The Whitehall Mandarin

Just as a lie is most effectively hidden in truth, so fiction can be at its most convincing when intertwined with fact. And in The Whitehall Mandarin, Edward Wilson adeptly weaves his fiction together with historically accurate detail to present a broad-sweeping canvas of espionage as thrilling as it is believable.

London in 1957 is mired in the Cold War. The British are watching the Soviets pretending to be Americans. This is a familiar world for Catesby, Cambridge-educated veteran of bluff and double-bluff, whose working class upbringing nevertheless tars him forever an outsider. When a Soviet spy ring in London stops sending intelligence to Moscow, Catesby is sent to investigate where those secrets are going and discovers that the charismatic Lady Somers, first female head of the Ministry of Defence, may not be all she seems.

The Whitehall Mandarin is set on an epic scale and demands your complete attention from the off, as it shifts from clandestine meetings in London back rooms to the all-enveloping Suffolk fog, from a hair-raising plane ride across America to assignments for Catesby in Moscow and Vietnam which may not include a return ticket. The air is thick with sexual misdemeanour and honey-trapped blackmail is rife, while other secrets are given up willingly enough through ideology or good old fashioned greed.

It soon becomes starkly apparent that not all communists are the same and, as the story swings into the 1960s, the repercussions of China's role in the undercover power struggle begin to crystallise. Cameo appearances by historical figures from Chairman Mao to President Kennedy are littered between spooks of all persuasions and particularly enjoyable are the many incarnations of Cauldwell, the ultimate shape-shifting spy.

It would be impossible to fully flesh out the whole mind-boggling cast list of characters, but while some are sketchy or elusive, Catesby is unfailingly well-rounded and engaging. A loner with few enduring relationships, he picks his way through this tangled web of near annihilation with uncanny intellectual shrewdness. All too often he finds himself an expendable pawn in a life-or-death chess game, reflecting

The wonderful thing about espionage wasn't what enemies did to each other, but the way allies stabbed each other in the back

The descriptions of Vietnam feel particularly authentic

a war waged largely by unformed young men slowly uncurling from adolescence

although this was the only section of the book where I felt in danger of being overwhelmed by historical and geographical detail.

Edward Wilson's writing is intelligent, action-packed and breath-taking in scope. He's a master of reinvention himself, having grown up in Baltimore and served in Vietnam before giving up US nationality to become a British citizen. The Whitehall Mandarin is his fourth novel in the Catesby spy series and, while his books are often compared to those of John le Carré, there's also a dash of Indiana Jones adventure thrown in for good measure.

By the unexpected and satisfying conclusion of The Whitehall Mandarin fact, fiction and conjecture have become impossible to separate and unsettling to contemplate. How did China develop into a nuclear power so quickly and why did Nixon really decide to visit? Many conclusions are drawn but others left open, hopefully for Catesby's next assignment. In the meantime I'm looking forward to discovering what I've missed so far, by reading some of his back-list.


The Whitehall Mandarin is published by Arcadia Books in the UK on 15th May 2014. Thanks to Arcadia Books for my review copy.

The shock of The Shock of the Fall

Everyone must have one.

A subject they don't like reading about. Something that hits too close to home. That threatens the tightly wrapped skin we all bandage ourselves in, to keep us from breaking apart.

A fatal crash. Cancer. The death of a parent. Or a child.

For me it's schizophrenia, the word that encapsulates a world of madness so terrible, it's hardly ever uttered. Except in association with mass murderers on the rampage, or when making crass jokes about Jekyll-and-Hyde-style split personalities.

When we were choosing our next book club read, I was the one who suggested Nathan Filer's The Shock of the Fall. It had just been selected as Costa Book of the Year and was at the top of my teetering To Be Read pile. I knew it was about mental illness. I thought I could cope.

Then I read the quotes on the opening page. And realised it was about schizophrenia. That's when I froze. My childhood was decimated by schizophrenia - my older brother's. It's the reason I can't bring myself to read about it in fiction.

Or hear The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd.

Or think about the amount of blood there is on a fist that's been plunged through a glass door.

Or the paperwork that comes with sectioning.

Or the side-effects of Electroconvulsive therapy.

Or be anything other than the child who's never any trouble, because this family has had far too much of it already.

What made me decide to go ahead and read The Shock of the Fall is that Nathan Filer is a registered mental health nurse. He's writing about this cruelest of illnesses from the inside - or the next best thing to it.

