Transcription by Kate Atkinson

No one tells a story quite like Kate Atkinson, but truthfully, what I love most about her books is her incredible way of constructing a sentence, her wry, almost aloof, yet clearly affectionate way of engaging with her characters. I genuinely feel I would read her adaptation of the phone book.

Transcription follows eighteen year old Juliet Armstrong, who in 1940 is recruited to MI5 to monitor British Fascist sympathisers. From transcribing reports by unwitting and oddly mundane fascists, convinced that they’re sending secrets to Hitler, to being sent out to parties of Nazis, the job is both relentlessly dull, yet often thrilling. Until disaster strikes, and Juliet finds herself concealing something terrible.

Ten years later, Juliet is working at the BBC as a producer, still periodically drawn in for an odd MI5 job, but mainly occupied with the BBC’s schools program. But the past is rapidly catching up with Juliet. Decisions she took, as well as accidents not of her making seem to be putting her at risk. Who from the war is finally seeking retribution?

It was a joy to leap back into Kate Atkinson’s writing. I’ve always loved her wry humour, and her quirky, endearing and flawed characters. Juliet starts the book as a naive eighteen year old, albeit with a mildly sceptical attitude, nursing an almighty crush on her boss and dedicated to doing what’s right. Ten years later, we find a slightly more hardened and cynical Juliet. “There was a better life somewhere, Juliet supposed, if only she could be bothered to find it.” The British misdeeds of the war are not glossed over, from the Italian staff at Juliet’s favourite café Moretti’s, interned during the war, eventually dying at sea, to the rampant antisemitism of the Oswald Mosley set. Unlike Cressida Connolly’s nonetheless hugely enjoyable After The Party, Atkinson doesn’t accept any suggestion that British fascists didn’t know what they were signing up for.

Thought-provoking and beautifully written, Transcription still very much has the pace of a thriller. It’s an exhilarating, sometimes playful chase through London, which also explores at the meaning of truth, loyalty and the very point of war.

A hugely enjoyable and clever spy thriller, that isn’t really a spy thriller. Or is it?

Transcription by Kate Atkinson is out now, published by Transworld.

Circe by Madeline Miller

At last! Circe is the long-awaited follow-up to Madeline Miller’s 2011 masterpiece The Song of Achilles, which told The Iliad from the point of view of the awkward prince Patroclus, the lover of Achilles, best of the Greeks. In Circe, Miller moves on to The Odyssey, to tell the story of the witch who turned Odysseus’s men to pigs, before falling in love with him.

Circe is born to Helios, the sun god, and the naiad Perse. The least favourite of the couple’s children, she can’t aspire to a good marriage, and falls in love with a mortal. After her love is spurned (with memorable, and unfortunate consequences), and she is revealed as a pharmakis, Circe is banished to an island by herself, unable to leave. Thus begins her exile. One regular visitor is Hermes, who becomes a lover. Her niece Medea also visits, with her lover Jason, seeking help. On one occasion, her sister Pasiphae calls her to assist in childbirth – where the offspring is the result of an unfortunate coupling between her and a beautiful white bull. And then later, when she is back on her island, sailors begin to land, including Odysseus’s men. Feeling threatened (with good cause), Circe turns a large number of them into pigs… and the rest is history. Or Greek mythology, if you will.

Circe is a stunning reimagining of some of the favourite Greek myths – taking in the story of Daedalus and Icarus, the Minotaur, Scylla the sea monster, the endless punishment of Prometheus, amongst others. And at the centre of it is the story of a woman Circe – immortal, yes, but who feels love, anger, loneliness, fear, jealousy, and who struggles with single motherhood. She grows to look down on the Gods, almost as wilful children who make their mark by killing mortals who slight them somehow, or starting wars for fun. It’s a fast-paced story – after all, if you have an eternity to live, mortal lifetimes pass in the blink of an eye.

A timely rewriting of all your favourite Greek myths with a feminist angle, and the Odyssey with more than a hint of #MeToo, Circe is also a thrilling and captivating page turner. Well worth waiting for.

Circe by Madeline Miller is out now, published by Bloomsbury.

The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock by Imogen Hermes Gowar

Where to begin when discussing The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock? A beautifully packaged, buzzy debut which you’re almost afraid to begin for fear it won’t live up to expectation. However, this is one of the most spellbinding and magical historical novels I’ve ever read, reminiscent of the gritty authenticity of The Crimson Petal and the White, which deserves all the acclaim it’s had to date.

