Introduction – The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

This Booker-Prize winning novel (2010) is an extremely complex and challenging work that impresses and infuriates in equal measure. I don’t quite know yet what to make of it. So these are just some first impressions – I am sure I will have more to say when I have read it again.

The story is set in Kerala, in the extreme southwest of India. The main events take place in the 1960’s, whilst there is a sort of ‘epilogue’ where we encounter several of the key characters quarter of a century later. Not that the story unfolds in a linear fashion – just as in ‘Everything I Never Told You’, we are pulled back and forwards in time. 

The story is framed by the cultural and political history of the Indian sub-continent. We are in post-colonial times (the British left in 1947) and Chinese-inspired communism is galvanizing the country, frightening the wealthy, be they landowners or landlords. Social structure is complicated not just by politics, but by religion. The bulk of the people are Hindus whilst many of the wealthy are from other religions – in this case the family at the centre of the story are Christians. But the religious groups themselves are split into factions or castes to create an extremely complex human backdrop to the story. At the very bottom of the pile come the ‘Untouchables’ one of whom is a key character in the story. Complex social rules govern the interaction of people from different religions and castes; breaking the rules leads to social exclusion or (much) worse.

To further complicate things there is also the divide between men and women: men hold essentially all the property rights and the power, whereas women are merely required to get married and bear children. All this gives rise to a permanent, seething tension that drives the events of the story.

There are numerous essential characters in the story, so to say it is ‘about’ one or two of them in particular would be misleading. But the first among equals in the tale is Rahel, twin of Estha, daughter of divorced Ammu. Rahel and Estha are seven years old when the main events unfold in 1969. Their age brings yet another important strand into this complex novel – as children Rahel and Estha have not yet absorbed all of the social rules that they will be constrained by as adults. Rahel befriends the ‘Untouchable’ Velutha as she does not yet understand why she shouldn’t. She and Estha regularly cross the river to visit him, although they have been expressly told not to. One such crossing, after a wounding argument with her mother leads to the central tragedy of the story.

Roy deals with universal themes and the events she describes seem to unfold ineluctably from the rotten society in which they occur. Not just contemporary society but of the whole history of the country. Throughout the book individuals struggle against the stifling social structures which trap them in unfulfilled lives. Rahel’s mother Ammu, for example feels her life, at 27, is over because she is divorced with two children. This frustration leads her to a reckless liaison with tragic consequences.

Roy’s story is fascinating and rings largely true. But it is in the telling that the story may starkly divide readers. There are many verbal foibles in the book – particularly when the children, Rahel and Estha are centre-stage.  Words are spelt phonetically, or in CAPITAL LETTERS or sdrawkcab. Letters migrate from one word to another – Bar Nowl anyone? Phrases reappear verbatim throughout the book without adding much to the story. These techniques have been praised my several accomplished novelists, so who am I to disagree? But how much you enjoy the book will definitely depend on your attitude to these conceits.

The other thing I wasn’t sure about was the whole overwhelming India thing, the incorrigible plurality of the plants, the animals, the people, the rivers, the rain, the stench, the poverty, the cultural cringe (once Britain, now the US), the metaphors the similes..all heaped one on the other as if this would help you understand the sheer uniqueness of India.

But it would be unfair to end on a low note; this is easily the most ambitious book we have read thus far. The time-shifts for one thing are infinitely more complex than in ‘Everything I Never Told You’ – keep your wits about you between paragraphs or you might miss what decade you are in. She also manages the large cast of characters, all of whom are key in their own way to the tragedy of the story, with great skill.  And in quoting from great writers throughout the book (Shakespeare, Kipling, Wilde, Scott Fitzgerald, Conrad) she is asking to be judged by high standards. Does she meet them?

Review: Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, by Alan Sillitoe.

It is difficult now, 50 years after it was first published, to appreciate how  revolutionary Alan Sillitoe’s first novel was. His depiction of post-war British working class life is unsurpassed and pitch-perfect; Coronation Street with brains.

The story revolves around Arthur Seaton, a feckless 22 year old Nottingham factory worker whose life is an endless round of gambling, drinking and married women. Work for Arthur is a sort of Faustian bargain that puts enough money in his pocket to pursue these destructive pleasures. He comes alive when he gets his glad-rags on each Friday night and heads for the pub.