Matthew Homes begins by telling the story of his older brother Simon, how he died in an accident when he was a young boy, and how Matthew feels responsible. Gradually, we get to know the present day nineteen-year-old Matthew, piecing together his descent into mental illness. As for so many, his life becomes a cycle of hospitalisation, care in the community and attempts at independent living in a world where he still hears his brother's voice

He could speak through an itch, the certainty of a sneeze, the after-taste of tablets, or the way sugar fell from a spoon.

So often, schizophrenia sufferers are defined by their diagnosis and pigeon-holed as dangerously mad. One of Filer's many achievements is allowing us to see far beyond Matthew's symptoms, to feel profound sympathy for the sad and frightened boy that's underneath.

A schizophrenic's behaviour is frequently alienating and Matthew lashes out because of how the illness makes him feel. Not to mention the debilitating side-effects of his medication, dished up along with platitudes by those whose job it is to look after him. But he's also a talented and engaging story-teller who usually regrets his actions and tries to make amends. He's still able to make some human connections and has a fractured but enduring relationship with his parents and most of all his Grandma, Nanny Noo.

The Homes family have suffered the doubly-devastating blow of losing one beloved son, only to have the other afflicted with a terrible, incomprehensible disease. One of the many, many moving incidents in this story is when Matthew reads what his father has written on the bedroom wall, always anticipating it would be painted over before Matthew could see it

We'll beat this thing mon ami. We'll beat this thing together

Never give up. That was my Dad too. I was frightened of reading The Shock of the Fall because of the unhappy memories it would rekindle. After all, it's easy enough to cause an explosion but much more difficult to stick things back together again afterwards.

I can't even try to review this book objectively, other than to say it's a wonderful, astonishing achievement. The typography and drawings are thoughtful and lovely. Despite the many harrowing scenes, its pages hold laughter, tenderness and redemption within them too. Because there is still hope; my brother is much better now and living with minimal support. I'm so glad I found the courage to read The Shock of the Fall and, if you haven't already, I'd urge you to do so too.

The Shock of the Fall is published in the UK by The Borough Press.

Chop Chop by Simon Wroe

I'll admit to being a little wary when I spotted the pigs' trotters pulsating from the lurid cover of Simon Wroe's debut novel Chop Chop. I wasn't the only one - it was Penguin Bloggers' Night and some of the vegetarians round the book table were looking positively puce. Surely those trotters must be a harbinger of literary violence, a visual warning to the squeamish about the dangers contained within?

Then Simon read an extract and I realised Chop Chop is a darkly funny, insightful tale of life in a professional kitchen, a sort of Kitchen Confidential infused with humour and transplanted from New York City to Camden Town. True, it's fiction and the protagonist isn't a masochistic alpha male but an introverted young lad from 'a place where learner drivers come to reverse park'. But Chop Chop still dishes the dirt behind-the-scenes with some brutally eye-watering revelations.

The lowest of the low in the hierarchy of a north London restaurant, Monocle (his kitchen nickname) is commis chef at The Swan. He's a resting author so there's no way he wants the job, but he needs it to pay the rent on his grimy lodgings.

Monocle is escaping an unhappy home life, consisting of a feckless father, a careworn mother and an older brother-shaped chasm. Early on, it becomes obvious he's not alone, all the other chefs from psychotic Ramilov to Racist Dave are fleeing from something as well. The Swan's kitchen is a wonderful melting-pot of losers, including the particularly tall Dibden:

That small sad head of his looked further away than ever, pushed out of the top of his body like toothpaste from a tube.

What they've all escaped to is far from an ideal sanctuary. The kitchen is ruled by a despotic head chef whose favourite pastime is devising new tortures, from 'The Mark of Bob' on the back of the hand to lobsters at loose in the walk-in fridge. No sane person would want to work here, but these chefs share a common love of self-destruction and are already existing on the edge. They suffer to prove they're alive and their world is so insulated that, with one or two exceptions, the waiting staff and even the diners are unimportant. Only the grotesque 'Fat Man' stands apart, a being so powerful in Camden and with such legendary appetites, he is even feared by Bob.

As Monocle's story unfolds, it is in turns bleak, funny, vicious and ultimately poignant. Of a university relationship which failed before it ever really got off the ground, he says he was

not hurt by the presence of the firing squad, but by the sight of one soldier among them who had not bothered to shave

Simon Wroe has recreated an intensely macho world, a savagely enjoyable trawl through the underbelly of a professional kitchen. It's like asking for snow in the Sahara to wish it might have included at least one well-rounded female, neither love interest nor mother but a woman allowed to be as funny as the men. This aside, there's really no need to fear the trotters. Chop Chop is a debut novel to relish; fast-paced and absorbing, full of wit and larger-than-life characters, all wrapped up in a fresh and self-deprecating new voice.


