This work of crime fiction, published as a slim hardback in 1980 by Robert Hale of London, was the first book to be published by someone I actually knew, and indeed was related to. Bernard Dunne, aka Uncle Bernard, was not actually an uncle in the strict sense, but I suppose a great uncle, the husband of one of my grandmother's sisters, alternatively, my father's cousin's father. Now that may sound a little distant, but these were relatives we saw often when I was a child, and I have a very vivid recollection of this ramrod straight, moustachioed and, to a child, slightly intimidating former military man. By the time 1980 came round, and I was sixteen, I could see there was rather more to this rather taciturn individual than immediately met the eye, and I was by then equally picking up on family talk to the effect that he had a rather exotic past.
The publication of a crime novel, beginning in Istanbul, traversing the continent to end in southern England, seemed to confirm the impression. I have a distinct recollection of the book arriving, with the modest and typically laconic handwritten dedication in front of me now: "I enjoyed writing this, I hope you enjoy reading it". I remember my Dad reading it and his slightly non-committal answer to my question about what he thought of it, which induced me at that stage not to get around to reading it. I now suspect my father may have considered it unsuitable reading for me (they were different times...), with what may now appear to be a modest collection of prostitutes and other unseemly types populating its pages. Of course, this did all rather confirm the air of mystery which surrounded my uncle in straight-laced Lincolnshire...
Why I picked the book up now is really related to more recent family matters, with my Mum being in a clearing out frame of mind and threatening to give away, sell or otherwise discard what she sees as the clutter in the house. So, having randomly spotted Dead Man's Bluff on a shelf, and still in possession of the idea that I would one day read it, I grabbed it.
The book itself is an admittedly slight stout-British-policeman-meets-nasty-drug-dealers crime novel, but it is well-paced and contains some nice plot twists and turns. As a story, it would do perfectly good service as a post 9.00 pm TV cop show, which is a reasonable achievement in itself. Of course, much of my pleasure in reading it came from its interest as a period piece, and for the association with my uncle, whose pre-sixties, stalwart British attitudes, flavoured with that experience of places exotic, foreign and possibly rather louche, hinted at in knowing looks in the family, are clearly on display. Words like "swarthy" referring to dodgy Turkish gangsters are bandied about - though both menacing Middle-Eastern hitman and doughty Turkish policeman are given serious respect - while British hippies, pimps and lowlife probably attract the greatest disdain from the author. Yes, the attitudes are old-fashioned, but not tainted with the, say, casual racism one so often encounters in products of that period. I was pleased about that.
The language too seemed rather quaint, many Americanisms we now take for granted being completely absent and the punctilious use of the apostrophe in the words 'phone and'bus actually being quite distracting, as well as a reminder of how much the language has changed in only a few years.
This was a personal read and a recommendation would be pointless (though I did find a second hand book dealer through Amazon offering the book at over twenty pounds - original cover price £5.25). I enjoyed it though, and am pleased that, albeit rather late in the day, I read my Uncle Bernard's one literary emanation.
No comments:
Post a Comment