26 Books

So here we are: book number 26. To tell the truth I haven’t read anywhere near as much as I’d have liked to this year, but then I can’t remember ever having been satisfied with how much I’ve read. Such is the curse of the book-fiend.

J.G. Farrell was an English writer, from Liverpool, who is often mistaken for an Irish one. Troubles is an historical novel set in 1919 and forms one part of Farrell’s so-called Empire Trilogy. The second novel in the series, The Siege of Krishnapur won the Booker Prize in 1973. Troubles was a set text for my English ‘A’ level and, consequently, I have had a slight disregard for it, even though I remember it fondly. The early pages of my copy (which I’ve now had to replace because it’s completely disintegrated) are littered with notes in my crabby teenaged handwriting that range from the glaringly obvious to the pompous to the plain wrong. Thankfully I bailed out of my English ‘A’ level, because on the evidence of the notes I wouldn’t have done very well. The notes stop at around page 75, which is just about typical of my approach to study at school: the novel is 446 pages long.

Farrell died tragically young, and in his introduction to the reissue from the New York Review of Books, John Banville says ‘especially so for a novelist’. Banville is a great writer, famed for his clarity of prose, so one must assume that he actually does believe that novelists’ lives are worth more than others’. Given that he is a great one himself, maybe he can be forgiven this.

Troubles is a wonderful novel; it’s grimly funny, understated, compassionate, observant and wise. Major Brendan Archer is back from the Great War and arrives at a small town in County Wexford to see his fiancée, Angela, to whom he has somehow become engaged to after a brief meeting in Brighton earlier in the war. Angela is from an upper-class Protestant family (’the Quality’) who own a shambolic hotel called The Majestic. Farrell’s theme is the decay of empire, and possibly the only fault of the novel is that he lays on the symbolism just a little bit thick. The hotel is literally crumbling about the residents’ ears; the Palm Court, once a stylish place to be seen is now overrun by its foliage. The hilarious character of Mrs. Rappaport, an ancient denizen of the hotel, is often heard stumbling through the undergrowth before she emerges chuntering to anyone who will listen. She’s particularly fond of shouting ‘It’s a scandal!’ at inopportune moments.

Anglea, it turns out, is seriously ill, and doesn’t treat the Major as a fiancée, even if everyone does call him ‘Angela’s Major’. For his part, he’s more interested in a physically disabled catholic girl from the town, Sarah. Sarah is angry at everyone, perhaps especially herself, and yet there seems to be some unspoken bond between her and the Major. But there is also an attraction between her and the Anglea’s brother, Edward, the owner of the hotel. Edward is a wonderfully drawn character, from his entrance chasing phantom Sinn Feiners across the lawn with a tennis racquet to the impromptu morgue he sets up for a dead, and far from imaginary member of the IRA that he has shot.

There are so many highlights of this novel. There are the semi-wild cats that multiply in the upper stories of the vast hotel (Banville says that they are like the building’s ‘bad dreams’, a wonderful insight); there is the chaotic and disastrous ball; the Major finding peace by stripping off in the sweltering laundry room; the devilish twins and their dressing up of their brother and many more. The greatness of the novel lies in its protagonist, Major Archer. We see almost every seen through his acerbic, tolerant, wistful, confused eyes. He drifts through the novel, uncomprehending most of the time, but in his incomprehension educating us as we go. This is a great feat of characterisation and writing.

This is an historical novel that is not weighed down by research as so many are today. It is a comedy about very serious things, just as a novel should be. It is quite strongly reminiscent of Waugh (with the slightest pinch of Fawlty Towers thrown in), and there is always that sense of unreality about it, without it ever tipping over into farce. But Farrell is in earnest: this is a poignant and acute portrait of a society on the edge of crisis. It is a great novel; I recommend it to everyone.

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