Sadie Jones made a terrific debut with her novel, The Outcast, one of those stories involving family secrets, a tragic death and an awkward main character trying to make sense of it all when all the world seems against him. It was altogether stunning and I have been meaning to catch up with Jones's Small Wars, for quite some time.
While not quite in the same class as The Outcast for a compelling character and gripping storyline, Small Wars is I think a more thought provoking novel. It describes a little-known part of British history, for me anyway - the British forces involvement in Cyprus during the 1950s - and the effects of army policy on those caught up in it all - in particular the soldiers and their wives.
Yes, this is another soldiers' wives sort of story, but done tremendously subtly here, as you might expect, because Jones is one of those authors who can get right inside her characters and make them real.
These include Major Hal Traherne, a talented young officer with a bright future, and his lovely wife, Clara, who has just arrived on Cyprus with their twin daughters. They are eventually housed safely in the army compound with other army families, but there is the perpetual problem with any kind of war, for men and families alike: long spells of tedium broken up by moments of violence and terror.
Cyprus is a challenge in that although it is a 'small war', it has its particular difficulties. The Cypriot rebels use guerilla tactics often resulting in British casualties before vanishing into the mountains. To maintain control the British have to come down hard on the rebels in a way that makes one wonder where the Geneva Convention would stand in all of this. The things Hal sees and does he cannot discuss with Clara, so the war becomes a wedge between them, affecting Hal's behaviour to her and their marriage.
Clara meanwhile tries to be the correct army wife, smiling and caring for her children. But it is a tremendously lonely time for her, and she finds friends few and far between. The thin walls that separate their house from that of Mark and Deirdre reveal a marriage in strife. Deirdre is obviously not being a good army wife, but Clara does her best to be supportive none the less. Another friend is Davis, a young classics scholar doing his compulsory military service as a translator, an important role that he frequently finds disturbing, witnessing as he does some very unpleasant interrogations.
The story centres on the struggles the characters each experience in this small war to do what is expected of them while maintaining a facade of normal life as the violence around them intensifies. This eventually explodes into the lives of Hal and Clara, throwing them into an unenviable crisis that has life-changing effects.
Sadie Jones does well at recreating what it might have been like on Cyprus at this time, and the book has a lot to say about the patriarchal system that dominated British colonial policy. I am sure the lengths the British went to to maintain their colonial interests here and in other parts of the world seemed perfectly justifiable in the past. We might think we know better now, but sadly there are still small wars and that is probably not going to change. As I said before, this book gives you a lot to think about.
Karen Joy Fowler is well known for The Jane Austen Book Club, a quirky novel where each of Jane Austen's books finds an echo in the lives of its six main characters. (The novel was so popular it was made into a film, which I didn't enjoy so much, but that's another story.) I found Fowler's The Case of the Imaginary Detective at a book fair and being a big fan of detective fiction, I had high hopes for it. And for the most part, I wasn't disappointed.
The Case of the Imaginary Detective is the story of Rima, who after the deaths of her father from leukaemia and her very dear brother in a car crash, needs to crawl away from the world for a bit to lick her wounds. She is taken in by her godmother, Addison Early, famous for writing detective novels featuring the charismatic Maxwell Lane, which have been made into movies and TV series. Addison is a brittle, bristly and secretive woman, who is none the less kindly.
Addison inhabits a rambling house by the beach in Santa Cruz, along with two dachshunds and a recovering alcoholic housekeeper named Tilda. There are two visiting university students who help out with dog-walking duties as well as attempting, at Addison's request, to take Rima out of herself. Scattered about the house are doll-house models of the murder that takes place at the start of each of Addison's novels, some of which are particularly grisly.
But the underlying mystery of this novel concerns Addison's past, which she is quite tight-lipped about: her relationship with Rima's father, and their connection with Holy City, a religious community run by the autocratic William Riker, which was also the scene of a suspicious death. Then there is the mystery of why Addison named a murderer after Rima's father, and whether this was the cause of the rift in their relationship.
