The apothecary

Review by New York Times Review

MAILE MELOY, author of two novels and two story collections that have been praised for their meticulous realism, has written her first book for young readers, and defying expectations of admirers such as myself, it's a fantasy. Though a longtime fan of Meloy, I couldn't help approaching "The Apothecary," a story of teenage spies and transformative elixirs, with trepidation. So it was a happy surprise that the book, with its intricately constructed plot, well-paced suspense, credibly rendered fantastical elements, thoughtfully drawn characters and authentically detailed settings, satisfies on all levels. Even for a reader predisposed against the genre. The opening chapters are reassuringly Meloy: 14-year-old Janie Scott describes her life in 1950s Hollywood with her parents, a radio-television writing team, "the smartest, funniest parents I knew." Childhood in postwar California is blissful - eating oranges off sweet-smelling trees in the front yard, playing in the ocean waves - even if punctuated by atomic bomb drills at school and shadowed by a new war in faraway Korea. But when Janie is followed home by a black sedan, the hitherto unrecognized threat of McCarthyism and blacklisting changes her life. Fleeing an upcoming court appearance, her parents whisk her, grumpy and protesting, to London, where they have been promised wprk on a new television series. "It'll be like living in a Jane Austen novel," her mother enthuses. "You mean I'll get married in the end?" Janie shoots back. "I'm 14." Once in London, the Scotts are taken aback by the city's grimness, which Meloy depicts with satisfying realism. They are depressed by the damp, dust and cold, and disoriented by the constraints of shopping with ration cards, and without niceties like chocolate. Janie faces the agony of being new in a school where students are addressed as Miss and Mister; uniforms are mandatory; and the requisite beautiful, wealthy snob, Sarah Pennington pronounces Janie's home "California" ("as if perhaps I had made it up," Janie thinks). FOR readers, the biggest suspense is whether romance will blossom with Janie's sandy-haired fellow student Benjamin Burrows, whose "thrilling, defiant voice" and refusal to hide under the desks during the bomb drill make her "heart beat inside my rib cage at such an unexpected pace." But more than romance with Benjamin awaits Janie. The boy, who aspires to the Secret Intelligence Service, and his father, a gentle local apothecary, propel her. into dizzyingly improbable experiences that build in complexity and urgency. First, the apothecary is kidnapped, shortly after hurriedly entrusting Benjamin and Janie with his Pharmacopoeia, an aged volume of alchemy with recipes for medicines and methods of healing, which, to Janie, looks "like a very old, important version of my mother's overstuffed 'Joy of Cooking.'" The teenagers are then accompanied by a cunning young pickpocket, fittingly named Pip, and endure harrowing, often life-threatening escapades, only to discover that Benjamin's father is part of a small international group of scientists fighting to suppress atomic bomb testing and counteract the destructive effects of radiation. Benjamin and Janie join the band's dangerous mission to the Arctic to stop an impending Russian test masterminded by a young physicist named Andrei Sakharov. Meloy begins with the usual elements of good middle-grade fiction: a character removed from her ordinary life, the temporary disappearance of one or more parents, a tentative first romance. Slowly and carefully, she turns the story into a spy-filled mystery, and then crosses over into full-fledged fantasy, in which the effects of chemistry and physics push past accepted limits. The impossible first occurs during a rooftop chase scene worthy of any thriller as the desperate threesome escape their pursuers by drinking an avian elixir and turning into birds, each true to his or her size and nature. Equally enthralling, though, and every bit as magical, is Janie's first kiss, many chapters and adventures later: "His lips were warm and soft against mine, and the night air was cold. Shivers went down my spine from the place where his fingers were tangled in my hair and pressing against my skin." Meloy weaves fantasy into a fine work of historical fiction, bringing to life the cold-war era when everyday life was permeated by fear of nuclear disaster and Russian spies lurking everywhere. More important, though, she brings to her first book for young readers the same emotional resonance that has won acclaim for her adult fiction, grounding her story in the intricacies of family love, friendship and loyalty, blended here with the complicated fluctuations of adolescence. Krystyna Poray Goddu is the author of "Dollmakers and Their Stories: Women Who Changed the World of Play."

