Keeping the show on the road
D. J. Taylor
COAST TO COAST by Frederic Raphael Orion, £16.99, pp. 231 Some years ago I published a book about English fiction of the post-1945 era called — unremarkably, it seemed to me After the War. Barely had the first copy hit the shelves at Hatchard's than the post brought an immensely cross and tri- umphantly sarcastic letter from Frederic Raphael, accusing me of plagiarising the title of a novel of his. There was no address, so I couldn't write back. Enquiry revealed that Raphael is a famously strop- py correspondent, liable to take offence at the slightest provocation, or in this case, as there must have been half-a-dozen books called After the War in print at the time, no provocation at all. No doubt what follows will bring another icy missive whistling in from cyberspace, but never mind.
Coast to Coast takes in a journey across America undertaken by a middle-aged couple named Pierce, whose male half, Barnaby, is a successful writer of television comedy shows. Predictably, this calling has given him an ironic, if not mordant, out- look on life. His other half, Marion, rather thinks she wants a divorce. At any rate the novel opens with them selling their New England house before heading west with their sights set ultimately on Seattle and the marriage of their son, Benjamin. The car, a vintage Jaguar, is booked as a wedding present.
The Pierces' route from the north- eastern corner to the north-western extremity of this great nation of theirs is circuitous. A series of stop-overs finds them billeted on a succession of friends, relatives and ancient connections: Marion's sister and her farmer husband; an old college tutor; Barnie's former writing part- ner Stanley. As you might imagine, each re- encounter yields up a fresh perspective on their past life and their present uncertain- ties, from the college tutor's house where they first made love, to a steely interroga- tion courtesy of their daughter Stace.
Curiously, despite the relentless progress west, this is not a road novel. Scenic description barely figures, the action large- ly proceeds through dialogue — that trade- mark, buffed-up Raphael chatter in which the protagonists simply chip away at one another's frailties — and there is a general sense of someone (the author, possibly) trying very hard. No-nonsense demands (Did you ever masturbate?') are slyly brought forth, old adulteries refought, and the effect of the 200-odd pages of wise- cracking is oddly exclusive. This is a private party, you feel, where the reader stays on sufferance.
Countless reviewers over the years have complained about Raphael's paralysing cleverness and his characters' habit of degenerating — in fact they start out that way — into intensely sophisticated puppets, and I am not about to add to their number. No offence, but these are mostly shallow affairs, and the shallowness lies in Raphael's inability to let his creations escape from the chains imposed on them by his ultra-smart dialogue, a sense that the style will always crowd out the feeling it is meant to convey. Never was there a writer so keen on letting form elbow content out of the way.
That said, Coast to Coast contains the usual abundant evidence of Raphael's skill: a confrontation with a disturbed teenage boy, the Pierces' adoptive nephew, who wants to come with them; a tremendous scene in which Stanley puts on an impromptu vaudeville performance and then drops down dead; a sombre but finely wrought finale at the wedding. On each of these occasions, Barrie and Marion stop playing at conversational one-upmanship and start to take on lives of their own. Elsewhere, though, svelte contrivance is the order of the day, and I am bracing myself for one of Mr Raphael's little letters.
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