July 28th 2011, Pulteney Arms, Bath
Gale’s book was described on the cover thus: ‘WPC Mo Faithe is overcome with lust while investigating a series of violent attacks on newspaper astrologers in London.’ So I approached it with an open mind and a song in my heart. However, the trajectory from thereon was distinctly downwards. I confess also to being drawn by the statement ‘Patrick Gale’s first novel is suffused with heady wish-fulfilment…’, always keen to support the work of young struggling artists. What I hadn’t realised was that this was an early 1980s first novel, repackaged to suit the modern book-buying public, who are clearly crying out for blood, sex and horoscopes. Oh and I'm a fool for a clever title and that's really why I chose it.
It really felt like a first novel. We all agreed that there were too many clunking descriptions, oddly one-sided cipher-like characters (Seth’s Dad, Mo’s straight Lewis-type sidekick who started out being written up but came to nothing much) and a triumph of agenda over artistic merit or literary style. Not that he isn’t a bad writer — there were parts that resonated, particularly (and this discussion took place before the civil unrest of mid-August) relating to London in the early 80’s (for those of us who were there at the time), the still-clandestine gay club world, and with hindsight it’s significant and interesting that AIDs doesn’t merit a mention. However, these parts were all too clearly written to the ‘My first serious novel’ template and the dialogue in particular was stilted and unconvincing. I was also struck by the way that while the chapters started out balancing the action pretty evenly between London and Cornwall, about halfway through Cornish events took the upper hand and it was as though it was a bit of a nuisance for Gale to have to go back and work things around in London so it could all lead to a gentle denoument with the London copper in a Cornish garden.
What was the phantom pregnancy all about? Clearly juxtaposing Evelyn’s conviction that her daughter was (legally) pregnant while her son was about to launch himself underage on the libidinous Roly, had something to say about the legal battle bubbling away in the background, but the over-obvious coda (quoting the news of the age of consent debate in the Lords) was a sledgehammer on a cashew, even if it wasn’t clear from the text that the bill wasn’t to become law for some time to come (2000).
I shouldn’t give the impression we hated the book. It was on several levels an enjoyable read: not inaccessible, quite vivid in places (particularly Cornwall), thought-provoking here and there. But I don’t think it will linger long — rather like the duff bottle of Hirondelle… And as is customary with most of the books that I've chosen, it will languish somewhere around the relegation zone.
Average score 3.34. Pants. SC
