Cuckoo is a surprising, frustrating, engrossing psychological thriller. I added this to my holiday reading list, having seen it recommended by Sophie Hannah – one of my favourite authors of the genre – so I had high hopes. And, while I perhaps wasn’t quite as bowled over by this debut as I was by Little Face, I found myself thinking about the unresolved questions and trying to explain the complicated plot to my other half several days after finishing it, which for me is a sign of a good book.
Rose and her husband Gareth have moved away from London and created a picture-perfect life for themselves in the countryside – big renovated farmhouse, impeccably well-behaved daughters, plenty of money (despite him being a not-overly-successful artist and her being a stay-at-home mum) to enjoy the finer things in life. So, when Rose discovers that her oldest friend, Polly, has recently lost her husband, Gareth is wary of upsetting their idyllic existence by inviting Polly and her two sons to stay.
But Rose insists, opening up her home to Polly, Nico and Yannis. Everything seems to go surprisingly well: Gareth and Polly manage to be civil towards one another; the boys – though a little more ‘feral’ than Rose’s daughter Anna – are challenging and charming in equal measure; Polly is obviously still grieving and on medication, but seems to be recovering in her new surroundings with Rose’s help. Even when an accident results in Rose spending a few days away in hospital, the repercussions don’t appear to be as bad as she might have feared. Until she returns home, that is, and begins noticing changes. Just how far has Polly infiltrated Rose’s perfect home and family? Is she really to blame for the fact that Rose’s life is unravelling at the edges? Or is Gareth right to be worried about Rose herself?
Everything is told from Rose’s third person perspective, and there is no omniscient narrator to fill in the gaps or answer the questions. We as readers become confused and disoriented alongside Rose, one minute convinced that Polly is deliberately wreaking havoc on her life and the next recalling the depth of this friendship and telling ourselves that it’s just paranoia. The whole novel is unsettling; even the epilogue opens up more uncomfortable questions than it answers. But I like this: I like not knowing exactly what happened and why, and I like the fact that these are interesting characters who can’t easily be labelled ‘good’ and ‘bad’ or ‘right’ and ‘wrong’.
Having said that, there were some unexplained turns of events which just didn’t ring true. Gareth’s character transformation mid-way through wasn’t entirely convincing. Nor was the fact that Rose – who dived into the role of surrogate mother to Nico and Yannis – apparently abandons any kind of duty of care towards them at the end of the novel. And – for all the satisfying ambiguity – the final denouement and subsequent epilogue are a little too neat in some respects.
There are even some elements of Rose herself which stretch the bounds of believability. The transformation from drug-taking wild-child into wholesome domestic goddess wouldn’t itself be a problem; it’s that she is so very smug about her domestic goddess-ness. There’s a lot of brand name dropping (Rose doesn’t cook in a casserole dish, she cooks in her Le Creuset, for example) and she’s almost allergic to the thought of supermarket shopping, rowdy children or clutter in the kitchen. Although we learn that she’s not quite the angel she professes to be, all of this makes it pretty hard to imagine her living the rock-and-roll lifestyle with Polly a few years earlier.
The other thing I really didn’t like was the baby’s name: Flossie. Really? We’re supposed to buy that a respectable, prim-and-proper mother, whose first child was named Anna, would give her new baby a name more suited to a rabbit?
These are relatively small complaints, though. I raced through Cuckoo in a couple of days, trying (unsuccessfully) to anticipate what was coming and work out the truth. The final few chapters in particular throw up some completely unexpected surprises, the character quirks keep it interesting and unpredictable, and the writing is so descriptive that it’s easy to conjure up vivid mental images of the farmhouse and village. I’ll definitely be buying Julia Crouch’s next offering, Every Vow You Break.