I read this novel on holiday, immediately after Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley’s Game. I had thought of the Highsmith as my murder/mystery romp and the Trevor as my ‘literary’ read. However, they have more in common than I thought. Trevor is also a bit of a murder mystery romp, the first time I’ve ever thought of him in that way. Both novels exercise psychological compulsion; both build intensity and then suddenly switch scene or character. They draw a lot of energy from what they don’t tell you—at least not until the very end.William Trevor is the more chilling of the two because his characters feel real. My familiarity with this Irish writer is through his short stories, many of which are magnificent character studies. With Trevor, you can assume nothing: anything is possible, even though the world in which it happens will be impossibly ordinary.He writes beautifully. His narrative style is careful and measured, on the traditional side– in a good way. He likes the present tense and he uses it unobtrusively to bring you uncomfortably close to the action.We have two main characters in this novel: Mr Hilditch. the English catering manager and Felicia, the run-away (pregnant) Irish girl. Both are victims, though Hilditch is also a predator. Trevor’s description of them is meticulous. He lays down small details beautifully and nothing is accidental. Here is Hilditch: “The private life of Mr Hilditch is on the one hand ordinary and expected, on the other secretive. To his colleagues at the factory he appears to be, in essence, as jovial and agreeable as his exterior intimates. His bulk suggests a man careless of his own longevity, his smiling presence indicates an extrovert philosophy But Mr Hilditch, in his lone moments, is often brought closer to other, darker, aspects of the depths that lie within him. When a smile no longer matters he can be a melancholy man.”What a beautiful final sentence that is: ‘When a smile no longer matters . . .”. The best words in the best order—it is surely more than just prose.The sinister side of Mr H is there from the start. Then there’s the innocent seventeen-year-old, ironically named Felicia, who runs away to find her boyfriend Johnny Lysaght. He left without a forwarding address and she is carrying his child. When Mr Hilditch gives her directions, he recognises her type immediately. She is lost and she is looking for someone, carrying her whole world in two carrier bags. He follows her. She is indeed alone. Names of other girls start to trickle through his mind. What happened to them? We don’t know, though we are already uneasy. The first seriously sinister reference is in chapter 7: “The frisson of excitement that has been with him all day is charged with a greater surge now that he has spoken to the Irish girl again: never before has there been a girl as close to home as this one, a girl who actually approached him on the works premises. Elsie Covington cropped up in Uttoxeter, Beth in Wolverhampton, Gaye in Market Drayton. Sharon was Wigston: Jekki, Walsall. All of them, like the Irish girl, came from further afield and were heading elsewhere, anywhere in most cases. You make the rule about not soiling your own doorstep, not shopping locally, as the saying goes; you go to lengths to keep the rule in place, but this time the thing just happened. Fruit falling from a tree you haven’t even shaken; something meant, it feels like. And perhaps to do with being approached rather than the other way round, Mr Hilditch senses a promise: this time the relationship is destined to be special.”Meanwhile, we empathise with Felicia’s thinking, as her circumstances get worse and worse. Hilditch, while pretending to be kind, steals her money so that she will be more vulnerable, but she doesn’t know this. She starts off in cheap bed and breakfast places but is soon sleeping rough. We know he is out to get her. We know it is only a matter of time before she will enter his house, desperate for any form of shelter. Her mental pain gets worse. Soon it is physical pain when he persuades her to have a late abortion at his expense.He is a serial killer, isn’t he? That’s certainly what we assume. And the fascination is like watching a cat playing with a mouse. The cat has practised this many times. The mouse is doomed. But what kind of serial killer weeps like this:“Tears flow from Mr Hilditch, becoming rivulets in the flesh of his cheeks and his chin, dripping on to his neck, dampening his shirt and his waistcoat. His sobbing becomes a moaning in the room, a sound as from an animal suffering beyond endurance, distraught and piteous.”It is a very sad novel. He is, of course, a killer but not quite like you think. Nothing ends up quite like you think as the novel builds in momentum and sweeps you along with it.It is powerful writing. If there is a weakness, it is that too much of the ‘explanation’ for Hilditch’s motivation is left to the final chapters. In fact, perhaps there is simply too much explanation, period. I am reminded of some of Trevor’s short stories (‘Miss Efoss’ is one; ‘Miss Smith’ is another) where characters behave in bizarre and even cruel ways but the explanation is withheld. We know there are explanations: that is always clear because of the way at least one character is fully dissected. But sometimes the beauty of the thing is to leave the reader puzzling, trying to assemble the clues.I’m tempted to think the novel form has made this short-story writer feel he has to tie up more of the ends—say more, suggest less—and as a result this narrative is not quite as fine as some of his short prose fiction, not as shockingly unusual. It is an excellent novel though. It will stay with me.
