Much as I love to read, I’m not a book snob. My current go-to genre is psychological thriller because they keep you guessing, whip you along at a fast pace and when you’re reading on a Kindle, no one can tell if you’re reading Patterson or Proust.
Occasionally I’ll dip into the odd romance, but since I’ve been married for more than 40 years, sometimes I find the prospect of making my spouse disappear more comforting than a reminder of what I’m missing out on.
Once I come across an author I like, I’ll tend to binge read all their books before moving onto another. Recently, I decided to try some English authors for a change and was surprised by the difference in style. Rather than whipping along, the ones I picked slowly ambled through the story like a river meandering through the countryside.
Here’s what I mean. The titles of American thrillers are often warnings like, “Don’t Fall Asleep,” “He’s Behind You” or “The Family Across the Street.” They don’t necessarily tell you much about the story, but you know you’ll be biting your nails by the end of the first chapter.
English thrillers, on the other hand, tend to have not very exciting titles. You know what they are by names like “The Sister Daphne Mysteries,” “The Tale of the Missing Candlestick” and “The Holy Bucket and Banana Society.”
And you can see the difference on the first page. English books tend to have far more description so it takes much longer to get to the point. Not so in the States, where they assume you’ll get bored if every word doesn’t advance the story.
This Christmas season I bring you a couple of seasonal stories to compare. Guess which is English and which American.
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It was a crisp winter’s day in the village of Dunreadingthisalready, Wigglesworth. Father O’Flaherty was snuggled in his cozy gray-and-white argyle cardigan in his favorite blue velvet chair by the fire. A large Christmas tree filled the corner of the room, decked with glass baubles, yards of tinsel and old Christmas cards. Beside him sat a porcelain cup filled with tea, just how he liked it with two sugars and a splash of milk. He was halfway through his third yawn of the afternoon when he was interrupted by his housekeeper, Mrs. Dobson.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Father, but there’s a young girl at the door who would like to see you,” she said. Mrs. Dobson was about 50 but looked at least two decades older, with graying hair, a pink blouse, black skirt and white apron with a pocket on the right-hand side.
“Did she give a name?” he asked. “Do you know why she’s here? My parishioners usually speak to me at St. Willoughby’s. Is she after my detective skills, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid I don’t really know, Father,” Mrs. Dobson said, smoothing down her apron. “Let me go and ask her.”
Mrs. Dobson slowly walked back to the door where the girl was still waiting on the doorstep.
“Will he see me? Please, I need help!” she said. “But only if he really has time. I suppose it can wait. I mean I don’t know for a fact it was really a knife he was holding; it was hard to see since he was chasing me and I only looked round once so I shouldn’t fall into the nearest puddle. But it could have been. I’ll wait if you like. Sorry to disturb you so near to teatime.”
“Just a moment, please,” Mrs. Dobson said. She padded down the hallway, past the kitchen with its heady aroma of boiled cabbage back to Father O’Flaherty’s office.
“Excuse me, Father, but the young lady does appear to require the help of a detective, one who spends most of his time working in the church but who likes to solve the odd murder in his spare time between Monday and Saturday,” she said.
Father O’Flaherty chuckled. “There certainly are a lot of murders in a village where the population is only 125 people plus Mrs. McFairley’s cats,” he replied. “Bring her in.”
While he waited, Father O’Flaherty pondered the objects lining his mantelpiece. A glass duck, a china ashtray, a bud vase containing a sprig of holly and a gold foil Christmas cracker ready for pulling after his Christmas dinner. Yes, each one had been a murder weapon at one time or another.
Mrs. Dobson shuffled along the hallway back to the open front door. Surprisingly there was no sign of the young lady, just two bloody footprints on the step.
“Thank goodness she’s gone,” Mrs. Dobson said, closing the door. “She was only going to ruin my Christmas. Now I can get back to steaming the pudding.”
Maybe English? Hmm. How about this one?
She’d made it to the doorstep, exhausted and out of breath. Was he still behind her? Before the door was fully open, she heard herself plead for help. It was too late.
The End
Hilary Decent is a freelance journalist who moved to Naperville from England in 2007.