Agatha and Tom

You may or may not know that Agatha Christie was born in Torquay. The house is no longer there but a stone plinth marks the spot (not far from my sister's house) and Monkey (visiting from Japan) and I walked over to take a photo. I have never read her, so we proceeded to the library to seek out a story. The librarian was obviously a huge fan and I asked her for a recommendation. We left with a copy of 'At Bertram's Hotel' which we took it in turns to read.  I was most disappointed to get three quarters of the way through the book without anyone being murdered; the plot was somewhat more subtle than I expected and Miss Marple only played a minor role in the proceedings. I did however enjoy it very much; I liked the way she draws her characters, lots of little vignettes, exchanges between people that builds up a picture of the scene. The whole book, and much of her writing I imagine, is a beautiful period piece, as is Bertram's Hotel. Short and sweet and you could gobble it up in one sitting.

"The fog had come down over London suddenly that evening. chief-Inspector Davy pulled up his coat collar and turned into Pond Street. Walking slowly, like a man who was thinking of something else, he did not look particularly purposeful but anyone who knew him well would realise that his mind was wholly alert. He was prowling as a cat prowls before the moment comes for it to pounce on its prey." (p.142)

Tom Cox is also a Devon based author and I have been enjoying his eclectic story collection 'Help The Witch'. I very much appreciate his weird humour on Bluesky, posting photos of random sheep that he meets out walking, very tempting old doors and curious inter-dimensional portals. I will definitely seek out others. Here is a snippet from 'Nine Tiny Stories About Houses' about a young man visiting a house where his father had once recorded with his band:

"An old wise person whose memory was probably failing and who hadn't been there anyway once wrote in a book that my dad broke down one of the doors of this house with an axe when he was under the influence of alcohol and hard drugs, but who was to say if that was true? I slept well in the house. I did not know if my bedroom was the one whose door my dad might or might not have broken down with an axe. It could have been. There was a one in six chance. The flagstone floor featured a carpet of dust and there were unpacked boxes everywhere, but the beds were perfectly made and the sheets felt expensive. The morning was cold as we drove back up the chasm, listening to the record made in the house, which from then on would always sound like cold and dust and terrible eggs to me, in the best way possible." (p.91)

Popping books and puzzles back to the library, it's just at the bottom of the road. 

Here in my sister's house the carers come and go, the nurses come and go, the family come and go. My sister is still here, just.

Stay safe. Be kind.