Set at the end of the 18th century, The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock opens with Jonah Hancock, a widowed merchant who lives a lonely life, cared for by only his young niece, dreaming of the family he could have had. One fateful evening, that will change his life, his most trusted agent returns with the news that he has sold his best ship, in exchange for what appears to be a dead mermaid. Initially horrified, Mr Hancock is persuaded to exhibit it, in the hope that he might recoup some of his money. Word quickly spreads, and in no time at all Mrs Chappell, one of the most renowned bawds in London determines to rent the mermaid as a diversion for her ‘nunnery.’ She charges Angelica Neal, one of her former protégées, and one of London’s most beautiful courtesans, to keep Mr Hancock sweet – and thus their lives will be intertwined, in the most unlikely way, weathering decisions both good and bad.

The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock is clearly impressively researched, but wears it lightly, striking a brilliant balance between comedy and social commentary. There are great lines, humorously reminding the reader of the wonders yet to be discovered by 18th century England, such as the coffee shop owner pointing out how ridiculous it is to believe in the ‘kongourou’, but not in mermaids, and the scientist who remains sceptical, but who doesn’t wish to repeat the embarrassment of his previous – disproven – assertion that lions are born as puffballs. Yet much is also made of the extent to which women’s fortunes rely on their mensfolk, be it Angelica, searching for a sponsor to keep her, to Jonah’s niece Sukie, who will rely on him for a dowry. And even Mrs Chappell relies on a network of powerful men to keep her safe. It’s also a fascinating exploration of sex and virtue in the 1700s – the mermaid orgy scene I think will stay with all of us for some time!

A compelling, memorable story of love, obsession and commodity, The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock is nothing short of a masterpiece in my opinion, and signals an exciting new talent.

The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock by Imogen Hermes Gowar is out now from Vintage Books.

Dark Pines by Will Dean

There’s really something to be said for reviewing books when you actually read them, rather than some months later. Nonetheless, let’s give it a go. I had heard much about this exciting Sweden-based debut from the oh-so charming Will Dean. Liz (of the ‘Loves Books’) fame had been talking it up for quite some time, and the premise (one word – Swedish) sounded intriguing. So one cold January evening, I curled up and took a look.

Dark Pines’ protagonist is Tuva Moodyson, a young deaf reporter working in the remote town of Gavrik. She is used to covering local stories, ‘your daughter scoring in a hockey match or your neighbour growing the town’s longest carrot’, but when a body is found in the forest, eyes missing, in a manner similar to another case known as the Medusa case twenty years ago, Tuva senses that this could be the story that makes her name. But between visits to her sick mother, navigating the resentful locals who don’t want negative stories damaging their town, and even keeping on top of laundry, nothing about this story will be simple.

The suspects are all weirder than the next, and include a keen hunter, two terrifying sisters who carve unnerving wooden trolls, and a militant anti-hunting vegetarian possibly taking revenge on the many hunters in the area. Tuva already has a fear of the forest, let alone with one of them on her tail… Nothing about the trail makes sense, and as more bodies pile up, Tuva is running out of time.

Dark Pines is a thrilling and clever mystery, but what made it outstanding to me is the unique and interesting lead character of Tuva, and the completely exquisite, evocative and atmospheric writing. You can almost smell the damp pine needles, and feel the boggy thickness of the air as you read. A very exciting debut, and I look forward to reading whatever Will Dean produces from the forest in which he lives (obvs).

Dark Pines by Will Dean is out now, published by Point Blank.

The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell

It’s been far too long since I last blogged – too many time constraints, poor time management, etc – which is a shame, for, dear reader, I have read some simply marvellous books, both in the last months of 2017, and in 2018. And instead of blogging about them, I have simply tweeted about them, and spoken about them, and…rated them on GoodReads. Which never feels like quite enough.


