“These Queer Enthusiasms”: Sarah Waters’s “The Paying Guests”

51sqHh5h3PL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_It is a Very Good Thing that Ali Smith last night won the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction: here is a British writer interested in serious innovation of form – something not always associated with the prose writers of these isles. That she does so demotically and entertainingly only makes her win all the more deserved. Smith re-energises the novel without making it inaccessible.

There is, of course, a pejorative usage of “accessible”: “a good read” is so often a euphemism for “a bit slight”. The only novel on the prize shortlist I’ve not yet read is Anne Tyler’s A Spool of Blue Thread, but others have already written “defences” of her more traditional style: “the question of whether Tyler’s work errs too heavily on the side of consolation has lingered, despite (or because of) her immense and loyal readership and high-profile fans such as Nick Hornby and John Updike.” In this context, it is interesting that the another of the shortlist’s more traditionalist authors, Sarah Waters, is conversely so widely fêted that the idea anyone might need to speak up on her behalf is absurd.

“Absolutely brilliant,” wrote Jacqueline Wilson of Waters’s novel, The Paying Guests. “Read it, Flaubert, Zola, and weep,” applauds Charlotte Mendelson. “A joy in every respect,” intones Lionel Shriver. And yet Waters writes old-fashioned novels in many ways, with beginnings and ends and gripping plots, which read quickly despite their often vaguely Victorian girth. The Paying Guests is set in 1922, precisely because, Waters has said, her previous novels have focused on squarely on either the nineteenth century or the 1940s. That is, Waters is a British writer producing novels in a third person limited voice and set in eras not entirely under-served in British culture.

So why is she, too, not tarred with the “accessible” brush? In large part, it’s because Waters’s project is far more subversive than her chosen form makes it appear (and this is part of the project): she queers these classic ages of British history, burrowing under her copious research to imagine the stories of marginalised groups, most particularly lesbian women. Even her novel The Little Stranger, which doesn’t feature an actual lesbian couple at all, is a novel about repression: its first-person narrator hides much from the reader, whilst Caroline, the young woman of the crumbling manor house with whom (which which?) he falls in love, is heavily implied to be closeted. That is, Waters writes terrific yarns which present familiar contexts in familar ways – and then peoples those settings with feelings, perspectives and experiences which are under-represented in the record and in fiction.

The Paying Guests, then, is told from the third-person-limited perspective of Frances, a twenty-five year-old woman eking out the disappointed, disappointing years following World War I in the suburban villa she shares with her mother. They are, like the rather grander country gentry of The Little Stranger thirty years later, struggling for money: her father dead, and economics changing, Frances persuades her mother to take in lodgers in order to supplement their meagre income. The couple who answer the advert, the Barbers, are from Peckham and Walworth rather than Champion Hill: vulgar and jejune to Frances and her mother’s eyes, they fill Mr Wray’s old room with dinky little Buddha statues, and share a little too much of themselves for the landladies, who tuck the weekly rent into their pockets “in a negligent sort of way – as if anyone […] could possibly be deceived into thinking that the money was a mere formality.” [p. 11]

Class and deceit come to be the guiding stars of the novel: throughout, Waters paints in understated but terrifically evocative ways the careful gradations of class struggling to reassert themselves in an England disrupted by war. Men resent the women who have taken their jobs; a clerk like Mr Barber looks down on mere manual workers, amongst whose numbers he would once have certainly sat; Mrs Barber’s clothes are a little too flighty; Mrs Wray’s friend from over the road clearly imagines herself one step above poor old struggling Frances. All of this is more or less unspoken, however, and the manner in which no one quite says what they mean comes to power not just the social whirl – from Walworth dances to Champion Hill soirées – which Waters depicts beautifully, but the scurrilous plot that bubbles underneath the surface.

That plot only really takes full hold of the novel in its final third, and yet the reader never feels played with. In part, this is down to, yes, readability: Waters writes so well that 600 pages simply speeds by. It’s also, however, because she peels back the novel’s layers at precisely the right pace. When we first meet Frances, she seems much older than she is, not a little stuck up and certainly rather grey. As we slowly learn that, during the war, she was a violent suffragette and had a romantic relationship with a fellow suburban bohemian, Christine, we are at first surprised; as her sexual repression becomes evident in her uncomfortable responses to Mr Barber’s proximity, we first think the novel might move one way; when her passion for Christine, and her misplaced fear of her mother become clear (when her new lady lodger cuts and crimps her hair in a contemporary style, Frances is shocked that her mother finds it smart), we are quickly plunged into a slow but compelling blossoming of a relationship with Lillian Barber herself.

