Mistletoe Malice (eBook)

Kathleen Farrell (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
252 Seiten
Faber & Faber (Verlag)
978-0-571-37827-2 (ISBN)

Infos

A dysfunctional family reunites for the Christmas holiday from hell in this rediscovered festive classic with fangs for fans of Barbara Pym, Dodie Smith, Nancy Mitford, Elizabeth Taylor and Stella Gibbons. 'Literary comfort and joy. It got me out of mourning for the Cazelet Chronicles.' Meg Mason (author of Sorrow and Bliss) 'A stylish and penetrating comedy of manners. My favourite Christmas book by far - and you can read it all year round.' Rachel Joyce (author of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry) 'A horribly delicious snapshot of post-war family life, in which tensions ensnare the reader in tinsel-covered barbed wire.' Janice Hallett (author of The Appeal) The fire is on, sherry poured, presents wrapped, and claws are being sharpened. In a seaside cottage perched on a cliff, one family reunites for Christmas. While snow falls, a tyrannical widowed matriarch presides over her unruly brood. Her niece tends to her whims, but fantasises about eloping; and as more guests arrive, each bringing their secret truths and dreams, the Christmas tree explodes, a brawl erupts, an escape occurs - and their 'midwinter madness' climaxes ...

Kathleen Farrell was born in London in 1912 and educated at a convent school. Her first book, Johnny's Not Home from the Fair (1942), was written while working for the wartime secretary-general of the Labour party, after which she founded a prestigious literary agency, eventually sold to a rival firm. Farrell lived in Hampstead for twenty years with her partner Kay Dick, reviewer, editor and author of They (1977), in a literary circle including Ivy Compton-Burnett, Stevie Smith and Olivia Manning. She wrote five more novels - Mistletoe Malice (1951), Take It to Heart (1953), The Cost of Living (1956), The Common Touch (1958), and Limitations of Love (1962) - as well as contributing much-admired stories to Macmillan's Winter's Tales series. Farrell's fiction was critically acclaimed for its savage wit and unsentimental humour, compared to Barbara Pym and Elizabeth Bowen, but failed to find a popular audience, and - by the time of her death in Hove in 1999 - she had fallen into obscurity.

Textauszug

CHAPTER TWO

Christmas Day

Early the next morning the house was full of hurrying people and sounds of feet running along corridors, of paper crackling, as last-minute presents were wrapped up.

Kate, the last down to breakfast, was greeted by Rachel’s smooth voice:

“Good morning, my dearest. You must have been very tired.”

Kate looked towards Marion and Thomas, whose faces were bright and expressionless. Then she realised that her second cousin, Piers, had arrived and was smiling at her:

“Kate! I haven’t seen you for so long. You look nice, but much older.” He ate his porridge with concentration.

“Do I? That is hardly surprising. We had a hectic and quarrelsome evening when Aunt Rachel had gone to bed.” We are all cousins, thought Kate. What a peculiar relationship! All of us, that is, except Rachel.

“Did you?” Piers asked delightedly. “How very funny!”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Kate is teasing us. And happy Christmas, very happy Christmas to you all.” Rachel was determined that nothing should interrupt her breakfast. If it had been the afternoon—that blank of time between luncheon and tea—she would have welcomed scandalous revelations. But until she had had her third cup of tea, the morning had not officially begun.

They smiled politely at each other. Marion and Thomas looked stolid, caring only for what they ate. Bess drank tea in agitated gulps.

“I think it is better if we give presents this evening, after dinner,” said Rachel. “It will make the time pass.”

“We should all be thinking of using our evenings and our days”—Marion glared accusingly round the table: she was an exceedingly quick eater—“filling every minute, because there won’t be enough for any of us.”

“Please do not force us to consider too unpleasantly, Marion. Not today. You were always a fussy, frightened creature, even as a child. Always preparing for the worst.” Rachel spoke viciously.

“Talking of time”—Piers leaned forward to smile innocently at Kate. “How did you manage to lose that young man of yours, after all those years?”

Marion, who had great respect for facts and enjoyed collecting them, wiped her mouth with a table-napkin as a sign that she had turned her attention from breakfast and was ready to concentrate entirely upon Kate’s reply.

As Kate did not speak immediately, Marion said, “We have never quite understood why you didn’t marry Alec, after all.”

“Such a shock, dear, wasn’t it?” asked Rachel.

“Not exactly. I left him. At least, I think I did. So I was prepared.”

“Now, Katie, that won’t do. Here we are longing to be told the secrets of your heart, and you go on eating toast and marmalade. Drinking coffee, too. And jilting poor young men!”

Piers was enjoying himself.

“I am not very good at giving explanations so early in the day. There is nothing mysterious to tell you. Alec loved putting up shelves and mending broken window-sashes. When he had done all those there was little left of interest to him.”

“How frivolous you are!” Rachel was deeply shocked because she had been cheated of her anticipations of frustrated desire.

“That is another reason, Aunt Rachel. Alec wasn’t at all frivolous. He liked long walks and swimming in high seas. My preference, even in the summer, is to sneak up to bed with a hot-water bottle.”