But I’ve got carried away. Today, I’m writing about The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell, that spooky book you saw all over Twitter last year. There was a suggestion that the book was very scary and that those of a weak disposition should stay away. I, knowing myself to be of a weak disposition (not sleeping after reading The Shining, fainting whilst reading The Shining Girls, The Life and Loves of a She-Devil and The Witchfinder’s Sister, amongst other books) avoided it. But then, I popped into my local library, and spotted it there, temptingly positioned under ‘P’. I couldn’t resist…

The Silent Companions opens with Elsie Bainbridge, locked away in an asylum, accused of murder, but unable, or unwilling to speak and defend herself. And already, we know that her story will not end well. The narrative then jumps back to a year or so previously, with Elsie, newly widowed, newly pregnant, moving into her late husband’s crumbling estate, with only his boring cousin Sarah for company. Elsie explores the house, discovering a locked garret, which contains a hidden 200-year old diary and a strangely life-like and life-size wooden figure, known as a silent companion. Sarah starts reading the diary, excited to learn about her ancestors, and learns about a 17th century noble family with their eye on the king’s favour, with only their youngest daughter, a mute, standing in their way. And then odd things start happening around the large rambling house. The companion appears around the house, and apparently multiplies. And the companions’ eyes seem to move, following them around. The resentful servants playing tricks on them? Elsie’s mind, addled with grief? Or something more sinister? 

Events build to a terrifying crescendo, with all the terror of Stephen King’s hedge animals, and all the atmosphere of Sarah Perry’s The Essex Serpent. It’s a breathless, agonising read, that you can’t bear to keep reading, but also can’t put down. Highly recommended, but don’t do what I did, and decide to tackle the last hundred pages at about 11.30 at night…

The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell is out now, published by Bloomsbury. 

The Burning Girl by Claire Messud

I find books exploring friendships between teenage girls fascinating to read. They shine a certain clarity on the trials and tribulations of my own teenage years, as well as bringing back memories both joyous and otherwise. Even if my own teenage friendships were less fraught than that of Julia and Cassie, the ‘Burning Girl’ of the title. 


Julia and Cassie have been friends since nursery school, sharing everything, including a love of Lady Gaga, and a volunteering job at a kennel. But there is a gulf between the two of them that will be more keenly felt over the years – whilst Julia was raised in a happy middle-class family, Cassie is from a single parent family, after the death of her father, and increasingly clashes with her mother. Over the years, in secondary school, the pair start to drift apart. But Cassie, increasingly affected by her mother’s new relationship, also begins to wonder how much of what her mother has told her is the truth. Julia can only hope for her old friend as she sets off in search of her ‘guardian angel’ she’s certain is still out there. 

Claire Messud brilliantly captures young friendships: the long-term plans, the bad behaviour you drag each other into, the secrets shared, but also the small hurts a friend can inflict, to the pain of drifting away from your closest friend, and the shock that you don’t know everything about them. She’s also very sharp on growing up as a young woman, and becoming increasingly aware of the dangers of being female – I vividly remember a teacher recommending we get rape alarms, and swapping tips on how to walk home safely (‘hairspray doubles as pepper spray!’ ‘If you hold your keys between your knuckles…’). 

The Burning Girl took me right back to the growing pains of my schooldays – but don’t let that put you off! I’d heartily recommend this book to anyone – heartbreakingly sad, though often funny, and breathtakingly real. 

The Burning Girls by Claire Messud is out now, published by Fleet. 

All The Wicked Girls by Chris Whitaker 

Chris Whitaker is one of those authors I’ve been wanting to read for at least a year now, partially to get Liz Barnsley (book influencer extraordinaire of Liz Loves Books fame) off my back, but partially because it sounds like he’s quite good. So when my colleague received a copy the other week, it seemed appropriate, nay, essential, to steal it.  


Summer Ryan is the shining light of Grace, Alabama. Unlike her troubled twin sister Raine (clever weather-related wordplay there), she’s a devout churchgoer, and a musical prodigy whose cello performances have moved the town to tears. But now she’s gone missing. Could she have run away? Or is she one of the so-called Briar Girls, teenaged-girls living in Briar County who have been abducted by the mysterious being known as the Bird?  

Unconvinced that the alcoholic police chief Black will succeed in bringing Summer home, or even that he believes she’s really in trouble, Raine enlists the deep-hearted teenage wannabe police officer Noah and his loyal friend Purv to help her investigate. Meanwhile, an angry black cloud hovers over the town, promising a storm, and exacerbating the already-heightened tensions. The whole town is teeming with secrets, and with everyone on high alert, they’re likely to rise to the surface. And between chapters, Summer tells us her own version of events that led to her disappearance. 

