Spoilers throughout. Sorry for how ridiculously long this is, I had lots of thoughts!
Writing
Whilst Croydon’s use of a third-person, omniscient narration does provide further context for readers unfamiliar with the minutiae of the novel’s changing historical settings, it creates a distance between the reader and the character, which dims its emotional weight. Lack of sustained insight into characters' inner motivations, desires, and feelings is further hindered by continually changing POVs: Alan, Joan, David, and Annabelle. A more deft, or experienced writer — and perhaps more vigorous editing— may have been able to overcome these obstacles and to create a symbiotic narrative which weaves fact and fiction, whilst maintaining emotional depth. Perhaps, by virtue of the reader becoming desensitised to the rather abrupt style, the ‘Turing’ chapters in parts 1 and 2 read as a particularly egregious concoction of tedious historical detail, scraping of Turing's Wikipedia entry, and pseudo-intellectual insight. What should be a pacy, intense read becomes a doldrum of monotony. We are further treated to banal insights into Turing's thoughts and desires, which render a man rich with potential conflict and insights into a one-dimensional parody of intelligent philosophical ruminations that go nowhere.
Finally, a bit of an editing issue; we are told that the Nautilus can only send messages back six weeks (p.119) at the beginning of the novel and then it is inexplicably changed to eight weeks (p.245) once David has control.
Turing
Croydon’s choices pertaining to Turing’s sexuality beget comment; the decision to re-imagine Turing’s sexuality as a gay man in order to have him produce a progeny in David may leave readers bewildered. Whilst there should be genuine pushback on the idea of censoring the creative freedoms of authors, in regards to questioning who is ‘allowed’ to portray certain individuals, we must also question the impact rather than the intent of these choices. Whether or not Croydon intended to question, reduce, or trivialise Turing’s sexuality is impossible to know (though readers are equally allowed to form an opinion). However, the impact of the decision to have Turing have sex with a woman and have found it “enjoyable, much to his surprise” (p.90) must be examined. Novels do not exist outside of the cultural and social landscape – they both inform and are informed – thus this choice can be read as delegitimising the lives and struggles of LGBTQIA+ individuals.
This decision is made more questionable as the sex scene between Turing and Joan is one of only two on-page descriptions; all other sex scenes are ‘fade to black’. Whilst Turing is clearly stated to be gay in the novel, his homosexuality feels tacked on, as he lacks queer community and a desire for men outside of a purely sexual context. Contrasting the intimate detail with which the scene between Joan and Turing is described, the interactions between Turing and Arnold feel perverse, as Turing has a “weakness for young men” (p.109), and he becomes “excited” (p.109) by his “fresh face” (p.110). These descriptions reinforce homosexuality as an indecent perversion; whereas Turing and Joan engage in a more ‘pure’ love, as they are “captivated by each other’s company” (p.19), where Turing gives into Joan’s seduction and “pulled himself closer” (p.89), afterwards “the couple relaxed, holding each other – two people in love, if only briefly” (p.89); thus intimacy and love is contrasted with sexually deviant lust. Croydon strips Turing of his autonomy and maturity, as the narrator is quick to remind the reader of his “naivety” (p.113) in encounters with Arnold. He is further punished by the narrator for having “foolishly admitted” (p.113) to the affair, and thus must “pay the price for his stupidity” (p.113), reducing his choices as a 40 year old man to the mistakes of a child.
The government's explicit involvement in his arrest, as “Menzies had planned” (p.110) the seduction and consequent “betray[al]” (p.112) of Turing by Arnold as a “tool to control Alan” (p. 114) is clear. However, responsibility is washed away as “[t]he government and MI6’s hands were tied”, they had merely hoped to control and not “humiliate” or “incarcerate” (p.114) Turing. Croydon is sure to diminish the government's harm by making clear that “neither the judge, Menzies nor Churchill… understood the effects of the hormones Alan would… endure” (p.114), especially if Turing is to ‘blame’ in the narrative as the “predicament was caused by his own actions and signed confession” (p.114). If the aim was to draw scrutiny on these hypocrises, Croydon’s narration fails to make such explicit, or even reasonably implied.
