The Midnight News
$31.00
| Title | Range | Discount |
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| Trade Discount | 5 + | 25% |
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Description
From the best-selling author of Longbourn, a gripping novel of one young woman’s unraveling during the Blitz—a story of World War II intrigue, love, and danger • “[A] thrilling novel…atmospheric and memorable.” —Emma Donoghue, best-selling author of Haven
It is 1940 and twenty-year-old Charlotte Richmond watches from her attic window as enemy planes fly over London. Still grieving her beloved brother, who never returned from France, she is trying to keep herself out of trouble: holding down a typist job at the Ministry of Information, sharing gin and confidences with her best friend, Elena, and dodging her overbearing father.
On her way to work she often sees the boy who feeds the birds—a source of unexpected joy amid the rubble of the Blitz. But every day brings new scenes of devastation, and after yet another heartbreaking loss Charlotte has an uncanny sense of foreboding. Someone is stalking the darkness, targeting her friends. And now he’s following her.
As grief and suspicion consume her, Charlotte’s nerves become increasingly frayed. She no longer knows whom to trust. She can’t even trust herself . . .
Utterly riveting and hypnotic, The Midnight News is a love story, a war story, and an unforgettable journey into the fragile mind and fierce heart of an extraordinary young woman.“Baker’s thoroughly absorbing novel impresses on many levels. Like the war novels of Pat Barker and Sarah Waters, it brilliantly evokes the sustained horror and chaos of the times . . . Here she shrewdly examines madness and sanity, keeping her reader guessing . . . We follow Charlotte’s progress keenly to discover if, after coming undone, she is able to put herself back together.” —Malcolm Forbes, Minneapolis Star Tribune
“Baker’s intriguing historical novel explores how the strain of wartime living can tip the balance between sanity and delusion, and how forging friendships can be a lifeline.” —Becky Meloan, The Washington Post
“Weekend plans: clear your schedule, get a copy of The Midnight News by Jo Baker, and settle in. This is the kind of book you will want to read from start to finish in a couple days. That is, if you like historical fiction, World War II, good writing, and an interesting plot . . . Riveting.” —Wendy Migdal, Fredericksburg Free-Lance Star
“Jo Baker is a literary shapeshifter . . . Baker’s latest book, The Midnight News, integrates this protean quality into both its forms and themes. A vivid historical novel about London during the Blitz, it is also at times, or in parts, a mystery, a spy novel, a romance and a Bildungsroman . . . Jo Baker’s meticulous prose makes us feel the full weight of these hard truths, but with characteristic rigour she tests and explores, rather than proclaims faith in, the compensatory power of the novelist’s art.” —Rohan Maitzen, Times Literary Supplement
“A tense, atmospheric thriller that’s unlike any World War II novel you’ve read before . . . Baker is firmly in control, and voila, she pulls it off, wrapping up plotlines in surprising ways while returning The Midnight News to a war story, a love story and a commentary on social mores that remains relevant today.” —Alice Cary, BookPage
“Immersive, heartbreaking, and hard to put down, with an unforgettable heroine. Fans of Baker will enjoy the same compelling style the author is known for, and those who read World War II fiction will be delighted with her thorough research and fresh perspective on the period . . . Amid the tragedy, she leaves room for laughter, hope, and the comforts of chosen family.” —Cate Triola, Library Journal
“Arresting . . . Baker vividly portrays the surreal sight of London ravaged by the Blitz . . . This stands above run-of-the-mill WWII fare.” —Publishers Weekly
“Visceral . . . Powerfully evocative . . . Baker vividly depicts a young woman grappling with a mental-health crisis against the harrowing backdrop of the Blitz.” —Kristine Huntley, Booklist
“Exquisite, precise . . . It all fits together like clockwork . . . The Midnight News is a novel that succeeds both in creating pages that turn themselves, and in continually feeding the reader’s sense of wonder.” —John Self, Daily Telegraph
“This novel is exhilarating—a tour-de-force with graceful nuance . . . Gripping . . . Insightful . . . Baker has accomplished something remarkable—offering a fresh perspective on a setting that would seem to have already been exhausted by countless other creative representations . . . Poignant social commentary, with deeply moving personal stakes.” —Helen Cullen, Irish Times
“This is a tense and gripping psychological thriller . . . Beautifully done.” —Antonia Senior, The Times (London)
“A heroine to root for . . . As tense and elegantly plotted as a spy novel, Baker imbues her story with a deep well of tenderness.” —Eithne Farry, Mail on Sunday
“A blockbuster read . . . Tense and heart-rending . . . Devastating . . . The secondary characters are so well drawn they are deserving of books themselves . . . As historical fiction turns to mystery, then psychological thriller, Baker proves she is a master storyteller.” —Robert Epstein, i newspaper
