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The Doctor’s Wife by Brian Moore – #1976Club

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brian moore - the doctor s wife - AbeBooksSheila Redden has come to France to celebrate her anniversary with Kevin, the doctor of the title. She has come ahead of him, as he has been caught up with work – and they’ve returned to the place where they had their honeymoon fifteen years earlier. Before heading to the very same hotel in Villefranche, she is spending a short time in Paris, visiting an old friend and her current boyfriend. Her life is painfully ordinary. She loves her teenage son Danny, though not all-encompassingly. She supposes herself to love her husband and her life, because that is what one does. Sheila is an introspective woman who manages to avoid looking too close.

Coming back to France isn’t just stepping back into a past of their early romance, it is escaping the Troubles in Northern Ireland. That term has been used in our earliest ‘club’ years and in our latest, though here it is different than in the ’20s, of course. Sheila is a ‘Catholic’, very much inverted commas in place, and has no strong political leanings – just a horror of the death and destruction that is happening in her homeland.

In Paris, Sheila gets talking to a young American called Tom. He is charming, funny, and – most unusually of all for Sheila – interested in her. They share an evening of conversation, walking around the sights of Paris, discussing their pasts, presents, futures. It is a perfect evening, and Tom tries to persuade Sheila to stay longer – particularly as her husband is further delayed. But she insists she has to go to the hotel in Villefranche.

Moore is very good at moments that illuminate a life: that tell you enough in a microcosm that you can understand the broader dynamic of a relationship or state of mind. Even rarer, he is good at doing it unshowily, letting the moment be an ordinary part of a day and letting the reader recognise its significance.

Ninety minutes later, the plane began its approach to Nice, flying along the coastline over Saint-Raphael and Cannes. Through the window she saw villas on cliffsides, emerald swimming pools, white feathers of yacht sales scattered in the bays. When she had first looked down on this coast long ago on her honeymoon, she had turned in excitement, saying: ‘Oh, Kevin, wouldn’t it be marvellous to be able to live here all the time?’ only to have him take her literally and answer, ‘I suppose it would, if all I wanted to do was water-ski the rest of my life.’ She remembered that now, as the plane wheeled, pointing down toward land. Below her, cars moved, slow as treacle on the ribbon of seafront road. The plane skimmed the tops of a row of palm trees, came in over a cluster of white rectangular hangars to land with a jolt of its undercarriage and a sickening rear jet thrust.

She hasn’t been at the hotel for very long when the reception call and say there is a gentleman waiting for her in the lobby.

When the lift reach the ground floor and paused for that little airbrake moment before it finally settled, all at once she knew. The lift door opened, showing the lobby, him standing there, throwing his head up at sight of her, very excited, smiling, awaiting her reaction. ‘Hello, Sheila. Mind if I join you?’

It was then she saw how nervous he was.

‘But what on earth are you doing here?’

‘I hate to be left behind at airports.’

It sounds a bit manipulative out of context, but Moore goes out of his way to make Tom kind, selfless and respectful of Sheila. She is so unused to being put first, and to be found vital as a woman – and she quickly falls in love with this younger man. It is mutual, and they quickly find themselves in bed together. As we had known they would from a prologue at the beginning of the book.

The Doctor’s Wife then treads three lines, I think. One is Sheila finding a new world before her, and her new relationship with Tom. One is Kevin trying to resurrect his marriage from Northern Ireland – enrolling Sheila’s brother, who is also a doctor, to try and help plan how best to overcome what he sees as a temporary insanity. And one is Sheila dealing with the collapse of her marriage through a series of phone calls and a lot of personal reflection. Each is captivating, and the reader feels a constant whirl of pity, hope, and compassion.

Moore is such a sensitive and subtle novelist. It’s one of those plots that could come across quite tawdry, but there is a beauty to this novel – because it is concerned most deeply with people, not with their actions. While the plot is about adultery and its aftermath, it’s really ‘about’ Sheila and her being shaken into a fresh development as a person.

As in his best-known work, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Moore gets deep under the skin of an unhappy and unfulfilled middle-aged[ish] woman, and does it brilliantly. If that is his masterpiece, then The Doctor’s Wife isn’t too many paces behind it.

The Great Victorian Collection by Brian Moore

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2021 is 100 years since the novelist Brian Moore was born – and 22 since he died – and Cathy at 746 Books is helping lead a year of celebrations in the blogging world. You can read the details of that over on her blog, including a schedule of books to read. She’s picked a good representation of his books, but the only Moore novel I had unread on my shelves was The Great Victorian Collection (1975) – this isn’t in the schedule, so I decided to read it whenever. And that time came about now.

(The only other book I’ve read by him is The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, which is extraordinarily good.)

The Great Victorian Collection features a Canadian professor with the absurd name Tony Maloney. He is staying in a fairly mediocre hotel in Carmel, California, when he has a dream. Don’t worry, dull as it is to hear the dreams of others, this is a necessary step to the plot. Tony’s dream is that he climbs out of his bedroom window and discovers a sort of Victorian fair…

I unfastened the catch of the window, opened it, climbed out on the sill, and eased myself on to a wooden outdoor staircase, which led down to the lot some twenty feet below. I began to walk along what seemed to be the central aisle of the market, an aisle dominated by a glittering crystal fountain, its columns of polished glass soaring to the height of a telegraph pole. Laid out on the stalls and in partially enclosed exhibits resembling furniture showrooms was the most astonishing collection of Victorian artefacts, objets d’art, furniture, household appliances, paintings, jewellery, scientific instruments, toys, tapestries, sculpture, handicrafts, woollen and linen samples, industrial machinery, ceramics, silverware, books, furs, men’s and women’s clothing, musical instruments, a huge telescope mounted on a pedestal, a railway locomotive, marine equipment, small arms, looms, bric-a-brac, and curiosa.