Croydon’s lack of interest or knowledge of the perils facing gay men (and the LGBTQIA+ community more broadly) in the 1940s is clear as he fails to connect the dots between this new secret of the Nautalis to the fear of arrest for being gay.
“If he was discovered, he would lose Nautilus, probably be imprisoned. He could even be shot as a spy. The thought scared him as he realised that this was no longer a scientific project. The risks were huge; his life depended on secrecy.” (p.43)
A better, or more empathetic writer could have deftly interwoven these two fears, into the base fear at its core, exposure and its ensuing perils. The actions that Alan takes in order to evade the government's knowledge of his Nautilus machine echo the paranoia – real and imagined– faced by LGBTQIA+ people as they fought to live full lives whilst constantly facing a threat of imprisonment, humiliation and abuse by the government.
Women
Croydon’s women do not escape unscathed either, whilst touting them as the exceptions to the vapid norm, they are framed as seductresses whose male love-interests are unable to escape their wiles, reinforcing a type of madonna-whore archetype.
Joan Clarke
Joan is at once girlish and “giggl[ing]” (p.20), as well as the temptress who “transfixe[s]” (p.89) even a gay man with her “naked body” (p.89). Whilst on the surface there may be some liberatory value gleaned from Joan's story of unrepentantly owning her desire and sexuality, and then being steadfast in her decision to not limit her career by becoming mother (by giving her child up for adoption to a loving family), something more is below the surface. Joan is well aware of Turing’s homosexuality when she decides to continue to pursue him, years after their broken engagement, she “forces him to look at her” (p.88) and demands that he “let [her] be with the one person I truly love” (p.88) unconcerned by his lack of desire for her. Here Turing “knew he must try” (p.88) even though he found the experience of sleeping with women “unexciting” (p.88). After falling pregnant and keeping that information from him, she finally reveals her betrayal months after she has given their child up for adoption, refuting his upset by declaring that he is “not built like other people” (p.105) and thus should not have had the opportunity to know his child. Thus, Croydon again flattens and perverts the complexity of a real person's experiences to fit his desire to create a biological heir for Turing. Beyond the reduction of Turing’s sexuality, Croydon transforms Joan Clarke – a real woman – into an archetype reminiscent of manosphere talking points: a manipulative seductress who denies Alan’s parental rights.
Lydia/ Carla
David’s love interests are so similar one may be forgiven for finding them indistinguishable. Both Lydia and Carla are agents, Spanish, and sensual– often reading as an overt male fantasy of the sexy spy who is obsessed with him. Lydia, the “sultry Spanish” (p.149) pursues David, at once teasing and chaste– “Not tonight. We can wait” (p.153) – and then, too overcome by David’s sexual appeal, she breaks into his hotel because she "couldn't wait” (p.153). Carla – Lydias’ colleague – is similarly enraptured by David’s bland Britishness, and takes their first meeting after her friend's death to seduce him. She reassures any of David’s “doubt[s]” (p.206) but the ‘seductress’ is “impossible to resist”(p.206) – she is “totally in charge, he the willing victim” (p.207). Whilst Carla is allowed agency when pursuing pleasure, David does not respect her enough to share the secrets of the Nautilus, instead she is reduced to a dependent as he decides that “she would be protected from that burden” (p.221).
The vast similarities between these two women and their interchangeable impact on the plot call into question why Lydia was killed off. Her death acts as a perfect device to simultaneously humanise David’s “absence from his daughter’s life” (p.6) and to lazily create a ‘grizzled’ and hardened man who must fight to stop his “anger and revenge” (p.193) from “replac[ing his] humanity” (p.193). Carla is also positioned as an obstacle between David and his daughter, Annabelle, by way of her feeling uncomfortable with her father moving on from Lydia, her mother. Thus, Lydia and Carla are both reduced to their core utility in the novel, as symbols of love, grief, anger, and lust. They are fundamentally indistinguishable in regards to personality and function, merely to service the larger plot.
