'The Penderwicks' by Jeanne Birdsall

This is the start of an award-winning, middle-grade, twenty-first century series about a set of sisters. The books have been hailed as 'modern classics' and likened to several beloved historical and vintage series from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. I borrowed this from my library, willing and hoping to be wowed. 

MY THOUGHTS: 

The four Penderwick sisters, along with their widowed Dad and beloved pet dog, are on their way to spend three weeks at a holiday cottage. The stately property, Arundel Mansion, has a smaller cottage on its grounds, which they'll be renting for the duration.

Rosalind, aged 12, is domestic and responsible, and while at the Arundel estate, she develops a crush on the good-looking teenage gardener named Cagney. Blonde, blue-eyed Skye, aged 11, is adventurous and mathematical. She tends to lose her cool and say outrageous things. Dreamy 10-year-old Jane loves writing fiction and playing soccer. Batty, the very youngest, is a sensitive 4-year-old who adores animals and insists on wearing a pair of costume wings with her everyday clothes. 

Hmm, I'm sorry to say that I was underwhelmed by this pilot book. For this to have won the National Book Award strikes me as an overly generous decision. The pogo-stick plot keeps jerking us from ho-hum incidents to highly dramatic ones, then back again. And these girls have such sassy attitude! They take an instant loathing to their refined landlady, Mrs Tifton, who can't hide the fact that she doesn't want them always springing up wherever she happens to be. Yet the events of the story prove that Mrs Tifton is quite justified in her negativity.

She asks them to stay out of her formal garden for one very specific day while competition judging takes place. Do you think they can manage it? I can't help playing devil's advocate for this lady, who is presented as the story's villain. Perhaps I would've resented her cranky grumbling too, if I'd been the target age group, but my gosh, I can certainly see her point of view now. (Mrs Tifton might be one of those Boomer/Gen X ladies who are nicknamed 'Karen.' Perhaps I'm being a bit of a Karen myself by taking her part. I'm putting myself out there, since I'm the right age, but I really feel I'm making a fair point.) 

 I guess since the Penderwicks were only there for three weeks, Mrs Tifton might as well have sucked it up and got it over with, but the garden incident pushes me over to sympathy for her. Who can maintain equanimity while their passion projects get destroyed at crucial moments right before their eyes? I'm amazed she doesn't cut their father's contract short because of that.

The thing that sets the Penderwick girls apart from other story book families such as the Marches, Melendys, Moffatts, and Quimbys, is that they strike me as annoyingly obtuse and blinkered. They can't seem to understand that they are seriously putting Mrs Tifton out. Instead, they put up an aggrieved front as if she's the one who is putting them out.  

Then about two thirds through, the story finally takes off, because of Jeffrey, Mrs Tifton's 11-year-old son. Jeffrey is a musical prodigy. He longs to study piano, but his mother is keen to send him to Pencey Military Academy, to shape him up to be a soldier, in the footsteps of his celebrated grandfather. 

She's aided and abetted by her pompous fiance, Dexter Dupree, who radiates vibes that he doesn't want a stepson anyway. I wondered if there really is a Pencey Military Academy in Pennsylvania. Having googled it, I suspect Jeanne Birdsall might have adopted one of the horrific 'phoney' institutions Holden Caulfield was expelled from in The Catcher in the Rye. Brilliant move if she has.

Anyway, Jeffrey decides to run away, and the book suddenly becomes more interesting. 

The upshot is I'm going on with the series and hope it keeps growing on me. The Penderwick dad is a nice fellow, although a bit clueless and out of the loop. (Batty's life gets saved twice during their vacation, while he's off the scene.)

 I'll plow on but I suspect I can only take bad-tempered Skye in small doses. She's presented as some sort of Jo March-like crusader for justice, who deserves admiration, but strikes me more as someone who keeps doing her block because she has zero control over her own emotions. 

Anyway, til next time. 

🌟🌟🌟 

Note: I'm sure it's merely a coincidence, but the Penderwick Dad shares the same given name as the Melendy Dad. They are both called Martin. And both Martins are beloved, academic, and understanding young widowers. This is a bit disconcerting. I thought, 'Hey, haven't I seen you before?' 

Next up will be my review of The Penderwicks on Gardam Street. 

Also, I invite you to check out my Middle Grade and YA series page. 

'The Mirror Cracked from Side to Side' by Agatha Christie

I'm getting toward the end of the Miss Marple novels for my Agatha Christie page. This one packs quite a punch. 

 MY THOUGHTS:

The action happens at Gossington Hall (same scene where The Body in the Library took place). It's been recently purchased by film star, Marina Gregg and her director husband, Jason Rudd. Marina is a multiple divorcee with a history of nervous break-downs and bi-polar tendencies. She's high maintenance to say the least, but hopes to relax at last in this country mansion. Tragically, murder strikes during a reception they're holding in aid of St. John's Ambulance. 

Heather Badcock, the chatty and gregarious secretary of St. John's, falls ill and dies suddenly. Her drink turns out to be laced with a massive overdose of 'Calmo' a mood-altering, rudimentary depression medication. The freakiest thing for these show-biz celebs is that there's no doubt the glass in question had been meant for Marina, who'd graciously offered hers to Heather to replace a spilt glass. 

To thicken the plot, Marina seems to be holding back something too horrific for words. While greeting guests, she'd gazed toward several new arrivals with a shocked expression that reminded bystanders of Tennyson's Lady of Shalott. 'The mirror cracked from side to side, the doom has come upon me.' Whatever she saw, she's evidently terrified to tell. It's a tricky challenge for the shrewdness of Miss Marple, who's trying to piece together all the reports she's heard.  

It begs to be said that even though her method works well for her, Miss Marple's exceptional skill may now be considered politically incorrect. She sorts people in her head according to mental associations. 'When you recognize certain types, then when anything occurs, one understands quite why.' I think if it had been our current political climate, Miss Marple might hesitate to use those very words.

Ironically, she herself suffers from someone else's generalizations. Poor Miss Marple has to put up with the overbearing and condescending ministrations of a hired helper named Miss Knight, by doctor's orders. Miss Knight seems to assume that anybody elderly must be treated like a fragile baby. This rampant ageism is painful to read, but our senior sleuth finds a happy way out of this smothering treatment. 

The relentless progress of modernization is another interesting theme. A new housing development has mushroomed up near St Mary Mead. It sounds very much like suburbia as we know it, but is entirely new for these characters. It includes, of all new-fangled ideas, a supermarket. ('You're expected to take a basket yourself and go around looking for things,' complains Mrs Hartnell.) Even younger residents, like Miss Marple's friend Cherry, soon discover the drawbacks of neighborhoods such as we know them. 'You can't express your personality without someone being down on you like a ton of bricks.' 

I found it irritating that so many people called Heather Badcock stupid, especially those celebs and their staff. It seems in very poor taste to invite her to their hyped-up shindig, then look down their noses at her because she's not glamorous, but merely an ordinary person performing a humble role in a vital charity. Still it's worth pushing through for the wow factor of the ending. My cover tagline says, 'Has there ever been a murder with a more intriguing motive.' 

To me, it's one of Agatha Christie's most devastating motives. My gosh, totally understandable too. If the murderer hadn't started overthinking, things might have developed a bit differently. But on that note, I'd better stop and say just read it. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