At first Arthur’s lifestyle seems that of an thoughtless chancer, a jack-the-lad constantly on the look out for the next thrill. But he has a coherent, homespun philosophy forged in the school of hard knocks that was his working class upbringing. Life is a struggle for satisfaction in a world designed to do Arthur’s kind down. 

Although set in the cold war years, with its vague threat of nuclear Armageddon, the enemy for Arthur is not the Soviet Union but the pettifogging authority and bureaucracy of home. Like Yeats’ Irish Airman, his world is bounded by family and friends living in the same mean streets as him. Beyond this is the menace of authority in all its forms; from the army to which he is still conscripted for a few weeks per year, to the factory supervisor whose job is to squeeze the last ounce of productivity out of him.

Nor is Arthur much impressed by the inevitable future that seems to beckon, if his family and friends are any guide: drunken, abusive husbands, downtrodden, permanently pregnant mothers and a lifetime of imprisonment in the Rayleigh factory to pay the bills.

It is against this backdrop that Arthur struggles to find his role in life. Unlike in many stories of working class youth, his aim is not to escape to a better life elsewhere – he is totally loyal to his community. He just wants to make the best of the hand that fate has dealt him. He feels, vaguely, that there must be something more to life…but that is a question that can be deferred – at least for a while.

It is Arthur’s weakness for married women that drives the plot. Fully aware that what he is doing is hardly honourable, he justifies it to himself on the grounds that he is only giving these women what their husbands have signally failed to provide; if they were better husbands he wouldn’t be needed. But in Arthur’s claustrophobic world everybody knows everybody else’s business and it is inevitable that his philandering’s will be exposed.  Arthur knows this in his gut but cannot stop; he persuades himself that he will be able to deal with the consequences when the time comes. 

The world that Sillitoe brilliantly evokes here certainly has its problems. But it is not the Dickensian Britain of workhouses and destitution. Things are much better than in the pre-war years – this is the time of McMillan’s ‘you never had it so good’ speech. There are plenty of jobs. Sure they are not the kind to make you rich, but everybody who is prepared to knuckle down can afford a cup of tea, a cigarette and a pint – maybe even a TV on the never-never.

But its that ‘knuckling-down’ that grates with Arthur – he seems to have more respect for his thieving, draft-dodging cousins than he does for his fellow workers. Perhaps it is this reluctant conformity in his working life that drives Arthur to take such risks in his love life. Things change when he gets his long expected come-uppance. He gradually starts to consider a future he had always derided. Is it a case of youthful cynicism being replaced by mature realism or is he just throwing in the towel?

The book is remarkable in its matter-of-fact portrayal of working class life warts and all. Some have seen it as a rallying call to the workers to throw off their shackles. Others have seen it simply as a young man’s gradual acceptance of reality. Whatever interpretation you put on the story, it is a viciously accurate and hilariously funny portrayal of working class life in the 1950’s. Read it!

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon: Introductory Comments

Another book, another unexplained death. This time the victim is a dog, killed with a pitchfork by a person unknown. The book is narrated by 15 year old Christopher who takes it upon himself to solve the crime. Christopher is not your average 15 year old boy though; he attends a ’Special Needs’ school and seems to be somewhere on the Asperger’s/Autism spectrum.  His condition manifests itself in various ways; an inability to understand the nuances of human behaviour; irrational fears, of being touched, of certain colours, of new places etc.; and lack of empathy for other human beings (including his mother and father). He likes animals and policeman, though.

His condition prevents him both from understanding and engaging fully in the world around him. Much of the humour of the book is derived from the seemingly absurd lengths to which he has to go to complete simple tasks that most of us manage without a moment’s thought – such as going to the loo or buying a train ticket.  His inability to understand other people’s feelings or motivations also gets him into a series of hilarious confrontations. But there is sadness behind the hilarity, as we gradually recognise that Christopher is the unwitting catalyst of a series of events that only he is unaware of.   

On the plus side Christopher is a mathematical and scientific prodigy who expects to become a great scientist or mathematician on the basis of these gifts. So he is very good at puzzles and sees solving the ‘murder’ of the dog as a kind of Sherlock Holmes mystery to be approached by rigorous deduction (or detection as he prefers to call it).

