The Bridge is a heartbreaking novel about tragedy and survival; about guilt and forgiveness.
The opening chapter depicts the construction disaster in 1970 when a slab of Melbourne's Westgate Bridge collapsed, killing 35 workers and injuring 18 others. Antonello, an Italian migrant from Footscray was a survivor. Many of his friends, new Australians mostly, were not so lucky. We see the families that were destroyed; the hopes that were dashed. As Antonello attends a succession of funerals over a few days, they blur into one. But some of the dead, now just names on a plaque, were real people who are still missed by the ageing survivors. And Antonello can't help feeling that he knew that corners were being cut. The engineers said it would be OK, but Antonello knew deep down that they were wrong.
Thirty nine years later Antonello's family is doing well. His kids have firmly entered the middle class as the Western suburbs start to gentrify. Antonello's granddaughter Ashleigh is in her final year at school - just the VCE standing between her and a prestigious university place studying law.
Her friend Jo is rather the opposite. Not that academic, a bit plain, living with her mother who works shifts to pay the rent on a house in the shadow of the bridge that defies gentrification.
A night out, a poor decision, and life will never be the same again. The decision is spur of the moment but the consequences unfold piece by piece. Nobody meant anything bad to happen, but there's a price to pay. Just like Antonello so many years beforehand, the survivors have to learn to live with themselves, their guilt and their grief. They have to plan for a future from a suddenly unpromising starting point.
The story shifts points of view several times but manages to carry this off. It gives us an insight into the guilt and grief of two families confronting unwelcome reality. It is painful to read, it feels real and raw. The linking of the past and (almost) present is done so effortlessly, the parallels clear but not laid on too thick.
The sense of place is spot on too. The Bridge is one of those rare books that depicts the scenes so clearly that you want to visit the scene, to pay respects to tragedies both real and imagined.
It is difficult to say more without spoiling the novel - but even a fortnight later, thinking back on this novel is enough to bring on goosebumps.
Scrublands is first rate crime fiction set out in the scrublands north of the Murray river on the NSW/Victoria border.
Martin Scarsden is a journalist with the Sydney Morning Herald, sent out to Riversend to cover the first anniversary of a mass shooting (pun intended) where the priest had shot five parishioners on a Sunday before being shot himself by the local policeman. Scarsden finds a town with a dwindling population, the pub/hotel shut six months ago, the motel barely surviving and the only coffee in town is served at the second hand book shop. Dust and tumbleweed blow through the town.
And as Scarsden picks at the scabs left by the shooting, he uncovers a plot of intrigue and lies. Nobody is quite who or what they seem. The ripples spread far and wide - down to the Murray, to Canberra, Sydney, Melbourne, Cambodia and Vietnam. As the stories start to emerge, and as they start to contradict one another, the stakes get higher.
The plotting is tight and relatively easy to follow for a twisty thriller. The characters feel real even if they do labour under Dickensian names (the femme fatale is Mandalay Blonde; the villain is Harley Snoutch; the bombastic TV journalist is Doug Thunkleton. The police investigation is credible; as the body count rises so too does the national attention from both journalists and senior law enforcement. The actions even in this abnormal situation seem rational and proportionate.
The sense of place works well too. Riversend feels real - and reminds me quite a lot of Karakarook in Kate Grenville's The Idea of Perfection. The searing heat and desiccation, the vast wilderness, the distance.
The only shortcoming was a sense that, just occasionally, the novel was too long and slightly repetitive. But in answer of the criticism, the repetition did a good job of helping the reader keep the many moving parts neatly arranged.
This is an accomplished work and it will be fun to see whether Martin Scarsdale returns.
I've never read Tim Winton before and didn't quite know what to expect. I'd heard he was a literary surfer (yes, literally, a surfer), and did great description, but also that his material was not particularly plot driven. Perhaps a Western Australian John Banville.
And The Shepherd's Hut was a pretty astonishing surprise. Yes, there's plenty of description, but no surf. Jaxie Clackton is a teenage boy on the run from the authorities, somewhere in mid WA. His brutal father is dead and Jaxie is worried that he'll cop the blame, so he heads out into the bush with a vague plan of meeting up with his girlfriend Lee somewhere up north. So, yes, we get really evocative images of desert, woods, salt lakes, ridges and dirt. Very little water, which becomes a bit of a theme. There are roos and emus and euros. Ants and flies. Sheoaks and jam trees and spinifex.
This barrenness never once got boring thanks to Jaxie's engaging voice. Jaxie is headstrong, has bushcraft and trusts nobody. He has been brought up in a world with no love, and he expects violence and treachery wherever he goes. But lost in the desert, he has to follow the dusty trails of vehicles from which he is hiding. This dilemma, this calculating how far he can trust civilisation is at the heart of the story. Plus, Jaxie's determination to survive.
When Jaxie's tracking leads to the shepherd's hut - and the man who lives there - he has to decide how far he is willing to trust a stranger.
The novel is tightly plotted right up to the last paragraph. There is resolution. But there is also so much ambiguity. There are hints about Jaxie's past that suggest it might not be as straightforward as he tells it. There are hints about the shepherd's background that are never really resolved. There are remnants in the desert of previous settlement that are also never resolved. It is done in a way that is haunting rather than frustrating.
