I read At the Chime of a City Clock a month ago while recovering from a short illness. My washed-out, listless moods entirely matched the atmosphere of this slow-paced amble through 1930s London, following the adventures of James Ross, a would-be writer and part-time carpet-cleaner salesman.
Young James leads a dreary life, living in "digs", and struggling to pay the rent. He writes poems and short-stories which are occasionally published in minor literary magazines, but the need for cash drives him to find a job with the Abraxas Carpet Cleaning Company. The small retainer and commissions on sales just about keeps him in beer and cigarettes and goes some way towards placating the land-lady's brother who is pressing him to clear his rent arrears.
While demonstrating the cleaner in Kensal Green, he meets the rather lovely Suzie (who looks like "the girl in the toothpaste advert", down to the tight jumper and red hair) who is impressed to meet a writer and agrees to go for a drink with James in a pub which is frequented by literary types.
There is not a lot of point in describing the story, other than to say that James finds that Suzie works as personal assistant to a mysterious Dane, Mr Rasmussen. James discovers that Rasmussen is a rather shady character and eventually a plain-clothes policeman recruits James to find out what he can about him. James discovers that Rasmussen and Suzie have been invited to a country-house weekend and manages to persuade a friend who has also been invited to let him have his invitation, which will of course require James to impersonate his friend.
The scene is set for a classic 1930s set-piece which has been seen on so many theatre sets - an ill-assorted bunch of people mingling in over-decorated rooms where nobody is quite as they seem and various misdeeds are planned and carried out. This is almost a game of Cleudo acted out on the page and needless to say, ends up with the police arriving on the premises.
Some reviewers have criticised this book for its definitely uncomplicated plot - its all a bit predictable. But I think this misses the point. The book seems to me to be an ironic recreation of a 1930s thriller, and the lack of sophistication (which might be found in a modern novel by Ruth Rendell of P D James) is all part of the concept.
I found the slow-pace quite acceptable because there is so much 1930s detail to keep the reader's interest. D J Taylor delights in describing seedy bed-sitting rooms and disreputable pubs where blousy tarts mingle with spivs and wide-boys. The criminals are parodies of themselves, from the cunning mastermind to the plodding henchmen, but this is all deliberate and is what the author intended.
If you can bear not sitting on the edge of your seat, then its a perfect read for a wet Sunday afternoon. Its strength is in D J Taylor's perfect evocation of 1930s London. I'm pleased I read it and would recommend it to anyone who might be able to appreciate its charm despite its lack of thrills.