The book follows the ramifications of Christopher’s attempt to solve the ‘murder’. Along the way his maladroit investigations provoke further mayhem in the lives’ of his family and neighbours, and precipitate a new series of crises.

The technique of using an ‘outsider’ to describe events – be they a child, a stranger, or in this case an autistic boy – has been used by many writers to highlight the absurdities and hypocrisies of human behaviour. And Mark Haddon’s imagining of the thought processes of this unfortunate boy is a tour de force. Christopher’s prose rings true as an artistic creation, even if some people have found his representation of autism somewhat lacking.    But how much you enjoy this book will depend on the extent to which you can sympathize with someone who himself is incapable of empathy; and on whether Christopher’s very literal story telling (accompanied by maps, diagrams and puzzles!) holds your attention to the end. Opinions please!

The Ventoux File – Part 4: The Big Day

Amazingly, within sight of the finish, Georgie can still raise a smile

So it is, that almost a year to the day we had first set our eyes on the ‘Beast of Provence’ we find ourselves once again at the foot of the mountain. We are a team of four – Joe and Georgie on the bikes, Suzannah and Alex cheerleading from the car. In contrast to my visit in early May, this hot June day finds the slopes once again crammed with eager masochists.

We are a bit concerned for Georgie’s chances of completing the ascent. A less than whole-hearted approach to training means she’ll have to fall back on natural talent and sheer pig-headedness. She has form: a previous long-distance bike-ride from The Hague to Amsterdam and back resulted in her having to be scraped from the saddle in a state of total exhaustion. So we double up on energy bars and drinks…though not quite enough as it turns out.

The early kilometres are not too bad. The presence of all those other climbers helps maintain the determination. Also, the roadside  is lined with spectators, no doubt waiting for their own heroes to appear, who clap and cheer us all along with shouts of ‘bon courage’. Suzannah and Alex periodically pass us, horn screaming, in the car. We make it to Chalet Renard in reasonably good shape but there is plenty of climbing still to do. The sun beats down on the bare limestone rock, dazzling and dehydrating us. There is no shade, no hiding place, on these upper slopes. 

Meanwhile things take a turn for the worse in the car. Suzannah’s near-pathological fear of heights resurfaces as she manoeuvres onto the narrow verge of the mountain side to watch us pass. Telling Alex that she feels like driving, Thelma and Louise-like, off the mountain does nothing to calm the situation.  

Anyone who has climbed Ventoux will recognise the infinite regress which characterises the last few kilometres. Shortly after Chalet Renard a sharp right turn brings the iconic white observatory-tower suddenly into view. The end is literally in sight! As you pedal frantically towards it, the tower disappears behind the intervening steep face of the mountain, to reappear once more at the next hairpin-bend. But at each reappearance it seems no nearer – you feel trapped in one of those Escher drawings where you can climb and climb forever whilst going precisely nowhere. But then when all hope of reaching the finish has just about evaporated, we make one last turn and suddenly there it is, right above us – and only a few hundred yards to go!

But Ventoux is not yet finished with us – the gradient once more steepens for these last few metres, draining what minimal reserves of energy we still retain. Riders weave across the road, unable to maintain a straight path to the finish, oblivious to the cars that avoid them by inches. I think back to the Memorial to Tommy Simpson we passed a few moments earlier. It marks the spot where the British cyclist collapsed and died during the 1967 Tour and is a vivid reminder that this mountain is not to be trifled with.

Meanwhile dehydration has finally become alarming.  I had earlier given the last of my water to Georgie (not through vainglorious chivalry but from fear of Suzannah’s reaction later had I refused) and both head and heart are pounding. My mouth feels like an ashtray someone has been sick in. I speed up a little to get it over with before my knees explode, leaving Georgie to bring up the rear. 

Proof that it wasn’t just a hallucination: Joe and Georgie at the top of Ventoux

Amazingly I reach the top and turn to find Georgie. As she rounds the final steep bend she seems to be trying to dismount. Alex rushes to plomp her back in the saddle and after an encouraging push she too reaches the summit. We have done it! 

