Laura
Palfrey who in Taylor’s somewhat spiteful description ““would have made a
distinguished-looking man and, sometimes, wearing evening dress, looked like
some famous general in drag”, is recently widowed. She arrives at the Claremont
hotel in London, one rainy Sunday in January. The novel immediately strikes a
false note – the taxi driver is unfamiliar with the hotel. Taylor is telling the
reader that the hotel is obscure and forgotten, like Mrs Palfrey herself, but
she surely under-estimates London cabbies? After years as a colonial ex-patriot
wife she faces the fact of her isolation, and the inevitability of decline and
death.
There is a
strangely dated air to both the Claremont and the novel itself. Although
published in 1971 the setting is firmly in the sixties, with references to the Beatles
and hair-length being a cause for disproportionate anger in the elderly. At one
point, a young man refers to his girlfriend as a “bird”. (Quite genuinely, for
a split second I took this as a reference to him having bought himself a parrot
or canary, so dated is this slang). In fact, although the setting is the 60’s this novel could easily have been published several decades earlier with only minor edits. Mrs
Palfrey’s back story is strangely blank – while we know her husband was in a
colonial role in Burma, that would have ended in the late 1940’s; we aren’t
told when or how he died, where Mrs Palfrey lived after that, or much about her
strange decision to move away from her daughter in Scotland to the most expensive
city in the country, rather than the more sedate and welcoming south coast, for
example.
The Claremont
becomes in the words of the Guardian’s reviewer “a genteel antechamber to
oblivion”. Mrs Palfrey and her fellow long term inhabitants are waiting for
death, bored silly, whiling their time away with banal occupations – patience,
short walks, crosswords – waiting for the next meal or the next infrequent
visitor. This is more a retirement home than a hotel. Even great writers
struggle to generate interest from a story of bored people with nothing to do,
and while Taylor captures the sense of ennui well, it’s not enough to keep the
reader engaged.
As a substitute
for incident or plot, Taylor introduces Ludovic (Ludo) Myers a struggling
writer. Ludo rescues Mrs Palfrey after a geriatric fall, and becomes, through a
series of misunderstandings, her substitute grandson. Ludo has fallen straight
out of the pages of ‘New Grub Street’ – he is trying to write a novel, keeps
warm by working during the day in Harrods Banking Hall, (not the British
Library, just for variety), subsists on tinned goods, and only puts his fire on
a single bar when he is feeling extravagant. His friendship with Mrs Palfrey is
the only thing that enlivens her days, but there is little of substance to it
and it quickly fades.
Taylor is
felt by some to be an undiscovered genius, a novelist spoken of in the same
breath as Jane Austen. The comedy in the novel is ineffably slight – if you
find old people being pompous and falling over funny then this is for you, but
I found the novel’s ending, when Mrs Palfrey has another fall, and dies alone, unremembered,
something of a release.
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