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 16, 2011]

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Review by Booklist Review

Janie, 14, has been living happily with her screenwriter parents in Hollywood. But it's 1952, and blacklisting makes it imperative that the family moves to London, where a TV job awaits. Janie is not happy about this, but a startling adventure opens to her as she becomes friends with Benjamin Burrows, whose father is an apothecary, and not just any apothecary. Mr. Burrows is part of a small, international group of scientists who are trying to contain the destructive results of the atomic bomb, including a weapon that is being tested off the coast of Russia. Those who know little about blacklisting, the Cold War, and European life after WWII will just have to dive into the fantasy-adventure pool, which runs long and deep. Magic elixirs, transformational disguises, and everyday cunning help Janie, Benjamin, and several scientists elude capture and defeat the desperate cabal that supports the Soviet Union. Readers must be willing to traverse a complicated tale and avoid stepping in a few plot holes, but Meloy offers a strong narrator in Janie and an intriguing mix of history and mystery.--Cooper, Ilen. Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

When the House Committee on Un-American Activities targets Janie's television writer parents, the 14-year-old and her family flee from Los Angeles to London. There, Janie meets Benjamin, a "defiant" classmate, and his father, the neighborhood apothecary, who is involved in much more than hot water bottles and aspirin. In fact, he is part of a long line of apothecaries who have discovered miraculous secrets-truth serums, invisibility, amazing physical transformations-and he is now working with scientists on an incredible plan that has global ramifications with regard to the escalating tensions between the Soviet Union and the United States. Some readers may need to brush up on cold war history to fully appreciate the stakes, but even those with a vague understanding of the times will be quickly swept up in this thoroughly enjoyable adventure, filled with magic, humor, memorable characters, and just a bit of sweet romance. With evocative, confident prose and equally atmospheric spot art from Schoenherr, adult author Meloy's first book for young readers is an auspicious one. Readers will hope they haven't heard the last from Janie and Benjamin. Ages 10-up. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 5-8-A fairly interesting mystery set mostly in 1952 London, The Apothecary offers a little of everything; magic, romance, mystery, and historical fiction. When friends of Janie's parents are blacklisted in Hollywood (they are a television writing team), the Scotts move to London. Around the corner from their flat is a mysterious shop with an enigmatic apothecary. The man's son is Janie's new friend at school. When she and Benjamin, who aspires to be a spy, happen to witness a handoff involving a Russian attache in the park, the teens get more than they bargained for. As it turns out, not only is Benjamin's father involved, but the Latin instructor at their school is also a part of this web of espionage. The two rush to save the apothecary only to find out that he is attempting to stop a nuclear test in Soviet territory. Everyone goes along to help stop the explosion. However, the magic occasionally feels like a contrivance to move the plot forward instead of an organic part of the fantasy. The ending is sort of a free-for-all, and the created world doesn't really keep to the rules set up at the beginning. Nonetheless, this is a highly readable adventure/mystery, and it is greatly enhanced by Schoenherr's graceful and evocative illustrations.-Robin Henry, Wakeland High School, Frisco, TX (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Following the paths of Neil Gaiman, Julia Alvarez and Carl Hiaasen, bestselling author Meloy (Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It, 2009, etc.) takes a successful plunge into middle-grade fiction.Before the House Committee on Un-American Activities can interrogate Janie Scott's Hollywood writing-team parents for being possible Communists, they move to London. "I was no witty, patient, adaptable Jane Austen," the 14-year-old admits as she recalls helping to save the world in 1952. While palling around with Benjamin Burrows, who'd rather be a spy than follow in the apothecary family tradition, Janie becomes entangled with Cold War espionage after Benjamin's father mysteriously disappears, leaving behind a secret 700-year-old book of magic elixirs. As the teens, joined by pickpocket Pip (seemingly plucked out of Great Expectations), search for the apothecary (truly an alchemist), they must also outrun their dreamy Latin teacher (who could be a double agent), rescue a kidnapped Chinese chemist and work with other scientists from around the world to thwart the Soviet's detonation of an atomic bomb 20 times more powerful than Hiroshima's, all while testing out some of the elixirs along the way.Although Janie's narration loses some of its charm and humor as the adventure escalates, its blend of history, culture and the anxiety of the time with magical "science" will keep readers just as spellbound as the characters. (art not seen) (Historical fantasy. 10-14)]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter 2 The Apothecary It's safe to say I was not graceful about the move to London. I was no witty, patient, adaptable Jane Austen. And if I was anything like Katharine Hepburn, it was in the scenes where she's being a giant pest. I cried in the taxi all the way to the airport, past the churning oil rigs on La Cienega. I cried on the first airplane I'd ever been on, which should have been exciting, and was exciting--all those tiny buildings below--but I wasn't going to give my parents the satisfaction of knowing that I was enjoying it. At Heathrow Airport in London, there was a framed picture of the brand-new Queen Elizabeth II on the wall. "She's not that much older than you are," my mother said. "And she's been through a war, and her father's dead, and now she has to be queen, poor thing." "See?" my father said. "Your life could be worse." I looked at the picture of the young queen. We