This is a sort of book that perplexes me, a gentle English style which I just can’t take to, and I don’t understand why. And so, despite the high regard in which it is held, it seems awfully written to me in every respect. As far as structure goes, I genuinely thought, when I turned the page at the end, that I was into part two, but it turned out that it was finished and that ‘part two’ was an entirely different novel. It just stops in a way which makes the end of Alice Munro stories seem polished and careful. ‘Enough of this novel, be gone with you’!
I couldn’t believe the characters. Outstandingly Tilda, of course, who is six but has the vocabulary, context and maturity of a forty year old. I should be able to believe in that. I was charmed when my niece’s son at the age of two, said to me ‘Thank you, they were absolutely delicious’ big smile on his face. I wished I’d been there when, still aged two, he said to his grandmother who was running late ‘Shake your arse, grandma.’ At that age he would follow adult dinner conversation intently and ask you to slow down if he wasn’t quite with it. I watched my nephew besotted with Tom Lehrer at about six years old and at the same age reading The Odyssey (adult version) and clearly following every word as he regaled people with the story in great detail.
But I still don’t believe in Tilda or any of those around her. In my mind’s eye I can’t summon up the slightest hint of a picture of Richard. Or Nenna. Or her husband.
As I read it, I felt like it was written by someone who knew a lot about boats and living on the Thames. It turns out that’s because Fitzgerald did. And she had a life she could bring into this story, the kids are based on her own, the fictional (ex?)-husband has issues which came from her own marriage. The poverty and the damp and the lack of schooling for her kids. All true. How could it all leave me so unmoved then when turned into a story?
Well, I don’t know. I haven’t done with Penelope for good, I’m starting another right now. But it’s by Lively not Fitzgerald. And I’m afraid that my lovely Everyman Library copy of Offshore combined with another copy of small novels of hers, is on the pile for the English book stand at the market.