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Mr Golightly’s Holiday by
Sally Vickers Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Respite Sally Vickers’ new novel, Mr Golightly’s Holiday,
presents an opportunity for doubling your reading pleasure. Read the book
twice. Read first, remaining inquisitive about Mr Golightly’s identity. Then reread, with the knowledge you’ve
gained after you realize his identity. Both experiences will be pleasurable,
especially if you read while on your own vacation. Vickers’ knowledge of
literature allows her to pepper the book with long passages that relate or
present the fine writing of classical writers. Were
I better read, I would have caught more of the references. While confident
that I missed many of them, that recognition subtracting nothing from the
pleasure of reading this book. Here’s an excerpt, all of Chapter 3, pp. 17-23: Spring
Cottage was named for the natural water supply which seeped up through the It was early, not yet six; the stars
had vet to disappear and the near-full moon hung still, like a yellow paper
lantern, in the west. Over the hills, black clouds made portentous shapes
suggesting Eastern tales: dragons. strange-beaked
birds, perilous cliffs. Behind the clouds, a veined-marble sky was streaked
dim green and pearl. An experienced watcher of weather could have predicted
that the day would he a bright one, for beyond, in the east, a thin patina of
gold hinted at imminent light. Mr Golightly
snuffed the air like a hunter, It smelled to him of animal life and sappy
growth, of burgeoning country things which gave a lift to his heart. All
hearts need a lift from time to time and Mr Golightly’s was no exception. He had come to Great Calne to take a holiday. It had been many years since his
duties had allowed such an indulgence, but for some time he had been thinking
that a project he had started long ago was due for reappraisal. Quite why
Great Calne had been chosen as the place to set
about this project was a question that Mr Golightly himself may not have been able to answer. But
he understood, perhaps better than most, that all important questions are unanswerable. The
intricacies of the World Wide Web were still a mystery to Mr
Golightly who, despite his business experience, with
many other pressures and concerns to attend to, was not yet practised at using it. (One of his valuable aides had
entered his requirements — - ‘ So far the result appeared
satisfactory. In any event, Mr Golightly
did not give the impression of being a choosy sort. On the contrary, he
emanated some sense that all places were alike to him. He gave every sign of
being content with the simple accommodation — a bedroom (referred to in the website
details as the master) — which was almost filled by the iron,
black-painted double bedstead, a boxroom (bedroom
two) stuffed with old curtains, rnagaz1nes — rugs, a fender, an exercise hike and
supermarket bags full of the late Emily Pope’s correspondence with the taxman,
which Nicky Pope, who as a single mother had her hands full already, meant to
get around to when she could only find a moment. Downstairs,
there was a parlour (lounge-diner) which boasted an
oak gateleg table, a couple of floral-covered comfy
chairs, a spine—challenging orange sofa bed, bought by Emily Pope during a
short mid-life crisis in the sixties, a black-and white TV and the
state-of-the-art wood-burning stove from Norway also a narrow scullery
(fitted kitchen with mod cons) which housed a microwave oven, an erratic hob,
some Formica cupboards containing a medley of crockery and a whining fridge
which, as Nicky Pope had had to run off before she had quite seen that all
was in order, still contained a tub of low-cost margarine, a dried-up half of
a lemon and live of a ‘six-pack’ of Cokes, a legacy of the Clapham woman’s stay. In the days before planning permission,
the scullery had been tacked rakishly on to the side of the cottage and
roofed, in a slapdash manner, with corrugated asbestos, which nowadays would
have drawn down imprecations from a dutiful Health and Safety inspector.