These mysteries are certainly intriguing and keep the plot ticking along nicely. Rima does a lot of snooping, in Addison's attic and at the now derelict Holy City, as well as on the Internet. She's not the daughter of a prize-winning journalist for nothing. In doing so she starts to come out of her shell. She begins to face up to her feelings for her family, especially her adored brother, and interacts more with other people. The ending is just as much about Rima getting her life back on track as the solving of mysteries.
I apologise if this makes the books seem altogether too worthy, because the whole thing is packaged in a pleasantly wry narrative style. The setting of a seaside town in winter adds a ton of atmosphere - a suitable canvas for the bunch of oddbods that inhabit it. And being rather fond of oddbods in literature, I liked this novel a lot.
I think I may have mentioned that I'm a big fan of Barbara Pym novels. Virago, bless them, have been reprinting the thirteen novels Pym wrote in her lifetime, so now I've had the chance to catch up on a few that I'd not come across before.
One of these is An Academic Question, which was published posthumously. Pym never thought it would be published at all, as when she wrote it in 1971, she was very much out of fashion. She thought it too 'cosy' to have any chance of acceptance and it was left as a draft. It was years later that her friend, Hazel Holt, tidied up the various drafts and notes into a publishable manuscript.
An Academic Question is narrated by Caro Grimstone, whose husband, Alan, is an anthropology lecturer at an English provincial university. Caro is feeling jaded by her lack of fulfillment as a wife and mother when she takes up the offer to read to an invalid at a retirement home. This Mr Stillingfleet happens to be an expert anthropologist himself, with a chest full of notes he refuses to allow anyone to see, including Alan's head of department. Spotting an opportunity to further his career, Alan steals some of the old boy's research and the rest of the novel follows the moral dilemmas this action throws Caro's way. On top of all this, she is concerned about her husband's interest in an attractive colleague, Iris Horniblow.
Caro receives plenty of advice from well-meaning friends, including the spectacular mother and son duo, Kitty and Coco, who once led a charmed life on a Caribbean island, and Kitty's sister, Polly who keeps a rundown second-hand shop and has a soft spot for hedgehogs. Dry humour sets the tone for the story, which follows Caro's awkward dealings with academics and librarians, until a series of chance happenings leads to a sensible resolution.
An Academic Question is a delightful comedy of manners with the odd 'laugh-out-loud' moment. As Anne Tyler so nicely put it on the back cover, Pym is 'the rarest of treasures; she reminds us of the heartbreaking silliness of everyday life.'
San Miguel by T C Boyle is the kind of novel that takes an intriguing setting, in this case a windswept island off the coast of California, throws at it a few interesting characters and then sits back to see what happens. There's also a historical element to add some atmosphere.
But really, most of all, it's character all the way, because I guess that's what islands do: they strip away all the appendages of civilized life - the social obligations, fashion, career prospects and class interactions, and so on. What is left is the islanders themselves and how they relate to their immediate families and natural surroundings.
You have to be good with characters to make a novel like this work, and Boyle is supremely good. He copes admirably with writing from a female point of view - in this case three women - over two different periods of history.
The first begins in 1888, when Marantha arrives with her husband, Will, her teenage daughter, Edith, and their Irish servant. The island is Will's idea. Vigorous and determined, he's a veteran of the Civil War, needing a chance to be his own man, optimistic about the potential the island's sheep station offers. He has convinced Marantha to invest the last of her money in the venture, promising the clean air that will cure her tuberculosis.
When cheerful optimism turns to bitter disappointment and worse, Edith is coerced into helping out. But she has her heart set on a more glamorous life. How these two women leave the island drives the plot for the first half of the book.
