Broken Country Audiobook by Clare Leslie Hall

I listened to Broken Country curled up on my old blue couch, rain tapping against the window—a perfect backdrop for this haunting story that lingered in my mind long after the final chapter faded out. Sometimes a novel doesn’t just tell a story; it leaves an ache, like a bruise blossoming quietly beneath your skin. That’s exactly how Clare Leslie Hall’s debut struck me.

Beth is one of those rare main characters who feels startlingly real—flawed but deeply sympathetic. She’s living with too much grief and barely holding herself together, and as someone who’s also known loss (though nothing like hers), I felt her exhaustion and longing in every pause and breath that narrator Hattie Morahan gave her. The depiction of Beth’s “ordinary” life—a steady husband, routines tinged by regret—felt painfully familiar at times. Life can look peaceful from the outside while storms rage inside.

The narrative pulls you into a rural English village where secrets run as deep as ancient tree roots. When Gabriel Wolfe returns to town—the first love Beth never truly got over—it isn’t some melodramatic reunion or neat rekindling of passion; instead, it tears open wounds she tried so hard to close. Gabriel arrives with a son (who looks heartbreakingly like Beth’s own lost child) and an air of mystery that feels both threatening and comforting.

What really shook me was how quickly everything unraveled: one shocking act—the shooting of Gabriel’s dog by Frank’s brother—sets off a cascade where every character begins losing their footing on ground they thought was stable. And it all happens quietly, almost imperceptibly at first, building dread not through violence but through unspoken words, glances exchanged across kitchen tables, memories surfacing when least expected.

The book alternates beautifully between present-day spirals and shards of memory: we learn slowly what happened to Beth’s son, why her marriage feels brittle under its veneer of steadiness, what drove Gabriel away all those years ago—and finally who killed the farmer whose death sits at the heart of the community’s whispered fears. The suspense here isn’t loud or flashy; it’s about silence heavy enough to suffocate you.

Hattie Morahan’s narration is pure magic in its restraint—never showy or distracting but always emotionally true. Her voice trembles with sorrow when needed yet remains strong enough to carry hope through even the bleakest moments. At times I forgot I was listening—I felt transported into foggy lanes lined with hedgerows, rooms heavy with unsaid things.

What I loved most was how honest Broken Country is about human frailty: love tangled forever with guilt; longing stitched into daily survival; small-town loyalties shaped more by shared pain than shared joy. It reminded me powerfully of books like Where the Crawdads Sing—not because their plots are alike but because both know how grief quietly transforms us over time.

If I had any complaint (if you could call it that), it’s only that this book left me raw—there are no easy answers or tidy endings here. Some mysteries don’t get solved so much as absorbed into who we become afterward. But maybe that’s part of why this audiobook meant so much: sometimes literature helps us sit inside our brokenness rather than fixing it outright.

For anyone craving a slow-burning literary mystery drenched in emotion—with unforgettable characters and prose that aches—I can’t recommend Broken Country enough… Just keep tissues nearby! This isn’t just an audiobook—it’s an experience that echoes long after the rain stops outside your window.