“A glorious novel set in the Blitz, which is part thriller, part mystery . . . Clever and utterly compelling.” —Red
“Enthralling and very moving, it’s fascinating to be thrown into Charlotte’s war-torn world via this precisely imagined, suspenseful novel.” —Adele Parks, Platinum
“Both a mystery and a love story, this novel stayed with me a long time after I’d finished it.” —Joanne Finney, Good Housekeeping
“A wonderful novel that immersed me in the terror and heartbreak of wartime London. Atmospheric and totally gripping, with a mystery that had me puzzled right until the last moment. Absolutely superb.” —Louise Hare, author of This Lovely City
“Extremely well-researched and fearsomely well-written, The Midnight News takes us into the mind of Charlotte, a young woman striving to recover from loss while navigating her way through the hazards of the London Blitz. The bombing strikes close to Charlotte’s fragile heart—and throws up a mystery she feels compelled to solve. Jo Baker’s gripping storyline opens out into fascinating territory—the perception and treatment of mental illness in the 1940s—and ends with a truly touching love story. I have huge admiration for Jo Baker and what she has achieved in this novel.” —Frances Liardet, author of We Must Be Brave
“I love Jo Baker’s work—her writing is always so lyrical and delightful. The Midnight News is a beautiful, enthralling novel about a woman losing and finding herself again during World War II. I inhaled it feverishly.” —Anna-Marie Crowhurst, author of The Illumination of Ursula Flight
“As ever, Jo Baker’s writing gives us intellectual satisfaction and great narrative pleasure. I stayed up late reading and I was glad.” —Sarah Moss, author of Ghost Wall
“A beautifully written and deeply evocative novel about love and war, defiance and acquiescence, threaded through with a satisfyingly knotty mystery. I adored it.” —Eva Dolan, author of This Is How It Ends
“An intriguing and thrilling novel, believable in the tiniest details—I’ve read half a dozen novels set in the Blitz but this one is the most atmospheric and memorable. It had me by the throat.” —Emma Donoghue, best-selling author of Room and Haven
“A riveting and moving novel that masterfully captures the reality of wartime in all its sorrow and uncertainty as well as the light that can still be found in the dark and the beauty of lasting friendship.” —Nina Stibbe, author of Love, Nina
“Deep and dark and wonderful: a marvel of storytelling wrested from the black night of the twentieth century. Your heart will be in your mouth as you read.” —Francis Spufford, author of Light Perpetual
“Gripping, intriguing and evocative, The Midnight News is a darkly atmospheric story about a determined young woman trying to forge a life for herself in wartime London. When bombs start falling, Charlotte’s grip on reality starts slipping. But is she losing her mind because people she loves are dying, or is the chaos of the Blitz providing a cover for something more sinister? In a city where nothing is safe, who can she trust? This clever and accomplished novel is simultaneously a vivid evocation of London life during the Blitz, where secretaries struggle into work after digging bodies out of rubble; a late-night page-turner that will keep you guessing till the end, and a fascinating exploration of identity—and one woman’s fight to hang onto her own.” —Joanna Quinn, author of The Whalebone Theatre
“Jo Baker is one of my absolute favourite writers working today. She is that rare and precious thing: a literary writer with a poet’s eye for detail, an acute psychologist who creates characters who live, but also a brilliant storyteller who in The Midnight News tells both a love story and a mystery with increasing tension and dread. I read with a lump in my throat while the family dinner burnt.” —Natasha Solomons, author of The House at Tyneford
“Immediately immersive and utterly enthralling, The Midnight News is full of atmosphere and intrigue and tells a deeply moving story that is as surprising as it is satisfying.” —Cathy Rentzenbrink, author of The Last Act of Love
“The Midnight News approaches the story of the Blitz from a completely fresh angle. Both a captivating mystery and a moving insight into one woman’s experience, this book is a deeply immersive read. Baker is a master at evoking place and time in an incredibly personal, intimate way. A novel you won’t forget easily.” —Jan Carson, author of The Fire StartersJO BAKER was born in Lancashire and educated at Oxford University and Queen’s University Belfast. She is the author of the best-selling novel Longbourn, as well as The Body Lies; A Country Road, A Tree; The Undertow; The Telling; The Mermaid’s Child; and Offcomer. She lives in Lancaster, England.Late
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Charlotte has been scanning the pavements these past twenty minutes, between glances at her watch and at the posters of the new releases, and yet Elena still appears out of nowhere, in a pistachio linen dress and crocheted gloves, straw hat clutched in her hands. She’s looking flushed and irritated.
