Each disaster is confirmed by variations on the phrase "darkness fell", and each new beginning heralded by the tabula rasa that snow brings. Ursula's childhood is to be punctuated with such near-misses: the treacherous undertow of the Cornish sea, icy tiles during a rooftop escapade, the wildfire spread of Spanish flu. Fortunately, though, she is allowed another go at the business of coming into being in take two, Dr Fellowes makes it, cuts the cord and proceeds to his reward of a cold collation and some homemade piccalilli (it might be too fanciful to notice that even the piccalilli repeats). Ursula is stillborn, with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, her life unsaved for want of a pair of surgical scissors. (In fact, even this is not quite true: a brief prologue shows us Ursula in a Munich coffee shop in 1930, assassinating Hitler with her father's old service revolver.) At the start of the novel "proper", Sylvie Todd is giving birth to her third child, her situation given a fairytale atmosphere by the encroaching snow which also, alas, cuts her off from outside help in the form of Dr Fellowes or Mrs Haddock, the midwife. She begins as she means to go on, and at the very beginning. Atkinson's general rule is that things seem to get better with repetition, but this, her self-undermining novel seems to warn us, is a comfort that is by no means guaranteed, either. If this sounds like the quick route to a short book, don't worry: the narrative starts again – and again and again – but each time it takes a different course, its details sometimes radically, sometimes marginally altered, its outcome utterly unpredictable. Every time you attempt to lose yourself in the story of Ursula Todd, a child born in affluent and comparatively happy circumstances on 11 February 1910, it simply stops. One shot.K ate Atkinson's new novel is a marvel, a great big confidence trick – but one that invites the reader to take part in the deception. ‘ Für Sie.’Īround the table guns were jerked from holsters and pointed at her. Swiftness was all, yet there was a moment, a bubble suspended in time after she had drawn the gun and levelled it at his heart when everything seemed to stop. Her father’s old service revolver from the Great War, a Webley Mark V.Ī move rehearsed a hundred times.
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She dabbed politely at the Streusel flakes on her lips and then bent down again to put the handkerchief back in her bag and retrieve the weighty object nesting there. Lace corners, monogrammed with her initials, ‘UBT’ – a birthday present from Pammy. ‘ Entschuldigung,’ she murmured, reaching down into her bag and delving for a handkerchief. ‘ Sehr gutes Englisch.’ He was in a good mood, tapping the back of his index finger against his lips with an amused smile as if he was listening to a tune in his head. Everyone else at the table laughed as well. ‘Yes, it’s raining,’ he said with a heavy accent. ‘ Es regnet,’ she said by way of conversation. He insisted that she try the Pflaumen Streusel.
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She placed her handbag, heavy with its cargo, on the floor next to her chair and ordered Schokolade. ‘ Unsere Englische Freundin,’ he said to the blonde, who blew cigarette smoke out slowly and examined her without any interest before eventually saying, ‘ Guten Tag.’ A Berliner. The bootlicker who was currently occupying it jumped up and moved away.
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He smiled when he caught sight of her and half rose, saying, ‘ Guten Tag, gnädiges Fräulein,’ indicating the chair next to him. The softly repellent body (she imagined pastry) beneath the clothes, never exposed to public view. No wonder he looked so pasty, she was surprised he wasn’t diabetic. All those dirndls and knee-socks, God help us. Everyone knew that he preferred his women demure and wholesome, Bavarian preferably. The blonde lit a cigarette, making a phallic performance out of it. There was a woman she had never seen before – a permed, platinum blonde with heavy make-up – an actress by the look of her. He was at a table at the far end of the room, surrounded by the usual cohorts and toadies. A regiment of white-aproned waiters rushed around at tempo, serving the needs of the Münchner at leisure – coffee, cake and gossip. She had come in from the rain and drops of water still trembled like delicate dew on the fur coats of some of the women inside.
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September 1940, October 1940, October 1940, November 1940, May 1941, November 1943, February 1947, June 1967Ī FUG OF tobacco smoke and damp clammy air hit her as she entered the café. Four Seasons Fill the Measure of the Year