Chris Cleave’s novel was inspired by the experiences of his grandparents, particularly of his grandfather, Capt David Hill, who was assigned to “mind” Randolph Churchill, the “brilliant but dissipated son of the Prime Minister”, on Malta during the second World War.
In an author’s afterword, which is arguably more interesting than the long novel itself, Cleave describes how he visited Malta to interview war survivors – still just about possible. Although the trigger was family history. the characters and plot are invented and largely fictional.
The story is set in 1939-1942, and is mainly located in London and Malta. There are many characters, but the principals are Mary, a young upper-class woman who is slumming it as a schoolteacher in blitzed London, and Alastair, an officer stationed on Malta. The narrative thread of the novel is the complicated love life of Mary and her colleague Tom, who is Alastair’s best friend. Other relationships, such as the bittersweet connection between Mary and her mother, are also explored.
The main theme is, of course, The War. The horrors are suitably reviled – an early scene involving a bullying sergeant, a cliche in literature as well as in life, is effectively infuriating, moving and tragic. A late episode, in which a German soldier is protected by Alastair from the cruelties of an understandably embittered Maltese mob, is similarly moving.
The strength of the novel is in its honest appraisal of heroism: the protagonists are both heroic and anti-heroic. One refuses to sign up, another deserts, yet another resorts to drugs. Hagiography is staunchly resisted.
The atmosphere in London during these years is well evoked, but Malta does not quite come to life, even though Cleave visited and carried out research on the fascinating island, with its rich layers of history, of which he is well aware. Vera Brittain's Testament of Experience, for one, conveys a more memorable sense of the vulnerable but resilient island during the second World War.
Cleave has written three bestselling novels, described as "stunning" by several reviewers, as well as "compelling", "energetic" and "strikingly well-written", according to pieces liberally cited in the fly leaves of Everyone Brave Is Forgiven. I have not read the previous novels, but, while this one has several positive aspects, the writing is not one of them: "I should think the German soldiers will ravish us until they are weary from it, don't you?" said Hilda, yawning.
Mary licked her lips. “It might not be awfully fun.”
“Selfish, I know, but we probably ought to kill ourselves first.”
Mary said, “Is your ice cream melting too?”
“Because vanilla goes straight to the hips. It is well known.”
“Give me yours then. I intend to become as fat as a bus. Then the Germans will jolly well rape you first.”
The characters speak in what is almost a parody of received pronunciation. I presume this is based on what Cleave remembers of his forebears’ oral style, or perhaps he speaks like this himself. But on the page the dialogue lacks fluency and naturalness.
The attempts at humour also fall flat, as in this passage on a beach at Dunkirk:
Alastair stood above the lip of his dugout.
“How do you like this weather?” he called to his senior sergeant, Blake.
“Very seasonal, sir,” the man shouted from the next dugout. “With your permission I might take a few of the men along the beach for ice creams.”
“Very good,” called Alastair. “See if you can pick up some deckchairs while you are at it. We could rent them out here quite tidily.”
“Captive audience, isn’t it, sir?”
Alastair nodded. “Get HQ on the radio and have them send us a Punch and Judy booth. If you behave, I shall let you be Judy.”
Blake is then killed by a burst of shrapnel, a sort of shock twist that occurs a few times in the novel. As a device, it works well the first time but loses efficacy when repeated.
Despite its interesting content, the novel – the whole thing – seems to be off-key, like an opera with an interesting libretto performed by singers who are tone deaf.
Historical novels are challenging. Dialogue from the past is notoriously difficult to render convincing. The author may have to invent speech that is faithful to the period but also seems reasonably natural at the time of writing. It is hard to make the right decisions. In 1940, the English upper classes spoke in a way that would seem stiff and alien to anyone now.
Still, there is something strange and weird with the lines Cleave’s characters speak. Hundreds of mid-20th-century English novels were written in the style of the time – that is, their authors’ own style – and remain convincing, fluid, entertaining, and don’t seem dated. Check out Evelyn Waugh or Graham Greene.
Go back and look at Jane Austen. Early 19th-century Home Counties English is not what we read in Roddy Doyle or Anne Enright. But even when usages are archaic, a good prose writer such as Austen creates dialogue that is convincing and easy on the ear of the reader.
Perhaps what is lacking in Everyone Brave Is Forgiven is a sense of rhythm; there's no music in it. I found it very hard to read the novel, let alone enjoy it.
Éilís Ní Dhuibhne's latest work is a monologue in Signatories at Kilmainham Gaol