Epilogue

But what was all that nonsense about my mother in law you ask; what did that have do with this? Well, everything really. Helen should have been with us that day in Vaison La Romaine, but she was too ill to travel. Instead she remained at home undergoing punishing treatment for cancer. Tragically she did not recover and she died a few months before we made our ascent. But we had her with us in more than just spirit that day. With all of us sporting a photo-badge of Helen from an earlier French holiday, I carried her ashes to the top in my backpack. Torn between euphoria and grief we cast her ashes from the viewpoint at the top towards the distant Alps. 

Helen, by the pool at Pardaillan, June 2014

So if I misled you it was not about Helen. It was in implying that there was ever any doubt that we would make it. With Helen on the team there was no way we could fail.

The Ventoux File – Part 3: Training

 

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Georgie is underwhelmed by our training regime

Long ago I went on one of those positive thinking courses that big companies used to be so fond of. The power-dressed dynamo running the event told us that “you can do anything you put your mind to”.  I said “I want to play centre forward for Liverpool”. She gave me funny look and moved swiftly on. I know that I should have entered the spirit of the thing, but I‘m a bit of a fatalist.

I thought about that lady when I decided to climb Ventoux. The gap between desire and reality seemed as great as pulling that No. 9 shirt on. I could barely make it up the Burford High Street, a feat, I carefully worked out, that I would need to repeat about one hundred times in succession to reach the summit.

I began to cast about for reassurance – some show-off had managed to climb the mountain eleven times in one day. The oldest person to manage it was 84 years old at the time. Come on, how hard could it be? Its even been done by an eight year old, for God’s sake!

Just a question of buckling down to training then. But how exactly in the Cotswolds, where the highest ‘peak’ is no more than 300m? The answer was to retreat to the garage and impale myself on a training machine, or simulator. With today’s machines you can recreate the torture of climbing the world’s peaks without leaving the house. My fiendish device, appropriately called a ‘Wahoo Kickr’ envelopes the bike in a powerful electromagnetic field. You can link this to a computer display that will calibrate your effort to a climb viewed on the screen. Thus is your garage converted into Torquemada’s cellar.

Whilst the Kickr does everything it says on the label, it should really come with a serious health warning. I don’t mean the risk of pulled muscles or shattered kneecaps. Nor even of a heart attack. I’m thinking rather of the damage the saddle can inflict.  The conventional expression for the encounter of our derrière with a suitable support is ‘sitting’. But this does not do justice to the physical intimacy required by the bike saddle. We are back again at the ischial tuberosity.  I facetiously translated this as ‘fat arse’ earlier but a more exact phrase would be ‘sit bones’.  Normally when you are seated your gluteus maximus cushions the pressure on the sit bones. But a road bike saddle is skilfully designed to circumvent this protection. The buttocks are parted and the bones pushed tight against the unyielding saddle like a condemned man to Old Sparky. The chamois in your cycle shorts affords a temporary barrier to the pain but the effect is short-lived.

Once the chamois rear-guard is breached, the pressure on the backside intensifies. Normal feeling is gradually lost, replaced by an thrumming, aching numbness. Eventually the pain obliges you to dismount – it feels like a last-minute reprieve from an impaling. But the worst is not over.  As feeling gradually returns you experience an uncomfortable tingling in your anterior nether regions that morphs into a violent  throbbing – as if something is determined to burst its way out of your wedding tackle without taking the conventional exit. The penny drops and you realise that the blood supply to the reproductive organs has been cut. Panic is replaced by relief as you realise that the pain is caused by the sudden surge of blood back into your unblocked manhood. Salvation – it is not going to fall off!!*

I learn to treat the Kickr like an unbroken stallion – a dangerous but essential ally. Training improves and by March or April  I am able to slog my way to the top. It’s neither pretty not pleasant but it is effective. Meantime the whole adventure has become more complicated. Georgie decides to join me on the climb. She gets to work immediately on her training regime of gin and popcorn – youth has its advantages. More worryingly an old college friend, Hamish, also wants to join us – and bring two cycling buddies. The worry is not just that they want to descend on our holiday home as their base for the climb, but that they have all done it before!

