‘All That Man Is’ by David Szalay

9780099593690A Danish journalist is chasing down a sex scandal story involving a high-ranking government official: a young Frenchman holidays alone in Cyprus. All That Man Is – a pan-European series of nine short stories or a cohesive, singular insight into different strands of ‘maledom’? The jury is out but its shortlisting for the 2016 Booker Prize suggests it’s officially accepted into the latter category.

Personally, I err towards the former. And, as with any compendium of short stories, I felt slightly cheated in its reading. Twenty or so pages per narrative leave little in terms of any sense of significant depth of character or situation. Yet, to be fair, David Szalay, in those few pages and through his quick sketches, generally portrays more about his characters’ emotional limitations than some writers achieve in 300+ pages.

Nine stories, nine variously aged men hailing from different European countries – with each protagonist on a journey, actual as well as metaphorical. Bookending the book are two British characters. 17 year-old Simon is inter-railing round Europe with a friend before their first year at Oxford: his grandfather, a retired diplomat, is spending time at the family holiday home in Italy. Sandwiched between is a series of stories that include a Russian billionaire looking to commit suicide, a Hungarian bodyguard on a job in London and a Belgian philologist delivering a luxury car to a buyer in Krakow.

The protagonists are diverse but there exists a level of homogeneity, a melancholic undercurrent of yearning for something almost intangible or beyond their grasp. No matter how ostensibly different they are, their concerns appear to be similarly mordant and narrow.

Inevitably, with nine separate (linked?) narratives to choose from, some are stronger/more appealing than others. The Danish journalist is a particularly strong tale as we journey through the different stages of man (each man is progressively approximately seven years older than his predecessor) – the deputy editor of Scandinavia’s biggest selling newspaper, Kristian is surprisingly humane towards his ‘victim.’ And the final story, of Tony slowly recovering from a heart attack, listening to a young girl sing in a café whilst he ponders on the inscription Amemus eterna et non peritura (Let us love that which is eternal and not what is transient), seen earlier that morning at Pomposa Abbey, is a gentle, allegoric narrative that packs a punch not initially obvious.

Less interesting were the earlier, youthful stories – Simon and his yearning for a classmate back in England, the Hungarian bodyguard finding himself outside the Park Lane Hilton in the early hours of the morning on too many occasions.

All That Man Is was shortlisted for the 2016 Booker Prize but lost out to the first American to win the award, Paul Beatty and his The Sellout.

‘In the Country of Men’ by Hisham Matar

9780241957073Not surprisingly, nine year-old Suleiman (Slooma) does not fully grasp events going on around him – not helped by the fact his wealthy parents, in order to protect him, are choosing not to tell him very much.

It’s 1979 Tripoli and ten years after the Gaddafi people’s revolution. But Libya is now closely monitored, awash with surveillance, secret police and a culture of reporting anti-revolutionary activity. Yet Suleiman’s father, Faraj, a successful businessman, is involved in clandestine activities against ‘The Guide’.

In the Country of Men is not a novel focusing on specific historical content or events – it is more an emotional journey as seen through the eyes of a nine year-old, resulting in events being frequently misunderstood or distorted. Thus, the narrow rituals of childhood are elevated in importance – games in the street with friends, the mood swings of his young alcoholic mother, gifts from his father’s overseas trips. Away from dusty Mulberry Street and home, events play themselves out without a great deal of impact. Until, that is, Ustath Rashid is arrested for anti-revolutionary sentiments. Next-door neighbours and the father of Slooma’s best friend, Kereem, his arrest sends events into a tailspin.

A narrative of love and betrayal, In the Country of Men is a lyrical yet unsentimental portrait of both a family and a country. Betrayal runs rampant throughout – Gaddafi’s to Libya, Faraj to his son, Slooma himself to both his parents as well as Kereem. But below the surface is the tenderness and confusion of love.

Suleiman makes mistakes in his desperate need for the love of his father. Forced into a marriage at 14, Slooma’s mother finds solace in illegal schnapps: like Scheherazade, she tells stories of her life and betrayal by her family to her son long into the night. But, with Faraj’s arrest, so a deep love for her husband comes to the fore. It is only years later, with Suleiman a 24 year-old living in Egypt, that the tragic sadness of events begin to fall into place. And by then it is mostly too late.

Born in New York in 1970 of Libyan parents, Hisham Matar returned to live in Tripoli with his parents when he was three years old. His family was forced to flee to Egypt just six years later due to political persecution. Matar’s father disappeared in 1990 and has been missing ever since. In the Country of Men, his debut novel, may be a fiction, but it is very much a story of the heart.