The rest of the novel concerns Elise's story. She has been swept off her feet by Herbie, who is exuberant and charming, just when she thought she was a spinster for life. It is 1930 and Herbie, too, is traumatized by his wartime experiences, but covers it up with his passion for Elise and for their island adventure. Elise soon becomes immersed in life on the island, and her marriage seems truly blessed, until the outside world and the rumblings of another war start to intrude.
San Miguel may not be the happiest of novels, and it might even put you off the dream of getting away from it all. But this is a terrific story - inventive and captivating, at the same time giving the reader plenty of food for thought. Boyle is an accomplished writer, his prose is both elegant and natural - I shall certainly be seeking out his previous novels.
I felt like reading a Christmas book and was attracted by David Park's The Light of Amsterdam with it's blue Delft cover art. This is a novel about three sets of characters from Belfast who visit Amsterdam just before Christmas. All are anxious or depressed and find a change of heart and new resolution from their time away.
First off, there's Alan who teaches art at a university. He's recently divorced and feeling sorry for himself for making a mess of his marriage and because he's been told by his boss to improve his act. To top it all off, he has to take his teenage son, Jack, with him to Amsterdam because his ex is going to Spain with her new partner, whom Jack can't stand. Jack is a sort of Goth/Emo who is making a mess of school and dabbling in drugs and self-harm. How is Alan supposed to talk Jack into going to the Bob Dylan concert which is the main purpose of his visit?
Then there's Karen, who has low self-esteem perhaps because she works as a cleaner in a rest home, has been 'asked' about the missing bracelet belonging to one of the patients, and is struggling to pay for her share of her daughter's wedding. This is the daughter she raised single-handed, after the father dumped her when she was three months' pregnant. She is going to Amsterdam with her daughter's hen party and she is particularly unhappy about having to dress up as an Indian squaw for the duration.
Richard and Marion are a couple with grown-up children who are taking a well-earned break from their busy garden centre. They plan to visit the flower markets and can afford a nice hotel. However Marion has been worried that Richard is drifting away from her, and imagines all kinds of goings-on between her husband and one of the pretty Polish girls they employ at the shop. She decides to take a bold step while they are in Amsterdam to help rekindle their relationship.
So none of our main characters are very happy, in fact the book begins in a rather gloomy fashion, perhaps reflecting the setting of Belfast in December. Once they arrive in Amsterdam, the weather is unseasonably warm and the characters slowly thaw in an enchanting city where anything seems possible. Karen and Richard make a small, tentative connection, while Richard and Marion are seen occasionally in the distance. But mostly the three main characters are shown through their thoughts - thoughts that are often going round in circles of anxiety, with odd bursts of hope and determination.
As you can see, this is not a book where a lot happens. It has a particularly slow beginning. However David Parks is a great creator of atmosphere and builds drama and tension cleverly towards a mildly cheerful ending. Amsterdam shines through his prose. But most of all, he has huge empathy for his characters who are ordinary folk the reader can identify with. I don't know if the book was released just in time for Christmas, but for anyone going away to recharge the batteries, this is a timely reminder of of how getting away from it all can give you a bit of perspective. Which reminds me: there is some nice stuff about art as well.
The Lighthouse, by Alison Moore, is one of those books you read not because it is going to be fun, but because you know it will be cleverly done and probably quite different from anything else you've read before. You know it will be clever because it was on the Mann Booker shortlist this year. And it won't be fun because early on in the book you can tell that the two main characters are doomed.
First of all, there's Futh. (Don't ask me how to pronounce his name, but as his grandfather came from Germany, I'm guessing it rhymes with 'tooth'.) Futh keeps stick insects as pets and works as an industrial chemist creating nature-identical smells.
Not surprisingly he is socially awkward and poor at relationships - probably something to do with the fact that his mother walked out when Futh was a boy. And perhaps this is why he is haunted by his mother's perfume. Smelling of violets, it came in a small lighthouse-shaped bottle which he carries around with him.
Scent descriptions linger on the page with everything he does - there's camphor, oranges, steak and onions and of course, violets. There is also some potent imagery connected with the lighthouse - is it a sign of welcome or a warning of the dangerous rocks below?
