Wild thyme grew underfoot, and there were hazards of whin and gorse.
My Rosamunde Pilcher binge continues on, though this entry, WILD MOUNTAIN THYME will officially go down as my “least favorite” of the five that I’ve read so far.
This novel, published in 1978, introduces us to Oliver Dobbs, a loathsome man who abducts his biological child (who doesn’t know who he is), in the very first chapter.
We find out, quickly, that Oliver is an up-and-coming writer who has already sent one young wife running for her life, beating her early on in their ill-fated marriage. She left him before their baby was even born, and then dies conveniently in a plane wreck. (These aren’t spoilers, this is all chapter one intel).
Turns out, the world of the 1970s is still full of women dumb enough to go out with an Oliver Dobbs. Young Victoria Bradshaw thinks that Oliver’s habit of slowly brushing the hair from her eyes and then kissing her neck until she gives in to him is crazy irresistible, even though he says things to her like: “If you so much as pick up a telephone, I promise you, I’ll batter you black and blue.” (In case it’s unclear, he’s not making a joke).
If Victoria had poured gasoline on him while he slept and then lit a match, I would have found this a far more rewarding read. Sadly, she’s still telling us, on page 238 (out of 294 pages) that “there was never anyone but Oliver” for her. Poor girl, at 21-years-old she thinks that a man who casually calls her a “deceitful little bitch” before throwing his disgusting cigarette in a pristine body of water is a “catch.” (If only the vibrator had been improved upon by 1978, the world might have been her oyster!)
As it is, we must witness Victoria continue on as some sort of human dishrag, despite the dishier John Dunbeath loitering in the background. You can tell, as a reader, that Ms. Pilcher is offering him up as Victoria’s future romantic prospect, but, sadly, that “device” never worked for me. Victoria needs a good clinical psychologist, then a backbone, then a vacation. In that order. It never meant enough to me that perhaps the hunky John (who came across as 48 rather than his actual age of 28) is available to her, whenever she wants him. Sure, she should plunge right into another long-term relationship after this shipwreck!
(And what’s with everyone letting the 2-year-old toddler be alone by himself near both the ocean and multiple lakes? Anyone ever heard of drowning?)
Okay, so this was my least favorite novel of hers, but I’d still like to point out that I read it in three nights, so it was still akin to literary crack. I don’t know how Ms. Pilcher pulls it off, but she does.
I’d like to finish this review by pointing out how amused I was by how so many of the older characters in this story jumped, or were startled by, or were completed unnerved by the ringing of the telephone. This reminded me so much of the summers I spent in the early 1980s as a girl with my grandmother and her husband. Every time the phone would ring, my grandmother would jump off the floor, stop whatever she was doing and make noises like “Oh! Oh! Oh!” She, and her husband, or her sister, whichever peer was nearby, would all buzz about in great consternation and whenever she’d answer the phone, she’d shout out something like, “Hello? Yes? Yes? What IS it?”
Given how our phones now rule our very existence, it’s interesting to observe how these characters perceive it as a great disruption to the general peace of their lives.