Thanks to Penguin for my review copy. Images courtesy of Amazon.

Everland by Rebecca Hunt

In 1913, three Antarctic explorers set off from their ship, the Kismet, to investigate an unknown island. Their voyage is beset with difficulties from the first, and once on the strange and unforgiving Everland they need to muster every ounce of resilience they have to survive. In these hostile surroundings, new alliances are made and old tensions rise to the surface, threatening to tear them apart.

As the novel opens, the geologist of the group is rescued by a search party from the Kismet

Dinners cried for the miracle of being found. He cried for not being driven out of his collapsing body and made to die alone in the cold. And he cried for Napps and Millet-Bass; for the heartbreak and the pity of what had come before. 

Fast-forward to 2012 and an international community at the Antarctic base Aegeus are watching a classic movie about the expedition.The next day, a centenary fieldwork group of three will leave to survey the island's wildlife. Although arriving by Twin Otter rather than dinghy and equipped with the latest satellite communications, their experiences begin to mirror those of the original party. There are questions over selection and at first old hand Decker supports the inexperienced Brix with more grace than their field assistant, Jess. But allegiances shift again as, through storms and set-backs, the strong must support the weak, all the while trying to hold on to their own vitality.

In the movie version of their lives, each of the men in the first expedition has their character set in stone, based on the book written by the ship's Captain Lawrence

The common-room audience were offended by any affection or respect given to that bastard Napps. They knew what to expect and hated him 

Napps, the villain of the piece, is allowed a solitary line of self-reflection

How time tricks us into seeing who we really are...and what choices we make

This moment of soul-searching becomes eerily relevant to the 2012 party, as the harshest of environments takes its toll once more. Disturbing glimpses of the original expedition are uncovered, but it is the island which seems to be the most haunting enigma of all.

When a book has two distinct threads it's easy to prefer one above the other, leading to resentment of precious reading time expended on the second, less interesting strand. One of Everland's strengths is how deftly the overlapping stories of the two expeditions are woven together, with each being equally compelling. The lichen seen by the original expedition will have grown only a millimetre when it's discovered by the centenary party. While the first endures endless night, the second group labours under the harsh ultra-violet of a sun that never sets. There are multiple points of view and reversals of fortune, but the characters remain clearly identifiable.

As we gradually uncover what has happened to Dinners, Millet-Bass and Napps, we begin to appreciate the inaccuracies of the story passed down the generations. Napps has been mercilessly revised by Captain Lawrence into a callous cat-murdering swine, prepared to be equally ruthless with fellow crew-members. Those who could have saved his reputation have their own reasons not to do so, a theme which again finds its echo in the centenary expedition.

Rebecca Hunt's debut novel Mr Chartwell, concerned the black dog of Winston Churchill's depression and was well received for its originality and visual flair.

With Everland, she has again created a distinct and challenging world, one where the human condition is subject to the harshest of scrutinies. Time becomes elastic as the island's inhabitants across two centuries are tested beyond endurance.  Perceptions are manipulated and truth disregarded and if not everything is neatly resolved, it feels fitting that Everland should retain some of its mystery. This is another absorbing and strikingly original novel from Hunt, which succeeds in questioning and entertaining in equal measure.

Thanks to Fig Tree, an imprint of Penguin Books, for my review copy.

Destined to be an Old Woman with No Regrets

It's high time I had another guest blog and my friend Liz has kindly obliged. Liz recently sent me a birthday card with the message

So, this is for all 'women of a certain age' and includes Liz's comments on Alan Chedzoy’s biography A Scandalous Woman: The Story of Caroline Norton.

Destined to be an Old Woman with No Regrets...

Most women I know are smart, intelligent, sassy, fun to be with, loyal, generous, self-deprecating and full of hidden depth. But viewed ‘en masse’, as ‘women of a certain age’, they are too often dismissed, seen as being of no consequence. As Mary Portas pointed out, even clothes manufacturers ignore this cohort, thinking that beige cardigans and shapeless frumpy sacks are enough to satisfy this invisible group.

But peel away the layers, get to know each of these women individually and I challenge anyone, male or female, young or old, not to be impressed by what you find.

