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432 pages, Paperback
Published September 21, 2017
Still [Henry] does not sleep. Is this part of the ageing process, this waking in the small hours of the night? I have no sensation of ageing? I’m the same man I was when I got married. It’s the world round me that has grown weary. The years pass, and the longing does not abate, but the days grow shorter. The gods play their tricks; they deny poor mortals their little triumphs. Why must Homer mess so with his Trojans and Greeks? Why allow them no control over their fate? But perhaps this is to misunderstand the nature of the gods. What if the gods are not agents after all, but explanations? So Hector storms the wall built to protect the hollow ships, and later the Achaeans turn the tide of battle, and the poet, recounting the tale for his fireside listeners, concludes that Zeus rode at Hector’s back, and Poseidon rallied Agamemnon’s spearman. In such a way we suffer the accidents of life and makeup stories to give them meaning. In Homer’s time it was the immortals on Olympus. Today, what? The working out of childhood trauma. The invisible hand of the free market. Each age to its own excuse.He compares ageing insomnia, to sleep training for babies and Ferber’s (controversial) teaching on controlled crying, which clearly he and Laura followed
… Let the child cry a little. Sleep will return. And so it did. Now it’s my turn. I wake when sleep becomes shallow. I don’t cry, but I do hurry to my bedside, I do fuss over my wakefulness. Better to harden my heart and stand outside the bedroom door until the whimpering ceases.The characters (particularly Laura who votes Green and Henry who returns a blank ballot) reflect on their votes, particularly when their hitherto safe Liberal Seat (relying on Labour and Green tactical voting) unexpectedly goes to the Tories. Reflecting on politics and her lack of engagement compared to others who seem to care passionately, Laura reflects:
I’m not stupid …… But either I’ve missed something, or everyone else is just pretending. It’s like certain kinds of art these days. Everyone applauds but you can’t see it, so you keep quiet. You tell yourself, It’s not for me, so how can I judge? But still she does her duty. It’s like herd immunization, or chain letters. You don’t want to be the one who breaks the link.Some more difficult to follow chapters are written in the post-death wanderings of Lizzie’s mothers mind. Both Lizzie and even more so Alice have resented her for years for her lack of warmth and continuous criticism, but we see something of her own struggles and the impact of her own childhood on her:
my father died when I was young, you know. You get frightened after that. Mummy said “Be a good soldier”. I have tried, but sometimes it’s been too hard. Forgive me [Lizzie] if I’ve been a bad mother. Having a baby scared me, to tell the truth, I never really knew what to do. But I have loved you, my darling, more than all the world. You’re all I have left. Tell me you love me. Come and give me a hug. That’s all I want, really. Someone to hug.The book ends with Henry and Laura coming to terms with their new lives
You build a life, a family, a home. You work at a job, earn money, worry over making ends meet. You drive the children to school, you suffer through their exams, you look on helpless as they fall in love and are hurt. Then they’re gone, and this great edifice you’ve constructed, this family ark, drifts rudderless, becalmed on a windless seaHenry discusses the ambition that has driven him for all his life, whereas Laura comments that much of her life has simply been getting through each day as it comes. In a sudden moment of clarity as the book ends, Henry
does remember, suddenly and with great force, the emotions of childhood, when each day had its own colour and taste and the school timetable created such peaks f terror and islands of calm that often by the end of the day, he longed for the safety of his bed. He remembers how tomorrow felt like a brand-new day, waiting to unfold, in which the old wounds could be healed, and new joys discovered. The same switchback of emotions as his adult life, but the horizon was much nearer. He lives by the day, or by the week, not by the year. You begin out of control … then you exert control, first over the days, then over into the weeks then the years. So you reach even further into the future, marching your armies ahead down the roads of time to subdue all opposition, to silence all critical voices. The power passes and the armies desert you. So it’s all back to childhoodBut finishes on a note of optimism
People talk of a second childhood, meaning the time of helplessness in old age, the return of being assisted when you can walk, the return of nappies. It should really be called a second babyhood. There’s humiliation there, and the horror of becoming a burden. But before that there’s a stage that can truly be called the second childhood. The responsibilities are lifted, the pressures of work ease, and the day stretches before you, bright and free. A better childhood than the first, because you’re older now, and wiser, and more able to see the monsters that terrified you for the self-generated illusions that they are …. Let this not be the withering but the fruit. Everything before now a time of tilling and planting, tending and watering, waiting for the warm weather. Now the harvestA strong if at times flawed follow up to The Secret Intensity of Everyday Life