Like Tinder dates or Twitter notifications, I approach the debut novels of poets with a certain trepidation. The two forms are so different, one relying on emotion and suggestion, the other on narrative and characterisation, that it takes a dexterous writer to display a talent for both. Having published three acclaimed collections since 2015, Andrew McMillan’s decision to turn his hand to fiction, however, proves successful.
Pity is presented in a rather fragmented style, with tonal and stylistic differences throughout. Early on we meet Alex and Brian, brothers growing up in Barnsley, the weight of generations of pit miners bearing down upon them.
There are some places – too many, unfortunately – whose names are synonymous with tragedy. Aberfan. Hillsborough. Dunblane. I confess I was unaware of the Barnsley Public Hall disaster of 1908, where an overcrowded event led to the deaths of 16 children, a trauma that continues to haunt the collective memory of the town, as does the gradual shut-down of the Yorkshire collieries, a process begun during Thatcher’s premiership. Equally memorable to the populace, however, are Barnsley’s 1912 FA Cup victory and their single-season appearance in the Premier League during the mid 1990s. McMillan juxtaposes these traumas and triumphs skilfully, his characters uncertain when another event, positive or negative, will add a new chapter to their evolving history.
Simon’s childhood realisation of his sexuality will ring true to anyone who has ever experienced a similar awakening
Moving quickly forward to the present day, we encounter Simon, Alex’s son, whose regular drag performances at a gay club sees him dressing up as the infamous Mrs Thatcher, substituting her legendary “The lady’s not for turning” line with the witty “This turn is not a lady”. Not every gay man, however, is a fan of drag, and his boyfriend Ryan, an aspiring policeman, displays obvious discomfort when Simon forgets to remove his make-up or false eyelashes upon leaving. Inside, after all, is a place of safety, laughter and cabaret. Outside, homophobia and violence are rife.
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McMillan offers astute observations throughout. Describing the hardships faced by those who grow up in Barnsley, he writes, “The teachers just wanted the students to get 5 GCSEs. Their parents just wanted them to get jobs.” Simon’s childhood realisation of his sexuality will ring true to anyone who has ever experienced a similar awakening. “In school he’d had this thing inside him that he was so scared of other people finding out, so each day had felt like an endurance test in holding his breath, in not being seen, in being quiet and meek and hoping simply not to be noticed.” Having often thought of my own school days as a time when I was on high alert, conscious that the wrong word or action that could lead to exposure, McMillan’s vivid description struck a deep and personal chord with me.
The sections covering Simon and Ryan’s relationship are the high points the novel, but there are tender moments too between Simon and his father who, like many men of his generation, has come to terms with his own sexuality too late. A lesser writer would describe the tension, regret or even jealousy that Alex might feel when he watches his son perform, but McMillan wisely opts for something far more compassionate.
Should he continue to move between the two forms, he may need to recognise that things that impress in one can seem affected in the other
One of the more unsettling strands of the novel describes Simon observing his encounters with Ryan through the retrospective viewing of surveillance cameras, a silent movie of fretful romanticism without the explanatory title cards of the Mack Sennett era. Alex, Simon and Ryan’s stories are so disarming, however, that it’s hard not to feel a certain imbalance with Brian’s, who is lost in the past, weaving through the town’s history alongside local obsessives. These sections are less engaging and risk committing a novel’s cardinal sin: being boring. Regular sections titled “Fieldnotes” break up the narrative, pulling the reader away from the emotional, personal stories that define the book’s best moments.
It’s one of two small flaws that mar an otherwise fine novel, the other being the author’s tendency to rely a little too often on the linguistic experimentation that characterises poetry. Should he continue to move between the two forms, he may need to recognise that things that impress in one can seem affected in the other. But these are small complaints for there’s simply no questioning McMillan’s inherent talent.
With four books titled Physical, Playtime, Pandemonium, and Pity, McMillan’s admirers might wonder to which P their author will ultimately be more drawn, poetry or prose, or should he, in fact, embrace both? Probably.
