Submerged in elegance
John de Falbe
LONG HOT SUMMER by Barbara Anderson Cape, £15.99, pp. 263 It is 1936. Lorna Hopkins is at the beach with her three children for the summer; her husband Derek joins them at weekends. Another beach house is occupied by Mrs Clements, a bossy widow of the old school, together with her spoilt, handsome son James and her put-upon daughter Bella. Relations with the local Maoris and other residents, permanent and temporary, are good. When James badgers everyone to join him in making an amateur cowboy film, it is a welcome diversion. They all go up to stay at Rongomaha, the Clements's large family farm a short distance inland — all except the Maoris, who come daily because Mrs Clements will not allow them 'Now what? He's gone off tomato ketchup.' to stay. And while they are making the film, Bella and Tam, a Maori man, fall in love.
Most of Long Hot Summer is narrated by Lorna. Every now and again her eight-year- old daughter Ann chips in with a chapter. Throughout, Barbara Anderson's eye for detail is sharp, and the narrative's counter- point holds situations and characters neatly in a double perspective. The dialogue is excellent, the language concise and exact. Without doubt, this is a well-crafted, enter- taining novel. But it is not more than that.
Grounds for objection are elusive, but the problem has something to do with tech- nical skill. In Ann's sections, a quirkiness of observation is coupled with childish, direct language. For example: The canoe goes all wobbly when Joe stands up and Charlie hangs on like mad, still grin- ning, but not so much. Joe shouts louder than ever and points at the two of us sitting there in our sissy striped togs.
This faux naif technique, where the reader understands more than the narrator, is not uncommon in childhood narratives. It can be patronising or cloying, but it is neither of these here because Anderson's prose is so taut. The same is true in Lorna's sec- tions, where the sense of a thought cur- tailed invites you, very subtly, to consider what is not there, generating a complex relationship between thought and expres- sion, intention and action: a metaphysical resonance. This technique tends to be more visible in short stories than in novels. To work well, it has to be constantly sug- gestive and intensely focussed. Penelope Fitzgerald made it work, so did Bruce Chatwin at his best.
The discipline of Anderson's technique acts as a constraint: the shadows which ought to animate her prose are not really there, yet nothing else can develop. Indeed, just as the novel seems about to get inter- esting with the ramifications of Tam and Bella's relationship, it pulls back. The sud- den discovery of the lovers by the children is worthy of L. P. Hartley, and the fury of Mrs Clements and the Maoris is wonder- fully convincing. At last we are getting to the meat of the novel. But no, Tam and Bella elope and we hardly see them again. Instead, we are treated to the spectacle of James forcing the others to carry on with his wretched flick. Some quit. Others, though appalled by his monstrous selfish- ness, find it easier to giggle behind his back and continue rather than quit, and why not? But this degree of vanity would only be interesting, or indeed comprehensible, if it had been deeply explored during the pre- ceding 250 pages.
It is perhaps ungenerous to criticise this novel, but I am provoked by frustration. One has the sense that Anderson under- stands the offences of her characters, some of which are considerable, and feels com- passion. But this great gift is submerged beneath the valuable, but lesser talent of formal elegance.
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