Annabelle
In David’s chapters, Annabelle’s primary function is to firstly forgive him for his lack of parental oversight; and furthermore to encourage his further estrangement. Similar to all other prominent women in the novel, Annabelle has an uncanny ability to ‘see’ the emotions in a man’s eyes, removing his responsibility to express them entirely, and leaving her with the burden of managing them. Thus, Annabelle is parentified at a young age after the death of her mother, and absence of her father to further assuage his guilt – “Annabelle saw the guilt in his eyes, the pain that he was suffering, and wished she could take it away” (p.173) – by giving him permission to essentially estrange her.
It is in Annabelle’s chapters that readers are most keenly treated to the downfalls of Croydon’s ‘realism’ as readers are treated to Croydon’s fairly clear bias towards the Conservative Party in the UK. Unlike other novelists who fictionalise real world figures to at least retain the pretense of ambiguity in their political leanings, Croydon has no such qualms. This reads as a rather ill-advised piece of realism throughout the latter half of the novel, as readers are forced to contend with Croydon’s admiration of the Tories, making the final chapters a bit of a stomach-turning slog for those not politically aligned.
Croydon is fairly transparent in his attempts to write Annabelle as a ‘liberated’ modern woman from the prologue, as readers are given a fairly lacklustre opening call to arms.
“It came down to belief. Belief in herself, belief in her own ability to use the power safely, responsibly, not just for her, not just for her family or even her country, but for all mankind.” (p.2)
However, just from this line alone, we see how Annabelle failed in the mission achieved first by Turing, then by David to uphold the Turing Protocol.
Rule 1 “Nautilus must never be used for personal gain” (p.243)
Rule 2 “Nautilus should only be used when it’s possible to change the outcome” (p.243)
Rule 3 “must only be contemplated to change a global horror, or mass destruction” (p.243)
Annabelle’s first use of the Nautilus is in order to change history so that David will not catch Covid 19– “I want to use Nautilus to warm me and therefore you” (p.259) – even after having already “called in a favour” (p.259) to skirt existing lockdown rules to visit David in hospital in Spain. David’s subsequent death is therefore utilised as a battering ram to punish her ‘selfishness’ and hubris in believing that she could save his life, a lesson that did not need to be learnt by either male guardians of the machine.
“This time she would respect her father’s wishes. It was time to let go, to stop trying to manipulate history” (p.264)
Turing and David are able to understand the nuance and weight of responsibility placed upon them as guardians of the Nautalis; and yet are able to forge ahead boldly and alone whilst wielding its power competently. Conversely, Annabelle initially uses the machine for personal gain, against the better judgement of her father. Thus the female guardians of the Nautilus are typified first by their refusal to engage, and then by Annabelle’s misuse.
When Annabelle does eventually use the machine for the ‘right’ reasons, she must employ the direct aid of her husband and the government. Thus failing twofold by confirming its existence to the government, and in allowing a non-guardian into the fold. This feels uncomfortably like Croydon is proclaiming that women are incapable of holding guard to the standard set by their male counterparts. Annabelle having “no… ambition” (p.271) is further illustrated through her ‘failing upwards’ into becoming “Secretary of State for Health and a member of cabinet" (p.271) merely because she lacked the backbone of her Tory colleagues who were “unhappy with Boris Johnson” (p.271) and subsequently left the party.
Final points
Overall, this novel has high aspirations that Croydon’s writing prowess is incapable of achieving. Thoughtful questions are hinted at, but readers must investigate in their own time if they wish to find meaningful insight. Finally, the basic premise of the novel – the idea of Turing having a biological lineage which holds the power to change history – relies on outdated and conservative ideals that nourish modern-day elitism. These ideals of lineage and legacy through bloodline inevitably harken back to the divine right of a few over the many.
Why should the bloodline of Turing have some special access to history-changing machinery? They had no tangible connection to Turing outside of their blood; his ideals were not shared through actual conversation and connection, so how can we ensure that their “personal agenda” (p.243) would always align with the “interest of humanity” (p.243)?
Ultimately, if Croydon was so interested in asking the question on nobody's lips – what if Alan Turing had a child? – why not also create a new history in which Turing is allowed to be happy? To find love (with a man!) and connection to his children and friends, where his Turing Protocol can be enshrined in their upbringing rather than merely assumed as a side effect of carrying his DNA? Why continue to write about his suffering when you could have found room for joy or justice?