“There you are!” Charlotte says.
“I am so sorry.”
She pulls El to her, holds her slight frame close, breathes in her scent: roses and lemon sherbets and cigarettes—essence-of-El. She is warm and slightly damp in Charlotte’s embrace. Charlotte lets her go, looks her over. That familiar unkempt beauty, like a scruffy Snow White. Her impish green eyes. And, today, a line between her brows.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just that I’m outrageously late,” El says. “And after treating you so abominably, putting you off and putting you off, I wasn’t sure you’d wait.” El claps her hat back on her head, then digs her hands into her pockets, squinting in the low September sun. “I’m so sorry, Lotts. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Already have. Always will.”
“You’re too good.”
“Au contraire,” Charlotte says. “Shall we go in? We can still catch the feature.”
El glares up at the grand frontage of Tussaud’s Cinema, as though it were to blame for the afternoon’s delays and frustrations. “You know, to tell you the truth, I don’t really want to spend what’s left of the day sitting in the dark.”
“It is glorious,” Charlotte says, touching her own hat brim, the better to shade her eyes. “The park, then?”
“Yes. Why not?”
Charlotte offers her arm. They walk along, linked, skirts rustling together, in the drenching honeyed sun. Omnibuses and taxis and vans rumble by; the air tastes of traffic fumes. Charlotte asks about work, about family, about any fun she might have had, and though El replies, she seems somehow out of step, at one remove. They turn into the shade of York Gate, past the cool white-columned façades, and Charlotte looks sidelong at her friend. That line between her brows hasn’t gone away.
“D’you know who I saw recently?” Charlotte tries.
“No?”
“The Astonishing Vanessa.”
El brightens. “Vanessa Cavendish?”
“Is there any other Vanessa worth the mention? She was giving her Ophelia. You know, those Shakespeare matinées at the Vaudeville?”
“Was she good?”
“Was she good? She was heartbreaking. Beautiful. Brilliant. Everything one would expect.”
“I’m glad for her,” El says. “She’s earned it.”
They cross the road and enter Regent’s Park; the air is cooler, cleaner here. The greenness soothes the eyes.
“I managed not to loiter round the stage door and swoon all over her,” Charlotte says. “I took myself straight home, dignity intact.”
“I’m sure she would have been pleased to see you.”
Charlotte laughs. “She wouldn’t have known who I was.” Two years their senior, Vanessa Cavendish had moved through the stuffy clamour of school with the otherworldly elegance of a wading bird, intent on something no one else had even thought of looking for. “Do you remember what she said, when her parents wanted her to be presented as a deb, and do the season, but she was pegging away at auditions, determined to get a first job?”
El snorts.
“I loved that,” Charlotte says. It was a phrase too filthy and outrageous to be whispered in its entirety by the drop-jawed Lower Fifth of the day, or even said out loud now, in public, between the two of them, all grown up at twenty. Gaps had to be left. Words mouthed rather than spoken. “I really loved that.”
They pass the boating lake, the water glimmering.
“Still,” El says, “you should have said hello.”
“Oh no. I don’t think so.”
“You should,” El insists. “You should have told her she was wonderful. People never mind being told they’re wonderful.”
“She wouldn’t have known me from Adam, and I’m not sure I could have borne it.”
“You might be surprised. You had your own glamour about you at school.”
“Ha!”
But Elena wasn’t, it seems, joking. She adjusts her hat, becomes impatient, pulls it off again and fans her face with it. Her cheeks are pink blots in an otherwise pale and waxy face.
El had been in Paris, acquiring polish, while Charlotte had been wearing a little off in London. She’d dashed back from France when it became clear that war was coming; they’d knocked around happily for those quiet early months of the war. And then things had become suddenly hard and real. Charlotte had had the awful news about Eddie, and then El had become so busy. She has a junior post at the Ministry of Supply; by her account, it’s just a fetching-finding-and-filing kind of job, but it seems to devour her every waking moment. This is the first time Charlotte hasn’t been put off, let down, or plain stood up in months. Charlotte’s father had secured a senior position in the same department when it was formed; he, by contrast, seems to have plenty of time to do just as he pleases.
“They’re clearly overworking you,” Charlotte says.
El gives the kind of wry shrug that suggests a common understanding, but really Charlotte has no idea.
