The Empty House by Michael Gilbert

This novel (no short stories here) was published in 1978 and is the classic "regular guy who just wants to go about his business but gets swept up into government agents manipulating Israeli and Palestinian spies who kill each other at night in tiny English seaside town" stories. One book cover review compares it to The 39 Steps--that seems about right.

Our hero is Peter Manciple who is relatively young (late 20s?) and works for a very large (therefore cautious) insurance company.  One of their clients, a Dr. Wolfe, is a researcher who works for the military (they offered him what he couldn't refuse: an unlimited budget and access to whatever lab equipment he wanted--the only problem was that they view him and all his discoveries as theirs to use for their own purposes) just died in a most astonishing way: he drove his car along a cliff edge (off the main road, on a camp trail) and then drove straight into a guard rail and down onto the rocks below.  Well, that's strange enough since the day was sunny and the weather fine. Was he drunk? Did he lose consciousness?  We'll never know because the car and everything in it was sucked down into cracks and caves underneath the water's churning surface. Was he even in the car?  Yes, several people who knew him saw him drive past--indeed, he timed his drive perfectly to coincide with a time that had the most people walking around an otherwise desolated area so they could verify that it was him driving the car.  So was it suicide? But he was so happy and outgoing! He just wasn't the type. Hmmm.

In comes the insurance matter: Just a few months ago, Wolfe took out a very large life insurance policy that has a payout of £100,000 (remember, this is in 1978) to go to his sister (his only living relative) if he died by drowning in a sea. Well, that was prescient of him...In fact, it's just so damned strange that the insurance company won't pay out until they send the guy in the office that no one really gets along with (they don't say it, but it's clear to me that he's aspie--he has photographic memory and is a perfectionist to the point that even insurance adjusters get annoyed), Peter Manciple. Of course, Peter has his own ghosts to deal with: his father died under very suspicious circumstances (the official report says "took his own life") but his mother (who is convinced that "they are out there, always watching") thinks he was killed because he was part of the French Resistance. Peter's older brother couldn't take the family drama and fled to Australia and their only contact with him is a card at Christmas.

So, Peter's attitude is "Life is short and death is coming for you so you might as well make both as quick and painless as possible." You can see why his boss tells him to "take as long as he needs" to find out whether or not Dr. Wolfe is really dead and, if so, really died by drowning. So off Peter heads to a sleepy seaside village just as school exams are wrapping up (Blundell's School in Tiverton plays a key role in this novel) and hotels are waking up, getting ready for summer tourists who are set to arrive in two weeks.  

And immediately, things get weird: he keeps seeing the same two guys wherever he goes (train station, car rental office, gas station, outside his hotel).  Afraid of sounding as crazy as his mother, he unwisely ignores all his instincts that tell him something is terribly wrong.  He then heads out to the site of the broken guardrail and concludes that, if Wolfe is in his car, his body is NOT going to be recovered by anyone for an autopsy. Suddenly up pops a Colonel from a nearby military base which is overseeing an "archeological dig"--some excuse about them needing to find all the precious pottery shards before soldiers start practicing with mortar bombs--all run by young Palestinian men who have aglicised names on their name tags ("Stephen" and "Rupert", to give two). Then out of nowhere appear two "Irish" people, a "brother" and "sister", who claim they are trying to trace their roots by finding all the sites mentioned by Blackmore in Lorna Doone.  Indeed, they talk so obsessively about Lorna Doone that their repeated invitations to Peter to join them to look for yet another tributary that feeds the rivers in Doone Valley are always politely but firmly turned down, ensuring that the "siblings" are able to explore the surrounding areas completely unobserved. (Note to self: When you want to poke about and spy on people, talk obsessively about something really boring so anyone who would otherwise get suspicious runs away from you the second they see you.)

Well, one thing leads to another and Peter finds a dead body, then a guy dies in Peter's arms, and then a third guy explodes seconds after Peter wishes him well. It's starting to look like Peter is not the "insurance agent" he claims he is.  Then the hills are crawling with Israeli and Palistinian solders (wait--so that isn't an archeological site?) and the bodies really start piling up. I'll leave it at that so I don't give the mystery away.

