Genre Fiction
![Frances Liardet - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B07N96LW39.jpg)
Think of Me
From the New York Times bestselling author of We Must Be Brave comes a new sweeping historical novel about one couple's journey through war, love, and loss, and how the people we love never really leave us.
1942, Alexandria, Egypt. Covered in dust, Yvette and James hold hands for the first time as bombs explode above them. As World War II rages on, they will find their way back to each other time and again, their love a beacon for their survival. After the war, they make a life together in England, where happiness takes root and blossoms, until a tragic event drives a wedge between them. The path back to one another is uncharted territory that both must be brave enough to face.
1974, England. Ten years after his wife's death, James moves to the English village of Upton seeking change. There he discovers a scarf that lights the dark edges of his memory. Could it be Yvette's? As James makes a new home for himself, he begins to unlock revelations about his past that just might return his lost faith to him-faith in humanity, in himself, and perhaps most important of all, his faith in love.
Captivating and inspiring, Think of Me explores the power of love to echo across the years, and its power to save.
1942, Alexandria, Egypt. Covered in dust, Yvette and James hold hands for the first time as bombs explode above them. As World War II rages on, they will find their way back to each other time and again, their love a beacon for their survival. After the war, they make a life together in England, where happiness takes root and blossoms, until a tragic event drives a wedge between them. The path back to one another is uncharted territory that both must be brave enough to face.
1974, England. Ten years after his wife's death, James moves to the English village of Upton seeking change. There he discovers a scarf that lights the dark edges of his memory. Could it be Yvette's? As James makes a new home for himself, he begins to unlock revelations about his past that just might return his lost faith to him-faith in humanity, in himself, and perhaps most important of all, his faith in love.
Captivating and inspiring, Think of Me explores the power of love to echo across the years, and its power to save.
Editorial Reviews
Advance Praise for Think of Me
"Now feels like the perfect moment for this book. A beautifully written story of lives devastated by war and loss, it's a love letter to life itself, about the power of kindness and patient resilience to make us whole again. Subtle and richly evoked, it's refreshingly authentic to its era, yet timeless in its profound understanding of love, grief and the slow blossoming of solace. It is so good to be reminded that the path from desolation to consolation has always been well-worn, lit by that most vital human instinct - hope."-M. L. Stedman, author of The Light Between Oceans
"An utterly charming, heartbreaking and beautifully captured story of love, friendship and sacrifice. It will stay with you long after you close the pages." -Helen Simonson, author of Major Pettigrew's Last Stand
"An epic and intensely moving novel that crosses the boundaries of place and time to weave a powerful story about overcoming the complications of love and grief - the things we try to spare one another, the things we cannot bear to see. It's a warm book, an intelligent one, richly observed, clear-eyed, and the generosity of its final pages moved me to tears."-Rachel Joyce, author of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Miss Benson's Beetle
"Perfect for fans of Helen Simonson and Julia Kelly, this is beautiful, profoundly emotional, and peppered with sparks of humor." -Booklist
"Introspective…Liardet's complex narrative entices with its focus on how the characters are forever altered by the war and the tragic events of everyday life. Liardet's vivid descriptions of WWII combat and the idyll of the English countryside will draw readers from the very first page." -Publishers Weekly
"[A] quiet quest for honesty and connection [that] offers emotional insight and a memorably humane vision." -Kirkus Reviews
"The narrative, which explores how differently men and women process grief, unfolds slowly and thoughtfully, written in an easy flowing prose, flipping smoothly back and forth in time. . . An unusual and moving novel which has much to say about whether we truly know anyone." -Historical Novels Review
"Think of Me is a simply gorgeous, sophisticated novel that breaks your heart then mends it again. In this stunning masterpiece, Liar...
