I couldn’t help it. Before I cracked the cover of The Woman in the Attic [Flanker Press] two things popped into my noggin.
Firstly, the farmhouse in Andrew Wyeth’s painting “Christina’s World” and secondly, Bertha Mason, “the first Mrs. Rochester” who — because she’s been deemed crazy — is barred in a room on the third floor of Thornfield Hall in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre.
Talk about initial reactions, eh b’ys?
Neither of my first impressions has much to do with the particulars of Woman in the Attic except the book features an old saltbox house on a barren headland, inside which there is an attic where someone …
… well, you’ll get to that when you read this novel.
In the Prologue a woman buries a metal box in the presence of a child whom she warns to “knock off” her wailing. When the toddler touches the box, the woman snaps at her — “Stop touching that thing. Last thing you need now is blood on your hands.”
If the storyteller were an angler and you a curious, famished trout, the baited barb would now be snagged in your lower lip — hooked! (Fear not, storytelling is a catch and release experience. Following the Epilogue, you’ll be set free — except for mixed memories, I s’pose.)
Yes, Prologue and Epilogue bracketing a story chock-a-block with intrigue, such as …
Really, you expect spoilers?
This story reflects on olden times — 1998, for frig sake! (Emily, my duck, I don’t suppose it matters to you how aged you’ve made this old scribbler feel.)
Emily Hepditch is a young crackerjack. I say this with due respect. At a youthful age — comparable with the age when I ceased applying little dabs of Brylcreem to my topknot — she has written this gem-dandy novel.
Okay. Alright. A synopsis.
Hannah Fitzgerald returns to her outport home — located miles from Loostab, the nearest town of any significant size — to fetch her ailing mother and transport her to a personal care facility.
Since you insist, spoiler alert.
At her childhood home, Hannah climbs into the attic and finds — guess what? A “tickle trunk”. (Emily, no doubt, is an acolyte of Mr. Dressup.)
That’s right. An old trunk … with a bloody jacket concealed beneath its lid.
Oh, and elsewhere there might be a journal, or Polaroid snaps, or letters — perhaps even a gun — to be discovered later.
That’s it. No more telling.
Hannah’s old home, reminiscent of the farmhouse in Wyeth’s painting (Did you think I’d forgotten?), stands on an isolated headland, pretty much on the edge of treacherous cliffs where danger is always impending.
Here’s a thought: all of us live on the edges of cliffs. Tragically, any of us could slip and fall in the bat of an eye. Perish the thought.
You won’t believe the thought that just flashed behind my peepers. (Blame Netflix, perhaps, where I recently watched Rebecca.) I’ve remembered Mrs. Danvers, the malicious housekeeper of Manderley. Manderley, an isolated manor not totally unlike Thornfield Hall or Hannah’s weathered saltbox, eh b’ys?
Colleen is the caregiver/housekeeper in this novel.
And there’s a cast-iron frying pan — ideal for squashing rodents, among other things.
And there’s a rolling pin.
I’m chucking down my pen, so to speak, before I “slip” and reveal all.
Finally, a promise — at times Woman in the Attic will give you the shivers.
Thank you for reading.
— Harold Walters lives in Dunville, Newfoundland, doing his damnedest to live Happily Ever After. Reach him at ghwalters663@gmail.com