Over all, this is a good novel: the writing, as usual, is excellent and there is well placed humor to ease some of the tension.  But the fact is, the issues raised in this story are super depressing--and current events in Palestine don't make them less depressing.   

Garden: Taking Stock

So I went into gardening this year viewing the whole thing as an experiment, trying five different ways of gardening so I could compare the results: the straw bale method, the raised bed method, the hydroponic method, the small containers on the garage wall (so off the ground) watered by a solar panel system, and the giant fabric bags on the ground method.  So far, the results are mixed.  I'll mention two now and get to the others in the next few days.

Fabric bags for potatos, sweet and regular.  

I followed the directions for growing sweet potato slips to the letter and we also had dozens of potatos that had grown eyes that I cut up, let dry a bit and then planted. I also filled the bags exactly right: straw, loose soil, straw and loose soil only about 5" deep and as the tato greenery got bigger I topped up the bag until the bags were full.  I tried two different sizes, the sweet potatos in three 25 gallon bags and the regular tatos in five 15 gallon bags.  Here is the sum total of the sweet potatos: 

I think I showed a picture a few weeks ago of all the red and russet potatos that grew.  There were about 30 or so, all around 1" diameter, though otherwise perfectly shaped and tasty--just not worth the real estate they took up.  Generally, I've seen a lot of people online saying that they couldn't grow potatos in our area of the country--it just wasn't hot enough for enough days.  Also, on the cooler days, it was usually clouded over.

So I think I am bored with potatos of all kinds, and will not do that again.  I am seeing a lot of damage done to the tomatos (someone is eating exactly 1/3 of every large green tomato I see growing) and I had the brilliant idea of growing THOSE in the fabric bags on the balcony, where it is piping hot all summer long and the ground hogs cannot possibly get to them.  Plus, with the amazing solar panel watering system, I can ignore them for weeks on end. (I cannot rave about solar powered watering systems enough.)

Fabric bags:  in short, I think they are ok (they certainly make dumping the bags out and reusing the soil again easy) so I will give them one more shot.  If a balcony-load of fabric bags gives us no tomatos next summer, then the fabric bags are going to goodwill next Fall.

Straw bales in the front yard:

This photo was taken yesterday when it was sunny for about 5 minutes.  (It's completely clouded over today.)  In March, when I was trying to plan out a relatively easy way to start up a garden, I strongly suspected that the soil in the front yard would be polluted.  It's nearly impossible to grow anything in it except the hardiest weeds.  I know that copper and arsenic prevent plants from growing healthily and when we got our soil tested, those were the metals that showed up at alarmingly high levels.  So, it was either raised beds or straw bales.  The idea with the straw bales is that they are WAY cheaper than raised beds (they cost about $5 each whereas raised beds cost about $40 each (and then you have to buy the soil, too) and, if you want to build them (given current tarrifs on all lumber that comes from Canada--so, all lumber sold in the US), the cost would be simply impossible.  So I went with straw bales.  Besides being inexpensive, they also completely rot down over winter so you end up amending your soil--which I really wanted to do.  So I made two rows (I think 5 bales on each side) and put up the trellis (inexpensive cattle fencing--in general, if you buy from a hardware or DIY store, the prices are outrageous but if you buy stuff from a farm supply, the prices are really low).  Then you just put fertilizer on the bales until they start to compost, water regularly and let the seedlings do their thing.  It is a very hands-off system, which I wanted, as I don't like being in the front yard as it is noisy and hot.

Well, you can see the tomatos and basil, but everything is very runty--especially compared to the tomatos (same kinds) in the back yard, which are three times the size of these.  And everything is delayed a month or so: in the back yard, tomatos are big and just starting to turn orange.  In the front yard, it is mostly blossoms still.  I can't explain it, but there you go: the plants are lush and strong and there is not a sign of pest problems (ground hogs don't like the front yard either, it seems).   But I am not going to do this again.  I think in Fall I'll just cover the whole area with a tarp, let it "cook" over winter and next year try growing "cut flowers" (annuals that bloom by the billions of you cut off the flowers as they bloom to urge more flowers to grow). I doubt cut flowers need perfect soil.  We shall see.  I think pollinators may dare use the front yard if there are a lot of flowers there. (Though maybe not--I never see bees or butterflies in the front yard--I don't even see birds there).  