Shortlisted for the 2006 Booker Prize, London-based Hisham Matar, with his debut novel, lost out to Kiran Desai and The Inheritance of Loss.


‘The Finkler Question’ by Howard Jacobson

9781408808870Having read English at Cambridge under F. R. Leavis and taught the subject at Selwyn College, Cambridge, you just know anything written by Howard Jacobson will not fall under ‘light read.’ But what you may not be prepared for is the wit, irony and warmth alongside the satire and intelligence. Even on a second reading, The Finkler Question made me laugh out loud.

Jacobson is tackling one mighty difficult and potentially contentious issue in The Finkler Question – that of Jewish identity alongside male friendship.

It is through the friendship of three men – former schoolmates Julian Treslove and Sam Finkler and their teacher, Libor Sevcik – that Jacobson explores his subject, an exploration that is at once brilliantly funny yet with a deep melancholic sense of loss and longing.

Through the three men, opinions and opposing philosophies of what exactly is Jewish identity are voiced, discussed and debated – from the strident, anti-Zionist, Israeli-hating Finkler through to the ‘convert’ that is Treslove, more orthodox than any of his friends as he reads 12th century Maimonides on the reasoning for circumcision or demands answers to his questions of, how he sees it, the innate ‘Jewish’ cleverness of the use language. A 90 year-old Czech, Libor sits somewhere between the two men.

A former BBC radio producer (a minor position – an early morning arts programme on Radio 3), Treslove is a melancholic lost soul – a father of two (adult) boys to separate women, both of whom chose not tell him of their respective pregnancies. His great love is the great operatic tragedies. It is he who labels Jews at Finklers, having met his first Jew at school in the guise of Sam/Samuel/Shmuel/Shmueli (several identities in one…). This new word “…took away the stigma, sucked out the toxins.” A late night mugging a few yards from the BBC in Portland Place following an evening with Sam and Libor leads to Julian questioning his sense of who and what he is.

As a result, The Finkler Question becomes, in part, Julian as a Gentile and his relationship with Judaism and ‘Jewishness’. But in ostensibly looking at Libor, Sam and other characters as Jews and how Julian ‘measures up’, The Finkler (Jewish) Question is as much about the sense of belonging and the associated obligations/expectations of that belonging.

As an anti-Zionist, is Sam a lesser Jew? Hephzibah only introduces a kosher kitchen at the behest of Julian yet she is the director of the planned Anglo-Jewish Cultural Centre. Tyler, Sam’s wife, was a convert. Yet, in spite of her upholding the religious customs and beliefs more than Sam, as a reformist, she was not totally accepted. And deep down, Julian himself despairs of the religion that he does not fully grasp or can ever, ultimately, be part of.

The Finkler Question is something of a meandering narrative, jumping in time and place. It verges on plotless per se other than as a stream of (Jewish) consciousness. Julian finds some of the answers to his questions: some of the questions he doesn’t understand himself. Both Sam and Libor deal with their grief at the loss of their wives in their own ways.

Anti-Semitism does rear its ugly head in obvious ways but also in surprising ways – The Finkler Question continues to challenge and question assumptions. People – Jews and non-Jews alike – come ago, vehicles for Jacobson to propound yet more opinions (occasionally over-contrived – Julian’s youngest son a Holocaust denier). And Treslove’s neurotic obsession occasionally palls (Maimonides?).

But the 2010 Booker Prize winner is a seamless roll of pathos and humour, of philosophy and politics, relentless in its search for a truth. Not that Jacobson is going to answer The Finkler Question – mainly because there is not one answer. Put two Jews in a room and you’ll get three very different opinions. Welcome to The Finkler Question.


‘On Beauty’ by Zadie Smith

OnBeautybookcoverOn second reading, Zadie Smith’s acerbic third novel, On Beauty, fails to make any real emotional impact.

Essentially the story of two feuding families in the rarefied atmosphere of academia and a (fictional) New England university just outside Boston, On Beauty is contrived and predictable, populated with a host of generally unlikeable characters.

Set in London, Smith’s first book, White Teeth, was full of life – street-wise sass, larger-than-life characters, snappy dialogue. To some extent she has attempted to replicate the sass and savvy with the Belsey family – and in 52 year-old Kiki (wife and mother), an African-American woman from Florida and “a solid two hundred and fifty pounds [with a] beautiful tough girl face”, Smith has succeeded.

But sadly Kiki operates in a vacuum. Husband Howard is an untenured lecturer and art historian at Wellington College, a stereotypical liberal, shambolic academic. He may love his wife and three teenage kids (in his own way), but he is out of touch with the world around him and unable to communicate effectively with family, colleagues or students. A recently revealed (albeit short-lived) affair has certainly strained the usually rambling and boisterous Belsey family home.

The news that Monty Kipps, a black conservative professor and Howard’s nemesis as both art historian and humanitarian, has been offered a secondment at Wellington sends the Belseys into a tailspin. Howard, due to a lack of focus and commitment, has repeatedly failed to deliver his book on Rembrandt. An arrogant and foppish Monty has recently had published his own book on Rembrandt to critical acclaim.

Characters come and go throughout On Beauty. Howard fails to prevent Monty moving to Wellington – and to cap it all, the Kipps family move into a house not so far from the Belseys. Against the grain, Kiki becomes friends with Carlene Kipps – although this relationship is more than a little strained. Lonely and rarely in the company of her husband, Carlene is something of an ‘academia widow’ as far as Kiki is concerned. But Carlene has her own secret she choses not to share with family or friends. Her oddness and vagueness is later revealed when the secret proves to be a terminal cancer.

So much for the adults (throw into the mix various academic peers – the beatnik female poet, Claire; Erskine – Head of Black Studies and Howard’s best friend; the tiresome and longwinded Dean).

On the teenage front, Zora Belsey is precociously and arrogantly academic, an opinionated activist admired rather than liked by her peers and teachers at Wellington. She is very much ‘her father’s daughter.’ Jerome, the eldest Belsey child, is sensitive and intelligent, choosing to study at Brown University rather than stay at home. Much to the dismay of his parents, Jerome has recently found God and the Church. Levi is the odd child out – the youngest with an aversion to study but an interest in Rap, Hip-Hop and ‘street’. A chance encounter results in him becoming involved in the Haitian cause.

In the Kipps family home remains only 18 year-old Victoria (her brother Michael choses to stay in London). She is sexually active and uses her beauty to her advantage, especially as a new student at Wellington.

All characters meet and clash – Zora’s relationship with Victoria mirrors that of their fathers; Monty is suspicious of Kiki’s motives towards Carlene. Both Howard and Jerome have encounters with Victoria.

But there’s just too much ‘chance’ or ‘serendipity’ in On Beauty. The Kipps and the Belseys both ‘happen’ to be in London at the same time to enable them all to attend a funeral: Levi ‘happens’ to become interested in the Haitian cause just as the Kippses arrive in Wellington – both Monty and Carlene are from Haiti. External student Chantelle, intern to Monty, ‘happens’ to work part-time at the same record megastore as Levi. It’s all a little too convenient, structured to enable the episodic narrative to progress.

Yet, in spite of the negativity towards On Beauty, there were a number of high points – and the last few pages, the culmination of all that had gone before them, were as good as anything Smith has written (at least in the other books of hers I have read). The title ‘On Beauty’ comes from a poem – Smith comments, throughout, on different perceptions of beauty. Skin deep comes to mind as, throughout, the hypocrisy of opinion and action becomes more and more prevalent. The two patriarchs are (predictably) proven to be the biggest hypocrites. But they are certainly not the only ones.

All the characters are struggling beneath the weight of personal expectations placed upon them. Added to which Smith explores the dynamics of race and gender in contemporary America through what is essentially a domestic drama against the backdrop of academia. But On Beauty feels as if Smith is also struggling under that weight – the critical disappointment to her sophomore novel, The Autograph Man, after the raves bestowed on White Teeth.

Interestingly, On Beauty was shortlisted for the 2005 Booker Prize (it lost out to the execrable The Sea by John Banville) – an achievement that outstripped the multi-award winning White Teeth in 2000.



‘Pigeon English’ by Stephen Kelman

9781408828205Recently arrived in London with his mother and sister (the rest of the family remain in Ghana), eleven year-old Harri needs to learn the rules and language of the street – and quickly.

Living on the eleventh floor of a block of flats on a rough London council estate where the Dell Farm Crew rule the roost, Harri is a kid who loves his family and with his own dreams. But then a boy is knifed to death on the estate: the police call for witnesses is met with silence. With a little too much TV experience and crime series in particular to his name, Harri along with best mate Dean, enticed by the thrill and adventure, decide to naively start their own investigations.

Pigeon English is something of a hybrid first novel from Stephen Kelman. That it is homage to the experiences of young migrant kids and alien environments is unquestionable. But Kelman himself also confirms that it is homage to the 2000 murder of 10 year-old Damilola Taylor on London’s notorious North Peckham estate by local gang members. Taylor had only recently arrived with his family from Nigeria.

But the novel is also a celebration of childhood, friendship and the innocence (or not) of experience in an ever-changing world. Told from Harri’s infectious and ebullient curiosity and glorious multicultural slang, he might possibly be the fastest runner in his school: he certainly believes himself to be in love with classmate Poppy: he misses his Papa, grandma and baby sister still in Ghana. But Harri is also wary of gang members X-Fire and Killa along with his sister’s worldly friend, Miquita (girlfriend of Killa).

It’s an endearing read tinged with more than a little sadness – the waste, the hopelessness, the fear, the despair of life in such environments. Harri tries to make the most of it – and it is his enthusiasm for the world around him that draws you into the book.

Pigeon English was shortlisted for the 2011 Booker Prize, but lost out to Julian Barnes and The Sense of an Ending.

‘His Bloody Project’ by Graeme Macrae Burnet

graeme-macrae-burnet-his-bloody-projectThere’s no disputing 17 year old Roderick Macrae violently and bloodily murdered three members of the MacKenzie family in the remote Scottish farming community of Culduie in 1869. He’s admitted it to neighbours, police and his legal representative. But why? And will his actions lead to the gallows?

Written in the form of documents supporting a case study, Graeme Macrae Burnet’s His Bloody Project is a masterful psychological thriller. From the slightly tongue-in-cheek preface from the author himself, the witness statements given to the police through to the medical reports and Macrae’s own account of the lead up to the events, the book is an absorbing and intricate read, a mix of revenge tragedy and courtroom drama.

An intelligent and sensitive teenager, Macrae is the son of a dirt-poor crofter on the Ross-shire coast of northeast Scotland. It’s a landscape of great beauty but terrible hardship and injustice as tenants eke out a paltry living in almost feudal conditions. Roderick’s station in life is mapped out before him: there are few opportunities to break away from the tradition of toil.

With his mother recently dead (giving birth to the twins) and parented solely by a dour and devout Presbyterian father not averse to using his fists to punish his eldest son, there is little joy in the Macrae household. But in spite of this, Roderick seemingly accepts his lot. Not that there’s much more joy in the small Culduie community itself – a settlement of nine homes to some 50 people.

It’s Roderick’s account of his life and those around him that forms the core of His Bloody Project. Sitting alone in his cell in Inverness gaol awaiting trial, it is his legal representative, Mr Sinclair, who suggests he writes. And what flows is an intimate yet emotionally distant narrative of his family, the everyday existence of a crofter and his experience at the Big House. But it also details the campaign by Lachlan MacKenzie as constable of the settlement (the laird’s representative) against the Macrae family: fining the family for minor infringements of their tenancy, targeting them and generally bullying father and son alike.

His Bloody Project is a compelling read as Roderick’s account is juxtaposed with that of the official reports and, later in the book, a splendidly pompous ‘extract’ from Travels in the Border Lands of Lunacy by J Bruce Thompson where the expert talks of the criminal class (identifiable in part by the shape of the skull) and (nineteenth century) contemporary criminal psychology. It’s from his discussions with Roderick that Thompson expounds on his opinions and insight. And it’s in the courtroom this overbearing official is more than happy to declare these opinions as fact.

Detailed, evoking a real sense of place through precise prose (it was originally believed to be a novel based on a true story), His Bloody Project delves deeply into the psyche of Roderick – but without giving us all the answers. Just how reliable is the boy as the narrator of events: the prosecution in the courtroom reveals more of the events in the MacKenzie home that certainly wrong-foots us?

Wonderfully multilayered, Burnet’s second book was shortlisted for the 2016 Booker Prize. It lost out to the first American winner of the award – Paul Beatty and The Sellout.

‘Master Georgie’ by Beryl Bainbridge

12101_original_1The short (192 pages) Beryl Bainbridge novel seems to have gained more appreciation with critics than readers, collecting as it did the New York Times Book Review Notable Book of 1998 as well as being shortlisted for the Booker Prize.

Master Georgie is not only short – it is somewhat slight. Told in six chapters, the story is set in 1850 Liverpool and the 1854 Crimea War and essentially follows four characters – Myrtle, Pompey, Potter and George ‘Master Georgie’ Hardy himself – inextricably linked by an event in a Liverpool brothel. Hardy himself, whilst central to the narrative, is the aloof focus of the other three, all having chosen to follow the surgeon to the battlefields.

Besotted Myrtle owes her position in the Hardy family to George – an orphan who hovers somewhere between maid, companion, sister and child-bearer (George’s wife Annie having continually miscarried). Pompey, a former street-urchin, is the giver of sexual favours to ‘gentleman George’ in return for opportunity to better himself. Potter, amateur geologist, is Hardy’s pompous brother-in-law.

None are particularly interesting, sympathetic or empathic: their motivations vague and unclear. The result is that, overall, Master Georgie is a somewhat vague and unsatisfying novel.

There are beautifully lyrical moments alongside barbed commentary on the ineptitude of privilege in war and subsequent death, squalor and misery: Bainbridge is never afraid to make it clear where her political sympathies lie – whether in the Crimea or Liverpool. Master Georgie therefore becomes about linked moments scaffolded by a narrative that simply ‘is’. It’s not overly engaging but is easily read – and at 192 pages, in a short time frame.

‘Waterland’ by Graham Swift

waterlandA novel of contemporary England as well as a fascinating and succinct history of the vast, flat Fens of East Anglia, “a landscape which, of all landscapes, most approximated to Nothing.”

It is this primacy of concern for the importance of history that is central to Waterland.

 The narrator, Tom Crick, is Head of the History Department of a large, southeast London comprehensive school. Changing educational policies and concerns in the 1980s (when Waterland was written) sees a move towards subjects of more practical relevance than the ‘indulgence’ of history: Crick is taking enforced early retirement as the syllabus changes.

Yet Waterland is part personal history as he reflects on events as a young boy growing up in the Fens and the (fictional) town of Gildsey. It is the scepticism of one of his students of the relevance of history that results in Crick voicing his story.

But to understand the Fens in the 1940s is the need to understand 300 years of history and the challenge of the waterways on land largely below sea level. Through the backstory of Crick’s mother’s family – wealthy landowners and brewers fallen on hard times – we (and his history students) are introduced to the human settlement of the Fens and the impact of the shifting direction of its rivers and waterways.

Murder, incest, guilt, madness, the voice of God, illegitimacy and kidnapping raise their heads throughout Swift’s 1983 Booker Prize-shortlisted novel – yet, perversely, Waterland is an insidiously quietly paced narrative.

A cacophony of characters are introduced over its 300 plus pages: brewing entrepreneurs and landowners of the 18th century, bombastic politicians of the 19th century briefly make their appearance. This personal family narrative of Tom’s has wider historical significance but it is also specific to Tom growing up in a lockkeeper’s cottage aside sluice gates on the River Leem.

It is the discovery of the body of 10 year-old Freddie Parr, washed up against the sluice in 1943, which sets Waterland in motion. As American and British bombers drone overhead on their way to Hamburg or Berlin, the apparently accidental death of Tom’s school friend sets in motion a series of events, the repercussions of which haunt Tom for the rest of his life.

Freddie’s death unleashes questions, suspicions, accusations and further death as family secrets surface involving Tom’s mentally challenged older brother, Dick, their recently-deceased mother along with a long-dead grandfather.

Mixing his narration of personal family life with the prescribed syllabus subject of the French Revolution, Tom explores how the past leads to future consequences and therefore debunking the view history is bunk. He may be inappropriate for his 1980s history lessons, but Tom has nothing to lose. He’s been forced into retirement yet he’s teaching kids who are a generation fearful of nuclear warfare with its lack of a future. For Tom, history is relevant – it is a part of us and we are part of history. It shapes who we are.

Like the Fens waterways themselves, Waterland does not follow an orderly course. It’s non-linear, shifting telling of stories (an apparent family trait) provides different perspectives and vantage points of themes, families, events and landscapes. It is beautifully written. In its slightly crazed, non-chronological narrative, Swift’s novel does occasionally go off track. But that going off track can also produce some wonderful asides: the Freddie Parr schoolboy prank of throwing an eel down Mary’s knickers results in a fabulous 12 page foray into the history of the sex life of eels!

Regarded as his best, Graham Swift and Waterland was nominated for the 1983 Booker Prize, but lost out to J M Coetzee and Life and Times of Michael K. (Swift went on to win the prize with Last Orders in 1996).



