The Distant Hours

by Kate Morton, 2010

After reading the first few chapters, I found myself hoping that I would love this novel. The leading protagonist is a bookish young Englishwoman who tends to get lost while driving (like me) and who comments that it is so much easier to write well than to speak well (I can identify). During the story, she finds herself trying to unravel the past in order to understand her own mother’s youth. This past history is interwoven with the lives of the mysterious, spinster daughters of a famous author who inspired the protagonist’s love of reading. Did I mention that the events in question are centered around an eerie, ancient, English castle where the heroine’s mother was evacuated from London during World War II? In addition, the prose of the book itself is written in a leisurely, promising style. The text alternates between our bookish Englishwoman’s research efforts and a series of events from the past, as told from the perspectives of the different spinster sisters. In the end, we also find out about the young soldier who went missing during the War and how he came to do so.

However, the longer the book continued, the more I felt dissatisfied. Perhaps I am misunderstanding the author’s intentions, but it felt as if she was reaching for something that she did not quite pull off. The leisurely style began to feel too loosely woven, as if she should have sharpened her storytelling and made every detail count instead of throwing in extra ones. Her portraits of British aristocrats of the World War I and II generation didn’t quite ring true to me—the flavor was slightly off from what one finds in books written by authors (say, Julian Fellowes or Dorothy Sayers) who actually know/knew such people. The themes of secrets, family, love, and loyalty were interesting, but for me they did not achieve the level of “haunting and satisfying.” I think that this was because of the loose weave. I wanted the author to provide a little more direction to me as a reader. I felt that I should have had a clearer idea of how I was supposed to react to the climactic ending. SPOILER: much of this is because one character ends up killing herself and two people beloved to herself by burning down her home with them all inside. I find it hard to believe that a protective and loving person would do that to their nearest and dearest—surely there are less agonizing ways to die of murder/suicide than immolation? I am honestly not sure if the author intends me to recoil in horror at the idea that they all perished in terrible pain, or whether she expects me to believe that the two victims slept through it, and the uncertainty leaves me off-balance.

Some of the plot “surprises” also became rather obvious once I realized that the overall events, unlike the style and pace of the book, are reminiscent of certain stock BBC T.V. mysteries. All of this dissatisfaction was made worse by the fact that I expected the book to be better. It had promise! It had atmosphere! It had English people drinking tea and discussing literature! Perhaps it would go over better with other readers. I rather think that I may try one more book by the same author, just to see if it succeeds (with me) a bit better. 

The bottom line is that this novel is like a very, very long BBC T.V. mystery (not a bad designation for any book to receive, since the BBC usually does mysteries rather well).

Linking up to Housewifespice for What We're Reading Wednesday.