One of the few modern fictions that I liked despite having not a single character I could relate to. Two reasons: (1) the writing is unique. Trevor uses parallel narrations covering the lives of the two main characters and also a lot of flashbacks for both without confusing the reader. It is like presenting two lives, each covering both their current and past, in one concise and clear go and (2) both characters are multi-dimensional, although caricaturish at times, and standing directly at the opposite sides of a pole. The way he presents them is like a symphony: starting soft and simple, then smoothly and slowly builds up until it reaches the climax before mellowing down at the end. It is like presenting two characters in contrast, entertwining them in the middle, reaching together their highest peak before beautifully falling down separately and settling on a soft leaf floating on a pond. Lyrical yet arresting narration. Exact and up to the point plot development. Each word contributing to the story. Just like symphony where each instrument plays a part in creating good quality unforgettable music.Don't get the wrong picture though. Although Trevor incorporates lots of music and food here, this novel is not your usual feel-good story. This is about a single loveless middle-age obese lunatic, Mr. Hilditch who fools the naive clueless young pregnant Felicia making her believe that he is helping her find her missing boyfriend. Felicia is an Irish girl who is left pregnant by an Irish man, Johnny who serves in the British army making him not a suitable husband according to Felicia's patriotic father. So, pregnant Felicia leaves Ireland to find Johnny in the UK only to fall prey to the lunatic Mr. Hilditch. Think Psycho male protagonist meeting a pregnant female boarder minus the knife and ax. Then that Psycho killer is given a lot of screen time showing his soft, less-evil normal side like cooking sumptous meals, listening to his favorite music, working hard in the restaurant that he manages, being liked by his subordinates and getting along wll with girls in his own fantasy "Memory Lane" world. Brilliant characterizations making these two characters among the fiction people I will remember for a long time.The only two reasons why I am not giving this a perfect 5 are also two: (1) so many idiomatic expressions or words whose meanings I am not sure being not too familiar with British or Irish languages. Examples are bloody poofter, Corner of Brunswick Way every evening on the dot, teetotal, dress for a chap, different kettle of fish, family at arm's length, etc. and (2) had I not read yet the character of the killers in Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, I would have thought that the way Trevor developed the character of Mr. Hilditch here - elicing both hate and compassion from me - is exceptional. I still prefer Capote's style over Trevor's. Although they are similar and well-appreciated.*Bow* William Trevor, well done!
What do You think about Felicia's Journey (1996)?
With his carefully crafted, starkly rich prose, William Trevor explores some of the darkest corners of the human psyche. Taking his hand is always a journey...but for Felicia, a journey at once intensely complicated and desolately mendacious!In the disturbed mind of Mr. Hilditch, a darkness nurtured in childhood and fed (literally) from the ministrations of a famous celebrity chef. A pudgy young boy with a beautiful and overly patronizing mother who feeds his need to be deceptively caring to young prostitutes...young women robbed of loving support.Shocking revelations are revealed as the psychological house of cards begins to collapse!The psychological pathology of Mr. Hilditch's is layered with lies. He is not the man he appears to be and is starting to lose his grip as the novel progresses.Trevor takes the reader deep into the recesses of the psyche of Hilditch as he slowly draws Felicia into his treacherous web.A quick but deeply affecting read...it will leave you questioning but somehow oddly satisfied!
—Savvy
I typically really enjoy William Trevor, and I really liked the first half of this book, and then the very end, but some of the latter middle was just...meh. However, in a recent discussion with a friend about the lack of working class voices in writing, I realised that Trevor gives us the Irish working class voice: here we have Felicia, accidentally pregnant by a lying boy, who emigrated to England. She follows him, not knowing, really, where he is. She doesn't do a whole lot of thinking on her own and has a sort of vaguely non-consensual abortion, which destroys her. While I tire of literary women always being punished for abortions (there were nearly 200,000 abortions in the UK last year. It's almost never a big deal), in this case, with very poor and catholic Felicia, you really do feel badly for her. The other main character is a nasty piece of work disguised as your lovely next door neighbour. The portrait of this man is very good, but I wish we'd had rather less of it, and more of Felicia.
—Erica
Fascinating book, but not as good as Trevor's short stories. I found the Canadian-made movie (1999)in some ways superior to the book, as Atom Egoyam (the director) added a fascinating subplot about the "murderer's"(but is he actually a murderer? this idea is left open in the book) childhood to explain facets of his behavior in the movie. On the other hand, the book has a better, more realistic and darker ending, as well as a generally-better (more in-depth, detailed delineation of character) treatment of characters, which (of course) can be further explored more so in a novel than in a 2-hour film.Bravo Trevor!
—Gord Higginson
