The Last Wave

To ‘Pages of Hackney’ last month for a book launch. Pages is a great small independent bookshop I’d not visited before (it opened around the time I left London), with a lively programme of events and extensive second-hand department in the basement. The launch was held in the basement, where I found myself sat next to a display cabinet of pulp erotica. A couple of boxes of LPs were in another corner, and there was so much wine that bottles were stacked up the stairs.

The launch was for The Last Wave, the debut novel by Gillian Best. It centres on the life of Martha, told through the alternating first-person narratives of her family, neighbour, and Martha herself, jumping across time, non-chronologically, from her childhood, and resolving in a symbolic doubling involving her granddaughter.

The opening chapter is set towards the end of the story, boldly breaking the narrative arc by revealing the story’s trajectory, thus placing the novel’s emphasis on individual moments in a family’s life. As each chapter changes voices through the book, we are brought into lives which contain some joy and plenty of regret, and I had a better time with some members of the family than others. I was most won over by the granddaughter, Myrtle, whose combination of drive and wit optimistically counterbalanced the anxieties of adulthood.

The novel is weighted by what one might think of as hot topics for a newspaper: not just Alzheimer’s, but also cancer! Not just post-war sexual repression, but also twenty-first century lesbian coming out! But Best deals with delicate themes authoritatively, avoiding crassness, and with some subtly powerful detail, as in a quiet observation of death’s bureaucracy. When siblings Harriet and Iain are shown a catalogue of cremation urns, Harriet’s thoughts turn unexpectedly to the copy-writer: ‘I thought about the person who had had to write the copy for the brochure, to quietly and sombrely extol the virtues of a gold-plated urn over a simple and understated china white urn. […] It was absurd’ (283-84).

The sea, specifically the English Channel, provides a persistent backdrop for the book, whoever the narrator, and whatever the time-period. Martha derives spiritual strength from the sea, but this remains elusive to those around her, and the sea stops short of taking on the archetypal or transcendental status of a character itself. Yet the book begins with an archetypal image, introducing a terrifically tense opening chapter inside the mind of Martha’s husband. John reaches out for the absent Martha in their bed, her whereabouts unknown. This is a motif that goes back to the ancients: Menelaus does it to the absent Helen in Aeschylus’s Agamemnon (424-5); more recently, Mr Ramsay does it in Woolf’s To The Lighthouse (Time Passes §3). Best takes this image and embellishes it with items from the world she has created – the sand, the seabed – making it resonate freshly.



I wrote a little thing about John Peel for ‘We Happy Few’. That website pokes into some curiously dilapidated corners of the culture.

Edit, November 2017: ‘We Happy Few’ has sadly left the World Wide Web, so I reproduce my piece here:

Loath as I am to extol another dead white male, it’s difficult to talk about the past without them. As patriarchal voices go, John Peel rises above the taint of 1970s BBC broadcasters, principally by the reputation for humaneness and inclusivity that accrued around him since the 1990s. Last year Faber published a fat book on the man and his radio shows, David Cavanagh’s Good Night and Good Riddance: How Thirty-Five Years of John Peel Helped to Shape Modern Life. The distinction of this book lies in Cavanagh’s method of listening to a vast selection of surviving complete radio shows from Peel’s first broadcasts on the pirate Radio London in 1967 (which followed some stints on radio in the USA) until his penultimate year, 2003. The book proceeds through the years, Cavanagh describing a chosen show, with the musical selection and a brief current-affairs snippet providing a unique portrait of the times, as pop music struggles with its inevitable maturity, rebellions, and banalities. The news extracts that Cavanagh provides for each show often emphasise the Troubles, which is an illuminating reminder of the fragile condition of peace in the UK, especially now that the mass media’s terror focus has shifted geographically.

Cavanagh’s introduction makes the case that the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics was testament to the broad-minded spirit that Peel – effectively single-handedly – fostered in the national culture. But over its 600-plus pages, Cavanagh weaves no thread of connecting argument  to make the assertion compelling, instead allowing the accumulated descriptions of daily brilliance (or folly) to tell its own story. It is not entirely uncritical, but Cavanagh is, by necessity, a fan. I remember him for a review of Elastica in 1993 in Select magazine in which he explained their 20-minute set as being over in the time it takes to eat four apples. It’s an image which hasn’t left my mind, mainly because I can’t imagine ever eating four apples in quick succession. Cavanagh also wrote a career-spanning piece on The Fall in that peculiarly nineties phenomenon, the magazine-and-CD series Volume. He is an erudite writer, and can be very funny, though there’s a sense he’s on his best behaviour for this project, and his mischievous character does not shine through in the text enough for my liking.

The book was subject of a curious review in The Wire (381, November 2015). In it, Derek Walmsley was perturbed by this valorization of a patrician voice – a voice uncomfortably associated with the climates of the pop industry and the BBC which facilitated the abuse of the young and vulnerable, and with the pre-internet world of individual, Reithian authority. The Wire’s review does raise some pertinent points, but the charge of Peel’s irrelevance in the age of internet radio is positively bizarre. The Wire itself used to provide radio listings for open-minded shows, in which Peel’s show was an eternal fixture in a minuscule list for national radio. It’s easy to forget how difficult it was to find out about, for example, The Pendulum Floors. It is odd to think that, while we may celebrate the abundance of free access to information afforded by the internet, we shouldn’t also lament the loss of prescribed spaces within a state power apparatus such as the BBC. If recondite information is too easily available, why should a state broadcaster waste valuable resources delivering it to an indifferent audience. Much better to have another series of ‘Imagine’ with Alan ‘Oh No Not Alan Yentob Again’ Yentob. Structure is unfashionable, but surely the adherents of freedom and chaos still like a lock on their toilet.

There is an emotional component to Cavanagh’s book which will be entirely different for every reader – at least for those who devoted too much of their youth being informed by the inimitable sounds of Peel’s broadcasts. For me, as someone who began listening regularly in the early nineties, the book took on more personal significance as I recognized individual programmes that I had heard live. Combined with this is the mounting sense of sadness as the text accelerates (covering two years rather than one in the final four chapters) towards its inescapable terminus. The epochal cultural moment isn’t the rise of the internet but the loss of a public figure who had a vast knowledge – through first-hand experience – of global pop music from the 1940s to the present.

David Bowie was still alive when I read Cavanagh’s book; he crops up a few times. The entry for 30 June 1968 ends with a description of a Tyrannosaurus Rex concert at the Royal Festival Hall: ‘Bottom of the bill was David Bowie from Bromley, performing a mime inspired by China’s invasion of Tibet.’ A handful of pages later, the entry for 16 February 1969 ends with a description of a Tyrannosaurus Rex concert at Birmingham Town Hall: ‘Bottom of the bill was David Bowie, once again performing his mime inspired by China’s invasion of Tibet.’ There’s a parallel universe in which that sentence is repeated again throughout the 1970s. I choose to believe that, somewhere, David from Bromley is still performing his mime inspired by China’s invasion of Tibet.