At the start of the book, Futh has recently separated from Angela and has decided to go on holiday by himself in the country where his grandfather came from. He is quite hopeless - he gets lost when he is driving and gets blisters and sunburn when he is walking. Mealtimes come and go while he stumbles on.
Propping up the bar at the guesthouse Futh checks in for the first and last nights of his walking tour is Ester. She runs the inn with her husband and is quite shamelessly a floozie, luring male guests into untenanted bedrooms, and flaunting her aging body in clothes too young for her. It is not a pretty picture. Husband Bernard is fit and muscled. Glowering at his wife over his crossword puzzles, he is a time-bomb waiting to go off.
Throw these characters together into a story, and the book seems to be a catalogue of disasters waiting to happen. I found myself galloping through the chapters hoping for some kind of redemption as the suspense mounted. I wanted Futh to find out he was good at something that people would recognize and applaud him for. I wanted Ester to see herself as her husband sees her and for them to repair their marriage.
I won't tell you what happens. This is a short book, and definitely clever - subtle and spare enough to leave much to the reader's imagination - and how that imagination bubbles and seethes. I found myself thinking that not only is the author playing with her characters in an 'as flies to wanton children' sort of way. She is also playing with the reader.
The Essence of the Thing, by Madeleine St John managed a nomination for the Booker Prize in 1997. (It competed with the truly superb Europa by Tim Parks, and both of these lost out to The God of Small Things by Andurati Roy - I have a copy of this that I have never managed to read.)
Essence is the third of St John's novels, and since I have been reading them in order, there is sadly only one to go. There is something to be said for the smaller novel, in this case a mere 235 pages - you can finish it in a day or two and there isn't time for the story to get too flabby. St John's novel has no spare words. It remains sharp and witty and leaves a lot to the reader's imagination. I for one appreciate the faith the author has in the reader to fill in the gaps.
The story concerns a couple, Jonathan and Nicola, and what happens when Jonathan tells Nicola he doesn't want to live with her anymore and that he will buy her out of their Notting Hill flat, originally her flat, and can she leave as soon as possible please. Of course, Jonathan is a prat, but he happens to be, as Nicola points out to her best friend, Susannah, the prat that she loves.
Nicola is desolate and the book is mainly about how she departs the flat, talks to friends, and because she isn't a prat they are happy to help out, and how eventually she pulls her life together again. There are scenes with each of the unhappy couple's parents who have hopes for their children. His parents think it is time they settled down. Nicola is perhaps not quite what one might have hoped, but nice enough. Nicola's parents likewise hope for a wedding. 'Why doesn't he have done and marry her?' declares her father.
There are clever comparisons between different sectors of the middle classes. Jonathan's friends, Alfred and Lizzie are well-off professionals and too busy to have another child. Nicola's friends, Susannah and Geoff, are liberal, academic types and 'too poor' to produce a sibling for nine-year-old Guy. Geoff's friend, Sam, borrows his power tools, and does some amusing mental comparisons of the 'keeping up with the Jonses' kind.
All this is achieved in short chapters, often containing a single scene using dialog and little else, which makes it a bit like reading a play at times. The dialog is pitch perfect - natural but able to move the story along nicely. And often laugh-out-loud funny. The ending is thoughtfully open-ended.
St John's novels achieve a lot in a small sphere - ordinary people just thinking and talking, which can be a breath of fresh air if you've just been reading an epic fantasy novel as I have. In this sense, she is a kind of modern Jane Austen and reminds me a lot of Barbara Pym, and I am at a loss to decide which I like best.
Sadie Jones made a terrific debut with her novel, The Outcast, one of those stories involving family secrets, a tragic death and an awkward main character trying to make sense of it all when all the world seems against him. It was altogether stunning and I have been meaning to catch up with Jones's Small Wars, for quite some time.