Lillian is a good example of the novel’s strength in depth: she is in many ways unknowable. Apparently kind and straightforward, throughout the novel we with Frances worry that she may in fact not be all that she seems – that she may be manipulative or foolish, impetuous or selfish. Frances must learn to trust Lillian, as we must – as everyone who wishes to love must – and this process gives the novel a great deal of its shape prior to its final-third crisis. If anything, I rather preferred the involvingly plotless parts of the novel more: everything happens, and is then wrapped up, rather quickly, and the novel takes on the feeling of the 1920s melodramas which first inspired it. At one point, for example, the lawyer for a wrongly accused defendant announces to the court in which we know the true culprit sits, “the person or persons […] must certainly be looking at these proceedings with very mixed feelings indeed.” [p. 581]  Oh, the tension of irony!

What unites all this is a study of the effects of lies. “The rest of us become narrow and mean when we live falsely,” sighs Frances [p. 302], having spent years denying herself – indeed, hiding even the fact that she has maintained a loose friendship with Christine. Frances goes back and forth between having the courage of this conviction and fearing its logical conclusion, and this terribly human inconsistency is, like everything else in this humane and careful novel, delicately depicted. She and Lillian endlessly debate who is braver, but in point of fact they are brave in different ways: Frances can imagine different ways of living, and Lillian, who lacks that capacity for the bigger picture, nevertheless often takes the action which make them possible. What develops between them, then, is a thoroughly believable – because riven with tension – love affair.

Ultimately, superb characterisation of this sort is a laudably old-fashioned virtue for a novel to exhibit. The Paying Guests is rather unfashionable in this respect: compared with Outline it is fervently traditionalist. That, as I was reading the novel, I could see an argument for it pipping How To Be Both to the Baileys post, says many things – as does the universal acclaim for Waters’s skills as a writer and a storyteller. Hers are novels of huge warmth and heart, but also skill and cunning. Smith’s victory is excellent news for the health of the British novel – but that’s because Smith understands, like Waters (who will surely have her year), that accessibility isn’t a dirty word. Read The Paying Guests, and then read it again … and again.


“Baffled and Longing”: Class in ‘The Little Stranger’

The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters
The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters

It is 1925. Charles Ryder is sharing dinner with Rex Mottram. They are discussing the Flytes, an ‘old money’ family who live like the country grandees of old. “They are rich in the way people are who just let their money sit quiet,” Mottram says of them. “Everyone of that sort is poorer than they were in 1914, and the Flytes don’t seem to realize it. […] There’ll be a shake-up coming soon.” Mottram is Waugh’s vulgar upstart, the unwelcome, ugly face of modernity in Brideshead Revisited: he heralds a diminished, tarnished age in which romance is replaced by avarice. “When the upper-classes get the wind up, their first idea is usually to cut down on the girls,” he says without a blush. “I’d like to get the little matter of a marriage settlement through, before it comes.”

Within twenty years of that conversation, World War II would be the final nail in the coffin of the old world Waugh eulogised in his most famous novel. Sarah Waters’s latest fiction, The Little Stranger, picks up from there: set at Hundreds Hall, a derelict version of Brideshead, all unused rooms and peeling plaster, her own noble family, the Ayreses – the matriarch, Mrs Ayres, and her children Rod and Caroline – are at the ruinous end of the path Mottram described; their fortune is gone, their house and estate can no longer run themselves, and the world around them no longer has a place for their sort. It is 1947.

The Little Stranger, which I have no need to spoil in any of what follows, has been described as a ghost story, and there are certainly scenes of creepy horror which no reader will want to read alone and at night: Waters here perfects the art of getting under your skin. Key to her technique, though, is the way in which her narrator – Doctor Farraday, who is never given a first name, and stumbles into the Ayreses’ world whilst on call and never quite wants to leave them – proves to be an overly literal, rational-minded man whose unadventurous spirit pervades every page. One hundred and fifty of them pass, in fact, before we are given even the merest glimpse of a spooky going-on. Even by the book’s close three hundred and fifty pages later, Faraday clings to quotidian explanations. Through this unimaginative prism, Waters works very hard to conjure the austerity of the post-war period, and also the similar effects produced by the Edwardian values of the Ayreses and the repressed resentments and thwarted ambitions of the doctor, a local working class boy done good.

