'I was flabbergasted to see Naughton, on his back, bent over the edge of the
box next door at such an angle that his head dangled above the orchestra
pit. He was leant over by the hussar, who had his hands around Naughton's
throat.'
At
first, I was going to tick Beryl Bainbridge off for writing too well, too
literary. I thought it nonsense that an illiterate girl in nineteenth
century Liverpool could never write such exquisite prose as evidenced in this
novel, and that this was a case of the authorial voice being too strong.
As it happened, I couldn't have been more wrong.
This novel is narrated by the close acquaintances of 'Master Georgie' (although
some are closer than others), starting with the illiterate Myrtle.
Immediately we are drawn into the action, as this sequence of a photograph
being taken will resound throughout the novel. 'Master Georgie' is
incredibly subtle, and it is only by looking back over it that you begin to
appreciate that this is the most suitable of beginnings. Here is where
Myrtle begins on her road to becoming a lady. And what an unsavory road
it is, as Myrtle's help is initially required to cover up the manner in which
George Hardy's father has died, and leads to the bloody battlefields of the
Crimea.
Also assisting with the cover-up is the duck-boy and street urchin, Pompey
Jones and the pompous Dr. Potter, whose narrations are by far the best.
George Hardy himself is an ambiguous figure, seen only through the eyes of
others. It may be a fault that we never really get to know him.
This is a novel of cameras, carnality, and carnage. The dreadful shadow
of history is cast upon it, with the famous charge of the Light Brigade lightly
alluded to. One almost expects to run into a lady with a lamp at every
corner, but fortunately, Bainbridge avoids this excess. She takes events
frozen in time, such as the front cover's photograph, and brings them into life
and death, and maybe even beyond. The camera never lies... Or does
it? Bainbridge fervently burrows into the psyche of characters, enabling
them to bring about apparitions vivid enough to be captured by film.
In my mind's eye, I see Bainbridge pouring over ancient photographs from the
Crimea, trying to put names to faces and to see if she could walk around in
their bloody shoes. She succeeds. If I'd have been on 1998's Booker
panel, I know I would have placed Bainbridge before McEwan. And the
reason wouldn't have the desire to give her a consolatory, but demeaning, long
service award. In this instance, 'Master Georgie' speaks for itself.
Kevin
Patrick Mahoney. Authortrek rating: 9/10.
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