One Final Xmas Scene

The Very Dead of Winter by Mary Hocking

published 1993

[excerpt] The  snow was hard and walking was very tiring. Florence was aware that she had overtaxed her strength. She rested her back against the trunk of a tree. There was utter stillness.

She tried to warm herself with thoughts of families gathered together, drinking mulled wine, exchanging perfunctory gallantries under mistletoe, putting the last touches to the brandy butter, children clamouring to open presents. But the picture, so precious to her, seemed strangely remote, not only in in place but in time. When had it been this perfect Christmas with which she was so familiar?

 

 

comments: This is my last Xmas book scene till next December. It's a very Christmas-y book, without ever going overboard on the presents and decorations mentioned here. A family gathers in a snowbound cottage. Two sisters: one lives there alone, the other has come with her dying husband and grownup children. The electricity has gone, but luckily there is an Aga. They (ludicrously) decide to have a party for neighbours who are equally affected by the power outage – there is a feeling that they can get to each other but no further, because of the snow.

The party is an awful event with dire consequences for some (food poisoning) and an excellent line from a local

‘er will make a fine widder wumman

Because upstairs Konrad is dying. And – oh what a surprise – some family secrets are coming out.

I didn’t really take to this book, finding the contrast between the two sisters too stereotyped. The author hammered home how awful Florence is, contrasting her with everyone else, and even brought in the trope of judging people by who can tell if the paintings are good. I have a perhaps unreasonable dislike of this particular one. How dare the author decide that the art is great, describe it without having to produce it, and then damn their own characters for an opinion they have forced on them? Tchah.

On the plus side the book wasn’t remotely twee or sentimental or sugary: it was readable and short and there were some funny moments. I particularly liked the child psychologist who obviously disliked children very much, and whose every remark seemed to show she had little understanding of them. Also Florence’s splendid and monstrous description of how she intends her life to be once her husband finally dies. She is going to take the opportuniy to ruin everyone else's lives:  “I shall insist now, for your good as much as your own… you’ve never had to take up your responsibilities and it’s only fair that I am straight with you now, I would be failing as a mother if I weren’t.’

There were odd fairytale moments – the people wandering through the woods, the pony – and, in the end, the all-pervading snow.

It reminded me of a certain kind of play: all the characters stalking on and off, speaking clearly, telling each other everything (despite having never been able to talk for the previous 30 years) and a finale as everyone walks in and out again.

There was a 19^th Century concept of ‘the well-made play’ – a specific set of characteristics and not at all seen as a good thing by later writers. ‘Well-made’ in this context not a compliment. The parameters are not the same, but this book kept reminding me of the idea. It was all too pat, and I did wish the author would let us discover some things for ourselves. And I didn’t see why Florence had to be such a villainous cartoon.

But others do not share my view of this book – and it may be just the Christmas book for you…

Thank you for reading my Xmas book scenes over the past few weeks: I very much enjoy tackling this theme each year, and hope you like them too.

The painting, Hunter in the Forest, is by Caspar David Friedrich.