My tutor recommended I read this when he read the proposal for my end of module assignment. My story is about losing a parent and reevaluating that and other relationships, but it has a magical realism slant. The reason for recommending this book, he said, was that this is a very straight story that suddenly becomes supernatural at the end. Having read it I suspect his memory of the tale is flawed. 

The Vet's Daughter is a tale of a young woman who is stuck in a very unhealthy situation, or rather a series of unhealthy situations, with no means to escape. Her father is abusive to the point that she fears he will one day kill her. Her mother becomes very ill and dies early in the book and her father brings a housekeeper/mistress into the house (home implies a safe place). The mistress is manipulative and frequently nasty to Alice (the first person narrator), but the most unforgivable thing she does is

It's evocatively written and a powerful read. 

So much to think about. It's been quite a ride. And to top it off, it did include a mystery, too!

Amazingly, the book I was anticipating with mixed feelings has turned out to be one of the highlights of this year's Halloween Bingo for me. 

Mileage may vary, but I love what Du Maurier has done here. She's taken the whole "it couldn't happen here" attitude and told exactly that story, while masterfully showing up imperialism works and how oppression creates a breakdown in civility. Then you're left with a back-and-forth of punishment and retaliation.

I know that some other BookLikers are looking to read this book, so I will put the quote below in spoilers (it does give away part of the plot). However, let me say that I am making another cup of tea and am set on finishing this before morning.

 

Together they stood at the window, looking out upon the bay. There were lights everywhere, the lights of rescue craft searching the sea, and overhead the roar of helicopters, and searchlights too, sweeping the spot where the ship had lain.

‘Judgement Day,’ murmured Mad, ‘but for how many?’

‘It’s horrible,’ whispered Emma, ‘horrible …’

Yet she could not drag her eyes away. The darting lights seemed to bob and circle over a particular patch of oil caught in the searchlight beam, and the lights of the helicopters hovered like gigantic moths, now dipping, now rising again.

‘Poor devils,’ said Mad, turning away. ‘One thing, they must have gone instantaneously, whoever was on board,’ and from force of habit she began turning down her bed, switching on the electric blanket.

Why devils, Emma wondered. Was it a term one used automatically when enemies were wounded or killed? Had it been normal times, the ship at anchor a British or a European vessel waiting for the tide before entering Poldrea harbour to load clay, and a sudden explosion had taken place, blowing the ship to pieces in this way, Mad, despite her age, would have been down there on the cliffs, on the beach, and Emma too, and the boys, in hopes of struggling seamen finding their way ashore. Not tonight. No aid from Trevalan tonight. Whoever clung to a burning spar, whoever tried to swim, maimed and helpless in the choking oil, was alien, did not belong. Them and us …

(spoiler show)

 

This book is DARK and unsettling without being gory and Du Maurier even in her last book had not lost her knack for creating an atmosphere that draws me into the story.

Emma fetched the car and picked Mad up in front of the chemist’s, and they stopped at the road-block for their passes to be scrutinised once again. Mr Libby, the landlord of the Sailor’s Rest, was talking to the marine on duty. He waited for the formalities to finish, then stepped forward and bent his head to the car window.

‘Good morning,’ he said.‘I think I have something that would please you both. I’m not letting on to everyone, mind you.’

His tone was confidential.

‘They deputy commander of the camp here is a most obliging gentleman. What I say is this, if you do your best for them, they do their best for you.’

He glanced over his shoulder.

‘How about a case of Californian wine?’ he murmured.

‘Sorry,’ said Mad, ‘it’s against my principles.’

Mr Libby opened his eyes wide.

‘No hanky-panky, I promise you. It’s all above board. No duty to pay. We’re to import it in large quantities, and this happens to be the first consignment. You’ll find it much sweeter on the palate than the French stuff you usually have.’

‘Mr Libby,’ said Mad, ‘when I come to you asking for Californian wine you will know I’ve got tired of drinking my own bath-water at home. Drive on, Emma.’

She turned to her grand-daughter as they shot up the hill. ‘I meant it too. Californian wine my foot! So Vic was right. What else are we going to be forced to consume, is what I ask myself. Teabags forever, I suppose … and those terrible clams.’

I love Mad.

Oh, this has just escalated to a new point of crisis. 

Gripping stuff.