The Shepherd's Hut is a short, gripping, taut work that is at least the equal of anything else I have read this year.
Some Tests is a pretty weird book that defies definition.
Beth Own is a 37 year old mother, wife and aged-care worker who feels a little under the weather. So her husband persuades her to see the doctor. Beth’s regular doctor is not there, and the locum doctor decides to send Beth off for some tests just to conform that there’s nothing wrong. But Dr Yi decides to refer Beth off for more tests, which in turn lead to more tests.
Initially this is a fairly conventional journey around Melbourne’s northern suburbs. Box Hill, to Heidelberg, via Greensborough to Epping… The medical mystery tour comes with high and unpredictable price tags, small portions of which may be reclaimed under Medicare. The doctors presume Beth has health insurance (she doesn’t) which would cover the fees (which it wouldn’t, even if Beth had it). Anyone who has set foot in an Australian health care setting will identify with the almost incidental meeting with the doctor, bookended by form-filling and card swiping.
But when Beth pleads poverty after being referred for yet more tests, things get surreal. We go via Meadow Heights out into Regional Victoria, visiting ever more improbable healthcare settings that seem to operate under the radar of the official system. Staffed by volunteers, they aim to subvert the venality of the major health insurers and big pharma. There are similarities to Colson Whitehead’s Underground Railroad.
And throughout the journey, nobody bothers to tell Beth what might be wrong with her. The specialists specialties are unknown; the nature of the tests is never disclosed. By the end of the journey, the actual nature of any disorder – if there is even a disorder at all – has become irrelevant. It is the journey that matters, not the original reason for travel. Always there is the option to go back into the mainstream system, but it’s never an option that could ever be viable.
Some Tests is all about the surreal comedy, masking a serious commentary on Australia’s incomprehensible healthcare system and some thought-provoking questions about life itself. Why do we even bother with health when the end will always be death? And there are some wonderful images, especially of a public bus system run for – and exclusively used by – healthcare patients getting from one office or surgery or hospital to another, clutching letters of referral and x-ray scans. The grotty and dingy surgeries are so true to life.
The main deficit in this is the lack of characterisation. The reader cannot really care about Beth because there is no depth to her. She is an everyman placeholder, but there’s nothing to bond to. If anything, the doctors are allowed more character in their fleeting appearances than Beth is allowed across the whole novel. Colson Whitehead engaged us in his Underground Railroad – every bit as surreal and stylised as Wayne Macauley’s healthcare system – by making the reader bond with Cora, feeling her peril and celebrating her victories. Some Tests could have done something similar, even at the expense of making this rather short novel a bit longer. Nevertheless, the novel is a good read, does cover new ground and may well leave some lasting imagery.
Solid 4 stars, but could have been 5…
One of the paradoxes in Australia is that this nation of migrants has developed such strong anti-immigration sentiment. This is exploited by politicians - especially, but not exclusively, by those from the far-right Liberal Party - who will simply mention immigration and expect their followers to bay for blood.
No More Boats shows us a hard working Italian-Australian, Antonio, who has retired from the building game after an accident claimed his mobility an the life of his Greek friend Nico. Both had come to Australia on boats, part of the post-war wave of migration from southern Europe. Both had been through what was the Villawood Migrant Camp, that has since morphed into a detention centre for asylum seekers. Antonio married an Aussie volunteer at the centre, had children and paid his way. Modern Australia was built by Antonio and his generation.
And as Antonio spends more and more time navel-gazing in his enforced retirement, he turns first to family (who are not exactly the industrious, virtuous souls he had imagined) and then to the television where John Howard, the anti-immigration Prime Minister is stirring up race hate towards a boatload of would-be migrants in the sea by which our home is girt. As Antonio makes a stand against the boat people, he divides his community, drawing out a sub-strata of the dispossessed who share the view that we need No More Boats.
The novel is told in short chapters with multiple points of view - mostly from Antonio, his wife Rose, and his adult children Francis and Clare. They offer contrasting perspectives and are, for the most part, embarrassed by Antonio. Rose dedicated her life to helping migrants. Francis hangs around with a group of migrant pot-heads and Clare develops a friendship with her Vietnamese co-worker (a boat person who arrived on a plane from Thailand). Even Antonio seems somewhat horrified by the pond-life he starts to attract - violent wasters who are far from the socialist-nationalist hard-working ideal to which Antonio aspires.
This is a great little seamy 1990s narrative of the western suburbs of Sydney. If it has a failing, it is that once the positions have been established they just sort of fizzle out. But maybe that's the point. There is not enough logic in the anti-immigration position to sustain itself. In one vignette, a politician points to lines on a graph. The red line keeps increasing, the blue line is flat. In the middle is a green line. The politician stresses the importance of following the green line. And in another one, someone asserts with a straight face that Harold Holt disappeared when swimming in the sea because he relaxed the White Australia policy. So yes, not quite enough logic to swell an uprising, but still it seems to keep a motley collection of fascist losers limping on from dog-whistle to dog-whistle, even twenty years later.