Lucky, then, for Nicky Pope, that Mr Golightly had none of the Clapham
woman’s self-preserving assertiveness; or it may have been that health and
safety were not issues for him. When the rain fell it made a timpani of the scullery roof, a sound which Mr Golightly had yet to
discover whether he found enchanting or distracting. A rickety fence, with a
wicket gate let into it, which
led through to the garden, ran beside the scullery. But this morning Mr Golightly was troubled by
none of those things: he stood listening to the Sound of the rushing brook,
which ran through the lower meadows, and noting how the hills formed a gentle
cleavage through which the River Dart found its way to the sea. Grazing
in the field, to which the untidy garden sloped, was a stocky brown horse
with a white flash down its nose. Beyond, hounded by a beech hedge, where the
leaves independently maintained their autumnal rust, lay further fields, where
young spring wheat was forming a green glaze over the soil. A
batch of rooks was already out scouring the earth for food, while a hand of
their less diligent kin sat in the bare-fanned branches of an ash tree, making
clean silhouettes against the gathering light. As Mr
Golightly watched, a pair of magpies swooped
gleaming down, balancing with their long tails and settling among the rooks
to add a touch of Old Master cachet to the scene. ‘One
for sorrow, two for joy.’ Mr Golightly spoke the words
aloud. It as an ancient saving, old as any of the works of man, and he could
not now recall when he had first heard it. But, like many country-bred
people~ he did not let reason oust superstition the sight of the swaggering
piebald birds gave an added fillip to his spirits. And
now, as if to add fuel to this fire, a sliver of sun appeared above one of
the breast-like hills, a mere slice of orange which rapidly grew to an
incandescent globe. Rifts of glowing red infiltrated the green-grey sky which
began to take on further intimations of light. ‘Be
praised!’ said Mr Golightly. He
did not speak aloud, but as if to a beloved intimate whose understanding had
no need of outward hearing. Samson, the horse, perhaps catching the
drift of the unspoken words, made its way up to the wire which formed a boundary
to Spring Cottages garden. “Hello, old boy.” Mr Golightly ran a finger down the long plush nose and
wished he had thought to bring sugar lumps. The cardboard box he had brought
was packed with some of the items he might have difficulty finding in the
average English village shop: tins of anchovies, jars of pickled walnuts,
Marmite, a pot of moist Stilton, chillies, pine
kernels, a French sausage, Frank Looper’s Oxford
marmalade, sugared almonds — but
despite these latter items Mr Golightly
did not, in general, have a sweet tooth. He had not been raised on sugar and
consequently it did not form part of his regular diet. ‘Sorry, old chap.’ He spoke
regretfully: he liked to indulge animals who rarely bore resentment if one
failed to do as they wished. As if in response to his apology, a
ribald cackling made itself heard and Mr Golightly turned away from
Samson and towards the direction of the noise. The next-door garden was
fenced by heavy barbed wire. Through the wire Mr Golightly could see a female figure among white geese
with glistening orange hills and some farmyard ducks. Mr Golightly was
naturally courteous; hut he was concerned, too, to establish peace with his neighbours so that there should be no threat to his tranquillity. His work had too often been a battle; he
had no wish for his holiday to be marred by warfare. War between neighbours, he knew from long experience, is often of the
most disruptive kind. ‘Hello,’ he said, and offered his hand
across the barbed-wire fence. The other said nothing hut only stared.
It was the kind of stare which might have perturbed anyone with an uneasy
conscience; but if Mr Golightly’s
conscience was uneasy he didn’t betray the fact. He held the gaze steadily
till the woman relaxed and held out a hand. ‘Watch the spikes on the fence.’ ‘Good fences make good neighbours.’ Mr Golightly could
not have explained why he had made this remark. He was not in the modern
habit of constantly enquiring into the workings of his own mind hut tended to
say whatever came into his head. ‘Ellen Thomas,’ said his neighhour, apparently ignoring his comment, and turned
away. ‘Golightly’
said Mr Golightly,
looking after her; the grey eyes of Ellen Thomas were those of a creature in
pain. Back in the cottage~ he unpacked the
box of provisions and arranged these tidily in the Formica cupboards. He
looked about for a kettle which he eventually found in the cupboard under the
sink. No plug. Better make a shopping list, he decided. Up in the bedroom he completed his
unpacking. His possessions were simple: a couple of nightshirts, a pair of
slippers, some woollies, a number of warm shirts, wool socks, underwear. His
zip-up sponge bag, rather the worse for wear, was already in the avocado
bathroom. No tie — this
was a holiday. Among the other items there was a small traveling photograph
holder which framed the picture of a young man with a piteous face. Mr Golightly looked
at the face as he placed the picture beside the bed. Love is the price of
love, he thought. as, observing the warning on a note tacked up by Nicky
Pope, he minded his head down the steep stairs to the parlour
where he prepared to do combat with a hook of instructions lying beside the
Norwegian woodstove. Books of instructions were things with
which Mr Golightly had
little patience. He opened the booklet entitled ‘Norpine
Stoves: the extra modern way to he old-fashioned’ and read: The flue
towards the left-handed side of the upper orifice is to be unclosed while the
material fires is being laid down. What the hell did all that mean? Vickers’
descriptive language is terrific, and often poetic. Enjoy a respite of your
own by joining Mr Golightly’s Holiday. Steve
Hopkins, May 25, 2004 |
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ă 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Mr
Golightly's Holiday.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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