I got off the train, hoisted up my backpack, and made my way toward the village green. At least, that's where the map indicated I would end up, if I continued along this road, and followed the high street past the estate agent's. As I approached the centre of town, I noticed a number of people dressed as if for a play set in the twenties, and wondered if there was some sort of historical re-enactment for tourists about to begin. Just the slice of English village life I was after.
My career as a best-selling purveyor of "edgy" murder mysteries certainly didn't need this - my fans were happy soaking up all the blood, guts and creepy sexual practices I could dish out. But I desperately wanted to write a cozy. My jealousy of that damned Nancy Atherton would not be assuaged until I'd out-cozied the coziest of them all; and so I visited the English countryside.
This little village looked like just the ticket: people were popping in and out of shops, carrying baskets to hold their purchases; they would stop in groups of two or three to chat with each other, often with gloved fingers raised to cover gasps of surprise, and heads swiveling about to survey the street. My curiosity about their antiquated fashions was joined by a growing sense of having stepped back in time. It went beyond the clothing and hairstyles. There was no indication anywhere that any new houses had been built here, or bus shelters, street lights, or public phones installed, after the mid-twenties.
As I passed a large, imposing house I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be a sumptuous garden in the Victorian style beyond the stone wall. I happened to glance toward a big bay window at the front of the house, and saw the curtain move suddenly. I shrugged, and headed toward the green. I had just stopped to glance down at the map, when a bicycle bell rang furiously, followed by an even more furious shout: "Clear out the way, you gormless twit!" I managed to spring out of the path of a speeding bike, ridden by a tall mannish woman in patched trousers and a ratty-looking fisherman's sweater. She took the time to wave her fist at me as well, yelling "Bloody tourists!" as she pedalled into the distance. By the time I had recovered, a small round woman was chugging toward me like a spherical steam engine, grasping her market basket and pressing her lips together in her determination to get to me before anyone else on the street.
"I see you've met our quaint Irene," she said in greeting. "Looking for our museum? You needn't bother; it burnt down."
"Oh... well, actually, I was hoping to spend a little time just looking around. I've heard that Tilling's village green has some interesting historical..."
"Indeed," she said in a disapproving voice. She obviously felt this was a not a good choice on my part. "Rather commonplace, in my opinion. There's an excellent tea room in the high street, much more appealing to the tourist. I'll take you." She actually gripped my arm and tried to steer me back down the street in the opposite direction. I stared at her in disbelief; then followed her glance toward the large house I had noticed earlier. The small woman looked even angrier at the sight of an imperious lady coming out the front door holding a market basket. She was wearing the most unusual bright yellow dress dotted all over with crimson poppies. I couldn't take my eyes off her as she glided toward me, smiling down at me with the most condescending expression I have ever seen.
"Ah, a dear visitor to our sweet village! Are the local characters bothering you, Miss? Or Mrs?" She waited for me to fill her in on my marital status. I pulled my arm loose from the first woman, and said "Hello," without satisfying her curiosity. Her smile began to resemble that of a hungry crocodile as I told both ladies that my first stop was going to be the village green.
"No, no, the tea room..." began the round one, but the large one held up her hand for silence.
"Absolutely not! Neither the vulgar village green nor the insipid tea shop. What you really want to see, of course, is a splendid example of the traditional English garden... my own little Eden, which I know is an object of great curiosity for you. I saw you looking," she explained, "when I happened to peep out the window to check the weather before going shopping..." This was met with a loud snort from the smaller woman.
"You finished your marketing hours ago, Mapp, don't deny it! I know because the fishmonger sold you that bit of plaice that I planned to buy for my tea."
"Really, Diva, you manage to bring every exchange down to the coarsest level..."