“That’s what Mother says,” El replies. “But then, as far as she’s concerned, any work is too much work for me. She considers me constitutionally unsuited to it.”
“Has she told you that you’ll spoil your eyes?”
“And my complexion.” El lifts a gloved hand to her flushed cheek. “How’s yours?”
“My complexion?”
“Your work.”
“Dull. Which, coincidentally, is also true of my complexion.”
“I don’t believe you,” El says. “If you’re there, it can’t be dull.”
“No defence of my complexion then?” Charlotte asks.
A small cheeky smile, which does Charlotte’s heart glad.
“Believe it or not,” Charlotte goes on, “some things are beyond even my capacity for nonsense. But it’s work. And a wage. And that still has a certain charm to it. It keeps the wolf from the door.”
El draws breath, but doesn’t speak. Charlotte squeezes her arm to her.
“What is it, duck? What’s wrong?” she gently asks.
“Oh,” El says. “I’m just out of sorts. I’m sorry; I’m not the best company.”
“No, my dear, you absolutely always are.”
They pass the tethers of a barrage balloon; it hangs high above the park, casts a long shadow. Sheep crop the grass. In the allotments, the old fellows move from plant to plant like bees. The first leaves are on the turn.
El taps Charlotte’s forearm with her free hand. “Do you know what I miss most right now at this moment?”
A tug of grief. Because what Charlotte misses most right now is Eddie, and it seems Eddie hasn’t even crossed El’s mind. But Charlotte plays along, says what she’s supposed to say: “Oh, I love this game.”
“What I miss most right now, at this moment, is having you come and stay the night.”
“Just like we used to,” Charlotte says. “Sweets till we’re sick, cigarettes smoked out the window, and scaring ourselves witless with ghost stories.”
“I was thinking more gin and confidences.”
“I’m free tonight.”
“I can’t tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh well,” Charlotte says, trying not to feel quite so crushed.
Still arm in arm, they follow the strains of music towards the bandstand, passing men in uniform, men in city suits; Charlotte can feel the slide of eyes over her, but doesn’t look back. And neither, she notices, does El; she’s all tucked away and inward.
Charlotte can’t quite let it go.
“Can’t you just, you know, do less?” she asks. “Change roles? If you had a word with him, I’m sure my father would—”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking.”
“But he’s your boss, isn’t he, more or less?”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate. I have three or four bosses to go through before him. I really can’t ask him for anything.”
“Well, just you wait till he wants something off you, then you’ll know all about it.”
El nods but doesn’t speak. Charlotte shouldn’t have brought up work again; it doesn’t help. She ushers the conversation back onto a more cheerful tack.
“Well, we simply must find the time somehow. So long as I let Mrs. Callaghan know in advance, I’m not going to get into bad odour at my digs if I’m out overnight. And as for you, you need a change. You clearly do. You’re not exactly in the pink.”
“Just too much going on, that’s all. Sometimes I feel like my head is full of flies.”
“You know what.” Charlotte turns to El with sudden conviction. “We both have to get some proper official leave; you must be overdue; I know I am. Then we could dash up to the house in Galloway.”
“Would that journey count as really necessary, though?”
“I don’t see why not, if the property needs checking on, to see it’s secure and up to scratch on ARP. And if we’re up there anyway, who’d even know if we indulged in a bit of hiking and swimming and a thorough raid of the wine cellar . . .”
“That,” El says, turning to Charlotte with at last a proper smile, “sounds like very heaven.”
Charlotte beams. There she is. Got her back. “Sooner rather than later, then. We must make a proper plan. It’s only a matter of time before the old place gets rented out, or requisitioned.”
“Yes. Let’s. Just give me a couple of days—”
“You clear the decks, and we’ll go. Now that I’ve thought of it, I believe I shan’t be able to get through the winter without it.”
They both fall silent, move into shade. They pass the gun emplacement, where men from the Anti-Aircraft unit are working. One of them straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s just a lad, maybe not even twenty, and Charlotte has never seen him in her life, but this conjunction of uniform with a light athletic build and a certain easy vigour can catch her like this sometimes. Right in the solar plexus. It sends her staggering back to Eddie, on her doorstep in battledress, popped by to say cheerio.
“Although,” Charlotte says, blinking, “I’d understand. If you really are too busy.”
El squeezes Charlotte’s arm. “No, we’ll do that, Lotts. That’s what we’ll do. I promise.”