You can just see the bit of black tarp in the upper left side where I have covered over about half the front yard that is mostly shaded.  It gets sun from about 11 am until 3 or so and then the trees shade it.  So I'm going to be trying to grow dry/shade things there next year.  Hostas are super easy to grow here and we never get slugs or snails (don't know why, but I have probably seen four or five tiny ones in all the years I have lived here but I think our possums (of which we have a LOT) eat them. Also, we have a skunk family that moves into our garage in the winter (I don't know where they live in the summer--probably camp in bushes) and I skunks eat snails, too. If only ground hogs were that USEFUL.

Film review: Linda Linda Linda (2005)

This is a very charming film that is very hard to describe in any detail.  It essence is that a group of girls at a high school (which is surprisingly shabby and nondescript and clearly off in some non-Tokyo part of Japan) get together to form a band (regular old bass, drums, guitar, vocal) to perform a song at the end of term "culture festival."  And, indeed, the climax of the movie is them playing it (as well as a couple of others, including one called "My Right Hand").  The song is "Linda Linda," an actual (great) song by (apparently) legendary Japanese punk band The Blue Hearts.  But what the film really is is a slice of teenage life, with ennui, moments of inexplicable joy, falling in, if not love, then mild crush, and generally wondering about one's place in the world.  

The band (whose name is Paranmaum, although that's not really important) has a bit of a history: it was formed by two very headstrong girls, Kei, a girl with a mid-length bob and a perpetual frown, and Rinko, a tall, improbably thin girl with an equally stern expression.  However, before the events of the film, the two girls have had an epic falling-out, which seemed to involve the hand-injury (in PE) of the band's guitarist, the diminutive Moe (who returns at the end of the film in a different role).  This left the band in shambles, although the drummer (Kyoko, round-faced, usually very cheerful, the only one of the band who seems to want to be with boys, or at least a boy (who is, as all boys in Miyazaki films are portrayed, tongue-tied and gormless)) the bassist (Nozomi, quiet, thoughtful, shy but clearly very committed to the band) are left.  Because of The Event, they have to make a decision whether or not to continue and retain their slot in the concert.  They do, but this means Kei has to essentially teach herself guitar, and as she's not reconciling with Rinko, they need a vocalist.  They recruit, essentially at random - they're sitting on a wall 

looking across the street at the archway leading into what looks like an apartment complex courtyard and Kei says they'll pick the first person they see, a decision she revises when it's a middle-aged man.  But then a tall, perpetually pop-eyed gangly girl appears, who is Song, a Korean exchange student, and she is asked to be in the band.  This is essentially the first sign of acceptance she has apparently had (her Japanese is definitely a work in progress), and she blossoms throughout the film as a result (to the extent that a boy has a crush on her, but Song would much rather be with the girls).  Song is really the star of the film, in part because the actress, Bae Doona - a favorite of Bong Joon Ho, is so appealing.  Her expressions are a constant delight and her rubbery physicality just make the character very engaging. Improbably, the Ramones feature briefly in the film and it occurred to me that Song is very Joey-esque: tall and awkward, but comes alive at the microphone.  (She also catches the other girls off-guard with her blunt questions and observations - apparently a Korean trait, or at least according to the Japanese.) 

Anyway, the rest of the movie is essentially a series of vignettes, presented very dispassionately, with no attempt at exploring the girls' backstories or their families.  For example, at one point near the end we see Song playing with a little girl, whom we've never seen before, when Kei shows up.  "Who's she?" asks the little girl, who is then happy to find that Song has made a friend.  Clearly Kei is thinking the same thing about the girl, as are we.  Is Song staying with a host family?  Is this their child?  No explanation is offered.

There's also Kei's "ex-boyfriend," who is a loser who sleeps in his car, but is undeniably cool, and who gets them a place to practice when they need it (road trip!), 

and who fascinates Song, but about whom Kei does not like to talk.  (Although a dream sequence near the end reveals she still thinks of him.) 

As a boy's band also needs the school equipment, the girls decide to practice at night, something that is discovered by a rather milquetoast teacher (his sentences tend to tail off) who apparently sleeps on the school premises, but he never intrudes, and is happy to hear them practicing.  This leads to the one piece of real tension in the film (Jami could hardly bear it) which is that they fall asleep on the day of the concert out of sheer exhaustion and it looks like they'll miss their gig.  Will they?  Watch it and see.  For my money, I'd re-watch this before I re-watch the similar (although less innocent) Dazed and Confused.

