Title: The Daughter of Time Author: Tey, Josephine [Elizabeth MacKintosh] ( ) Date of first publication: June Edition used as. with a passing interest in the study of the fifteenth century has heard of Josephine Tey’s book ‘A Daughter of Time’, a mystery novel from The Daughter of Time. Josephine Tey. First published in This web edition published by [email protected] Last updated Wednesday, December 17, .
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The Daughter of Time – Wikipedia
Grant lay on his high white joosephine and stared at the ceiling. Stared at it with loathing. He knew by heart every last minute crack on its nice clean surface. Tthe had made maps of the ceiling and gone exploring on them; rivers, islands, and continents. He had made guessing games of it and discovered hidden objects; faces, birds, and fishes. He had made mathematical calculations of it and rediscovered his childhood; theorems, angles, and triangles.
There was practically nothing else he could do but look at it. He hated the sight of it. He had suggested to The Midget that she might turn his bed round a little so that he could have a new patch of ceiling to explore. But it seemed that that would spoil the symmetry of the room, and in hospitals symmetry ranked just a short head behind cleanliness and a whole length in front of Godliness. Anything out teh the parallel was hospital profanity. Millions and millions of them pouring from the presses every minute.
Grant called her The Midget to compensate himself for being bossed around by a piece of Dresden china which he could pick up in one hand. When he was on his jodephine, that is to say. It was not only that she told him what he might or might not do, but joselhine dealt with his six-feet-odd with an off-hand ease that Grant found humiliating. Weights meant nothing, apparently, to The Midget.
She tossed mattresses around with joosephine absent-minded grace of a plate spinner. When she was off-duty he was attended josephije by The Amazon, a goddess with arms like the limb of a beech tree. The Amazon was Nurse Darroll, who came from Gloucestershire and was homesick each daffodil season. On the whole Grant found it even more humiliating to be treated as a dead weight than to be treated as if he was no weight at all.
Grant was bed-borne, and a charge on The Midget and The Amazon, because he had fallen through a trap-door. This, of course, was the absolute in humiliation; compared with which the heavings of The Amazon and the light slingings of The Midget were a mere corollary.
To fall through a trap-door was the ultimate in absurdity; pantomimic, bathetic, grotesque. At the dahghter of his disappearance from the normal level of perambulation he had been in hot pursuit of Benny Skoll, and the fact that Josephin had careered round the next corner slap into [Pg 9] the arms of Sergeant Williams provided the one small crumb of comfort in an intolerable situation.
In hospitals there was no time off for good behaviour. Grant stopped staring at the ceiling, and slid his eyes sideways at the pile of books on his bedside table; the gay expensive pile that The Midget had been urging on his attention.
In view of the representation of the Grand Harbour on the cover, the present Valerie or Angela or Cecile or Denise must be a naval wife. Daughtre had opened the book only to read the kind message that Lavinia had written inside.
A Review of ‘The Daughter of Time’
The Sweat and the Furrow was Silas Weekley being earthy and spade-conscious all over seven hundred pages. The rain dripped from the thatch, and the manure steamed in the midden.
Silas never omitted the manure. If Silas could have discovered a brand of steam that steamed downwards, Silas would have introduced it. Which was Rupert Rouge being arch about vice. Rupert Rouge always seduced you into laughter for the first three pages. About Page Three you noticed that Rupert had learned from that very arch but of course not vicious creature George Bernard Shaw that the easiest way to sound witty was to use that cheap and convenient method, the paradox.
After that you could see the jokes coming three sentences away. Toughs talking out of the corners of their mouths in synthetic American that had neither the wit nor the pungency of the real thing. Blondes, chromium bars, breakneck chases. The Case of the Missing Tin-openerby John James Mark, had three errors of procedure in the first two pages, and had at least provided Grant with a pleasant five minutes while he composed an imaginary letter to its author.