All The Wicked Girls is a gripping thriller, but also a deeply emotional story with a big heart and characters you’ll cry over. It’s a portrayal of a town left behind in an America which has apparently never been so prosperous, set in the late 80s’ but equally relevant to today. Although the town is meant to pull together as a community, an undercurrent of violence simmers constantly. And yet, we also have astonishing scenes of kindness and love, such Noah waiting in Purv’s back garden to await a sign that his friend has survived a beating from his father. It’s a thriller that explores the worst excesses of organised religion, but also the positives aspects of faith. I definitely sensed a Twin Peaks influence (but the bits from the first series I could get on board with rather than more recent episodes… “What’s going on? Are they miners?! WHAT’S GOING ON?!”) in the idea that not everything can be explained away, and sometimes things just happen. 

I’ll be stealing (more theft… Maybe Chris is a bad influence on me?) the copy of Tall Oaks I gave my father for Christmas, and look forward to reading whatever Chris Whitaker has to offer. Highly highly recommended! 

All The Wicked Girls by Chris Whitaker is out now, published by Zaffre. 

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

A few years ago on holiday, I read Celeste Ng’s extraordinary literary thriller Everything I Never Told You, a powerful story centred around a Chinese-American family living in Ohio, whose teenage daughter goes missing. Beautifully, and subtly written, it was less of a whodunnit than the painfully affecting story of a family, and their unspoken secrets. Needless to say,  I was delighted to stumble across a proof copy of Little Fires Everywhere.


Little Fires Everywhere opens with the revelation that Isabelle, the youngest and most unstable of the Richardson family, has ‘finally gone around the bend’, and burned down the house. As the family watches the house burn, the story flicks back to the previous year, to the arrival of Mia Warren and her teenage daughter Pearl, who rented a flat from Elena Richardson.

Mia is an artist, who flits around the country, staying just long enough to complete her latest photographic project, before leaving it all behind and settling elsewhere. But this is the last time, she has assured her daughter Pearl, who is desperate for stability. And when they arrive in Shaker Heights, Pearl is captivated by the Richardson family, and they equally by her and Mia. From Moody, the younger boy who falls in love with her, to the oldest daughter Lexie, whose simplistic and judgemental attitude could represent that of Shaker Heights, to Isabelle, the youngest, who finds long-sought after acceptance in Mia. But Elena, whose ‘guiding principal is following the rules,’ and who only rents ‘to people who she felt were deserving but who had, for one reason or another, not quite gotten a fair shot in life,’ feels a direct threat from Mia’s ambivalence to their neatly organised, and selectively philanthropic lives. Nonetheless, they muddle pleasantly along until a custody battle breaks out in the town over the adoption of a Chinese-American baby by a white couple. Mia and Elena find themselves on opposite sides of the battle lines, and in retaliation, Elena sets out to solve the mystery of her tenant’s past – a decision which will have shocking and unforseeable consequences.

Shaker Heights, where the author grew up, is brilliantly drawn – far more nuanced than your average literary symbol of conformity. It’s a bastion of liberal progression, where rules are laid out for everything, from the colours you are entitled to paint your house, to the right way to take out your rubbish. A complacently self-satisfied community, it’s almost Stepford-like, if Stepford had a really good state school system and was quite pleased with its ‘post-racial’ status. It’s a society that Pearl, with few other reference points, is happy to be a part of, whilst Mia is much more suspicious of it. An undercurrent of danger runs throughout – we’re never allowed to forget that the story will end in flames but it’s also hard to actively dislike even the most destructive of characters – and I don’t mean Izzy here – as they’re all so well-meaning.

Little Fires Everywhere is a nuanced, thought-provoking, and breathlessly readable story, exploring what makes a mother, and whether making mistakes is a privilege. However, it’s also, often, wildly funny, with genuine laugh out loud moments, which lifts this already clever, thoughtful novel into a wonderfully enjoyable read. Wholeheartedly recommended.

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ing is published by Little, Brown on 14th September.

All Grown Up by Jami Attenberg

Funny story about All Grown Up by Jami Attenberg. I first came across it on Twitter, when a blogger had tweeted out the jacket with their review, and I was particularly taken with the jacket quote on the front, from Hadley Freeman. It simply stated ‘I’ve read about being a single woman.’ It truly delighted me, even when I (eventually) realised that Twitter had cut off the top of the jacket and the quote actually read ‘One of the smartest and truest novels I’ve read about being a single woman.’ Oh well. Certainly a way to get a girl’s attention.


