***Group Read: Brat Farrar (Spoilers) | 75 Books Challenge for | LibraryThing
Listen to Brat Farrar Audiobook by Josephine Tey, narrated by Carole Boyd. Now I am going to have to reread Brat Farrar. . I just read this in January and I'm embarrassed to say I can't remember the ending! .. faction (1) Fairacre (2) family relationships (95) family secrets (3) famine (1) Fanny Blake. Josephine Tey's Brat Farrar () is one of my favourite books. . the Small Change universe- they would end up being discovered as secret.
Tey gives us long descriptions of the horses, their training and the shows at which they participate, which frankly I was dreading as I am not a great lover of anthropomorphic literature, mysteries or other.
However, the descriptions are all well done and compelling and serve the novel well, advancing the plot as we learn more about the major characters through their equine activities.
This is particularly pronounced in Brat strained relationship with Simon, who initially rejects the idea that Patrick could be coming back but who then has a complete volte face. Despite this, Brat believes that there is something sinister, about Simon and his horse Timber too — which turns out to be very well founded in the case of the animal has in fact already caused the deaths of two people!
The book was subsequently filmed fairly loosely and thusly without an on-screen credit as Paranoiacwhich I previously reviewed as part of my ongoing celebration of the thrillers made by the Hammer company. You can read my review here. The basic plot and characters minus the horses are all there, but with a Gothic climax added in the style of the studio. And her old home, the great white house in the park, had become a school.
But after thirteen years of rectory life Nancy Peck was still serenely and unquestionably beautiful; and people still said: It's wonderful to sit and do nothing. Ruth says it is a face like a very expensive cat. At least—not the furry kind. Oh, I know what she means! The long-necked, short-haired kind that show their small chins. Yes, Bee, darling, you have a face like a heraldic cat. Especially when you keep your head still and slide your eyes at people.
It does far more for one than drink. And yet no one preaches about it, or signs pledges about it. Five mouthfuls and the world looks rosy.
I was so happy this week because it was the first week this year that we hadn't needed sitting-room fires and I had no fires to do and no fireplaces to clean. But nothing—I repeat, nothing—will stop George from throwing his used matches into the fireplace. And as he takes fifteen matches to light one pipe—!
The room swarms with waste-paper baskets and ash trays, but no, George must use the fireplace. He doesn't even aim, blast him. A fine careless flick of the wrist and the match lands anywhere from the fender to the farthest coal.
And they have all got to be picked out again. However, now that I've had some Latchetts coffee I have decided not to take a chopper to him after all. A dinner for intimates, here; and a dance for everyone in the barn. What is Alec's address, by the way? I'll look it up for you. He has a different one almost every time he writes. I think he gets heaved out when he can't pay his rent.
Not that I hear from him often, of course. He has never forgiven me for not marrying well, so that I could keep my only brother in the state to which he had been accustomed.
He had a part in that silly comedy at the Savoy but it ran only a few weeks. He is so much a type that his parts are necessarily limited. You don't know how lucky you are, Bee, to have Ashbys to deal with. The incidence of rakes in the Ashby family is singularly low. What became of Cousin Walter? A workhouse ward, I think. He just liked drink and hadn't the head for it. But when a Ledingham is a rake he is plain bad.
Bee was several years older than her friend: But neither could remember a time when the other was not there; and the Ledingham children had gone in and out of Latchetts as if it were their home, as familiar with it as the Ashbys were with Clare. It was at that view she had been looking when it happened. On a day very like this and at this time of the year.
Standing in the sitting-room window, thinking how lovely everything looked and if they would think that nothing they had seen in Europe was half as lovely. Wondering if Nora would look well again; she had been very pulled down after the twins' birth. Hoping she had been a good deputy for them, and yet a little pleased to be resuming her own life in London to-morrow. The twins had been asleep, and the older children upstairs grooming themselves for the welcome and for the dinner they were to be allowed to stay up for.
In half an hour or so the car would swing out from the avenue of lime trees and come to rest at the door and there they would be; in a flurry of laughter and embracing and present-giving and well-being.
The turning on of the wireless had been so absent-minded a gesture that she did not know that she had done it. There were no survivors. There had been no survivors. And—well, I suppose one's mind tidies away the things it can't bear to remember. Bill and Nora—that was frightful, but it was something that happened to people.
I mean, it was part of the ordinary risks of life. But Pat—that was different. Was he as like Simon as Ruth is like Jane? They weren't identical twins. Not much more alike than some brothers are. Though oddly enough they were much more in each other's pockets than Ruth and Jane are.
Do you think he remembers it often? But it is a long way between thirteen and twenty-one.