"Now feels like the perfect moment for this book. A beautifully written story of lives devastated by war and loss, it's a love letter to life itself, about the power of kindness and patient resilience to make us whole again. Subtle and richly evoked, it's refreshingly authentic to its era, yet timeless in its profound understanding of love, grief and the slow blossoming of solace. It is so good to be reminded that the path from desolation to consolation has always been well-worn, lit by that most vital human instinct - hope."-M. L. Stedman, author of The Light Between Oceans
"An utterly charming, heartbreaking and beautifully captured story of love, friendship and sacrifice. It will stay with you long after you close the pages." -Helen Simonson, author of Major Pettigrew's Last Stand
"An epic and intensely moving novel that crosses the boundaries of place and time to weave a powerful story about overcoming the complications of love and grief - the things we try to spare one another, the things we cannot bear to see. It's a warm book, an intelligent one, richly observed, clear-eyed, and the generosity of its final pages moved me to tears."-Rachel Joyce, author of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Miss Benson's Beetle
"Perfect for fans of Helen Simonson and Julia Kelly, this is beautiful, profoundly emotional, and peppered with sparks of humor." -Booklist
"Introspective…Liardet's complex narrative entices with its focus on how the characters are forever altered by the war and the tragic events of everyday life. Liardet's vivid descriptions of WWII combat and the idyll of the English countryside will draw readers from the very first page." -Publishers Weekly
"[A] quiet quest for honesty and connection [that] offers emotional insight and a memorably humane vision." -Kirkus Reviews
"The narrative, which explores how differently men and women process grief, unfolds slowly and thoughtfully, written in an easy flowing prose, flipping smoothly back and forth in time. . . An unusual and moving novel which has much to say about whether we truly know anyone." -Historical Novels Review
"Think of Me is a simply gorgeous, sophisticated novel that breaks your heart then mends it again. In this stunning masterpiece, Liar...
Readers Top Reviews
Short Excerpt Teaser
1.
July 1974, England
There's only one remaining question, Mr. Acton."
The man who has been interrogating me leans forward with his heavy arms on his knees, big boxer's knuckles on fingers strictly interlinked. As if each hand has been detailed to keep the other out of mischief.
"Which is?"
"Whether you'll go out of your mind."
His tongue appears too large for his mouth; it lumbers from side to side as he speaks, getting in the way of, rather than forming, his words. A man trying to articulate through a mouthful of flannel. When he finishes, the tongue hangs over his bottom teeth, just inside a slack lower lip. His name is Frobisher.
"Go out of my mind? Why?"
I'm slow on the uptake, having been rather mesmerized by Frobisher, his way of speaking, the bulkiness of his limbs. It comes to me that this man, despite his somewhat distracting appearance, has had years of training in winkling out harbored information. He can probably, like a police dog at Customs, simply smell it.
"Why do you think?" Frobisher chortles. "Boredom, man! Look at you, you were an RAF pilot. A prisoner of war."
"That was thirty-odd years ago!" I can't disguise my astonishment. "It's hardly relevant now."
"I beg to disagree." He rocks back in his seat, enjoying himself. "I've seen so many like you. You're one of a whole generation, all ex-services, who signed up for the priesthood at the end of the war, and what were you doing? Arming yourselves to fight another good fight. Think of theological college-all that cold water and discipline and ardent celibacy. Certain similarities to a military training camp, no?"
He's not wrong: both places featured, in varying proportions, muddy cross-country runs and prayer. The prayers shorter and more fervent in the field of battle than in the pew.
"Actually, Archdeacon, I was ordained before the war. And by the end of 1945 I was married."
"Of course you were. Girl you met in Egypt, I believe?"
His beady little eyes track over me. He doesn't "believe": he's learned my file by heart, memorization being a tool of our trade, and so he's simply prodding me now. I can't think of anything I want to say about Yvette. Not now, not to him.
"Yes," I reply. "My late wife was from Alexandria."
There follows a tense silence while the instant coffee cools in the cups, the ginger biscuits soften in the humid late-summer air. From beyond the leaded window a pale sunbeam does what it can to make Frobisher's bald head gleam. As far as I'm aware he hasn't blinked.
"Archdeacon," I say at last, "I've got nothing to hide."
He stretches his lips into a broad grin. They have no shape, these lips, being the same thickness all the way along, and no color to distinguish them from the rest of his face. "My dear man. Nothing was further from my mind. Nevertheless here you are, all set to leave the West Country at rather short notice after, oh, it must be more than twenty years, just when all your work at your current parish is bearing fruit, and come here to Hampshire, to Upton, which for all-"
"Upton and Barrow End. I believe they're quite particular about that."
"-And Barrow End"-the grin becomes ferocious-"a community which, for all its good points, is hardly the most challenging environment. For a man of your experience, that is. And you're not yet sixty." He hunches forward, once more a pugilist. "Is it burnout? I mean, from what I've read about Fulbrook-the signs in pub doorways saying No Knives, goodness me-"
"In fact they're pictures of knives with an X over the top. For the unlettered."
"Well, there you are. I wouldn't blame you for searching out a sleepy village to have a nice quiet breakdown in."
"I assure you I'm not another Blakemore."
