In
Family Album, Penelope Lively often gets far beyond the garden gate, but
strangely, she convinces us that in the minds of her characters, that limit is
a permanent horizon, the crossing of which will never be possible. The garden
gate in question gives us open access to Allersmead, a sprawling three story
Victorian middle class dwelling, perfect for a large family with live-in staff.
And, on opening the front door to be greeted by the ubiquitous smell of fine
family cooking, it is this arrangement that we encounter. Charles, aloof,
bookish, perhaps a snob and utterly dedicated to the pursuit of
pseudo-academic, self-defined literary explorations in his study, is married to
Alison, the wife and mother. They have uncountable children - is it five, is it six? - and also host a
Scandinavian maid-cum-nanny-cum-home-help-cum-whatever-else, as we will learn.
Allersmead,
the Victorian pile, is witness to the myriad of events, games, meals,
relationships, disputes, treaties, failures, successes and accommodations that
family life inevitably entails. Penelope Lively seems not to claim that these
people are anything special, though they clearly are. By virtue of their
individuality and personality, they are unique, both as individuals and as a
family. They are nothing special. But then everything about them is special.
Just how does Charles manage to keep writing books that sell? What is he
actually doing behind that closed sturdy door? And what do the children get up
to when they disappear to play in the cellar? And from where does Alison draw
her inspiration for all those delectable table treats? It is, perhaps, a
mystery.
Do
not expect a plot. There is none. But who needs a plot when lives are drawn as
perfectly as this? The lives themselves, the family life indeed as a character
in its own right become the plot. We are drawn in as a guest and observer,
possibly even participant. And it is the accuracy, poignancy and precision of
observation and expression at which we marvel. This is writing of the utmost
beauty and skill. Every word seems crafted to supply a detail that would be
lacking in a thousand pictures. Genius at work.
At
least that's how Charles might see it. Ingrid, the Scandinavian maid, moves out
for a while and family hiatus ensues. She returns and lives are picked up where
they were left off. Except that perhaps some family members have picked up more
than they knew. Lives diverge. Children grow up
and start to assert their individuality, their personal priorities.
Where will it lead than? And will it be where they wanted to go. Only time will
tell.
Family
Album is one of the most beautiful, most moving books it is possible to
imagine. Be drawn along with these lives, and there will be no consequences,
for there perhaps never are. We become what we are, we aspire to what we
imagine, and we achieve precisely what we achieve. Our goal is to be human,
though not all of us achieves that particular end. We err. We lie, perhaps. We
deceive, do we? In Penelope Lively's Family Album we will find all the
snapshots, all the pictures that tell the story, but it's the words that count,
so few, saying so much, each one worth a thousand pictures.
