C&C 38: Murder Clubs and Death Cleaning
On Richard Osman’s books and reaching the age of no longer bouncing back
When PC Donna De Frietas makes her first visit to the British retirement village Coopers Chase in Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club (2020)—ostensibly to deliver her standard presentation on home security—she thinks, “It seemed innocuous enough. Lush, untroubled, sedate.” She has no idea what she’s in for. It’s likely Richard Osman didn’t either. Who would expect a book about a quartet of septuagenarians who occupy their twilight years digging into cold cases to become the latest publishing juggernaut?
The Thursday Murder Club books are hugely, deservedly popular, and that’s not about to stop me from recommending them. For starters, they are well-plotted and consistently funny. The roster of the title outfit, described in the fourth and most recent of the series, The Last Devil to Die (2023), as “a former nurse, a former spy, a former trades union official and an occasionally still-practicing psychiatrist,” are a memorable bunch, as are many of the supporting players. If the books can be said to have a weakness, it’s that they suffer from Fast & Furious syndrome, Osman so loving his characters, even the heavies, that they return in later books. An imprisoned cocaine dealer, a former KGB operative, a dapper local newscaster, all of them are now part of the sprawling Murder Club family.
Osman’s novels succeed because of their deft blending of hope and reality. The former is imbedded in the premise, the notion that as we grow older we’ll still meet new people, form lasting friendships, get into trouble. But Osman, a TV presenter inspired to write the books by visits to his mother’s retirement community, is forthright about the particulars of aging. Aches and pains are always duly noted. A subplot of the second book, The Man Who Died Twice (2021), involves Ibrahim, the occasionally still-practicing psychiatrist, becoming fearful of leaving his home after he’s assaulted in the street, his cohorts rallying to coax him out again. Losses—those you’ve sustained, and those that seem to surround you and your contemporaries—are a constant theme. Elizabeth, the former spy, grapples with her husband’s worsening dementia. In one of the diary entries penned by Joyce, the former nurse, that punctuate each book (this one from The Man Who Died Twice), she recounts a dream involving her late husband. Nothing remarkable occurs in it, only what she calls “the stuff of love.”
When I woke up and realized Gerry had gone, my heart broke once again, and I sobbed and sobbed. I imagine if you could hear all the morning tears in this place it would sound like birdsong.
This would be a good time to point out that many of the laughs in the books stem from Joyce’s ongoing efforts to land a new beau. Along with her attempts to comprehend modern technology.
Before Devil’s publication last year, Osman let it be known that death would visit the books. He also announced he’d be taking a break from the series to launch a new one, with the promise that he’d return to Coopers Chase. As expected, he handles the subject with grace while not pulling his punches. I’ve read all the Murder Club books aloud to Rosemarie while she prepares dinner, and more than once during Devil I looked up to find her slumped against the kitchen counter, weeping. As always with Osman, a funny line follows soon enough. Still, the bracing honesty of the books kept me from recommending them to my mother. Like Joyce, she’s a retired nurse with a taste for crime; most of our conversations are about the mystery novels we’re reading. But she’s also a widow, and my father had dementia for several years before he died. It felt odd to press Osman on her and say, “These are hilarious.”
On Opening Day last week, I went to a favorite bar for some baseball chatter to go with my beers. The Baltimore Orioles, I was told, will easily win a hundred games again because the team is so young; the players all have “stupidly elastic bodies” that instantly recover from injury. I’m doing what I can to take care of myself, but I can’t deny that I am at a point where I no longer have a stupidly elastic body. I don’t bounce back anymore. I rehab, slowly, from everything. (But hey, I’m still going out to bars, so there’s that.) It’s a hackneyed joke to say you’re old enough that you get hurt without knowing how. My trouble is that I always know how. I knelt down to get something out of a cabinet last week and my hip muscle started barking. That’s because three days earlier I’d missed a step on a dark staircase and foolishly believed I’d escaped unscathed, when in truth I’d been walking differently to compensate until my hip said, “Enough.” That’s one reason Osman’s books have been on my mind lately. The other is that I’m in a stretch where it seems every friend and colleague is either taking care of an elderly parent or mourning the loss of one. It’s a relatively new experience, despite the loss of my father five years ago, and underneath it is the constant refrain of “Get used to it. The hits are gonna keep on coming.”
Around the time I started reading Osman’s books, I picked up a pair of slender volumes written and illustrated by the eightysomething Margareta Magnusson that reinforced some of Osman’s themes. The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning (2018) may sound morbid, but it’s purely practical. Magnusson defines death cleaning simply: “when you leave earth make sure there is not a bunch of your crap still here for someone else to deal with after you go.” Doing so is not only compassionate toward loved ones, but yourself. “Aging is certainly not for weaklings. That is why you should not wait too long to start your downsizing. Sooner or later you will have your own infirmities, and then it is damn nice to be able to enjoy the things you can still manage to do without the burden of too many things to look after and too many messes to organize.” Magnusson’s advice—buy a shredder; collect personal items in a “Throw Away” box clearly labelled as such, so others can dispose of it without looking inside—is blunt and pragmatic, delivered with Scandinavian ebullience: “Save your favorite dildo—but throw away the other fifteen!”
The world shrinks as you grow older, but with adjustments you can continue to navigate it with relative ease. Magnusson stresses that death cleaning “is about a permanent form of organization that makes your everyday life run more smoothly.” In her follow-up, The Swedish Art of Aging Exuberantly (2022), she offers advice on making the world seems a little larger. Her suggestions aren’t unexpected—have drinks with a friend; volunteer often; keep an open mind—but hearing about their effectiveness from someone who, as the book’s subtitle would have it, “will (probably) die before you” lends them additional impact. She counsels to surround yourself with younger people, noting that “When I hear young people talking about their dreams I am reminded of my young self, and also reminded that I am still the same person.” She doesn’t say anything about banding together with people of complementary skillsets to solve crimes, but that’s now part of my retirement plan.
My mother recently had cataract surgery in both eyes. When she regained her vision and could read again, I sent her a box of books including The Thursday Murder Club. I suggested she read that one first. She called a few days later to tell me how much she enjoyed it—particularly the Joyce chapters—and singled out a few favorite passages. Like the one where Joyce describes a protest involving Coopers Chase residents that eventually brings the police around, sparking an exodus: “Though not a quick exodus, because you know that getting out of a garden chair at our age is a military operation. Once you are in one, you can be in it for the day.”
“He’s right!” my mother said. “It’s completely true. It’s so funny that he noticed that and thought to write about it.” I agreed, then made a note: maybe don’t buy any garden chairs.
What I’m Watching
Menus-Plaisirs—Les Troisgros (2023). After two seasons of The Bear and more episodes of Bar Rescue than is medically recommended, Frederick Wiseman’s documentary played like an ASMR video. In this film, the kitchen of a Michelin three-star restaurant is revealed as a pristine oasis of calm, filled with professionals going about their work. It’s a beautiful, immersive experience, a glimpse into the meticulous craft behind such an establishment, from the providers of meats and cheeses to the waitstaff. The four-hour running time passes like a dream. Watch it on PBS.
What I’m Reading
I was blown away by Stephen J. Nesbitt’s profile in The Athletic of a minor leaguer who retires without reaching the majors, which is actually about what happens when you walk away from your dream. All credit to Big John Gavin for holding nothing back.
Related: Will Leitch on what we can learn from Steve Martin.
I have got to read these! Beautiful essay Vince, thanks!