But Charlotte hears the silence underneath the words, and feels the swelling space between El’s life and hers, and knows that since it’s been this difficult to snatch an afternoon in London, then a few days in Scotland will be close to impossible.
“I wonder, should we see if they have ices?” Charlotte asks.
“You, my dear, are a genius.”
Charlotte returns to Gipsy Hill in the cool evening. On Woodland Road, Mrs. Suttle picks green beans in her front garden. Children pelt past, all nailed boots and flying pigtails; one of them—little Hedy Ackerman—turns to give Charlotte a wave, not looking where she’s going. Charlotte flinches; the child will surely fall and hurt herself. But Hedy turns away and runs on heedless with her friends, and Charlotte, breathing the scent of late roses from Mr. Pritchard’s garden, pushes through her gate, walks up the tiled path and in through the front door.
This place is just familiar enough to be comfortable, but still strange enough to notice: the smell of malt and boiled milk and wet wool; the back window with its panes of wine-red and green and amber glass, now criss-crossed with gummed scrim; the pert but lazy progress of the grey cat along the cream-and-terracotta tiles.
Mrs. Callaghan, who is settled in at the telephone, cardigan wrapped cosily round her solid self, is listening to her sister up in Liverpool, who rings weekly from a telephone box on the corner of Edith Road. The telephone set, like the hot-water geyser and the glass-fronted bookcase stocked with cloth-bound book-club classics, is a relic of Mrs. Callaghan’s much-missed and often-cited Better Half, who was, Charlotte has been told, always Interested In Things.
Mrs. Callaghan raises a hand in greeting, continues with her oohs and mms. Charlotte waves in reply, leans in to lift the notepad from the hall console. The notepad is scrap paper stitched together with wool, so that messages are recorded on the inside of a tea packet or flour bag, or have a strip of yellowed envelope-gum down one side. It forms, Charlotte thinks, a slowly changing collage of Mrs. Callaghan’s days. There is a note for Mr. Gibbons, from his sister in Southampton, telling him that all is well and not to worry—even though she’s never met the woman, Charlotte feels a stab of concern for her down there in a coastal zone—but there are no messages for Charlotte. Which is how she—on the whole, generally, most days—prefers it, so she can’t gripe about it now.
She puts the pad back, joins Mrs. Callaghan in a farewell wave, and climbs the stairs, through the music playing from Mr. Gibbons’s rooms, to her attic. He has lovely things, Mr. Gibbons does. Lovely music, lovely clothes.
Charlotte unlocks the door with her own key, locks it behind her, drops her bag. There is still something wonderful in this. She sinks down on the edge of her bed, runs her fingers over the flowered rayon. Fifteen square feet of bare boards, sloping distempered walls, and a cast-iron fireplace where Charlotte can toast a teacake when so inclined. It still feels like a miracle, that she can pay her ten shillings a week and have the skylight room all to herself.
She kicks off her shoes, unclips her stockings, tweaks them off, then washes them in her basin and drapes them over the back of her chair to dry. The only problem is that weekends can be long.
Get yourself married, her sister would say.
Get yourself out to Longwood, her father would say.
Charlotte shudders.
To think she could be holed up in El’s room for gin and confidences, if it weren’t for all the other things that El is busy with.
Barefoot, she climbs onto her bed to fit the blackout card over the skylight, then hops down to pull the blind and curtains over the front casement.
She will turn up someone. Do something. Tomorrow.
If only go and see Hamlet at the Vaudeville again. And this time, maybe loiter at the stage door afterwards, and tell Vanessa Cavendish she’s wonderful.
She steps into her slippers, grabs her cardigan and patters downstairs, past the now-untenanted telephone, all the way to the basement kitchen, from where she can hear the wireless muttering. A cup of Horlicks and a bit of chat off Mrs. Callaghan. She can depend on that. That’s guaranteed.
The Saturday
The problem, Charlotte supposes, is that she had only looked so far as Friday, and the flicks with El.US
Additional information
| Weight | 16.6 oz |
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| Dimensions | 0.9100 × 6.0700 × 9.2100 in |
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| Subjects | book lover gifts, gifts for readers, detective novels, gifts for her, WWII books, fiction books, books fiction, historical novels, historical fiction books, mystery novels, books historical fiction, historical fiction novels, ww2 historical fiction, world war 2 historical fiction, wwii historical fiction, world war 2 fiction, world war ii fiction, first time grandma gifts, bestseller, history, women, historical, spy, fiction, mystery, bestsellers, Friendship, world war 2, WWII, WW2, world war ii, FIC022040, FIC071000, government, mystery books |