There’s an excellent chapter in All Grown Up, very early on, in which the narrator Andrea talks about ‘a book’, that everyone she knows is determined that she read. ‘It is’, she notes wryly, ‘a book about being single, written by an extremely attractive woman who is now married… I have no interest in reading this book. I am already single. I have been single a long time. There is nothing this book can teach me about being single that I don’t already know.’ It’s a very dry and brilliantly funny chapter – but also I think, a deliberately well-placed one, as I was this close to recommending All Grown Up to a family friend in her 40s who is single, and now, I think I’ll hold off, or at least try and think of a more subtle way of pushing it in front of her. I suspect – hope! – I am not alone in this.

But either way, this chapter in some ways sets us up brilliantly for All Grown Up – a clever, funny, compelling book about being single and childless on the verge of forty, whilst all your friends are settling down. But even as she’s advised from all sides to ‘find someone and settle down,’ not only do very few suitable partners present themselves, but not many of her happily married friends appear to be finding life particularly straightforward either.

All Grown Up is written in the form of vignettes, covering Andrea’s borderline stalking of an actress who lives in her block of flats; the parenting strife faced by her brother and his lovely wife; Andrea’s struggle to get rid of a chaise-longue that her father may have died in. All are told simply and compellingly – and incredibly relatably. I’ve read a few reviews which describe Andrea as ‘selfish’, but I didn’t feel that was quite right – she just felt human to me. Her mind wanders when her friends pour out their hearts to her, she sulks when her mother moves away to be closer to her brother, she is outraged when her friend, the implausibly-named Indigo, thrusts her equally implausibly-named baby Ephraim (‘we looked into his eyes when he was born and he seemed one thousand years old already’) into her arms. But I’ve met more self-absorbed people…

Do yourself a favour, and put this short, clever, relatable but equally heartfelt and honest book about life, choice and women on your summer reading list. And if your bag’s already full, buy a new one. Huge thanks to the marvellous Drew Jerrison for this one.

All Grown Up by Jami Attenberg is out now, published by Serpent’s Tail.

The Things We Thought We Knew by Mahsuda Snaith

I love picking up debuts, and The Things We Thought We Knew had already been sitting on my bookshelf for too long. I loved the premise, had spotted Mahsuda Snaith in The Observer’s ‘Faces of Fiction’ earlier this year, and Emily Glenister (of Goldsboro Books/David Headley fame) had assured me that it was ‘brilliant.’ So on the train home from Hay Festival, I dived in. 


Ravine is bedbound by chronic pain syndrome, a condition I cannot begin to get my head around. She lies in bed, ignoring her mother’s spectacular efforts to get her out of the house, until she is presented with a jauntily-named ‘Pain Diary’. Instead of recording pain (for some reason), Ravine remembers Marianne, her best friend when she was eight, and who vanished ten years ago. And as Ravine writes down what she can remember, her endless pain begins to fade. 

This is a beautifully written, convincing and heartbreaking novel, about childhood friendships and about buried childhood memories, with a painful reveal guaranteed to bring tears. However, it’s also, often, hysterically funny. Ravine’s dry observations about her life and her mother are laugh-out-loud material: the book opens with Amma inviting the entire neighbourhood round for a birthday party, despite Ravine’s express desire for ‘no balloons, no cake, no party. But somehow Amma’s brain has churned my words into all the balloons she can blow up, the biggest cake she can bake and as many party items as she can fill the room with.’ 

The Things We Thought We Knew is a book filled with gloriously memorable characters, from the loveable and tragic Uncle Walter, to the grieving ‘Mr Eccentric’ but Amma is a standout. She’s a strong contender for ‘best literary mother’: pairing trainers with saris (in the name of common sense), naming her daughter after a headline she saw on the day she was born (‘Young man drowns in ravine’) and making sarky quips about Gordon Brown (the book takes place during the 2010 election). But she’s also caring and savvy, and determined to help her bedbound daughter live a normal life. Ravine ironically, is equally determined to stay put, even after her pain fades, infantilising herself, as her mother encourages her to grow up. 

Even if Ravine’s recovery from chronic pain syndrome feels a little sudden, that doesn’t take away from a compelling read, with a clever and original concept, and packed with terrific, well-drawn characters. A fresh and exciting first novel, and I look forward to reading more from the author. 

The Things We Thought We Knew by Mahsuda Snaith is out now.