had escaped ahead of the U.S. marshals, locking up the house and packing only the things we could carry. My parents were going to be writing for the BBC under fake names-- fake names , when my mother wouldn't even put yellow food coloring in margarine! We were living like criminals or spies. Although I was angry, standing there looking at the plucky young queen's portrait, I allowed myself to think that my mother was right, and it might be an adventure. But February in London crushed those hopes. We took a taxi through streets that were still bomb-scarred and desolate, seven years after the war's end, to a tiny third-floor flat on St. George's Street in Primrose Hill. Across the street was a haberdasher--my father said he was like a tailor--standing outside his shop with his hands behind his back and a look on his face as if no one would ever come in. Our new landlady, Mrs. Parrish, took off her apron and patted a wild cloud of hair to show us around. She said the gas water heater over the kitchen sink was broken, and we would have to heat pots of water on the stove. The kitchen was along one side of the living room, no bigger than a closet, and could be closed away just like a closet. The rooms were freezing and the walls seemed damp. The brown wallpaper was water-stained near the ceiling. We must have looked dismayed, because the distracted Mrs. Parrish suddenly focused on us. She was not going to let some spoiled Americans fail to appreciate their good fortune. "You're lucky to get the place, you know," she said. "Of course," my mother said quickly. "We're very grateful." "People are queuing up for a flat like this, with its own lavatory, and separate bedrooms, and a working telephone line. But the BBC asked to hold it, specially." It was clear that we did not deserve such a bounty, when her countrymen, who had lost so much, were still going without private bathrooms. "We're very grateful," my mother repeated. "Do you have your ration cards for the marketing?" "Not yet," my mother said. "You'll need those," the landlady said. "And you'll find that the butcher sells out first thing in the morning, ration cards or no." She lowered her voice. "I can sell you some eggs, if you like. They're hard to get, but I know someone with hens." "That would be very nice." Mrs. Parrish showed us where to put penny coins into the gas heater in the wall, to make it work. We didn't have any English pennies, but said we would get some. "Mark you," she said, brushing dust from the heater off her hands, "it doesn't do much. Apart from eat up pennies. You'll want your hot water bottles for the beds." "We don't have hot water bottles," my mother said. "Try the apothecary," the landlady said. "Around the corner, on Regent's Park. He'll have pennies, too." And she left us alone. My mother started investigating the closet kitchen, and my father and I put on every warm thing we had, which wasn't much, to go find the apothecary, which my father said was like a pharmacy. The sky over St. George's Street was gray, and the buildings were gray, and people wore gray. It sounds like a cliché, but it was true. Going from Los Angeles to London in 1952 was like leaving a Technicolor movie and walking into a black-and-white one. Around the corner on Regent's Park Road, just as the landlady said, we came to a storefront with two bay windows full of glass bottles. A painted sign over one window said APOTHECARY, and one over the other window said ESTABLISHED 1871. My father pushed the paned glass door open and held it for me. The shop had a strange smell, musty and herbal and metallic all at once. Behind the counter was a wall of jars. A balding man on a wheeled ladder, halfway up the wall, pulled a jar down. He seemed not to have noticed us, but then he spoke. "I'll just be a moment," he said. He carefully climbed down the ladder with the jar in one hand, set it on the counter, and looked up at us, ready for our needs. He had wire-rimmed glasses and the air of someone who didn't rush things, who paid close attention to each particular task before moving on to the next. "We're looking for three hot water bottles," my father told him. "Of course." "And how about some chocolate bars?" The apothecary shook his head. "We have them sometimes. Not often, since the war." "Since the war ?" my father said, and I could see him calculating: twelve years without a steady supply of chocolate. He looked a little faint. I wondered if he could get a prescription for chocolate from a doctor. Then I could have some, too. "Come back again," the apothecary said, seeing his dismay. "We may have some soon." "Okay," my father said. "We'd better get some aspirin, too." I could tell he was embarrassed by his undisguised need for candy, and he always made jokes when he was embarrassed. I could feel one coming. "And how about something for my daughter, to cure homesickness?" "Dad," I said. The apothecary looked at me. "You're American?" I nodded. "And you've moved here to a cold flat with cold bedrooms that need hot water bottles?" I nodded again, and the apothecary guided the ladder along the back wall on its metal wheels. "I was joking," my father said. "But you are homesick?" the apothecary asked, over his shoulder. "Well--yes," I said. He climbed the ladder and chose two jars, tucking one beneath his arm to climb down. At the counter, he unscrewed the lids and measured two different powders, one yellow and one brown, into a small glass jar. "The brown is aspen, the yellow is honeysuckle," he said. To my father, he said, "Neither will hurt her." To me, he said, "Put about a dram of each--do you know how much a dram is? About a teaspoon of each in a glass of water. It won't take effect right away, but it might make you feel better. And it might not. People have different constitutions." "We really don't--" my father said. "It's free of charge," the apothecary said. "It's for the young lady." Then he rang up the hot water bottles and the bottle of aspirin. "Thank you," I said. "You'll want some pennies, too, for the wall heater," he said, handing me our change in a fistful of big brown coins that clinked, rather than jingled, into my hand. Excerpted from The Apothecary by Maile Meloy All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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