He could not remember what the thin blue book at the bottom of the pile was. Something earnest and statistical, he thought. Tsetse flies, or calories, or sex behaviour, or something. Even in that, you knew what to expect on the next page.
Josephine Tey: A Crime Reader’s Guide to the Classics
Did no one, any more, no one in all this wide world, change their record now and then? Was everyone nowadays thirled to a formula? Authors today wrote so much to a pattern that their public expected it. Their interest was not in the book daighter 11] but in its newness. They knew quite well what the book would be like. It might be a good thing, Grant thought as he turned his nauseated gaze away from the motley pile, if all the presses of itme world were stopped for a generation.
There ought to be a literary moratorium. Some Superman ought to invent a ray that would stop them all simultaneously. He heard the door open, but did not stir himself to look. He had turned his face to the wall, literally and metaphorically. He heard someone come across to his bed, and closed his eyes against possible conversation.
He wanted neither Gloucestershire sympathy nor Lancashire briskness just now. In the succeeding pause a faint enticement, a nostalgic breath of all the fields of Grasse, teased his nostrils and swam about his brain. He savoured it and considered. The Midget smelt of lavender dusting powder, and The Amazon of soap and iodoform. He opened an eye and squinted up at her. She had evidently bent over to see if he was asleep, and was now standing in an irresolute way—if anything Marta did could be said to be irresolute—with her attention on the heap of all too obviously virgin publications on the table.
In one arm she was carrying two new books, and in the other a great sheaf of white lilac. He wondered whether she had chosen white lilac because it was her idea of the [Pg 12] proper floral offering for winter it adorned her dressing-room at the theatre from December to Marchor whether she had taken it because it would not detract from her black-and-white chic.
She was wearing a new hat and her usual pearls; the pearls which he had once been the means of recovering for her. She looked very handsome, very Parisian, and blessedly unhospital-like. And how right your Laura is. To say nothing of your soul and [Pg 13] your temper. You might study one of the philosophies. Yoga, or something like that. But I suppose an analytical mind is not the best kind to bring to the consideration of the abstract.
I have an idea that I never did algebra justice, at school. I could get you a book of them, if you like. I have heard that that is more fun than solving them. But a dictionary weighs several pounds. Besides, I always did hate looking up something in a reference book. How about chess problems? White to play and mate in three moves, or something like that.
I could bring you along a set to play with. All right, no chess. You could do some academic investigating. Finding a solution to an unsolved problem. I know all the case-histories by heart. And there is nothing more that can be done about any of them. Certainly not by someone who is flat on his back.
Something that has puzzled the world for ages. Marta looked as scandalised as a lifetime in the theatre and an hour of careful make-up allowed her to. Nearly all out-size women are sexually cold.
And as he said it he wondered why, in all the years since Marta had first adopted him as a spare escort when she needed one, it had not occurred to him to wonder whether her notorious level-headedness about men had something tet do with her inches. But Marta had not drawn any parallels; her mind was still on her favourite Queen. In actual fact she had a personal household of sixty persons. She complained bitterly when it was reduced to a beggarly thirty, and nearly died of chagrin when it ov reduced to two male secretaries, several women, an embroiderer, and a cook or two.
And Elizabeth had to pay for all that out of her own purse. For twenty years she paid, and for twenty years Mary Stuart hawked the crown of Scotland round Europe to anyone who would start a revolution and put her back josepihne the throne that she had lost; or, alternatively, on the one Elizabeth was sitting on.
For a whole minute I had forgotten about them. But not tragic in any of the ways that popular belief makes her tragic. Her tragedy was that she was born a Queen with the outlook of a suburban housewife.
Scoring off Mrs Tudor in the next street is harmless and amusing; it may lead you into unwarrantable indulgence in hire-purchase, but it affects only yourself. When you use the same technique on kingdoms the result is disastrous. If you are willing to put a country of ten million people in pawn in order to score off a royal rival, then you end by being a friendless failure.
The staff would have liked her, and all the little girls would have adored her.