It's that time of the year when roaring fires (well, turning the central heating on for the first time since March), brimming mugs of hot chocolate and getting all snug on swiftly drawing-in evenings begin to appeal. And, as the shadows lengthen and Hallowe'en spookiness beckon, a spine-chilling tale is the perfect partner for that hot chocolate/roaring fire (or, er, radiator) combination. With this in mind, and a mug of Cadbury's finest in hand, I settled down with Helen Phifer's The Good Sisters, delighting in the prospect of the deliciously tense chillfest ahead.
Kate has had a tough time - the loss of a dear friend and a husband (the former to cancer, the latter to a bevy of twentysomething other women) has hit her hard, and her spiralling descent into alcoholism has left her damaged and broken. When she stumbles on a rambling wreck of a house at a price which seems to good to be true, she jumps at the chance to forge a new life for herself as a property developer and, ultimately, hotel proprietor. But the past has other ideas... Over eighty years before, Kate's tumbledown bargain was a convent, where peace and serenity reigned. Until one dark, stormy night, when evil was invited in. Decades on, that evil hasn't gone anywhere, as Kate will soon discover...
A simple enough premise, then, and one with all the classic ingredients for a haunted house tale present and correct; brooding evil, a crumbling shell of a country house lavishly hung with crucifixes, things that go bump in the night... Heck - there are even nuns. Nuns! Sounds promising, if a tad unoriginal, doesn't it?
Unfortunately, all hopes of the anticipated tension were shattered just a few pages in. Sinister slow-burn is, sadly, not for Phifer; the reader is catapulted immediately into the (not terribly terrifying) action, with shadowy figures watching as the modern-day protagonist surveys her new domain. This nugget is dropped unceremoniously into the narrative, with no flesh-creeping build up whatsoever; it's as if the ghostly watcher is just another fixture or fitting like the lumpen heavy furniture (draped with greying dust-sheets, of course) in Kate's inventory. This theme continues throughout, with clumsily signalled non-frights popping up to disappoint the reader regularly. Almost as soon as we are introduced to the 1930s strand, for example, we meet a character whose name, appearance and foibles immediately and unsubtly signpost what she is - all done in a style reminiscent of teen-penned fanfiction.
Poor writing, anomalies and poor research pepper the narrative. Our heroine, Kate, is thoroughly unlikeable - perhaps the author intended this to be the case, as I can't see any other reason for her to be written the way she is. Self-absorbed and self-destructive, she is a woman who has designs on her builder - an employee of her ex husband, with a terminally ill wife at home. Nice. Regularly drinking to excess, she decides not to call the police to attend to a suspected midnight burglar because she's ashamed of the empties in her recycling bin. Instead, she chooses to investigate the noises herself, armed with the baseball bat she just happens to have to hand despite not possessing cutlery or kitchen utensils. As you do. Elsewhere, Kate displays startling ignorance and unpleasant stereotypical ideas when it comes to 'grotty council' estates - the authors values shining through perhaps?
So much seems out of place and out of its time, often to a startling degree. We meet nuns who go to the cinema to see horror films, and, while I am in no way prudish about swearwords, even I was somewhat taken aback by a 1930s policeman dropping the F-bomb in a roomful of brides of Christ.
I stuck with The Good Sisters to the (predictable) bitter end, but only because I hate to see any book go unfinished. It took me several evenings to wade through, evidence of how un-grabbed I was. Clunky writing and poor characterisation along with a paper-thin, unimaginative plot left me colder than Lilith's lily-white skin, I'm afraid. Except I wasn't. Afraid.
The best I can say for The Good Sisters is that if Phifer edited out the swear words and (poorly depicted) alcoholism, this might make a passable YA read; youngsters who have not yet read as widely as, and are, perhaps, more easily scared than adults may then enjoy it. As it is, it's a pale (as pale as Lilith's... etc) imitation of others in its genre.
Next time I switch the heating on, I'll reach for MR James instead.
My thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.