they have, Mr Lugg? Michelangelo? Dante? Beauty? Wine on a sun-drenched terrace? Villas nestled in the hills going for a song? Mr Lugg ignored Mr Collins and reached for a plate of stinking goat’s cheese. Yes, but will you fight? said the reverend, bringing the conversation back to British imperialism. It’s a simple question. For what cause? said Mr Collins. Cause is irrelevant. Cause is not irrelevant. To teach another nation a lesson, then, said the reverend. A nation is not a person. And so I will not.
An authentic British road trip and old-fashioned love story. A violent but compelling tale of grim landscapes and dark morality. Paul Thorne is no angel. A hard man with a troubled past, his mistake was to fall for the wrong girl. When he said yes to love, he opened the door to death.
A tragic accident finds him running for his life from a vicious London crime boss. He seeks sanctuary in a sleepy, Welsh seaside town but instead of solace, he finds jealousy and betrayal.
A brutal journey through the underbelly of 80s and 90s Britain. Violent and sad. Powerful, beautiful prose lingers like a bruise, haunting the mind, long after the last page is read.
The humour is self deprecating. eg. more blown out windows than Beirut, twinned with Mordor. Being a valley commando (as locals are known within Wales) is akin to being a member of the mafia, or the IRA. Once you're in you're never out. Fierce enemies and fierce friends, they will rob your last penny but will give you their last penny. They are honest and honest to your face, which some find rude.
It is hard to find novels set in the valleys. As always Wales flies under the radar. So I chose this novel to read in part to see how the author (a fellow valley boy) portrays the mothership. And he's got it bang on. Hard as nails with a heart of gold.
We follow Paul from Porth. A kind but tough kid from a broken home who finds his way into being a bouncer back in the 90s. He meets and falls in lovely with Charley. So far so good, but Charley one day just leaves, leaving Paul heartbroken. He eventually drifts to London and ends up working for some very serious gangsters. I'll leave the story there to avoid spoilers.
The story isn't a particularly complex one, but then not all stories have to be complex. The novel is very violent, as the subject matter dictates. The prose is sparing but accurate. Reminded me of Cormac McCarthy but from Wales with better punctuation.
Overall I though it was OK and nice to read about the valleys.
The valleys left a mark on you for sure and I’ve certainly inherited the sick sense of humour and extraordinary spirit about the place. Deprivation and hardship became a badge of belonging. You know what I mean? Everyone’s had to suffer something; otherwise you wouldn’t fit in.
The bouncers know the clubs are swimming with drugs, the punters know, the dealers know, the manager knows and of course the cops know. Nobody does anything though. There is just too much money to be made and it’s too much hassle to try to stop it. Everyone knows this except the poor, law-abiding parents of the unfortunate sods that get poisoned every weekend.
It’s getting late and Charley decides it’s time Cara was safely tucked up in bed. Michael wasn’t arguing and was keen to do the tucking, with a capital F.
The legacy of the Tory policy to divide and conquer, leaving the hapless and hopeless to scrounge around for the scraps thrown to them by those lucky enough to have been dealt a better hand in life’s sick poker game.
I decided enough time had elapsed to risk it. I’d go home. Back to the land of my father. The father who was god knows where.
Get Carter by Ted Lewis
He Died With His Eyes Open by Derek Raymond
"The Marlow Murder Club" by Robert Thorogood,
"How to Solve Your Own Murder" by Kristen Perrin,
They say a Welshman’s word is worth spit in the wind. And they are right, lad. An oath given to an enemy is made to be broken; we understand that. We use what weapons we have available to us, and when we fight, we fight on our terms, not theirs.
I do not mean to offend you, but the Welsh have been given little reason to love the English.” Joanna had never thought of herself as English; in fact, to one of Norman-French descent, that qualified as an insult. She did not quibble at Adda’s inaccuracy, however, realizing that to the Welsh, the distinction drawn between Norman and Saxon was irrelevant.
it would be a drawn-out, bloody, and brutal war. Wars with the Welsh always are. They disappear into inaccessible mountain retreats, phantom foes we cannot find. But they have no trouble finding us, my liege; they excel at ambush, at surprise attack and counterattack upon the morrow. There is no glory in wars against the Welsh, only blood-spattered rocks and shallow graves, and once you win, you find precious little for the plundering.
A scar signifies past pain, a wound that did not heal as it ought. But it testifies, too, to survival, breila