First Flights Of Fancy

Saturday November 29, 2008

The inspirations for fiction are many and the characters brought to life varied, as these four first novels suggest, writes Jo Case.

Turtle

By Gary Bryson

Allen & Unwin, $27.95

Cooee

By Vivienne Kelly

Scribe, $32.95

The Twelfth Fish

By Graham Perrett

Vulgar Press, $32.95

Fugitive Blue

By Claire Thomas

Allen & Unwin, $29.95

ABC Radio National producer Gary Bryson has admitted that his first novel, Turtle, has its roots in autobiography. Refreshingly, his dysfunctional childhood in 1970s Glasgow provides a jumping-off point for an imaginative exploration of family and identity; not a straightforward skeleton for a roman a clef.

The events of the present, in which hapless narrator Donald Spinelli returns to Glasgow for his mother's funeral, are interspersed with memories from his childhood: a gangster father, a sister he despised, a best friend who mysteriously betrayed him, a teenage crush who disappeared, and a mother consumed by the belief that Donald is cursed to drown at the age of 18.

Turtle's meandering, seemingly random structure combines with its conversational tone to give the reader a visceral sense that they are sitting in a room (or on a bar stool) with Donald, patiently waiting for his story to unfold; waiting for him to get to the point. As in life, "the point" is embedded in the seemingly insignificant moments that piece together to form a coherent whole.

At the heart of the book is a talking turtle that admonishes Donald in broad Glaswegian snippets between chapters, and gradually makes his way into the main body of the text. I was relieved to discover that the talking turtle is a literary device with a plausible psychological explanation, not a magic realist flight of fancy that the reader is expected to believe in.

Donald's belief in the turtle and his mother's equally intense belief in the spirit world are their ways of trying to escape and explain their constricted, frustrated lives. But as Donald revisits the past from an adult perspective, he realises that beliefs (about ourselves and others) can be limiting, too. Ultimately, he revises the narrative of his childhood with the insights provided by "another world beyond the limits of my imagination".

While Donald reconsiders his mother's candidacy for "Worst Mother of the Century", there is no such maternal redemption in store for Isabel Weaving, the narrator of Cooee. Vivienne Kelly's cool, spiky, relentlessly analytical prose crisply embodies matriarch Isabel, who regards her extended family with barely concealed contempt, insisting all the while that she is "a loving person, not a cold person".

None of the characters is particularly likeable, perhaps a casualty of seeing them all through Isabel's sharp gaze. There is her "boringly angelic" daughter Kate; distant, acerbic son Dominic ("my dark prince"); her "sergeant major" older sister Zoe; ex-husband Steve ("a large and good-tempered dog"); and adored granddaughter Sophie, whose probes into Isabel's past provide a structure for the unfolding of her story.

The central tension is between Isabel and Kate, who are constructed as opposites: the bad mother and the good daughter. Kate is a perfect wife, mother and daughter in almost every way. However, in one unexpected aspect, she models Isabel in doing exactly as she pleases, with a breathtaking lack of regard for social convention or the feelings of others.

Storybook cliches are employed and subverted. Fairy tales are referenced throughout, particularly in the form of Isabel's seductively charming husband, Max, whose absence is at the core of the book.

In one telling scene, reminiscent of Sleeping Beauty, Kate gathers the family for a substitute christening for Sophie, where everyone bestows the "gift" of a wished-for virtue upon the child. Inevitably, most of the guests (consciously or not) choose a virtue they themselves lack. (Isabel's intended gift is "the capacity to love and be loved".) When another guest pre-empts her, she must hastily change her gift - and what she chooses will backfire.

Australia's first literary politician, Graham Perrett, has described the anti-hero of his debut, The Twelfth Fish, as "despicable". Lawrence Lawson Lalor, the new teacher in a remote Queensland country town, certainly has trouble keeping his pants on, but I found him quite endearing despite his flaws. Lawrence is tentatively realistic about his failings. "I knew exactly what I must not do," he admits, succumbing to the charms of a married colleague. "Saying no to temptation isn't complicated."

The Twelfth Fish is at its best when it's not trying too hard. The writing is not as polished as Turtle or Cooee, but it does charmingly capture the rhythms and characters of small-town Australia; the kind of place where the main street offers "the metropolitan delights of chemist, cafe, gun shop". The sensitive exploration of the tension between the town's Aboriginal and white inhabitants in the immediate aftermath of the Mabo decision adds a thoughtful extra dimension to the novel.

There are some wry, simply put observations. For example, reflecting on small-town life, Lawrence muses: "In a stagnant pond, every ripple is noteworthy." But there are also several awkward sentences, where Perrett strains to create literary imagery, and overreaches: "The riverbank held only a few scattered clumps of dedicated celebrators intent on synthesising national joy." The ending, too, feels unsatisfying and insufficiently built, with the motivation of one key ensemble character (Wally Banes) remaining unclear.

Claire Thomas is a polished writer; her first novel replete with elegant sentences. However, the book suffers from the opposite problem to The Twelfth Fish: it feels curiously lifeless. Fugitive Blue tells the story of a Melbourne art conservator who becomes obsessed with an unusual 15th-century painting she is restoring.

"Maybe this is going to turn into a thrilling art mystery," jokes her boss. We follow the painting's journey through a series of owners and world cities over the centuries: Venice, Paris, Melbourne. The narrative of the painting's slow disintegration over time and the efforts to preserve it for as long as possible are paralleled with the decline of the conservator's relationship. "Everyone wants everything to last forever."

Of course, some things aren't meant to last forever and sometimes the methods of preservation can actually destroy - both art and relationships.

There are unavoidable parallels between Fugitive Blue and Geraldine Brooks' People of the Book: both books trace the history of an artefact as it changes hands over the centuries, telling stories about the people who possess it and the times they live in. But while the historical sections of People of the Book are vivid and engaging; those in Fugitive Blue (particularly those set in Venice) are hollow and mannered, feeling over-researched and under-imagined.

The real problem with the book is the underdevelopment of its characters. Thomas meticulously describes their surroundings; the supporting detail about the artwork and the work of creating and preserving art feels palpably genuine. The narrator concludes that she is "more into objects" than people. So is this novel, to its detriment.

Jo Case is books editor of The Big Issue.

© 2008

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