Wednesday, 29 August 2012

The Uninvited Guests by Sadie Jones

I’ve been led to gather from other reviews of this book that The Uninvited Guests is very unlike Sadie Jones’ other work, including the bestselling Richard And Judy Book Club favourite The Outcast. I couldn’t tell you whether I agree because The Uninvited Guests was the first novel by Jones that I’ve read, but if this is different from her norm, then I’m almost disappointed, as I thoroughly enjoyed it and would actually love to read more in a similar vein.

Set entirely within the confines of Sterne, an Edwardian country home gradually falling into disrepair, The Uninvited Guests reads like a strange cross between I Capture The Castle, Noel Coward’s Hay Fever and An Inspector Calls with a smattering of modern-Gothic thrown in.

I must confess that it didn't quite grab me at first. The story begins with Edward Swift, the second husband of flighty matriarch Charlotte and stepfather to Clovis, Emerald and Smudge, leaving Sterne for Manchester to attempt to secure a large loan to enable the family to remain in their crumbling money-pit of an estate. In Edward's absence, Emerald is to hold a dinner party in honour of her birthday, inviting local nouveau riche farmer John Buchanan and her best childhood friends, bluestocking Patience Sutton and her amiable brother Ernest.

So far, so ordinary. The characters are slightly offbeat, the humour is gentle but fun, and the set-up fairly standard: a formerly well-off upper class family falling on financial hard times and struggling to keep an enormous house running is a relatively common premise. With the planning of the dinner party and the suggestion of a comic romance sub-plot in which Emerald is pushed into the arms of John Buchanan and his new money, one could easily be forgiven for imagining that The Uninvited Guests would develop into a witty but insubstantial comedy of manners.

But then the arrival of Patience and Ernest happens to coincide with a serious railway accident, and Sterne is commandeered by the mysterious Railway as a holding-pen for the shocked, stranded passengers. Herded into Sterne’s morning room and literally shut away by the Torrington Swifts, they are confused, hollow-eyed and grey-faced, and the longer they remain, the more intrusive and chilling their presence becomes. And when one of their number, wolfish cad Charlie Traversham-Beechers – the only passenger who claims he was travelling in First Class – insinuates himself into Emerald's dinner party, events take an even more sinister turn.

The Uninvited Guests is full of social awkwardness and brittle, slightly dysfunctional relationships that provide much of the wit and humour of the novel, yet are also touching and frequently sad. Smudge, the youngest Torrington, is dismissed with something approaching outright neglect, particularly by her mother, and there is an element of tragicomedy in her lonely 'Great Undertaking to bring her pony into her bedroom to trace her portrait on the bedroom wall. Charlotte Torrington Swift herself, desperately attached to the importance of keeping up appearances, is a self-centred drama queen, but the more we learn of her, the more we realise that she has more reason than most to want to cling to a façade of well-to-do respectability. Brisk, practical Emerald has abandoned her plans to study science while caring for her terminally ill father and is now being pushed into looking for a suitably well-off husband, and Clovis, slightly boorish and irresponsible, seems unsure of how to grow up, unable to forge a masculine role for himself in the family after his mother’s second marriage. Their insecurities, long swept under Sterne's threadbare carpets, are exposed – sometimes gradually, sometimes brutally – by Charlie, by each other and by the sheer strangeness of the situation as the increasingly demanding railway passengers become impossible to ignore.

Like another favourite novel of mine, Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger (also deeply creepy, and also set in a shabby country manor in the early 20th century) The Uninvited Guests is not just a ghost story of sorts, but also a novel about the decline of the English upper classes. Just like the singularly unpleasant bunch in An Inspector Calls, the Torrington Swifts find themselves forced to put aside their own problems and confront the working-class horde that is, quite literally, invading their home, clamouring for warmth and sustenance, despite the family’s initial efforts to continue a lavish five-course dinner party and ignore their impromptu visitors – and the solution the Torrington Swifts find to the problem of the visitors is, in itself, surely symbolic. Moreover, it seems no accident that the book is set just two years before the First World War, an event that shattered Edwardian Britain and destroyed its innocence with brutality, shellshock and the loss of a generation.

