“There are some facts about the world that only your mother can teach you.”
I mainly read and review horror fiction. This puzzle box of a novel took me entirely by surprise. In its early pages, I was fascinated by its idiosyncrasies and portrait of late Victorian British eccentricity, but left wondering “at which point will the horror show its ugly head?”. I even began to wonder if I’d made a mis-step in requesting this book for review.
I needn’t have been so concerned. By the time this book was finished with me, I was left with no doubts. This is one of the most affecting books I’ve read in a long time. Parry’s rich prose is a barbed delight: I was amused, upset, disgusted, appalled and horrified - frequently all within the space of a few pages. The writing employs all five senses to thoroughly revolt you and there are some grotesque descriptions in this book that will stay with me for a long time.
Marguerite Périgord is engaged to marry Mr Lewis. Her disapproving mother Cécile confines her to the tiny attic of their dilapidated London home by way of preparation for her married life. Isolated from her family and with only the novels of Victor Hugo and Mrs Beaton’s Book of Household Management (“the thousand pages of prescribed femininity, the dictionary of what men wanted from women”) for company, Marguerite earnestly begins her education.
“It is the great shame of my life, Marguerite, that you have turned out the way you have, despite my best efforts. You will be the death of me, I think…”
As the novel discloses its secrets, we learn about Cécile’s life and the lengths her daughter must now go to for survival as her ostentatious meals are provided less and less frequently. This is a witty, scathing novel about scandal and unfulfilled promises, about what it means to be a mother, a daughter, and a wife at the mercy of a cruel patriarchy; but perhaps most of all it is about generational trauma.
I devoured the second half of this novel in a day, on a train back up north from (appropriately enough) London. My friend was surprised when I told her how horrible Carrion Crow was since she’d seen me chuckling to myself a lot whilst reading it. I hadn’t realised how much I’d laughed during this book until someone else pointed it out. This is a very witty novel: horrible things happen, but you would have to have a heart of stone not to laugh at the way in which some of them are described.
In terms of comparisons, the book that Carrion Crow reminds me of most is Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind, in terms of the sense(s) of the disturbing and macabre, the abundance of bodily fluids, and the sheer revulsion invoked by the prose. Fans of Camilla Grudova will also find a lot to enjoy here.
I would not recommend this book to everyone - please check trigger warnings before proceeding because there’s a lot here that could be damaging. But for readers who can stomach it, this book will be a carton of mixed eggs, where the first one you choose will be a sweet chocolate fondant; the next, a sharp vinegared hard-boiled egg - and the third one you bite into just might contain a fragile baby bird beneath its crisp shell.
I’m off to devour the rest of Parry’s back catalogue like a boiled calf’s head that I must strip of every last scrap of meat from for sustenance.
Thank you to RandomHouse UK and Netgalley for providing a digital ARC of this book.