Brat Farrar Audiobook | Josephine Tey | ogloszenia-praca.info
I expect even a twin grows shadowy at that distance. How shadowy was he to her: She tried to call up his face in front of her but there was only a blur.
He had been small and immature for his age, but otherwise he was just an Ashby. Less an individual than a family resemblance. All she really remembered, now she thought about it, was that he was solemn and kind. Kindness was not a common trait in small boys. Simon had a careless generosity when it did not cost him inconvenience; but Patrick had had that inner kindness that not only gives but gives up.
A pauper's burial, it was. It had been months in the water, hadn't it? They couldn't even tell what sex it was; could they? And Castleton is miles away.
And they get all the corpses from the Atlantic founderings, anyhow. I mean, the nearer ones.brat farrar
It is not sense to worry over—to identify it with—" Her dismayed voice died into silence. Have some more coffee. It was morbid to keep it, even if she had not looked at it for years.
She had never had the heart to tear it up because it had seemed part of Patrick. But of course that was absurd. It was no more part of Patrick than was the despair that had filled him when he wrote: Don't be angry with me.
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Burning it would not blot it from her mind, of course, but there was nothing she could do about that. The round schoolboy letters were printed there for always. Round, careful letters written with the stylograph that he had been so attached to.
It was so like Patrick to apologise for taking his own life. Nancy, watching her friend's face, proffered what she considered to be consolation. I mean, the coat with the note in the pocket. By the path down the Gap to the shore. When I was in loco parentis that time, when Bill and Nora were on holiday, we went several times to the Gap, the children and I; to swim and have a picnic. And once when we were there Patrick said that the best way to die—I think he called it the lovely way—would be to swim out until you were too tired to go any farther.
He said it quite matter-of-factly, of course. In those days it was—a mere academic matter. When I pointed out that drowning would still be drowning, he said: The water would just take you. Forget I said it. You haven't allowed time to get at them to—to mould them over a little. Certainly no one has mentioned Patrick to me since the coming-of-age celebrations have been in the air. None of us did. All the children were wild with grief to begin with, of course. But none more than another.
Patrick seemed bewildered rather than inconsolable. Latchetts belongs to me now? Simon was impatient with him, I remember. Simon was always the brilliant one. I think that it was all too much for Patrick; too strange. The adrift feeling of being suddenly without his father and mother, and the weight of Latchetts on his shoulders. It was too much for him and he was so unhappy that he—took a way out. It was wrong of me to forget him.
You won't forget to let me have Alec's address, will you? A Ledingham must have an invitation. Can your latest moron take a telephone message? You won't forget that he is Alec Loding on the stage, will you? It is a long time since he has been to Clare. A country life is not Alec's idea of amusement. But an Ashby coming-of-age is surely something that would interest him. Indeed, he was at this moment actively engaged in pulling strings to that end.
Or, rather, trying to pull strings. The strings weren't pulling very well. He was sitting in the back room at the Green Man, the remains of lunch spread before him, and beside him sat a young man. A boy, one would have said, but for something controlled and still that did not go with adolescence. Loding poured coffee for himself and sugared it liberally; casting a glance now and then at his companion, who was turning an almost empty beer glass round and round on the table.
The movement was so deliberate that it hardly came under the heading of fidgeting. There is no filial devotion to be simulated, you know. Only dutiful affection for an aunt you haven't seen for nearly ten years—which one would expect to be more dutiful than affectionate. And you're not offering me anything.
He had not raised his eyes from his slowly-turning beer. What is wrong with the proposition? You aren't asked to impersonate anyone. Just to be yourself. A much easier task. Loding kept his temper with a visible effort. He had a pink, collapsed face that reminded one of the underside of fresh mushrooms. The flesh hung away from his good Ledingham bones with a discouraged slackness, and the incipient pouches under his eyes detracted from their undoubted intelligence.
He lifted his eyes for the first time, resting them incuriously on Loding. A dentist keeps a record of work, you know. I wonder where those kids went. Something would have to be done about that. Are those front teeth your own? They were kicked out. There was a London trip to see the dentist twice a year; once before Christmas and once in the summer. They went to the dentist in the morning and to a show in the afternoon: These are the kind of things you would have to know, by the way.
I bathed with that kid in the buff many a time and he hadn't as much as a mole on him. He was so ordinary that you could order him by the dozen from any prep. You are more like his brother at this moment than that kid ever was, twins though they were.
I tell you, I thought for a moment that you were young Ashby. Isn't that good enough for you? You come and live with me for a fortnight and by the end of it there won't be anything you don't know about the village of Clare and its inhabitants. Nor anything about Latchetts. I know every last pantry in it.
In Josephine Tey's Brat Farrar, what was Brat's real relationship t ( people answered this)
Nor anything about the Ashbys. Can you swim, by the way? He had gone back to his glass of beer. There's the matter of ears, too.
