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The temple tree
Fine/No Jacket. Hardcover. No marks or inscriptions. No creasing to covers or to spine. A very clean very tight copy with bright unmarked leatherette boards, minor foxing to page edges and no bumping to corners. 251pp. Dramatic novel with a love element about a plane crash and the attempts to find out whether pilot error or sabotage. ISBN 0600871479
245 pages, Hardcover
Published January 1, 1971
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About the author
David Beaty
96 books2 followersDavid Beaty is a British author of fictional and non-fictional works. He got a Master degree in history (1940) at Merton College, Oxford, and a Master degree in psychology (1965) at University College, London. He was trained pilot in the Royal Air Force during the 2nd World War. His works focus on aviation, especially on psychological aspects of aircraft pilots.
Beaty was born in 1919 in Ceylon, married in 1948 to Betty Smith, a writer herself (see Betty Beaty), and is father of three daughters. He died in 1999.
Sources:
- Europa Publications (Editor), International Who's Who of Authors and Writers 2004, Psychology Press, 2003
- Ken Beere, Obituary: David Beaty , Independent, 22.12.1999
Beaty was born in 1919 in Ceylon, married in 1948 to Betty Smith, a writer herself (see Betty Beaty), and is father of three daughters. He died in 1999.
Sources:
- Europa Publications (Editor), International Who's Who of Authors and Writers 2004, Psychology Press, 2003
- Ken Beere, Obituary: David Beaty , Independent, 22.12.1999
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
April 25, 2014
Average thriller from the early seventies, describing the attempts of a British aviation accident investigator in post-colonial Sri Lanka to get the authorities to take his concerns over the crash of a Boeing 707 seriously, when local politics mean that a verdict of pilot error is being railroaded through.
Probably of most interest now as a period piece, with the technical background of civil aviation forty years ago being convincing (I can't personally vouch for its accuracy). It reminded me most of Neville Shute's No Highway from twenty years earlier, which has a similar background in many ways - though that is a much better novel. The Temple Tree also serves as a reminder of the attitudes of the British and their former colonial subjects towards each other in the period.
Not really tense enough to be enjoyed as a thriller, and with a romantic sub-plot which is seriously underdeveloped, this is not as good as similar contemporary thrillers with a technical background from writers such as Desmond Bagley and Hammond Innes.
Probably of most interest now as a period piece, with the technical background of civil aviation forty years ago being convincing (I can't personally vouch for its accuracy). It reminded me most of Neville Shute's No Highway from twenty years earlier, which has a similar background in many ways - though that is a much better novel. The Temple Tree also serves as a reminder of the attitudes of the British and their former colonial subjects towards each other in the period.
Not really tense enough to be enjoyed as a thriller, and with a romantic sub-plot which is seriously underdeveloped, this is not as good as similar contemporary thrillers with a technical background from writers such as Desmond Bagley and Hammond Innes.
August 30, 2025
One of the joys of going away on holiday is browsing through the bookshelves of the house or hotel where we are staying. So, on our recent holiday, I was drawing my finger along the spines – sometimes the touch of a book can be as important as its appearance – when I stopped on a slim volume. Drawing it out, I saw a splendidly old-fashioned cover with the much missed Pan logo in the top right corner. But that’s not what made me read the book.
Turning it over to read the blurb, I discovered that the book was set in Ceylon, shortly before it became Sri Lanka on 22 May 1972. That the story involved an air-accident investigator trying to discover the reason a plane crashed on the approach to the country’s newest airport. And that the author, David Beaty, had been born and grew up in Ceylon himself.
Given that my father is Ceylonese (coming to Britain in 1960), and that I visited Sri Lanka for the first time in 1975 with my family, this was an intriguing prospect. Plus, there’s something salutary about reading the forgotten books of forgotten writers – after all, it’s a fate that will probably befall me. I suspect, for a writer, someone reading their books after their death is the equivalent of ten masses for the dead in shortening their time of waiting, so I do hope some of my books might be found, waiting in hope on a dusty shelf after I am dead, taken down, brushed off and read again, bringing ease to the dusty soul of this long-gone writer.
Having finished the book, I did some more research on David Beaty and while it’s true his novels are largely forgotten, it turns out that his research on air-traffic accidents was a crucial influence in ensuring that pilot psychology and crew resource management became essential elements of pilot training. So while his name might be receding, his influence endures.
On to the story. Plus points: I read it in four days, wanted to find out what happened next, and was satisfied with the ending. Negative points: it was rather disappointing in its evocation of post-colonial Ceylon. When we first arrived in Ceylon in 1975, I remember the overwhelming sensation of burgeoning life as we were driven from the airport into Colombo, the sense that one might spit the stone of a fruit out of the window of the car and see the budding tree bursting up out of the ground in the rear-view mirror. What’s more, the story is set during the monsoon season and there’s no real sense of the sweat and the grime, of the way that dirt collects under your fingernails even when you have four baths a day.
So, I am glad to have read the story and, David, I will say a prayer for the repose of your soul. But the story is likely to be left, quietly sitting on old bookshelves, the fading echo of a life’s work.
Turning it over to read the blurb, I discovered that the book was set in Ceylon, shortly before it became Sri Lanka on 22 May 1972. That the story involved an air-accident investigator trying to discover the reason a plane crashed on the approach to the country’s newest airport. And that the author, David Beaty, had been born and grew up in Ceylon himself.
Given that my father is Ceylonese (coming to Britain in 1960), and that I visited Sri Lanka for the first time in 1975 with my family, this was an intriguing prospect. Plus, there’s something salutary about reading the forgotten books of forgotten writers – after all, it’s a fate that will probably befall me. I suspect, for a writer, someone reading their books after their death is the equivalent of ten masses for the dead in shortening their time of waiting, so I do hope some of my books might be found, waiting in hope on a dusty shelf after I am dead, taken down, brushed off and read again, bringing ease to the dusty soul of this long-gone writer.
Having finished the book, I did some more research on David Beaty and while it’s true his novels are largely forgotten, it turns out that his research on air-traffic accidents was a crucial influence in ensuring that pilot psychology and crew resource management became essential elements of pilot training. So while his name might be receding, his influence endures.
On to the story. Plus points: I read it in four days, wanted to find out what happened next, and was satisfied with the ending. Negative points: it was rather disappointing in its evocation of post-colonial Ceylon. When we first arrived in Ceylon in 1975, I remember the overwhelming sensation of burgeoning life as we were driven from the airport into Colombo, the sense that one might spit the stone of a fruit out of the window of the car and see the budding tree bursting up out of the ground in the rear-view mirror. What’s more, the story is set during the monsoon season and there’s no real sense of the sweat and the grime, of the way that dirt collects under your fingernails even when you have four baths a day.
So, I am glad to have read the story and, David, I will say a prayer for the repose of your soul. But the story is likely to be left, quietly sitting on old bookshelves, the fading echo of a life’s work.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews