SOME OF THE NEW NOVELS

Press, Volume CVIII, Issue 31588, 27 January 1968, Page 4

SOME OF THE NEW NOVELS

Every Man’s Brother. By Norman Lewis. Heinemann. 249 pp. Bron Owen, serving a fiveyear sentence for violent assault, was discovered to be an epileptic quite unaware of violent outbreaks after they have occurred. He did not take fits but at times acted under a form of automatism. Before the prison psychiatrist could complete a course of treatment, Bron was discharged and went to live with his brother, Evan, on a poor farm in the Welsh village of Cross Hands where life is like the countryside—grey and gritty. Bron Owen, except when he was having an epileptic attack, was a quiet, intelligent, anl likeable man. His brother had a bitter and warped nature and was an insecure person struggling to make a living from unproductive soil and very much absorbed in the activities of the chapel to which he belonged. There were seven of these in the village: not seven different denominations but seven chapels whose membership was determined by financial and social status—a set-up which would give any eager-beaver ecumenist a thoroughgoing fit of the staggers. Bron, while under an epileptic attack, seduced Cathy, Evan’s wife. An adolescent yokel, working on the farm, anonymously reported a suspicion of this to Evan’s chapel associates, to whom suspicion was far more than enough for condemnation, and Evan was expelled from membership. Crazed by misfortune he attacked Bron at night and from that time he was not seen again. The problem then was whether or not Bron had killed Evan and disposed of his body. Bron himself could not tell. The story then works out to a surprising conclusion—if, indeed it does not conclude — with expert handling of human snares and tangles and the close observation and powers of description which enlighten the whole book. This is not a “police-novel,” for although they figure largely in it they are very much the product of the life and atmosphere of this grim and ineffectual community. It is all very well told.

The Rapture of Lol V. Stein. By Marguerite Duras. Translated from the French by Eileen Ellenbogen. Hamish Hamilton. 138 pp. One evening at a holiday festival ball, Lol V. Steinlong considered docile, indifferent, and somehow just a ‘■ifle “strange”—is suddenly abandoned by her lover and fiance for an older woman of obvious circe-like charms. Surprisingly, the shock is trau-

matic and a nervous breakdown results. The lover disappears into shadowhood (though as expected his offstage presence overwhelms), only to be supplanted by Lol’s sensual girlhood friend and another equally amorous lover. This “crise d’amour,” conventionally enough, provides sufficient material for a tale of frustration, intrigue, painful self-analysis, and a quest for resolution. But here the formulae and convention end: for the marrator, who in the first third of the story is presented as the objective, detached but impartial observer, we discover is not only the lover of Lol’s childhood friend, but he is as well the covert lover of Lol. And as the intrigues of this congenial “menage a trois” unfold, we are given a rather tenuous and elusive portrait of a woman, “who is in perpetual flight from the life she is actually living.” Lol V. Stein’s world is always slightly off-centre, riddled with ambivalence, and one that enlists the dimensions of dreams; a borderline life dominated by the fixation of a failed affair. It becomes a journey through time suspended, where the memory of grief and rejection merges with the actuality of uncer-t.-in relationships. At the close a somehow destined repetition of events seems to be Lol V. Stein’s lot. The Odd Spot of Bother. By Barry Crump. Reed. 159 pp.

Barry Crump is one of the most popular of New Zealand’s licensed jesters, and the blurb writer of this, his seventh book, has truly enough described the hero as “a Charlie Chaplin type of character,” full of innocent goodwill towards men, but with a sheer inability to conform to accepted patterns of behaviour. “Windy” Long, like many other in the good old days of full employment, went from one job to another —not leaving them from laziness or any other vice, but just because he could not help putting a foot wrong somewhere, and getting thrown out, or asked politely to move on. The pathos which underlines the Charlie Chaplin comparison is also here, as on the occasion when Windy was about to eat the first meal of the day, and was immediately sacked by his new employer (a highly religious lady) for not saying grace—a word he did not associate with the consumption of food, and consequently was as much mystified as hurt to be sent summarily away. Another woman employed him as a chauffeur and conceived the novel idea of paying him in kind with such impressive articles as “a lovely old portrait of Queen Victoria which only wanted a new glass,” and a big brown book called “True Manhood” by Colonel Someone-or-other. When his small room had begun to look like a junkshop, Windy left of his own will, still being owed about 1000 dollars. Misfortune continued to dog his footsteps, until he won a big lottery, after which his troubles really intensified. However, the book ends for Windy on a happy note. The Hunter and the Whale. By Laurens van der Post Hogarth Press. 319 pp. Laurens van der Post has a rare talent for expressing living mythology and his latest novel is an experience not to be missed by his admirers. A young South African boy called Peter is strongly attracted to the sea, which he finds so alive and symbolic with meaning and a power to invest all that lives and moves upon it with a wonder that nothing on land can equal. He boards the lucky whaling ship Kurt Hansen, and under the captaincy of the bold and enigmatic Thor Larsen who is obsessed with physical greatness of things, Peter quickly learns the nature and the habits of the beautiful big mammals, until he develops such a keen intuition in sighting the whales “blowing,” that the captain calls him his “eyes.” Peter discovers that nature is all things; a killer and a creator, a builder and a destroyer, and it is man’s problem to maintain the proportions between the two terrifying opposites. As for the matter of luck, was there a vital link between good and bad luck? Was the efficiency and discipline of the whalers sufficient to bring achievement or should they give heed to superstitions born long before their day? These were questions Peter was to ask

himself before the story reached final shuddering conclusion when, as the last tremendous whale was laid low, so was the pride of the human hunters. Laurens van der Post writes intuitively and with a deep respect for all forms of life, believing as he does that all matter is at heart sacred and allegorical. Edge Of Glass. By Catherine Gaskin. Collins. 286 pp. Catherine Gaskin is well known as a writer of historical novels such as “Sara Dare” and of modern thrillers such as “The File on Derlin” and “The Tibit Inheritance.” This latest book is one of her modern ones and it will no '‘oubt be just as popular as her previous works with those readers who enjoy this type of fiction. “Edge of Glass” has no pretentions to being profound writing, but it does provide a pleasant way to spend an hour or two. Though it is set in Ireland, Catherine Gaskin avoids the trap of the usual sentimental description of the Irish countryside and peasantry while still keeping the atmosphere of the country and the nature of its people in our minds. The characters are well and vividly drawn and the story, though it tends to lag in parts, on the whole moves sufficiently fast to retain our interest to the end. Maura D’Arcy is led by the outrageous theft of a priceless glass goblet to Ireland where she learns of her ancestors and of their craft, glass-blowing. Predictably to those who have read any others of Catherine Gaskin’s novels, her journey to Ireland is also a journey into both trouble and romance and the suspense in the mingling of these two threads holds our attention. Catherine Gaskin makes a careful study of the background for her novels and in this one the descriptions of the ancient art of glass-blowing provides an additional interest above those of story and character.

A Matter Of Time. By Jessamyn West Macmillian. 310 pp.

Jessamyn West’s title suggests that the purpose of this story about two sisters, and the intimate interplay of emotion between them and their immediate family, is to explore the effect of time on human relationships. That this is not the case is a good thing. Time may be one of the most intriguing of subjects, but it is also one that has been cheapened through triteness in the hands of second-rate writers. The passage of time does play a part in this engaging novel, but it is subsidiary. Mrs West is too interested in her characters to bother about abstractions; she is warm and sympathetic rather than intellectual. Frequently these words are used by the critic to be synonymous with' sentimental, but this is not true of Mrs West. Her story is told by a young woman of 25, twice married, but, for all that, austere, and centres on her deep affection for her younger, more spontaneous sister. Admittedly, occasional patches are reminiscent of women’s magazines, but generally Mrs West keeps tight control. This is no mean feat, for the actual substance of the story is slight. For the most part, we are transported back and forth into the past as remarks, sights, even gestures, remind Tassie of former occurrences. Although her parents and husbands are allowed only as much consideration as Tassis gives them—and they are really no more than background figures for the two sisters—they emerge as complete and interesting people. But, for all its skill, this very feminine novel, with its uncompromising commitment to the myriad of trivialities that make up life, may have limited appeal. As a character study, however, it. is well worth the effort of persevering with sometimes over-long evocations of time past. The Man Who Died on Friday. By Michael Underwood. MacDonald. 191 pp. The elements of the story are simple: Joseph Berg is a witness in the street of the killing of a man whom he has arranged to meet, and fears that he may be suspected of the crime. The dead man, Parsons, had been a double agent, ostensibly working for the United Arab Republic, but actually aiding Israel. Berg’s task had been to forward to his brother, in Israel, details of the false information which Parsons was sending to the Arabs.

Berg, appealed to a young solicitor, Richard Monk, for help —and soon afterwards was arrested and charged with murder. Monk briefed a friend, Alan Scarby, for the defence, and their task—and the main burden of the story —is to break down the accumulated mass of circumstantial evidence against Berg without a shred to put in his favour. The only hope, another suspect, is proved to be innocent and some hopeful evidence in their favour turns out to be perjured. Not until the end does any light break through the lowering clouds. The court work and the patient investigation (including Monk’s interesting and dangerous adventures in Israel searching for Berg’s brother) are well set out—and hold the interest. The Lord Have Mercy. By Shelly Smith. Hamish Hamilton. 159 pp. Here is a well-written book which, in creation of characters, in atmosphere, in development of theme, and in underlying sympathy with macabre human diversities leading inevitably to tragedy, bears resemblance to much of Simenon. Although the scene is an English village and the people in it definitely belong there, the prevailing nuances of the story strongly felt but difficult to describe are French rather than English. For quite a while we wonder which of the inhabitants is going to be the corpse. Gilbert had the phrase for most of them—“ They’d none of them be missed!” The course of the story converges on the death of the unpleasant wife of the village doctor, a decent and competent man. The inquest results in an open verdict about whether she poisoned herself with sleeping tablets or whether her worthless brother, or quite a number of other unpleasant people, gave them to her. The obvious suspect is the doctor himself, innocent of course but caught in the meshes of village gossip and of malicious and jealous lying. This gradual deterioration physically and in self-respect under such treatment gives the main interest to the latter part of the book until the unexpectedly tragic ending comes with the force of graunchingly dissonant brass chords.

The Thorn Trees, by John Mclntosh. Macmillan. 183 pp. A girl of eighteen, living alone with her father and some African servants on the edge of the Kalahari Desert is the heroine of this touching and unusual novel. Edna Ferris’s mother had died soon after her birth, and Archie Ferris’s second wife, a tiresome trollop, has left him for the good enough reason that the Sherwood Ranch, which had, in his father’s time, been a flourishing estate, is now hopelessly run down owing to the weakness of Archie’s character. On his deathbed grandfather Ferris had confided to Archie that he had buried a fortune in gold and diamonds somewhere in the desert, and it was Ferris’s daily task to go out and dig diligently in likely places for this lost treasure-trove. Edna has a desperate desire to escape from her surroundings, but having failed three times to pass her matriculation examination, is losing hope. This despair is intensified by her father who is, almost openly, cohabiting with their black servant Gloria, who treats Jill with indifference and contempt. Such seems to be the girl’s permanent fate until a chance encounter with a commercial traveller gives her a first real hope of deliverance. There is a certain grimness in what follows. In stead of keeping an appointment with her new friend she is unwillingly committed to burying Gloria’s baby, which is black, and has been incontinently destroyed by her father. Archie’s affection for his daughter is genuine enough, but after Gloria’s disgusted departure it begins to take on sinister undertones. However, Edna’s rescue is at hand, though in an unexpected manner. The only slight inconsistency in an otherwise credible story is Edna’s failing to seek help from the Catholic Sisters with whom she has had her schooling, or to make any real attempt to redeem her father who is obviously going to pieces before her eyes. But the writer has still written a most readable book.