When he awakes – the fair is there, outside the window, just as he dreamed. As he explores it, he discovers it isn’t just a collection of Victoriana – it includes the foremost antiques from that era. Tony’s hobby is Victoriana, and so he recognises the various artefacts – and Moore presumably knows what he is talking about when he lists them, though it is far from my area of expertise. There are one-off chairs designed by the greatest designers of the period; there are the finest jewels and ornaments. There are even items that have long since vanished, and are only described in books – whereas others should exist only in museums. And Tony has apparently dreamed them all into existence.

Moore then takes us onto the various things that might well happen, given this bizarre premise. The strength of any fantastic novel lies in how they take us beyond surprise and into the narrative – and the best way to do that, in my opinion, is by making everything else that follows logical. So Moore is, first and foremost, berated by the hotel owner for unauthorised occupation of his yard.

When his story starts to spread, there is a kind and ambitious journalist who takes his side – partly for the exposure it might give to his own career – and there are some more sceptical ones. The debate wages about whether or not they are fakes, with a couple of academics trying to put the kybosh on it, and Tony trying to explain the idea of simultaneous originals. It’s an intriguing concept, and Moore’s exploration of the miracle’s reception rings true.

Perhaps less interesting, to me at least, is the romantic strand of the novel. Tony starts to fall in love with an enthusiastic woman who supports him, but who also has a boyfriend. Etc etc. I know the novel can’t just be a short story, and it’s useful to have a secondary plot, but I didn’t find this one had the necessary depth and vitality to let it stand next to the powerful central conceit.

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne was such a brilliant novel that it’s hard to compare. The Great Victorian Collection certainly doesn’t have the same psychological depth, but nor is it trying to. I think it has enough originality to stand on its own merits, as long as you don’t come expecting Moore to replicate that masterpiece. It is something different, odd, quirky, curiously grounded, and – though I won’t spoil it – with an ending that perfectly fits and adjusts the tone of everything that went before.

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore

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I don’t remember who originally told me about The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (1955) by Brian Moore, but that recommendation was enough for me to buy it in 2012. A few people read it for the 1955 Club a little while ago, and I’d read so many positive reviews that I finally read it. Yes, it’s rather brilliant! (By the way, I’ve included a copy of the NYRB Classics edition because it’s beautiful; mine was a film tie-in, with Maggie Smith on the cover, and it was made me want to seek out the film…)

Here are the first couple of paragraphs, to whet your appetite:

The first thing Miss Judith Hearne unpacked in her new lodgings was the silver-framed photograph of her aunt. The place for her aunt, ever since the sad day of the funeral, was on the mantelpiece of whatever bed-sitting-room Miss Hearne happened to be living in. And as she put her up now, the photograph eyes were stern and questioning, sharing Miss Hearne’s own misgivings about the condition of the bed-springs, the shabbiness of the furniture and the run-down part of Belfast in which the room was situated.

After she had arranged the photograph so that her dear aunt could look at her from the exact centre of the mantelpiece, Miss Hearne unwrapped the white tissue paper which covered the coloured oleograph of the Sacred Heart. His place was at the head of the bed, His fingers raised in benediction. His eyes kindly yet accusing. He was old and the painted halo around His head was beginning to show little cracks. He had looked down on Miss Hearne for a long time, almost half her lifetime.

Judith Hearne is settling into a boarding house, uncertain about how she will be perceived and how she will fit in. These two pictures sum up her life – a devoted Catholic faith, and a longing for any sort of family. But she has her pride, and – on a quest for a hammer, to put in a nail for her oleograph – she is reluctant to jump straight into a friendship with her talkative landlady and the landlady’s overgrown, ugly adult son. But she is rather taken by the landlady’s brother, James Madden – an Irishman who has recently returned from many decades in the US, possibly returning wealthy.

The other friendships she has outside the house are with Moira and her various children – all of whom mock her behind her back, and see the weekly cup of tea as a chore that they can take in turns. These scenes encapsulate what Moore does so very well – showing us the pain that comes not only from Judith Hearne’s loneliness but from her self-awareness. She knows that the family are tired of her, and she notices when they exchange glances at her comments. With James Madden, she has immediate, desperate visions of them falling in love and marrying – but she is no fantasist. She knows her visions are fake, and can’t happen. There is no escape for her in fantasy.

I’ll read more or less anything set in a boarding house, and Moore is brilliant at the enclosure of it – the proximity of strangers and the factions that develop between them. This proximity is even the reason for a rape scene that is very troubling, and I don’t think would be written in quite the same way today – it is written as a terrible crime, but there is little aftermath.

What Moore is best at is developing the portrait of Judith Hearne – her desperation, her melancholy, her stupidity, her hopes and the ways in which she protects them from the eyes of others. Her crisis of faith is dealt with sensitively and without the sneer of the cynic. She is a complete and miserable character, whose life could have been far more complete – but who, one suspects, would always have managed to spoil things, or to let the fly in the ointment overwhelm and destroy her. It is impossible not to feel for her; it is impossible not to realise that she is her own worst enemy.

All this Moore achieves through superlative writing. It reminded me a lot of Patrick Hamilton in its vitality, though perhaps without the dry wit – here is more the humour of hysteria, albeit subdued hysteria. I’m so glad I finally read it – and I hope his other novels are as good.