This is what happened.

Back in March, Kirstyn McDermott and I recorded an episode of our podcast, The Writer and the Critic, where we discussed Emerald Fennell’s Monsters and Celia Dale’s A Helping Hand.,

We liked Monsters. We adored A Helping Hand.

And when I say adore, I mean that we gushed and gushed, raw and unrefined, as if we weren’t recording an episode but excitedly sharing notes about something we both unreservedly loved. There have been other novels we’ve been ecstatic about, but A Helping Hand felt different in as much as neither of us had heard of Celia Dale but also couldn’t believe she wasn’t a household name. How could a writer this extraordinary not be spoken of amongst the greats?

And then, the podcast Gods decided that this transcendent episode about a transcendent novel was too good for our maybe not so transcendent audience. And lo the episode was wiped (I’ll never forgive Riverside for promising Cloud backups and not delivering), forever lost. Never to be heard. The loss of this episode still hurts, and it was one of the reasons why Kirstyn and I agreed to end The Writer and Critic (for a second time).

While I can’t recapture what we said about A Helping Hand, I can, on this blog of mine, publish my first impressions of the novel when I finished it in February. So, here they are:

I’d never heard of Dale until Andy Miller (care of Backlisted) recommended this novel. I bought the book and immediately forgot about it until Ben Peek reminded me of its existence. And, my God, if this isn’t a viscous, dark, chilling tale.

We’re introduced to Josh and Maisie Evans. The married couple provides a “helping hand” to elderly ladies with no one else to turn to. Auntie Flo was one such resident until she passed away, leaving the Evans with a tidy sum of money, enough for a holiday to Italy, where they meet Mrs Fingal. The 80-year-old, cared for by her begrudging niece though “not by blood”, takes to the Evans, especially Josh. When the idea is floated that she move in with the Evans, Mrs Fingal immediately agrees. She will discover, though, that she was better off with her niece. It’s not a twist that the Evans are after Mrs Fingal’s money (starting with her pension check), but it’s the systematic way they destroy her soul, her sense of self, that’s so shocking.

It’s Dale’s subtle approach that gets under the skin, reflecting the deviousness of the Evans, how even their thoughts don’t betray their true intentions, as if they’ve convinced themselves that they are Samaritans. The introduction of “Gracie”, a young Italian woman — whom Josh took a fancy to on their holiday — and is desperate for a place to stay (Josh is eager to have her; he’s a huge perve) adds a single ray of kindness (Gracie does what she can for Mrs Fingal). In the end, though, what’s tragic about this book is that nearly 55 years after its publication, the treatment of older people either as a hindrance or a commodity to be fleeced, hasn’t changed much.

I’ll be reading more Celia Dale.

P.S. Since writing this, I’ve purchased but not read another Celia Dale. I will, though. She’s far too good to be left unread. And really, you should read her as well. I promise you will love it.