I made my escape while they were busy with each other, and felt overwhelmed by a sense of deja vu as I walked along. The names, the attitudes, that hideous yellow and red dress - in my gut I knew I had encountered them all before, but where, and when? Finally I got to the village green. It was utterly picturesque, and I could see signs of some festive activity taking place. There was a big marquee on the grass, under which tables were piled with interesting-looking dishes and bottles; there were folding chairs filled with people, and blankets on the grass as well. Out on the pond a raft floated, dressed up to look like a sailing ship. I moved dreamily toward the hub of the activity. At the centre of everything stood a willowy lady wearing an elaborate Elizabethan costume, her gleaming bronze cap of hair graced with a small crown and strings of seed pearls. She was leaning in to this person and that, grasping hands, giving modest looks all around. Everyone seemed to be congratulating her on a successful performance just completed.
As I approached, I saw her turn to a red-haired man wearing voluminous white pants and a jaunty blue and white sailor shirt. She delicately put the back of one hand to her forehead and said, "Georgino mio, do invite all the villagers to help themselves to refreshments under the marquee. Me so sleepy after tiresome play-acting, going to need ickle nap soon. There's a duck." He rushed off to do her bidding, and I saw her looking about with a gimlet eye; nothing sleepy about this lady at all, she seemed to be strategizing toward her next public appearance. Her eyes met mine, and held my gaze irresistibly, while her wide smile ushered me in under the wing of her influence and charm.
"Ah, the visitor I've heard about! Our little village is honoured to receive a celebrated cultural figure from overseas; of course we will put you to work, a private reading, and perhaps a creative writing workshop for a select few of my friends at home?" I could see her planning for future workshops presided over by herself, once she had whetted the villagers' appetite for literature, and set herself up as the individual most qualified to lead. Then she pretended to wilt under the burden of her many responsibilities. "And to follow, a treat for you, as my friends will likely insist I play the Moonlight Sonata. Goodness, the people of Tilling work their poor Lucia so vewy, vewy hard!"
Bitchy Book Reviews, April 1, 2017
The long-awaited new novel by Penelope Twine has finally been released. Grocery stores, drugstores and even bookstores have been devoid of a new Twine for nearly a whole financial quarter; mystery and crime fans have searched in vain for her characteristic cover art, featuring her name in embossed metallic pink slashed jaggedly across a lurid blood-spattered scene. If they are still searching for this distinctive beacon among the shelves, they are barking up the wrong tree.
On first sight of the new Twine, I thought there must have been some sort of horrible mistake. Yes, it was a thick paperback, but there was no embossing. No metallic glint. The title "Death Comes to Tilling" appears in heavy Helvetica across the top, Twine's name in a lighter and smaller (!) version of the same font across the bottom (!) and the cover art resembles something that might adorn a tasteful re-issue of The Great Gatsby. With a growing sense of foreboding I glanced at the dedication: To Nancy Atherton with Love and Daggers.
It should be clear to readers that this new book bears little resemblance to the exciting fiction that has kept Twine at the top of best-seller lists for the last decade. The plot seems to revolve around a small English village in which the gentry all exchange houses over the summer, strive to perfect the art of penny-pinching, and set up their easels in places that afford the best views of their neighbours' yards. People wear gloves and play bridge.
Into the gently malicious peace of the little village comes a rosy-cheeked American housewife with two darling little boys (twins!) and a rich sexy husband. She aggressively pursues friendship with everyone in the village, not just the gentry but the commoners as well. As if this doesn't stir up enough trouble, she then dedicates herself to achieving some sort of teary hug between the two bickering queen bees of Tilling.
Four-hundred and seventy-five pages later - Spoiler Alert! - Mrs. Rosy Parker and her squeaky clean little family are all found slaughtered in the Rectory, a scene gloriously described in classic Penelope Twine detail. A note pinned to Rosy's sweater provides a cryptic clue: "Acknowledge your sources, E.F.B."
Excuse me, but isn't this where a real Twine novel would begin? I'm sure I speak for all her fans in saying that we can only hope "Death Comes to Tilling" is a one-off experiment, an aberration, an ugly little mistake, and that we will soon see those familiar, glittering bricks of violence and depravity on our local booksellers' shelves once more.
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