- The Curlew's Eye, by Karen Manton. Allen & Unwin, $32.99.
The title of this debut novel attracted me, since I grew up near a salt marsh estuary on the south coast of England, where the melancholic call of curlews on lonely winter evenings would haunt my imagination.
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However, the curlew here is Australian, and the story - listed by its publisher as "a richly atmospheric Gothic mystery" - is set on a creepily neglected homestead in bushland near Darwin, still brooding over scars left from past tragedies.
Perhaps the "richly atmospheric" aspects are a little overplayed (the editorial role in publishing has sadly declined over recent years) but Manton's first step as a novelist is sure-footed.
Joel and Greta, together with their precociously articulate young sons, Toby, Raffy and Griffin, have left the south coast for a long road trip north, to Joel's old home, near Darwin.
The place is being sold as part of a development and Joel has agreed to help restore one of the old family dwellings before moving on again.
The story is told in first-person narrative from Greta's viewpoint, whose growing awareness of Joel's family skeletons, hidden in several hitherto unknown closets, forms a binding factor for the mystery.
As Greta explores the rambling property, which includes a lake poisoned by chemicals leaking from an old mine, and the rusting ruins of abandoned cars, glimpses of Joel's damaged family begin to sharpen.
These include the image of a young sister, who died in a terrible fire, never adequately explained.
And behind all this, the echoing scream of the bush curlew. "Harbinger of death, some people say," a local woman tells Greta. "Undid those first white settler women. Poor things."
And perhaps it will also undo Greta, as she tries to identify a wraith-like girl, apparently living rough in a landscape that quickly conceals her, as if it were a living accomplice.
However, Greta's struggle for answers is helped by memories of her own mother, with whom she shared a love of photography, and her three sons, wise beyond their years, as the path to resolution emerges
I must confess to feeling a little short-changed by what seemed like a tilt at magic realism as boulders breathe - and occasionally sing! - and the landscape appears to become a sentient force.
Are these inventions prompted by Greta's psychological distress?
Or merely the ingredients required for a truly "Gothic" thriller, where reception is a matter of personal taste.
In any event, I'm sure the mystery spun here will be enough to capture many readers.