‘Heat and Dust’ by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

heatanddustTwo parallel stories run side-by-side as the 1923 downfall of Olivia during the British Raj in India is explored through a series of analepses by the (unnamed) granddaughter of Olivia’s ex-husband some 50 years later.

Propriety and social constraints are jettisoned in favour of rebellious passion as Olivia, newly arrived in India, becomes suffocated by the boredom of being a British Raj administrator’s wife.

Young and beautiful, she soon attracts the attention of the local Nawab, a minor Indian prince. In spite of her love for (boring) husband Douglas and the Nawab’s association with the daicots terrorising the local villages, Olivia is drawn to the thrill and excitement of palace life.

Fifty years later, Douglas’ granddaughter arrives in the town of Satipur looking to understand Olivia’s decisions and motivations – and like her, she becomes embroiled in the squalor and heat and dust of India: like Olivia, she becomes pregnant, uncertain of the father.

Heat and Dust is a short novel (180 or so pages) and is relatively straightforward, narrated as it is by the 1970s family member. Jhabvala is an assured and confident writer (as well as novels and short stories, she won two Oscars for adapting A Room With a View and Howard’s End for the screen) but there’s something lightweight about Heat and Dust.

It’s full of the smells and textures of India – and the racism of the Raj is succinctly portrayed. But there’s no real analysis or judgement – it’s a keen observational novel without any overt emotion. Like the social constraints of the 1920s, it’s controlled and distant.

Jhabvala’s novel won the Booker Prize in 1975 beating the only other shortlisted book, Gossip From the Forest by Thomas Keneally. It remains the shortest shortlist in Booker history (and excluded Malcolm Bradbury’s The History Man and Robertson Davies with his World of Wonders – the final book of The Deptford Trilogy).

‘The Little Stranger’ by Sarah Waters

The_Little_Stranger_Sarah_WatersWhat a disappointment. Sarah Waters is a best-selling author (The Little Stranger is her fifth although my first) who is, unusually, much lauded by the literary critics. Yet, this particular offering is somewhat vacuous and remote.

Set in 1947 Warwickshire, the Georgian Hundreds Hall has been in the Ayres family for more than two hundred years. But, like privileged pre-war gentry, the once stately manor is in steady, crumbling decline, the grounds choked with weeds, the family itself dying out. Old Mrs Ayres and her two adult children live in isolation, remote from the changing post war English society.

Struggling with the upkeep of their historic home, the family live in relative penury, with many of the dilapidated rooms in Hundreds Hall closed off. The only surviving male member, Roderick, badly injured in the war, struggles with the estate, supported by his capable sister, Caroline. Emotionally fraught, Roderick is on the cusp of a breakdown. But are there darker forces at play?

Into their now Gothic world walks Dr Faraday, a local GP who slowly becomes enamoured with the Hall and, over time, Caroline herself. Faraday inveigles himself into the family circle, particularly after Roderick is institutionalised. But is it the house that’s the root of the problem for the Ayres?

Waters is a superb writer and perfectly captures the decline of privilege in post-war England as the Labour government of the day introduced sweeping changes to the old way-of-life, including the Welfare State. But the story itself starts and stutters.

Is it a supernatural tale? A few bumps in the night, a few unexplained markings and sounds, a fire that finally tips Roderick over the edge? The pompous Faraday, as narrator, errs on the side of logic – constantly. Nothing moves him from blaming ‘nerves’. Yet things keep happening and the family is being bumped off. But by whom – or what?

That, I’m afraid, you’re never told. Or at least, you are left to your own imagination. That it’s an allegory of the killing off of redundant privilege is unarguable. But is ‘it’ more overt – the troubled unconscious of someone connected to the house?

The odd thing is that very little even happens ‘supernaturally’ until a third of the way into the book – up until then The Little Stranger is firmly in the historical fiction camp. And with its clipped, Brief Encounter style dialogue and conversation, it remains there, even when Waters attempts to move into the subtle, ambiguous psychological storytelling of the likes of Henry James (The Turn of the Screw). But The Little Stranger never reaches those Jamesian heights. There’s no suspense, there’s little tension – and things-that-go-bump-in-the-night happen all too infrequently over its 450 or so pages. And so by then, I’d given up caring and had somewhat lost patience.

So, for me, a poor introduction to the work of Sarah Waters – and therefore a surprise that it was shortlisted for the 2009 Booker Prize. But it lost out to the behemoth that was Wolf Hall and Hilary Mantel – so in some ways it was almost irrelevant what else was on that year’s particular shortlist!