I picked up this novel by an Ottawa resident from the small lending library at a bridge club, and later learned that it was shortlisted for a Giller prize. Set in 1919 and 1920, largely in Deseronto, west of Kingston, the lives of all of its inhabitants are altered by the effects of WW1 on the returning soldiers, by consumption (tuberculosis), diphtheria, and family conflicts and secrets.
This is not a thriller and there are few sudden twists or dramatic surprises in the plot. Its beauty is in the superb use of the subtleties of the English language, the vivid portrayal of the shattered lives of the injured veterans, the struggles of parents dealing with the deaths of children, and the intricacies of small town life in that era. There are sexual indiscretions, but like everything else here, they are related with sensitivity and nuance and there is no explicit pornography. It would be suitable for a grade school literature class.
The first chapter seems disconnected from the rest of the story until the last chapter, although I guessed, almost correctly, at the relationships a bit before that last chapter, by rereading the first chapter part of the way through. In keeping with the author’s experience as a poet, she deftly weaves in poetic snippets and the detailed development of classical musical talent in the small town residents. Even I, with absolutely no musical talent, found this interesting.
Skating in moonlight on natural outdoor ice, watching and helping my mother make soap from lye, lard and water, playing Fox and Goose in fields covered in deep snow, hiding in old decrepit neighbourhood barns- I have fond memories of these vividly described activities from my rural youth, although that was 30 or more years after the characters did them. Fortunately, I have no firsthand experience in dealing with the emotional devastation of the death of a child, and on that basis, I cannot fault the extreme pathos of how it is described. But if your eyes are dry after reading about a couple burying their young children’s bodies in a snow bank to await spring for a proper burial, you either have no heart or no lacrimal glands.
A great literary work, almost on a par with A Gentleman In Moscow, and by a Canadian.
The Passionate Reader 