This turn of events rekindles the doubts – can sitting on a stationary bike in a garage really simulate the real thing? What if I can’t keep up? What if I can’t get to the top at all…Only one thing for it. Scuttle off to Provence and try it for real before the big day arrives. Which is what I did, though I cheated… just a little bit.

There are three ways up Mont Ventoux. The classic route is from Bedoin on the south side of the mountain, but there is an equally difficult route on the northern side starting at Malaucene. Naturally, I avoided both of these and went for the third alternative – from Sault in the east. This route starts higher up the mountain slopes and is a bit longer and so not quite as steep as the other routes. My reason for doing it this way was probably cowardice but I rationalised it as ‘walk before you can run’. If I could do this ascent in May I would surely be able to tackle Bedoin with six weeks more training.

Things though took another unexpected turn when Hamish and friends withdrew. A diagnosis of serious illness left him with a more important challenge than cycling up a hill. Still the mere thought of being left in his wake had galvanised my training – proving (to me rather than to Hamish) that every cloud has a silver lining. It seemed that it would be just me and Georgie, then..

As for the Sault route, I managed that just fine, though the final five kilometres were brutal. Could I have finished it off had I first come up the steep route from Bedoin? Only time would tell…

*Why not get out of the saddle, just as you would do on the road, you might ask. Well, my setup had the infuriating habit of crashing each time I tried this, forcing me to return to the start of the program. Not as bad as gangrene, obviously, but pretty annoying.

The Ventoux File – Part 2: Dressing The Part

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A typical PILOC in spring plumage. Leggings will shortly be shed after which the characteristic mahogany limb colouring will develop.

For the ageing male, cycling may be a good choice but its definitely a bad look. Lycra is barely flattering to fit young men in their muscular prime, far less for the flabby MAMIL’S who pepper our roads on Sunday mornings.

Nor does the cycling build help. The emphasis being all on leg power, there are more sunken chests than at a pirate’s reunion. Arms like a pair of  folding chopsticks enhance the weedy look. The backside in contrast looks over-developed, suggesting an accident in an incontinence pad (see below).

Partners of these strange creatures will know that the appearance is scarcely improved when the clothes are removed. Covered all summer in sun-proof lycra that reaches half way down the thighs and forearms, the naked cyclist resembles a stick insect with a blue-white torso and mahogany brown  appendages.

MAMIL by the way is the derogatory acronym for the cyclist beyond the first flush of youth. It stands for ‘Middle Aged Man in Lycra’. Sadly I am too old for even this derisive phrase – unless I live to be 120. I tried to think of other, more felicitous expressions, but none would come forth. I was stuck with: PILOC: ‘Pensioner In Lycra On Cycle’ or OFIL (awful): ‘Old F***** In Lycra’.  Not epithets to inspire confidence.

The steatopygian backside is a result of incorporating the padding in the shorts rather than the saddle. Supposedly to protect your ischial tuberosity, it sounds to me like an elaborate joke on the gullible cyclist (is ‘ischial tuberosity’ Latin for ‘fat arse’?).

To say nothing of the shoes…

Whilst the shorts may be just a harmless joke, the shoes are a potential death trap. These lock you to the peddles by means of a device known as a ‘cleat’. Perfectly harmless whilst the bike is in motion, the drawback becomes apparent if you have to stop suddenly. Every cyclist knows that sinking feeling when gravity exerts its pull and there is no free leg to impede it – you and the tarmac must inevitably meet, with road-rash an inevitable consequence.

I have even managed this manoeuvre whilst standing with one foot on the ground. A simple rotation of the handlebars shifted the centre of gravity to the side with my foot still locked in the cleat – result, embarrassing collapse. A scene whose surreal nature was enhanced by two pedestrians waiting to cross the A40. They simply ignored me and walked on, as if my mishap was the standard procedure for dismounting a road-bike.

So, could I get to Ventoux looking the part and able to avoid embarrassing pratfalls? Time to get training.

The Ventoux File – Part 1: Birth of an Obsession

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Bedoin and Mont Ventoux by Leon Zanella

Torn between elation and grief, I threw my mother-in-law off a mountain in Provence. Contemplated over many months, I finally resolved to do it. To understand why, we need to go back to where it all started.