 

Stay of Execution by Michael Gilbert

 

This is another collection of short stories and this time they all feature lawyers handling bizarre situations.  Most feature lawyer Henry Bohun who was first introduced in Smallbone Deceased.  (He was the character that had that enviable condition that allowed him to function on just 1 or 2 hours of sleep each night.)  Most of the stories concern lawyers preventing injustices, but some feature lawyers using their expertise to perpetuate injustices--just enough variety to keep you guessing.

Before I read Gilbert's short stories I had always insisted that I didn't like short stories: I always felt that just as you were getting invested the stories suddenly ended.  But all of Gilbert's short stories are perfectly paced and just exactly as long as they should be.  And he just never seemed to run out of material as looking through my giant stack of as yet unread Gilbert books, I now realize that at least five of them are collections of short stories, not novels, as I thought when I ordered them from Alibris.  Exciting!

Another Garden Update

The weather has been ungodly and I think (but am not certain) that I was bitten by a tick and that caused me to get unbelievably ill, starting about 10 days ago.  First, the weather: after being reasonable most of August, the past week has been unbearable.  It is hurricane weather off the Atlantic and we have to suffer for their sins.  It is hot, sweaty and when it isn't bucketing rain is is oppressively humid--hence the tick experience, I think.  The plants love it  and everything is growing like crazy, but I can't keep up with trimming, pruning and staking stems so everything in the garden is slumped over and a big sweaty mess--except where fat pants, the ground hog, has trundled over stems and snapped them in their search for tender shoots to eat.  In theory, it is supposed to cool down early next week but an old geezer's creeky knees would be a more reliable source of weather forecasting than weather.com is.  The other night we were told there was a 100% chance of torrential rains, hail, lightening and dangerous winds from 2 am until about 5 am--yet when we woke up the ground was dry.  Then midday, when it was expected to be cloudy and clear, we had pouring rains pretty much non-step.  Today, no rain forecast and midmorning the skies went black and the clouds let loose a flood. So planning outdoor work is a non-starter. Second, about two weeks ago, I was outside and felt something bite my stomach, just under my ribs.  I assumed it was either an ant (we have two sorts here: the cheerful big black ones and the angry tiny red ones--I blamed the red kind) or a spider. Later that evening, it itched and there was an obvious mouth bit hole right where the itching was the worst.  I'm not bothered by mosquito bites (I don't like them, but they don't cause me to have an allergic reaction) so it wasn't that.  Then, the next day, a sort of rash developed around the bit.  And for the next three days that circle rash got bigger and bigger, and the itching got worse and worse.  So I went online (always a risk) and looked up tick bites and it looked NOTHING like that: no "bullseye" pattern and no pain (all web sites were clear: tick bits HURT, they do not itch).  Well, mine itched like crazy.  After 7 days (with the bite/rash looking exactly the same and the itching unrelenting) I got the craziest set of neurological problems: dizziness, nausea, splitting headaches that wouldn't get better even with fistfuls of pain pills, bone aches that kept me up all night because I couldn't get comfortable, hot/flushed face but freezing cold body, feeligns of intense anxiety alternating with sadness....Yes, all the symptoms of tick bites.  So, on the second day of that I went to an urgent care place in Burton which is free for us because it is connected to Hurley Hospital and no one is ever there.  When I went, the only other person in the waiting room was just being called in.  The doctor I saw was ambivalent about it being a tick bite--maybe yes, maybe no.  But, like all urgent care doctors, he was quick to prescribe antibiotics and I started taking mine as soon as I had picked up the bottle from Walgreens. I felt a bit better each day until today, and now I feel like I am backsliding--another sign of tick bites.  The only good part of this is that the chances of it being a "deer tick" (the kind that carry Lyme disease) is very low.  I still have 5 more days of the antibiotics so I haven't given up on them working yet.  But this is getting extremely tedious.