On holiday last year I suddenly found myself amongst a group of middle-aged, single women and I confess I felt really out of place at first, being at least ten years younger than most of them. Following a guide who held the obligatory flag aloft, through the streets of a quaint Spanish town, I could see the look of horror on the faces of the motorists who were forced to sit and wait as the group trundled over the pedestrian crossing.  In every conceivable shape and size. At a variety of speeds. What a sight! And horror of horrors, I was part of that group! I was surrounded by sensible walking sandals, emergency brollies (despite blue skies as far as the eye could see), flowery sunhats and the smell of rigorously applied suntan lotion. I kept imagining the looks of amusement that would be on the faces of my 21 year old son or my work colleagues, all far more accustomed to seeing me lead the way, resplendent in suit and high heels, brandishing a smart brief case, with iphone held self-importantly to my ear. 

Yet every one of those women had a story to tell. Of loss, grief, cruel twists of fate, betrayal, loneliness, illness, missed chances, regrets. Of happiness, success in the face of adversity, personal triumphs, examples of love for family and friends. Whatever their stories, each had grown stronger as a result of their experiences, ‘pulled up their socks’ and were now enjoying life to the full. Truly, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Most appeared to have two or three holidays a year and partook in such a huge variety of activities between them, that they left me feeling quite breathless. Although still worrying about their grown up children and grandchildren, they were not prepared to ‘conform’ to their beige stereotype and sit indoors, accepting the passing of time. No, every second was being well and truly made to count.

The author Philippa Gregory amongst others has shown us that there have always been strong women in our history, but their voices weren't recorded. In reality, their stories are often the most interesting and influence our lives in ways we are unaware of. I would urge you to read Alan Chedzoy's biography of Caroline Norton who I confess I had never heard of until listening to an article about her on the BBC World Service. 

Caroline, the granddaughter of Richard Sheridan, was well-educated and well-connected and became a successful novelist, reviewer and poet in her own right. She was a formidable woman who didn't fit the stereotypical ideal of beauty in 19th century England, but her strong personality, sharp intellect and flirtatious manner made her alluring to the powerful men of Victorian society. In 1827, aged nineteen, she married George Norton, six years her senior. However, her close relationship with Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, led to her husband accusing her of committing adultery and to a court case which threatened the government of the day. Although the jury found her not guilty, the scandal never left her. George, a Tory MP and magistrate, was a violent man who beat her and exploited his position within the laws as they stood at that time, laws which did not recognise a married woman as a legal entity in her own right. 

He was thus able to legitimately deprive Caroline of access to her children and take her earnings from her writing. Driven by the need to see her children, Caroline brought about changes to the British justice system. She used her connections in Parliament and wrote well argued and researched pamphlets and papers, until she succeeded in influencing public opinion to the extent that her campaigning led to the first piece of feminist legislation – the Infant Custody Act of 1839, prior to which time a woman had no right to see her own children if her husband took them from her. Her subsequent campaigning led to the first Divorce Act of 1857 and the Married Women’s Property Act of 1870, which made women a separate legal entity for the first time. Her story is heartbreaking and will make you cry, but her courage to fight on despite all that she had to endure, is inspirational. We should have been taught about her in school alongside Disraeli and Gladstone of the same period. Surely her contribution to our history is of no less importance.

When younger, I used to feel sorry for people who were on their own, sitting in a cafe with a cup of coffee and a book, terrified that would happen to me. Now I realise that to reach the stage where you not only feel confident enough to go out on your own, but actually want to do so and feel contented in that moment, is a wonderful place to be.

I've now met so many of my contemporaries who are happy with their place in society and what they bring to it. I just wish that the rest of society would place the same value on them as individuals. Let us all stop seeing a mass of middle-aged women, and instead see the individuals and value them. Not everyone can be a Caroline Norton, but in their own way, big or small, each will have made (and will continue to do so) a huge contribution to those around them and to society as a whole.

And I, as one of this age group, intend to keep on pushing the boundaries, working through my ‘Bucket List’ and am absolutely determined to be an old woman with no regrets – no matter what my son thinks of me!

Guest blog by Elizabeth Green.
Image of old ladies dancing courtesy of NYTimes and Mary Portas courtesy of the Telegraph.
Alan Chedzoy's A Scandalous Woman: The Story of Caroline Norton is published by Allison & Busby, London.

Stoner by John Williams

Stoner is a slow-burning novel in more ways than one. Last year saw the rediscovery of this book about the life of a university lecturer, written some 50 years earlier. And the story creeps up on you until, without quite knowing how, you're enveloped by its quiet, reflective prose.

