Bernard MacLaverty, Midwinter Break

Bernard MacLavery, Midwinter Break. Jonathan Cape, London, hardback. 2017

Another novel read in a day while I convalesced after recent medical treatment. It takes some getting into, with a rather bleak pair of central characters. The married couple, retired architect Gerald and teacher, Stella, are in the midwinter of their relationship. Will it survive their cathartic post-Christmas short break in Amsterdam, where the cracks in their marriage, and in their individual lives, widen, and the painful secrets in their past threaten to explode their outward calm?

MacLaverty W Break coverGerald is a drinker; Stella is searching for solace after an earlier terrible trauma. He’s either unaware of her pain, or has drunk himself into numbness to avoid confronting and dealing with it – and his own. She sees this in him, and is tired of watching him drink. She wonders if she still loves or needs him.

That’s about it as far as plot goes. It’s a slowly accreting, sympathetically and delicately observed portrait of two people clinging on to the wreckage of their relationship, damaged by the Troubles in N. Ireland from the 70s onward, where their Catholic faith marked them obtrusively in the conflict they deplored. Events in this violent past nearly destroyed them.

In deceptively plain prose, MacLaverty pieces together an impression of a marriage full of unspoken grief and deeply felt, barely suppressed emotion. It’s one of the most haunting accounts I’ve read of the ways people strive to communicate but often fail to connect – even when they’re desperate to do so.

He’s particularly adept at selecting and delineating the minutiae of their daily lives as they age and try to face their new, retired life without the stimuli of work or bringing up family – their only son has grown up and moved abroad with their much missed grandson (it’s fairly clear why).

The way the novel opens is typical of this narrative technique: Stella and Gerald are in their home in Scotland (they’d long since left Ireland), preparing for bed. He’s finished in the bathroom and leaves the shaving mirror at the magnifying face. Why are we given that detail? Was he being considerate, knowing she’d need the magnified side of the mirror to carry out her facial restoration regime? Or was he simply examining his own face, heedless of her own? MacLaverty leaves the options open.

This passage continues:

She licked the tip of her index finger and smoothed both of them [her eyebrows]. Then turned to her eyelids. She was sick of it all – the circles of cotton wool, the boiled and sterilised water in the saucer, the ointments, the waste bin full of cotton buds.

At first sight this is just a list of banal details – but MacLaverty is sharp-eyed enough to notice how Stella feels the need to try to hold back the ageing process, with particular emphasis on the eyes – the windows of the soul. More importantly, that final sentence reveals her simmering impatience. The symbolic waste-bin represents perhaps her life, and her life with Gerald. Yet the point isn’t laboured; on the contrary, it’s unobtrusive – just there, like Stella and her pain. And what exactly is the ‘all’ that she’s sick of: the attempts to hold back the effects on her face of ageing, or Gerald and her life with him – or life in general? MacLaverty delicately refrains from telling us, leaving us to figure out for ourselves what’s wrong here, what’s going on in these troubled lives.

Her bedtime routine is completed when she gets into her pyjamas quickly, because the room is cold: ‘She saw no point in paying good money to heat a room all day for a minute’s comfort last thing at night.’ This penny-pinching at the expense of her own comfort indicates her self-castigating, frugal nature, her inability to expand, indulge. The slow drip of such details through the narrative gradually, like an accumulating stalagmite, shows why she’s like that, so pinched, self-denying.

As she basks in bed, warmed by her only, limited indulgences – hot water bottle and electric blanket — we are privy to her thoughts: she loves this ritual hour of ‘separation at the end of every day’. Gerry (as she would call her husband; these are clearly her thoughts, relayed through free indirect discourse) ‘out of action, in another room…Having a nightcap, no doubt. Or two or three.’

Even in this rare moment of sensual abandonment in her solitary bed, she can’t help this frisson of judgemental scorn and bitterness. What’s so poignant is that the behaviour of each of them precipitates such reactions in the other; the ways they deal with their own personal demons drives the other one away, at the very points when they need each other most, like magnets of the same polarity.

It’s easy to dislike Stella and Gerald, but gradually he’s seen to be guided by his wife’s star; redemption flickers and fades before them. I found myself hoping they’d not let it extinguish.

Trelissick and Carrick Roads

View over Carrick Roads from Trelissick gardens

Mrs TD read this after me, and struggled with the first third or so of the novel, but told me she was glad she persevered to the end – it picked up considerably.

Just to finish, a picture taken yesterday during our first walk at this local National Trust property in six months. One of our favourite views. Had to book a slot and maintain hygiene/social distancing measures, but worth it. And the sun shone.

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14 thoughts on “Bernard MacLaverty, Midwinter Break

  1. Hello Simon, I am glad that you took the time to get a slot, take hygiene measures et al for the lovely photo. I am sure the both of you keep your hands spick and span at all times but we must be diligent. Human beings are a resilient lot, are they not? I hope you are well on the road to full recovery from your procedure.

    You noted: “The slow drip of such details through the narrative gradually, like an accumulating stalagmite, shows why she’s like that, so pinched, self-denying….”

    My first reaction to your wonderfully evocative analysis was “Woah! What a great novel to read to learn how to get better at ‘showing not telling’.” [Moe’s editor note, I have NO idea where the period goes here. A kind but brutal Lavery critique is welcome.]

    I like the idea that the novelist does not coddle the reader, but forces them to read, to think, to pick up on the characters and their nature slowly. It is just what our torpid United States minds need. Too much Netflix and corn syrup goin’ on here, not to mention Orange Emperor Tang driving us all mad.

    Am just now working on a short historical “impossible” mystery story of about 12 pages that may become a collection of stories. I have two very different characters and hope to, over the story collection, show their natures and developing friendship and the spiritual enrichment they gain from knowing each other without the need to comment on it! Challenging technique. In story one, they meet but at arms length. I hope to drop the tiniest hint of what might come in the future. So off this week’s book goes to the “teetering TBR list.”

    Wishing you and yours well, Simon!


    • Hi Maureen: I tried to avoid the ‘showing’ description, but you’re right, he’s so good at just saying, This is what they say and do – but as my first quotation indicates, he also filters thoughts of his characters through the narrative. Good luck. With the stories.

      • Again: “…slow drip of such details through the narrative gradually, like an accumulating stalagmite….”

        What beautiful imagery. There is a wild Twitter feed taken directly from ’60’s and ’70’s era journals of Richard Burton who was an amazing writer (we may have discussed this). The image above reminds me very much of what the Welshman Burton might have written. As Cornwall and Wales are close, and very much “stone” type places, perhaps yer inhabited land is seeping into your conciousness?? : )

  2. The sense of bleakness and unspoken grief reminds you’ve described reminds me of the work of Maeve Brennan (another Irish writer). I don’t know if you’ve read her, but if not she might be of interest…

    • I know of her but haven’t read her – thanks for the tip. I think MacLaverty is from N. Ireland (similar surname to mine, quite common there) so slightly different perspective from writers from south of the border.

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