The Reverend Charles Blakemore, previous vicar of Upton and Barrow End, collapsed in harness four months ago, mentally unstrung. He's the reason we're all here-myself, and the other short-listed candidates waiting behind the imposing oak door. We've managed to clear the hurdles set in our way, the applications and panel interviews and parish visits. Upton-and Barrow End-was all I hoped it would be, a village and neighboring hamlet settled on the chalk hills before Domesday, the people at long last cautiously prosperous, not given to show, the handshakes friendly but conditional in a way I perfectly understood. And now it's down to this odd, unwieldy man with his clumsy tongue and his direct questions. In all honesty, I can't say it's going well.
"Please continue."...
July 1974, England
There's only one remaining question, Mr. Acton."
The man who has been interrogating me leans forward with his heavy arms on his knees, big boxer's knuckles on fingers strictly interlinked. As if each hand has been detailed to keep the other out of mischief.
"Which is?"
"Whether you'll go out of your mind."
His tongue appears too large for his mouth; it lumbers from side to side as he speaks, getting in the way of, rather than forming, his words. A man trying to articulate through a mouthful of flannel. When he finishes, the tongue hangs over his bottom teeth, just inside a slack lower lip. His name is Frobisher.
"Go out of my mind? Why?"
I'm slow on the uptake, having been rather mesmerized by Frobisher, his way of speaking, the bulkiness of his limbs. It comes to me that this man, despite his somewhat distracting appearance, has had years of training in winkling out harbored information. He can probably, like a police dog at Customs, simply smell it.
"Why do you think?" Frobisher chortles. "Boredom, man! Look at you, you were an RAF pilot. A prisoner of war."
"That was thirty-odd years ago!" I can't disguise my astonishment. "It's hardly relevant now."
"I beg to disagree." He rocks back in his seat, enjoying himself. "I've seen so many like you. You're one of a whole generation, all ex-services, who signed up for the priesthood at the end of the war, and what were you doing? Arming yourselves to fight another good fight. Think of theological college-all that cold water and discipline and ardent celibacy. Certain similarities to a military training camp, no?"
He's not wrong: both places featured, in varying proportions, muddy cross-country runs and prayer. The prayers shorter and more fervent in the field of battle than in the pew.
"Actually, Archdeacon, I was ordained before the war. And by the end of 1945 I was married."
"Of course you were. Girl you met in Egypt, I believe?"
His beady little eyes track over me. He doesn't "believe": he's learned my file by heart, memorization being a tool of our trade, and so he's simply prodding me now. I can't think of anything I want to say about Yvette. Not now, not to him.
"Yes," I reply. "My late wife was from Alexandria."
There follows a tense silence while the instant coffee cools in the cups, the ginger biscuits soften in the humid late-summer air. From beyond the leaded window a pale sunbeam does what it can to make Frobisher's bald head gleam. As far as I'm aware he hasn't blinked.
"Archdeacon," I say at last, "I've got nothing to hide."
He stretches his lips into a broad grin. They have no shape, these lips, being the same thickness all the way along, and no color to distinguish them from the rest of his face. "My dear man. Nothing was further from my mind. Nevertheless here you are, all set to leave the West Country at rather short notice after, oh, it must be more than twenty years, just when all your work at your current parish is bearing fruit, and come here to Hampshire, to Upton, which for all-"
"Upton and Barrow End. I believe they're quite particular about that."
"-And Barrow End"-the grin becomes ferocious-"a community which, for all its good points, is hardly the most challenging environment. For a man of your experience, that is. And you're not yet sixty." He hunches forward, once more a pugilist. "Is it burnout? I mean, from what I've read about Fulbrook-the signs in pub doorways saying No Knives, goodness me-"
"In fact they're pictures of knives with an X over the top. For the unlettered."
"Well, there you are. I wouldn't blame you for searching out a sleepy village to have a nice quiet breakdown in."
"I assure you I'm not another Blakemore."
The Reverend Charles Blakemore, previous vicar of Upton and Barrow End, collapsed in harness four months ago, mentally unstrung. He's the reason we're all here-myself, and the other short-listed candidates waiting behind the imposing oak door. We've managed to clear the hurdles set in our way, the applications and panel interviews and parish visits. Upton-and Barrow End-was all I hoped it would be, a village and neighboring hamlet settled on the chalk hills before Domesday, the people at long last cautiously prosperous, not given to show, the handshakes friendly but conditional in a way I perfectly understood. And now it's down to this odd, unwieldy man with his clumsy tongue and his direct questions. In all honesty, I can't say it's going well.
"Please continue."...