William Stoner is born towards the end of the nineteenth century into a Missouri farming family, the only child of parents already worn out by the daily struggle for survival. His lot is drudgery and acceptance, toiling on the land, until his father suggests he studies Agriculture at the University of Columbia.

Dutifully, he takes the science courses until, required to complete a survey of English literature, he finds himself troubled by it. Asked by his instructor, Archer Sloane, to explain the meaning of Shakespeare's seventy-third sonnet, he's at a loss for words, prompting the question:

Mr Shakespeare speaks to you across three hundred years Mr Stoner; do you hear him?

Unable to articulate an answer, something yet has shifted in Stoner and he changes courses to literature. Despite his parents' expectations and the outbreak of the First World War, he completes his studies and stays on at the University to teach.

There's always a fear with a much-lauded novel such as this, Waterstones' Book of the Year in 2013, that it won't live up to its hype. And at first it seems this fear might be justified, as Williams sets about telling the reader that Stoner's life is unremarkable. His childhood is one of few words but, along with his discovery of the transformative power of literature, the book itself is transformed.

Throughout life's problems, his battlefield of a marriage and limited professional success, Stoner's teaching role is integral to his identity and a refuge from failure. He goes about it with great ferocity, yet deprived of affection, still feels a numbness.  Then, life changes again as a result of his relationship with one of his students, Katherine:

In his extreme youth Stoner had thought of love as an absolute state of being to which, if one were lucky, one might find access; in his maturity he had decided it was the heaven of a false religion, toward which one ought to gaze with an amused disbelief, a gently familiar contempt, and an embarrassed nostalgia. Now in his middle age he began to know that it was neither a state of grace nor an illusion; he saw it as a human act of becoming, a condition that was invented and modified moment by moment and day by day, by the will and the intelligence and the heart.

Williams's characters, from Stoner's stoical parents to his University friends and detractors, are astutely drawn. The decline of his mentor Archer Stone, as he sees his values being subverted and diminished by war, is particularly moving. Stoner's wife Edith is a privileged, sheltered girl, unable or unwilling to deal with the realities of life as a college professor's wife. Their daughter Grace, like Stoner before her, finds refuge in a numbness of feeling, as a way of coping with her entrapment between two mismatched parents.

It is the portrayal of Stoner himself, and the final passages as he slips towards the end of his life, which are the most poignant and yet life-affirming. Stoner's existence could easily be categorised as a series of failures yet, in a rare interview, Williams argues he had a good life:

He was doing what he wanted to do, he had some feeling for what he was doing, he had some sense of the importance of the job he was doing. He was a witness to values that are important...

Is that enough?  In the end, it seems it was for Stoner. The wonder of this novel is how, despite its sadness, it leads you to reflect on whether you'll be able to say the same.

Stoner is published in paperback by Vintage.

The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult

Do you ever feel a published book is still one draft short of a final version? It doesn't help that I've recently finished reading both Penelope Fitzgerald and Oscar Coop-Phane's elegant prose, but that's what struck me on picking up The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult.

Sage Singer is a baker in small-town Westerbrook, New Hampshire. She's a bit of a misfit with her own share of troubles but, written in the first person, she comes across as engaging and sympathetic.

At her regular 'grief group' meeting, Sage befriends Josef Weber, pillar of the local community. She finds herself opening up to the elderly Josef in a way she hasn't been able to for a long while, but then he makes a confession she isn't ready to hear. A confession coupled with a request, undermining her preconceptions of the truth and leading to discoveries about the Holocaust which are far too close to home.

Sage's story is absorbing and raises interesting questions about the blurred distinction between good and evil and the need to come to terms with your past. But then the narrative spins off into different strands - the points of view of Josef, Leo the Nazi-hunter and Sage's grandmother Minka. There's also the repeated allegorical fable of the upior (a type of Polish vampire) that threads its way through the book. We know it's an allegory, because it's mentioned regularly.

Minka's story is all you would expect from a Holocaust survivor, and more. It's a harrowing series of episodes, but despite its horrors, this long section isn't so engaging and you might find yourself flicking guiltily through the pages, checking how soon you'll be back with Sage in the present day.

Picoult is a fantastically successful and prolific author, completing each of her books in nine months. I've enjoyed her page-turning novels in the past and there's no lack of ideas in The Storyteller. but it feels messy with, for me, one twist too many at the end. Although it's another huge best-seller, it may just be that a more succinct and satisfying novel lies within.


Picture of Jodi Picoult courtesy of www.jodipicoult.com