A year earlier – June 2015 – Vaison La Romaine, Provence: the family are wandering desultorily through the steep, winding lanes of the old town. Hard by the arched entrance, beneath the medieval bell tower, I stop at the Zanella gallery, fascinated by the near luminous quality of the vibrant scenes of rural Provence. A chat, in pigeon French, with the gallery owner Leon and I find myself back on the street with a collection of digital art prints, posters and books. Its been a good day for Leon and an expensive one for me.

Objective achieved, I have had my fill of Vaison for the day. But the girls want to wander some more, so my son Alex and I decide to go for a little drive. As we head for the car I notice a sign-post at the Quai de Verdun roundabout – Le Mt Ventoux. The name stirs vague memories of (for me) long-forgotten cycling exploits…didn’t some British rider perish on those slopes many years ago? Was that were Lance Armstrong raced up the mountain as if propelled by rocket fuel (he was). Fatefully, we decide to go take a look..

Reaching the lower slopes of the mountain above Malaucene, our first impressions are not auspicious. The road is heaving – vehicles of every kind – camper vans, cars, fleets of motorcycles, are elbowing their way up the mountain. The motorcyclists are particularly intimidating, accelerating through tiny gaps in the traffic to overtake the ponderous camper vans. A similar procession snakes its way down the mountain in the adjacent lane.

On the margins of this chaos an endless line of cyclists inch their way upwards. “God, I don’t fancy that’ I blurt out to Alex, who is in total agreement. On the other side of the road the cyclists are hurtling down at suicidal speeds, some overtaking cars and vans as they negotiate the hairpin bends. We have never seen anything quite like this – it is insanity made flesh.

As we struggle upwards, careful to avoid exhausted cyclists weaving across the road, I begin to pay more attention to these lycra-skinned masochists. Many do not look that healthy. Some are even older than me. One or two world-class girths are being hauled up there by emaciated, shaven legs that hardly look up to the task. Surely some would retire, if not expire, long before the summit?

A few kilometres from the top we emerge from the forest which clads the lower slopes of the mountain, the French countryside spread out magnificently before us. It is suddenly exhilarating, the blinding sunshine amplified by the bare white limestone of the mountain top, giving one the impression of being suddenly caught in a giant spotlight.

We reach the summit, and struggle to find a parking space amongst the hordes of motorists, hikers and unsteady cyclists. Yes, many of those unlikely looking specimens have indeed clambered their way to the top and the sense of achievement amongst them is palpable – the place seems to ooze elation. And each triumphant grimpeur ensures their exploit is immortalised by a photograph by the famous marker – ‘Sommet du Ventoux à 1909m’.

The satisfaction of reaching the summit is amplified by the majestic setting. Located in splendid isolation, to the southwest of the Alps-proper, Ventoux commands a 360 degree  panorama of southern France; to the west numerous ranges of the Massif Central recede into invisibility. To the northeast the Alps proper rise up, like jagged grey ramparts of some brobdignagian fortress. Between these two ranges the Rhone Valley cuts its way down to the Mediterranean, just about visible on a clear day. Magnificent.

As I savoured this view I wondered – how much better would it feel if I had climbed here under my own steam? The thought could not be dislodged..you could do this…what’s to stop you trying? Except maybe fear of failure? And thus the great obsession was born.

To be continued…

Who Killed Lydia Lee? -Review of ‘All The Things I Never Told You’– Celeste Ng

The Story

Celeste Ng’s debut novel begins with a death – that of 16 year old Lydia Lee, daughter of Chinese-American James and all-American Marilyn. But is it suicide, murder or a simple accident? Ng takes us on a multi-generational exhumation of the dead girl’s family history before revealing the answer.

Prior to Lydia’s death in 1977, the family lives a superficially ordinary, humdrum existence in middle America. But beneath the surface, dissatisfaction bubbles, fueled by James’s insecurity in his Chinese origins and Marilyn’s frustration at abandoning her lofty ambitions.

The  racial divide does not stop James and Marilyn from being genuinely happy at first, although James’s cultural inferiority complex included an element of incredulity that a woman such as Marilyn could be interested in him. Marilyn’s mother, however, is appalled at her daughter’s choice of husband, so race insinuates itself into the relationship from the beginning.