Yours look ordinary enough, and his must have been ordinary too or I should remember. Anyone who has worked in a life-class notices ears. But I must see what photographs of him exist. Front ones wouldn't matter, but a real close-up of an ear might be a give-away. I think I must take a trip to Clare and do some prospecting.
***Group Read: Brat Farrar (Spoilers)
Then he said, reasonably: Do you believe that? Or do you think that this is just a way of getting you to come home with me? I believe your story. That settled, do you believe that you are as like young Ashby as I say? Just look like him. And believe me you do! My God, how you do! It's something I wouldn't have believed unless I saw it with my own eyes; something I have imagined only happened in books.
And it is worth a fortune to you. You have only to put out your hand and take it. Do you realise that except for the first year or so your story would be truth? It would be your own story; able to stand up to any amount of checking. You do me scant justice, amigo. There was a ship of that repellent title at Westover the day the boy disappeared.
I know because I spent most of the day painting her. On canvas, not on her plates, you understand. And the old scow went out before I had finished; bound for the Channel Islands. All my ships go out before I have finished painting them. A charming small estate. A—" "Security, did you say? The light eyes that looked at him for a moment held a faint amusement. Loding, that the gamble was yours? I take your coaching, pass the exam, and forget about you. And you wouldn't be able to do a thing about it.
How did you figure to keep tabs on me?
No one with your Ashby looks could be a double-crosser. The Ashbys are monsters of rectitude. Thank you for my lunch, Mr.
If I had known what you had in mind when you asked me to lunch with you, I wouldn't have—" "All right, all right. And don't run away; we'll go together. You don't like my proposition: But you, on the other hand, fascinate me. I can hardly take my eyes off you, or believe that anything so unique exists. And since you are sure that my improper proposal to you has nothing of the personal in it, there is nothing against our walking as far as the Underground together.
But I shall give you my address in the hope that you will come to see me. Oh, no; not about the proposition. If it isn't your cup of tea then it isn't your cup of tea; and if you felt like that you certainly wouldn't make a success of it.
No, not about the proposition. I have something in my rooms that I think would interest you. A whole trunkful of rubbish, which I have never had the energy to get rid of, and a large proportion of it consists of snapshots and photographs of the companions of my youth.
I think you would find it very interesting. I had never met the perfect poker face until now, and I should be sorry if it was being wasted on some nonconformist abstainer. Here is my address. If by any chance I have fled from there the Spotlight will find me. I am truly sorry I couldn't sell you the idea of being an Ashby. You would have made an excellent master of Latchetts, I feel.
Someone who was at home with horses, and used to an outdoor life. Very well thought of, I understand. Loding watched him as he went down the street. Why should he have nibbled at the word horse? I suppose that, as a mystery story, it isn't that hard to fathom - you know pretty much how things will span out from your very first introduction to Simon, but, in my opinion, this isn't really the excitement of the story - after all, you know from the get-go half the answer to the real mystery - that Brat isn't, in fact, Patrick.
Again, the fact that Brat turns out to be a cousin is not really a surprise either - although, to my mind, this is one of the weakest parts of the ending.
For me, the excitement of the story is watching the relationship between Simon and Brat - I think that Josephine Tey is very good at conveying the confusion - that neither of them can figure out what is going on. Someone on LT, I can't recall who, recommended this book to me a long time ago. I just never got around to reading it.
I liked the impostor story told from his angle, which is unusual. I used to read mysteries all the time, but haven't read too many lately, so I did not catch the mention of Walter on page Although the ending was not quite as good as the rest of the story, I did like the ending, too. I was fond of Brat and wanted things to turn out ok for him. What a great choice for a group read! I enjoyed the book, found it a light and easy read. I liked the fact that we knew or thought we did what was going on, and I was surprised that Brat became the hero I wanted to root for, even knowing he was a fraud.
The mystery was pretty straightforward and the resolution was perhaps a little too pat, but overall I rate this book a 4 star read.
Well, maybe receiving just the one payment for his efforts was his punishment. I confess that when it was discovered that Brat was a cousin and Eleanor wanted to marry him, I went, "Eeeewww. Mar 23,4: It goes with the idealism and misguided nobility that made him ferret out who killed Patrick all by himself. And I suppose it's all part of the stiff-upper-lip, mustn't-cause-a-scandal, hush-it-all-up resolution that fits with characters.
The cousin thing didn't bother me. And given that Brat is the son of 'Cousin Walter' they must be at least second cousins anyway. The fact that he's the spitting image of her brother is slightly more eeuwww-inducing, to my mind. It is dated and I could guess at the resolution, but loved the characters anyway and the 'play' between Simon and Brat. I adored little Tony and the whole horse thing.