These arrived a few days ago but I haven't had the energy to dig a bunch of holes (and actually am a bit afraid of ticks now) but here they are, the tiny compost tubs I mentioned in an earlier blog entry.  Here is one with a lid on:

And here is one without the lid:

As I said, the idea is that you sink the things up to the rim and fill them with alternating compost and dry stuff (leaves, stems, whatever) and let worms do the work for you.  I've never had a compost pile I didn't hate as the tree roots in our backyard grow into the piles through the bottom and take everything before we had a chance.  The compost would just turn into a giant maple tree root mass--though, admittedly, our trees are always robust.  So I am hoping that these are both tree and ground hog proof and easy enough to use that we will actually always put the compost into them every time we empty our kitchen tub.

I have no idea what this is other than it is some sort of squash thing:

We are still getting strawberries.  The only problem is that I can't reach most of them because the tomatoes have taken over the back corner of the yard.

And here is a small glimpse of our tomatoes, finally:

And here: 

After complaining that we have loads of green tomatoes but never any that ripen, Simon confessed that he has eaten every single tomato he has been able to get his greedy hands on.  His pathetic excuse was that he "thought you [me] didn't like tomatoes!"  Yeah, that's why I spent abouty $300 on heirloom seeds, seed trays, lights, water timers and soil and have been working on these since February.  SO annoying....

Garden Update

This photo is of about half all our tomato plants (with one mystery vine laying on top)--all lush green with thousands of little flowers and very few tomotoes. I am standing, holding my phone at eye level so these must be 8' tall. This is the back corner of our yard, where the garage meets up with the back wall.  We had our compost pile there for years and, obviously, the soil there is top notch.  Even though I put all the seedlings (which I started all by myself from overpriced envelopes of heirloom seeds) in raised beds, these out performed the other raised beds by 10-fold.  So the lesson to learn is that I need to put tiny compost tubs* into each sad raised bed (the tubs are wending their way from Amazon as I write this) and also put all compost we generate during the winter directly into those same beds.  And if I do that for 10 or so years, the entire back yard will be filled with 8' tomato plants with no tomatoes on them.

*The tiny compost tubs hold a gallon and are shaped like tiny green garbage cans--except that the entire bottom few inches has loads of holes for worms to access the compost. The best feature is a lid that snaps on tight to keep out ground hogs. About a month ago I tried to do this cheaply by using empty 1 gallon plastic flower pots that I have by the hundreds as they have drainage holes in the bottom. I also thought, being black, if I have them only halfway submerged, the sun will hot them up and the compost will break down faster.  But of course I didn't have any lids--no problem, I thought, that means the rain will get in and I won't have to mess around with popping lids and watering.  Well, a few hours later, during the night, our resident ground hog not only ate ALL the compost, he ripped the pots to pieces and tossed the bits all over the yard.  So he loved the compost but containers enraged him. I went online and of course there are a million options products. The ones I got were the least expensive for the quantity, had lids that really snapped on tight (or so it seemed on the little video I saw), and were much thicker plastic than the cheap pots you get with plants at nurseries. They were supposed to arrive this morning but are now scheduled to show up later this afternoon. 

Amateur YouTube gardeners are divided right now: some are ripping out tired, used up plants and happily putting out "fall seeds" to get beets, spinach and kale.  Others are heading indoors and letting the summer failures rot down to be dug into the soil next April.  I am torn, mainly because I really hate kale.

The Killing of Katie Steelstock by Michael Gilbert

 

I have to agree with the review on this Penguin cover that this novel is "something of a masterpiece."  I started it one late evening and was on page 100 before I could put it down.  The next night I was exhausted (thanks, Frederick) and planned to only read 10 or so pages and couldn't put it down until I had finished--and it was well after 2 am.  The book was published in 1980, which just goes to show that Gilbert had a prolific writing career that spanned decades and he really changed his novels to move with the times. I truly envy that sort of creative ability. This novel is a stand-alone story and we've not met any of the characters before--which means that any of them could be killed at any time and anyone can turn out not to be what they seem--from fusty deaf old maids to slow-witted stolid police officers.  