Despite the alienation of Marilyn’s mother, she and James look set for happiness and glittering prizes – he as lecturer at Harvard and she destined for great things in medicine. Things sour somewhat when first James fails to land the expected lectureship and Marilyn falls pregnant and abandons her studies. Instead of the kudos of Harvard, James has to accept a job at an undistinguished Ohio college and so a life of boring suburbia beckons.

Things do not go off the rails immediately – Nathan is born and then two years later Lydia arrives. But their lives are circumscribed by their isolated existence in a small town with few, if any, friends. James continues to struggle with his racial identity : having been embarrassed by his blue-collar Chinese parentage as a child, he effectively disowned his ancestry after their deaths. He also takes every casual racial slight to heart and cannot integrate successfully into American life. Meanwhile Marilyn becomes increasingly frustrated with her role as housewife – a role she swore never to embrace having seen it so suffocatingly enacted by her mother. This frustration leads to the family’s first major crisis when Marilyn abandons her family without warning to resume her studies.

Marilyn’s disappearance throws James insecurities into sharp focus – why did he think she could ever have loved a man like him. The children are devastated but James barely notices.  Marilyn struggles with her decision but doesn’t give way until she discovers that she is pregnant for the third time. Ambition thwarted once again, she returns home.

Although the family are back together, this seismic event brings psychological devastation in its wake. Lydia is paralysed with fear that her mother might leave again and vows to do anything to avoid it.  Marilyn, meanwhile, becomes fixated with the idea that Lydia will be the glittering academic success that she should have been…and so the family’s ambitions come to rest on Lydia’s narrow shoulders. The other children are increasingly disregarded as Marilyn’s attention is consumed by Lydia’s education.

James notices this but says nothing for a long time. His inferiority complex is reinforced when he takes Nathan out into the world. History repeats itself as Nathan, in his turn, endures the casual cruelty of other children and comes to understand that he is, somehow, different. Rather than stand up for his son, James cringes in shame – as memories of his own childhood experiences painfully resurface. Nathan, for his part, deals with his social exclusion by reaching for the stars..literally – astronomy becomes his favourite hobby. He will, in time join the space program which so enthrals him.

As Lydia grows through her teens the relentless pressure of Marilyn’s ambitions become progressively insupportable. Lydia is not the genius of Marilyn’s imagination. She begins to crumble as exam results decline but Marilyn is determined that it is only a case of more work, more effort.  Lydia comes to understand that she has made a prison for herself by her determination never to give her mother any grounds to leave her again.

Whilst struggling to fulfil her mother’s dreams, Lydia has been living a bigger lie. Friendless at school, despite her more American appearance, she spends her evenings talking into a dead telephone line. Like two wise monkeys, neither parent ever suspects – although the children do. Little Hannah, especially, whose mind is too young to understand, simply knows it in her bones.

Some sort of disaster is inevitable as panic-stricken Lydia approaches critical exams that she cannot pass. She seeks relief from the familial pressure-cooker by hanging out with Jack, cool all-American teen and reputed school Lothario. But Jack has an incendiary secret of his own and Lydia’s attempted act of rebellion fails like everything else.

Defeated on all sides, Lydia resolves to end the years of pretence and start life anew – based on her wishes, her desires. But this decision seems to require a symbolic initiation. Lydia sneaks out late one night, seen only by little Hannah, and heads to the town lake where the children had spent their summers. It was by this lake years before that she had taken that fateful decision to be her mother’s surrogate. That time she had been pushed into the lake by Nathan and some part of her wanted to sink (she never learned to swim) to escape the years of strife that she knew were to come. Nathan had rescued her on that occasion, but now she is alone.

Lydia rows the solitary row-boat into the middle of the lake.   Then, in the most mystical and ambiguous scene in the book, she steps into the water, apparently determined to make the short swim to the pier and begin life anew…

Lydia’s disappearance blows the lid off the pressure cooker of the Lee family’s suppressed resentments. James accuses Marilyn of browbeating her daughter into misery. She accuses James of being spineless and subservient in the face of her daughters possible abduction. James reacts by running off with his teaching assistant, Nathan tries to drown his sorrows in whisky. He also confronts Jack,  who he is sure has a hand in Lydia’s disappearance – but finally understands that Jack’s is more interested in him than in his sister.