Some reader reviews of The Uninvited Guests have criticised the style Sadie Jones has adopted for this book, which is apparently different from her usual prose and which is indeed unusually verbose for a modern novel. However, it’s pretty clear that Jones has made a deliberate decision to write in the style of the period in which the novel is set – and for me, it works beautifully, giving the novel a perfect sense of time and place without ever descending into parody, and its effectiveness reminded me of Michel Faber's use of a Victorian-influenced style to root his novel The Crimson Petal and the White firmly in the 1870s.

The Uninvited Guests doesn’t necessarily answer every question you might ask of it – at least, not explicitly – but it’s an engaging and rewarding read, cleverly executed and striking a remarkable balance between comedy and pervasive, symbolic horror. Jones has taken the brave decision of making her characters largely unlikeable at the outset, but you won’t regret sticking with them. By the time the novel reaches its conclusion, I, for one, didn’t want to leave them behind.

Saturday, 25 August 2012

Hawthorn and Child by Keith Ridgway

I started reading Keith Ridgway's Hawthorn and Child on the recommendation of John Self, who was at the time embarking on an experiment to see how effectively a book could be drawn to people's attention through social media. John's enthusiastic championing of the book meant my expectations were high; equally, he'd been very clear about the type of book Hawthorn and Child is, so I knew roughly what to expect: an unconventional narrative structure, a lack, by most definitions, of discernible plot, and a book full of hints, allusions and clues that will have you endlessly pondering their significance. On the other hand, they might not be significant at all. In one chapter, a character eavesdropping on a conversation, remarks: "This banal banter seems so completely unconnected to anything I know about that I wonder if it's coded. Why would it be coded, you idiot? They've just just drifted off into life," a remark which rather mirrors my experience of reading the book at times.



If Hawthorn and Child reminds me of anything, it's Nicola Barker's Darkmans. Darkmans has more plot (to be frank, most books do) but, like Hawthorn and Child, it was a book I kept wanting to re-read so I could piece together more of the oblique references, the throwaway remarks and word choices that you suddenly realise might be meaningful - in Hawthorn and Child, there is a recurrent theme of confusion over words, of mishearing, of not being able to find quite the right terms. Hawthorn and Child also shares a similarly mundane setting, in which odd things happen. In the opening chapter, for instance, there is the odd suggestion that a man may possibly have been shot by a ghost car. Hawthorn and Child themselves are police officers who are pursuing a mysterious gangster, Mishazzo, but this is a million miles from a crime novel. In crime novels, everything is explained, everything neatly resolved, so that the solution to the mystery becomes the point. In Hawthorn and Child, almost nothing is resolved or explained. We're not even sure what crimes Mishazzo has committed, as most of what we see him and his sidekicks doing in the book has nothing to do with their criminal activity - driving from place to place, for instance, or making small talk.

"There are millions of explanations. There's an infinite number of explanations," Hawthorn points out, for it's Hawthorn who seems the more creative thinker of the two policemen, the more willing to explore the unlikely or the impossible and whose grip on reality isn't always firm. Child is the more pragmatic of the pair - if there are millions of explanations for things, he says, then he's not going to get roped into doing the paperwork. 

More like a collection of inter-related short stories than a novel in many ways, Hawthorn and Child answers few questions, and leaves much unexplained, and yet each story, each baffling incident, seems complete and satisfying and yet often vaguely unsettling at the same time. The odd awkwardness, the sense of something strange unfolding, is rendered even more bizarre by Ridgway's sparse, matter-of-face prose style. If, like me, you're sometimes attracted to odd books that raise more questions than they ask, this is a novel for you. Read it, ponder it, read it again and spend endless hours trying to unpick it.