The nub of the novel is that Katie is from a very small town but has made it to the Big Time in London.  She started her career when just a teen by singing a one-hit-wonder pop tune that was all over the radio for a few weeks. (The strongest compliment any of the characters gave it was that once you heard it, you never forgot it.) That pop tune and her cover on the record sleeve gave her a split second of fame and just enough money to get a foot in a bigger door. That pop tune was followed by modeling--including "racy pics"--and then a small part on an extremely successful, long running TV show, a role that she used to outshine the established famous actors she was onscreen with--not the way to make friends but it is a way to influence people. She had just reached the point where her initial and disadvantageous contract was set to expire and she was shopping for a new manager, new TV show deals, and even talking about getting a chance on the Big Screen. Meanwhile, back home, (to which she returned to escape the madness of the London party scene), her widowed mother and four siblings live in a relatively big old home where Katie stays in a converted carriage house, now her apartment. And while everyone in town starts every sentence with "Our Katie..." what they don't say (until after she is dead) is that that she isn't loved and adored by those who know her best. The primary problem with Their Katie is that she is ambitious (obviously), intelligent (but pretends not to be if that helps her), has an extremely "sharp tongue," and often brages to anyone who will listen that she knows just how to use people: she graces them with her attentions just to leave them dangling. In particular, she likes to ask for favors but then, after someone has gone out of their way to accomodate those asks, she changes her mind and tells them she doesn't need them after all. Do they tell her to pound sand?  Never.  Why not?  Because she is the posterchild of this backwater village, very good looking, has sex appeal, and all males aged 16-60 want an upskirt pic (or whatever the equivalent of that in the late 70s was) of her.  Is it any wonder she ends up dead?    

If all that doesn't sound tawdry enough, police investigations expose all sorts of nasty goings on: a bullying business man who keep tight control over anyone he can but also sneaks off to a secret peep hole in a boathouse club closet he uses to secretly watch teens fondle each other in boats stored in the boathouse off season; a 30 something journalist who professes anarchism but spends all his free time trying to impress preteen boys who think his smart alec remarks about "The Man" are cool.... We also see the ubiquitous generation gap has bloomed into a generation chasm and middle aged fathers who come down like a ton of bricks on their 20-something daughters for staying out late with strange men are astonished when those daughters pack up and move out of their homes and into apartments with loser boyfriends. And NO one respects the police or trusts them to find the "real killer."  The novel ends with a nail biting courtroom battle managed by an old school judge who both knows the law and has no time for bullshit lawyers who are more interested in impressing future law firm partners than ensuring a fair trial. 

All this is to say: not a "cosy murder mystery" but still not as nasty as what tends to get published since the 1990s. (Murder victims aren't peeled so skins can be stitched into outfits for the killer....) But the discussions of law are excellent (Gilbert is still a lawyer first, after all) and the characters are very well developed.  

Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens by Michael Gilbert

 

Both of these books are collections of short stories that originally appeared in literary magazines that published short stories of all sorts.  Gilbert said in an interview once that he was very sad that those magazines no longer existed: they provided unknown writers an audience and paycheck and established writers the place to put short stories that had no business being dragged out into full length novels that book publishers demand. He said that, once upon a time when he took the train to and from work every day, half his fellow riders there were reading literary magazines: the stories were the perfect length for a 30-45 minute commute and make people look forward to the ride. Old fogey lamenting the good old days or a wise elder who knew what he was on about?  You decide

The first collection, Games Without Rules, was first published in 1967 (that cover image above is from a new edition that just came out in 2024).  The second collection, Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens, was published in 1982 and has not been reprinted. All the short stories feature Calder and Behrens who are retired spies ("in intelligence during The War") now living not far from each other in an extremely tiny village, not very far from London.  And because (unlike young spies these days) they know a lot of  European languages and have managed to outlive their enemies, they are still useful once in a while. So the stories take place from about the mid 50s until the early 80s. As with Gilbert's other stort stories, each story can be read alone but there is an arc--getting to know our two improbably heroes--that carries through each collection.  All the stories are very entertaining and each is a good read just before going to bed--the good triumphs and the bad always gets their just deserts, and who doesn't want to think about that before falling asleep?  But be warned, they can be (unlike, say, the Petralla police procedural short stories) rather nasty. These guys play for keeps, don't give warnings before using their weapons, and are not accountable to a supervisor for messy results. But they are very knowledgeable about how to bury a body.  And, as I've said before, they really would make great televsion.