It’s too rare these days to find good novelists who dare not
to conform to the strictures of genre. Publishers want writers to grind out the
same type of novel again and again so that they can be easily categorised and
marketed. I think this comes from the undue influence that accountants have had
on modern life and their desire to fit every thing – and everyone – into neat
compartments. They are incapable of seeing how disastrous this is in the long
term, stifling the imagination and creativity. The novelist Monica Ali recently
spoke on BBC Radio 4 about the expectation that her works deal with ethnicity
and women’s issues while she just wants to be a novelist and make stories.
Ian Thomson’s The Northern Elements is a major
departure from his previous novels. Its depiction of two (harmless) gangs of
young boys, in the same place (Blackburn) but at different times (1890 and
1960), borders on the naturalistic. The two periods illustrate that even though
the world changes, children don’t. The interaction within the gangs is
remarkably similar. Questions of leadership, loyalty, honesty, trust,
friendship, and the fears of school and going out into the world have not changed,
and these are the themes of the book.
The elements of the title refer to earth, air, fire and
water, the classic elements. They appear in a mix that isn’t forced; indeed,
the realisation of what Thomson is doing sometimes dawns on the reader after he’s
finished a passage. These elements mirror the themes in that time does not
change them.
The story of the two gangs intersects as a tragic event for
one becomes a shocking discovery for the other. While this device has been used
before, Thomson does something new and extends the influence of that old event
into the present and seeks resolutions.
This is Thomson’s most serious work. Whereas in previous
books, one could sense the author hiding behind a nearby tree or pillar,
suppressing chortles, and preparing to jump out and shout, “Gotcha!” This sense
is not present in The Northern Elements; he clearly feels these
characters deserve a higher level of respect. It may also be due to the
autobiographical elements of the book. That is not to say that the book is not
lively, witty and full of the amusing turns of phrase found in his other works,
it’s just that there is something more profound going on here.
The final third of the book pulls the two main threads together
in a wholly unexpected way and does so using the devices of good detective
fiction. Curiously it is in the more “popular” form that the most profound,
poignant and accomplished writing is found.
The boy with a dog from the 1960s is now a retired forensic
scientist, and he describes how the objectivity of examining the bodies of
victims can break down:
“And then what you thought was a carapace you had grown
around you turns out to be soft tissue after all – and you are touched by your
own mortality and all the evil and loss in the world.”
It’s a tremendous line, but not without irony in that while
there is tragedy, misfortune, despair and heartache in the book, there is very
little evil. In fact, there is a vast amount of good, care and love that can only
be seen from a distance.
This is a book that disturbs, too. It shows the importance
of individuals and individual decisions and how they can have profound effects
and even reach across time. It’s a book I can imagine rereading in a year or
two because I know there is more in it. Moreover, it’s a damn good read with a strong,
page-turning conclusion.
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