Why didn't she get a nanny?
Charlotte Moore
THE ANGEL OF TWICKENHAM The year is 1990. The World Cup approaches, Saddam will soon invade Kuwait, and the skating stars Yoevil and Kean have been kidnapped by Armenian terrorists. Harriet Dimdore, 49, a rich, frustrated inhabitant of that part of Surrey given over to golf and rhododendrons, wants to get her acting career back on the rails now that her children are poised to fly the nest. Poised, but not quite gone Harriet still needs someone to stand in for her at home if she is to cope with a punishing rehearsal schedule and evening performances.
Why doesn't she just hire a nanny? Why indeed, but if she did there would be no story. Dotty, an elderly widowed cousin, is drafted in to help look after Japheth, Mungo and Tiziana. Dotty, the 'angel' of the title, is hard to place — she's a bit like the June Whitfield character in Absolutely Fabulous but not nearly so recognisable nor so funny. Her Thatcherite attitudes and predictable domestic habits are supposed to be wildly irritating to Harriet, but it's hard to see why. Dotty likes the Daily Mail and Lincoln Cream biscuits; we are told that this drives Harriet to the point of insanity, but we are not made to feel the Apparently, if I'm pregnant, you turn white!' problem for ourselves. The detail, like so many others, is anchorless. The Angel of Twickenham is crammed with images that bob like bright balloons and occasionally collide, but which form no coherent pattern. The humour (the book is a 'dark comedy', according to the surprisingly inaccurate blurb) relies heavily on unexpected comparisons. 'His hard, close- set blue eyes were set off by the tanned wrinkles like marbles in a crumbly cheese'; . . the dread of Dotty, with which she struggled as a canary on whom a waterbed has fallen'; 'With the speed of a nappy down a chute, her mood changed.' Such phrases may startle, but they don't stick.
The tone, from the weary bathos of the title on, echoes Nigel Williams. Contempo- rary society is held up in front of a distort- ing mirror. Harriet appears in a musical called `Wipers!', based on the first world war. A thin, pretentious novelist is named Avelina Viper. The Reverend Vince, a charismatic preacher, is also a DJ on Radio Hogsback. For this kind of comedy to work it needs to be absolutely precise, but Bent- ley, unlike Williams, is often sloppy. 'Harri- et was . . . as relaxed as William Tell facing the crossbow,' is a typical example. She lacks, too, Williams' sharp ear. We are told that "I'm too sexy for my Independent" was currently number one in the hit parade.' Hit parade? Surely no one has talked about the 'hit parade' since Mick Jagger was in short trousers.
The story rattles along, its undeniable vigour often distracting attention from its many false notes. There is a lot of inventiveness as well as a few moments of genuine hilarity. But too often, Bentley needs to wave a little flag to make sure we realise that she is being 'deeply wacky'. Short cuts to humour are often taken. Characters are much given to attacks of vomiting and diarrhoea, the 12-year-old talks about masturbation in front of Granny, and unlikely sexual pairings abound. Understatement is not a strong suit; we soon learn to expect the unexpect- ed.
The monstrously selfish and exploitative Harriet would be a considerable comic creation, except that one is left with the feeling that one is supposed to like her. The same goes for the grotesquely named children, who are spoiled, rude and without appeal. It comes as a surprise to realise that they are meant to be charming and amusing, if a little mixed up. Mixed up they are, but not as their creator intends. As with most of the characters, it is difficult to get them into focus. One minute Japheth Is being scolded for making water bombs, the next minute he's in bed with the au pair. Bentley is a restless and indulgent writer who, it seems, cannot bear to let anything go. This is a pity. The lack of restraint blurs her talents, and leaves us with a novel that is a like a box of fireworks going off all at once.
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