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The title refers to a singular egg that was discovered in the 1920s off dangerous cliffs in Yorkshire. It’s a scarlet guillemot egg that the bird lays in the same place every year. Only tiny Celie , a penniless local girl, is small enough to fit down the crack in the cliff and bring them back up. Rare egg collectors abound, but her contact, Jim, purchases the eggs for a collector who remains anonymous. Many others want to get their hands on this rarity, including the head of a museum; it’s actually illegal to possess eggs from wild birds unless they’re part of an institutional collection. All sorts of derring -do takes place, with unlikely heroes battling greedy egg hoarders. This book is catalogued as a mystery but the actual murder isn’t central to the story. Instead it’s a fascinating look into obsession, very well researched.
The author grew up in Jamaica with a father who was entrenched in his Rastafarian beliefs. As a successful musician, he was often gone, but the family had to abide by his strict rules. On tour in Japan, his producer cheated him out of the money he was due, so he was reduced back to performing in fancy Kingston hotels, the corrupt sites of the “Babylon” he railed against. The family had to move each time money ran out, and their mother raised funds by creating schools for local kids. Reading was Safiyah’s escape. Ultimately her poetry got her into higher education and out from under the stultifying restrictions that their father demanded. A very moving memoir, enhanced by poetic sensibility.
Edie, 81, catches a glimpse of her old school friend Lucy in the village where they both grew up. But Lucy disappeared more than six decades ago. Edie is showing signs of mild cognitive decline, but there’s also a history of clairvoyance in her family; her mother ran seances. Edie is determined to find out what happened to Lucy, does some detecting, unearths her own memories, and the ugly secret comes to light. At first I thought this was just another cozy British mystery (yawn), but I came to love Edie’s perseverance in the face of her solicitous family’s efforts to dismiss her concerns.
At 80, my new favorite writer follows her 16-year-old grandson, Amby, as he plays footy— Australian football. She hangs out in all weathers, both as observer and, as the season progresses, passionate fan. What emerges: deep reflections on adolescence, testosterone, and the mythic roots of sport. I was surprised by how much this subject came to life on the page. And it gave me insight into the wide-spread mania that sports evokes since I’d never found it of interest before. The book is funny, touching, and often exhilarating.
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