The dark flood of which Margaret Drabble writes is, of
course, aging and death. This novel examines a number of ways in which this
tide can be met as various seventy-somethings live their waning years. Fran
still works, driving all around England (which she wishes to see all of before
she dies) as an inspector of the various institutions where old people live, as
well as making plated dinners for her ex, who is dying in comfort. Her friend
Josephine lives in an apartment complex for retired academics; she still
teaches literature for adults. Teresa is dying, not so much in comfort, of
asbestos in her lungs. She relies on opiates and her faith in God to get her
through. Meanwhile, down in the Canary Islands, Bennet has a large house and a
long time live in companion. He lives stylishly until a fall, caused by an
earthquake, rattles his brain. He will live out his life well cared for, but
what will become of his partner, Ivor, when Bennet dies? There is no one to
take care of him. In this tale, as in life, death does not only come to the
aged; Fran’s son loses his lover to fast moving cancer. Fran’s daughter lives
in a flood plain and monitors the world’s ecological problems as water, quite
literally, rises.
There is not much in the way of plot. This is more of a
philosophical novel; have these people lived good and useful lives? What does
it mean to age with dignity? The characters are very well drawn; Drabble
obviously cares for these people (she is in her late 70s herself, and so may be
looking at her own circle) There is a sub-topic of another form a dark flood
that is rising: the immigrants flooding in from Africa and the Middle-East, and
the xenophobia that they are greeted with by white people.
The book is thoughtful, but not uplifting; neither is it
gloomy despite the subject. It’s humorous in places; neither sharp wit nor
irony fade with age. One bit that jarred was the ending; after slowly moving through
a few months, suddenly years are compressed into a few paragraphs. Although now
that I think about it, time does seem to work that way; in our youth time seems
unlimited, while now, in old age, it seems to fly with frightening rapidity. Five
stars.
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