It’s here that the crux of the novel really lies. Discussing the Hundreds Hall case with a colleague, Faraday says, “It’s as if something’s slowly sucking the life out of the whole family.” His interlocutor replies, “Something is. […] It’s called a Labour Government.” Class powers this novel – Faraday is angry that his parents gave everything for an education which has made him only a provincial GP, the Ayreses find their ‘new money’ neighbours distasteful and brash, and the lands of Hundreds Hall must be sold off to the developers of council estates. “The Ayreses’ problem,” Faraday’s colleague shrugs, “is that they can’t, or won’t, adapt.” Rod, the man of the house, parades around town in the tweeds of a country squire; Mrs Ayres insists her party guests don evening wear for dinner (those new money neighbours turn up in lounge suits).

Faraday is in equal parts repulsed and enchanted by this other, dying world. He frequently feels the frustration of a working class man towards the airs and unthinking graces of the Ayreses (their name, of course, redolent of their style), but at the same time finds a new sense of self, a new self-worth, in his frequent visits to Hundreds – and, slowly, his aoption as a sort of family member. He makes himself almost indispensible to the poor lost family, becoming a confidant and physician to an isolated trio who still cannot bring themselves quite to treat their lone remaining permanent servant, Betty, as a fully human being, let alone an equal. As the strange events at Hundreds begin to cause physical and psychological harm to the family, Faraday time and again provides his rational, medical explanations, prescribing treatments and suggesting preventions – and in so doing, of course, further cementing his place in the house.

All Shut Up...
All Shut Up...

So it goes. Hundreds can no longer hold the newly socially mobile at bay: first the doctor, then the housing estates, come to the house’s gates and then take root in its lands. Throughout, that narrative restraint fails to interrogate the story; it is left to the reader to realise all of this, to sound the depths beneath the surface. The book is almost Pinteresque in this sense – indeed, The Little Stranger is constantly aware of its antecedents, from the classic ghost stories – The Turn of the Screw, The Haunting of Hill House – to the country house dramas of DH Lawrence and Virginia Woolf. A great deal of allusion and wordplay is present in this deeply intelligent novel, and yet Waters achieves a rare virsimilitude, a quite astounding sense of place and propriety, by asking the reader to do all the work: her narrator remains steadfastly unable to see the truth of things even when, literally so in the novel’s final sentence, it stares him in the face.

So is The Little Stranger a ghost story, or are the Ayreses destroyed by their own maddened reactions to a world which no longer has a place for them? Many characters in the book voice the theory that the tensions at Hundreds are somehow bringing into being a psychic force which wreaks malevolent havoc as an expression of its angry confusion. Every one of the Ayreses is at one point or another fingered as the culprit: Rod, the injured war veteran terrified by his inability to keep the estate going; Mrs Ayres, tormented by the death of her young child decades ago; Caroline, the frustrated and eccentric spinster. Only our blinkered narrator, of course, is not considered as the possible cause of any such disturbance, and yet he is as conflicted as any member of the family. In this reading, Faraday is both the symbol and the agent of the crushing change experienced by the Ayreses and their kind.

In Brideshead Revisited, Charles joins a sort of toff militia during the General Strike of 1926. This happens some months after his conversation with Rex Mottram, and Ryder essentially styles himself as a defender of the old order against the workers. He is ultimately disappointed that the Strike fizzles out – “it was as though a beast long fabled for its ferocity had emerged for an hour, scented danger, and slunk back to its lair.” Ryder is denied his moment of martial combat on the side of the old order. But in his desire to defend it, and in his simultaneous distaste for the braying Viscount ‘Boy’ Mulcaster, we see that English ambivalence about the upper class, that repulsion-attraction exhibited by Faraday. It is not enough to save the Ayreses; indeed, that mix of resentment and covetousness is in The Little Stranger what haunts not just them but also the England which destroys them.