“Most amusing,” Rachel said stiffly. Sadly she thought that Kate had robbed the word “bed” of any possibly salacious meaning. To be too old herself for such memories was wretched enough, but to be surrounded by young people who were either frigid or—she thought contemptuously of Bess—frightened to the point of impotent numbness, that was the fulfilment of the horrid prophecy of the world, at least her world, ending in ice. She said peevishly to Kate: “And was your room warm last night?”

“Thank you. Not very.”

As Rachel had now finished her breakfast, she decided that it was her turn to enliven the morning hours:

“Piers is so awkward.” She smiled affectionately at him. “Arriving before breakfast. Then to come in by the garden entrance. He seems taller than ever. He banged his head on the top of the doorway. He gave Bess such a fright.”

“But, Rachel darling, you knew that I was coming. It couldn’t have been such a surprise.”

“Of course we knew. But we didn’t expect you so early. Or to be so large. Besides”—Rachel glinted around her, then spoke directly to Bess—“he’s a good-looking young man, isn’t he? Too handsome to meet first thing in the morning. Unless one is very young—or very old, as I am.” She sat back, pleased with her softly spoken malice. “What is the matter, Bess? Don’t you feel well?” Rachel raised her hands in hurt astonishment, turning the padded palms upwards, curling her fingers to draw from each of them the assurance that her words could not have wounded the most sensitive creature. “To go off like that! Just listen to her running up the stairs. People nowadays are so difficult to understand. We were jollier in my day. Happy banter at meal-times was considered quite the thing.”

“It’s rather cruel of you, Aunt Rachel, to torment Bess in front of all of us. Now she will have a miserable Christmas.”

“Just because you managed to get engaged to some man and then had the impudence to change your mind, you think you can run everything.”

“Now, darling.” Piers took every advantage. Although he was Rachel’s nephew, he preferred to behave as her favoured admirer: a game which was a constant amusement to both. “You must not be matriarchal on such a morning. It’s like a Christmas day in April. Sun on snow. Lovely. Let us walk off together down to the sea. Everyone will ask you who I am. What a wicked reputation you’ll have!”

“I suppose you think that I am a foolish, fond old woman?”

 

As they walked together down the steps leading to the cliff road, their voices could be heard—Rachel’s light, almost girlish questions and Piers’s laughing replies.

Marion, bustling and practical, insisted on helping Mrs. Page, Rachel’s daily woman, to wash up the breakfast dishes. Marion was heard explaining to a silently dubious Mrs. Page that roast turkey was quite uneatable unless accompanied by cranberry sauce.

“That will keep them busy for some hours,” Kate said as she shut the door leading from the dining-room to the kitchen. “I’m glad, because I want to talk to you, Thomas.”

“About Bess?”

“Yes. She is unhappy. Rachel should not badger her. Bess is becoming vaguer, blanker. She looks nondescript. She used to be quite pretty.”

“So many women are quite pretty. That is not important. Besides, Bess asks to be dominated. She enjoys it, except when she is upset about something. Such as Piers coming here.”

“Why does she hate him? He is irritating, perhaps, but charming to look at.”

“My idea is—and for the Lord’s sake keep this to your-self—that Bess has … well, not exactly fallen for him. But he bewitches her.”

“That seems to be a reversal of the customary roles.”

“Naturally, but you must admit that Piers would make a likelier belle dame sans merci than Bess. Rachel is, I believe, pretty fed up about it. That may be why she invites Piers down as often as possible and dotes upon him so blatantly. Even at her age she is a more attractive proposition than Bess. More showy. Better company, too.”

“This is all rather absurd, isn’t it? Rachel wants to be liked by all men, especially young, good-looking ones. But the idea of Bess being infatuated by Piers! She is much older than he is. Anyway, she would not let herself get into such a wretched position.”

“Bess doesn’t let herself. Things happen to her. All her life she has been falling in love, and most unsuccessfully.”

“Well, what’s your remedy?”

“Oh, I’ve no advice to give. Except perhaps that she should walk the other way. I’d tell her that this is a looking-glass world. Whatever you want, don’t go after it. Run away, and there it is, in front of you.”

“Can you do that?”

“Too late for me. I have no particular end in view. By the way, what really happened between you and Alec?”

“It was not, of course, as simple as I made out.”

“Did you have a last dramatically exhausting...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 31.10.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Anthologien
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Klassiker / Moderne Klassiker
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Themenwelt: Geisteswissenschaften ► Sprach- / Literaturwissenschaft ► Anglistik / Amerikanistik
• Themenwelt: Geisteswissenschaften ► Sprach- / Literaturwissenschaft ► Literaturwissenschaft
• Schlagworte: Barbara Pym Excellent Women Barbara Comyns Our Spoons Came from Woolworths • Celia Fremlin The Hours Before Dawn The Long Shadow Agatha Christie Vintage Mysteries • Elizabeth Jane Howard Cazalet Chronicles Persephone Dorothy Whipple Someone at a Distance • Nancy Mitford Love in a Cold Climate Christmas Pudding The Pursuit of Love Brigid Brophy The Snow Ball • Stella Gibbons Christmas at Cold Comfort Farm Jilly Cooper Muriel Spark The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie • Sylvia Townsend Warner Lolly Willowes The Corner that Held Them Summer Will Show • The Feast Margaret Kennedy Elizabeth Taylor Angel Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont Virago Classics
• ISBN-10: 0-571-37827-7 / 0571378277
• ISBN-13: 978-0-571-37827-2 / 9780571378272