In the final chapter, with Lydia dead and buried, the family begin a gradual process of reconciliation. Things long unsaid are finally acknowledged. James and Marilyn finally notice their remaining children. The tragedy of Lydia will stay with them all till the end of their days but life will get better.  Somehow Lydia’s sacrifice has redeemed the family and life, however different, can begin again.

What did it all Mean ?

 The book starts with a tragic, unexplained death. How to account for this tragedy ? – that is the central preoccupation of the story. The search for an explanation takes us into many difficult areas : racism, sexism, alienation, social isolation, frustrated dreams and living vicariously through your children, for starters.

Post-war America itself seems to be in the dock. This is a nation of casual racism and sexism where women and minority groups are marginalised by the prevailing WASP culture. James Lee spends a lifetime trying to ‘fit in’ but becomes progressively embittered at his inability to do so. Marilyn resents a male-dominated culture which, at least in part, frustrated her ambition to become a doctor. Habitual racial slights have a particularly corrosive effect on James who is forever on guard for the next insult. History repeats itself as Nathan in his turn becomes the butt of children’s pranks.

James and Marilyn respond to their life of disappointments by withdrawal, in effect ostracizing themselves from society. The children inherit this siege mentality, clinging to each other out there in the big bad world. Even Marilyn’s desertion of the family could be viewed as a reaction to a claustrophobic society that had frustrated her dreams.

Ng uses the phrase, known to every chemistry student, ‘to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction’, more than once in the book. Can the determinism implied in this phrase be applied to people as well as chemicals?  Lydia’s reaction to her mother’s flight is to cling ever tighter by agreeing to her every wish. But the deceit at the heart of Lydia’s conformity can only end badly. The catalyst – an exam she cannot pass – leads Lydia inexorably to her fate on the lake. QED ?

Well, not quite. Whilst America undoubtedly had many faults it did not push Lydia off the rowboat. And human beings are more than their chemical constituents. James, for example had choices in the face of the racism he experienced. It was his choice to renounce his ancestry, to try to become more American than the Americans.

It is generally unfair to criticise writers for what their books are not about. But there is a glaring hole at the centre of this story. The Lee family lived through a tumultuous era in American history. In 1955 whilst James was silently suffering the barbs of his white fellow-students, Rosa Parks defied the establishment by refusing to give up her seat to a white passenger in Montgomery, Alabama. In 1968 when James was cringing at the racism meted out to his son, Martin Luther King was shot dead for demanding equality for all American citizens. In short, the civil rights movement was in full swing and people were dying for their belief in equality. The point is that even in the face of the worst oppression people have choices – you can fight, you don’t have to submit. But this does not seem to have occurred to James, and it is not mentioned anywhere in the book.

Marilyn too had choices. As an attractive, brilliant young woman she exerted her independence by marrying someone from an ethnic minority in the face of her mother’s bigotry.  Yet when James, who would hardly say boo to a goose, insists that she abandon her hopes of becoming a doctor she acquiesces without a fight. Thus the Lee’s must surely accept some degree of responsibility for their predicament.

Neither can Marilyn’s ferocious ambition for her daughter be laid at society’s feet. However unlikely Marilyn’s inability to understand her daughter; or her disregard for the other children – only she can be held accountable for the path she set Lydia upon. Or, perhaps James can share the guilt, as he partially understood but said nothing until it was too late.

Nor did Lydia have to cleave so tightly to her mother’s wishes. She could, instead have told her mother how she really felt. So, at every stage there were choices: this was not chain reaction with a pre-determined outcome. What was missing was honesty, candour…the courage to say what you really feel and to deal with the consequences. ‘To thine own self be true’, as boring old Polonius put in Hamlet.

The one character in the book who seems to live by this principle is Jack. Gay at a time when homosexuality could still lead to imprisonment over much of the US, he seems the person most at ease with himself in the book. Yes he is scared that Lydia might reveal his secret when he finally tells her – but he still tries to follow his feelings rather than deny them.

So who or what killed Lydia Lee ? The system ? Racism ? Fear ? Conformity? Something else, or all of the above ? I leave that to my fellow book clubbers to debate.