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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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Quite
Honestly by John Mortimer |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Goodness In his new novel, Quite
Honestly, John Mortimer deftly alternates narrators between Lucinda Purefoy, a bishop’s daughter, and Terry Keegan, a thief. Through
this device, readers observe the same actions from two different points of
view, each of which is authentic and consistent. Mortimer shines in this
skill, and readers will look forward to how the other narrator sees things. Here’s
an excerpt, all of Chapter 3, narrated by Lucy, pp. 14-17: He had dark curly hair and
what I think they call ‘prison pallor’. What he didn’t have was a cheerful
grin. Quite honestly, when he caught sight of me he looked distinctly uncheerful. All the same I managed a big smile as I moved
towards him. Probably I was breaking Mr Markby’s number one rule and looking too friendly. But
what the hell, I had to form some sort of relationship, even if he was going
to be my pupil. ‘Hi there!’ I said. ‘You
must be Terry Keegan.’ He stood looking at me in
silence. To be truthful, he seemed astonished, as though he’d been
unexpectedly approached by some sort of lunatic. Eventually, he spoke. ‘What if my name’s Terry
Keegan? What do you want to make out of it, man?’ He spoke in a low gruff
voice which came as an unpleasant surprise in the cheerful chap I’d been
instructed to meet. ‘I don’t want to make
anything of it. And I’m not a man, actually.’ I thought this was quite a
funny thing to say, all things considered. Anyway I laughed, but Terry
certainly didn’t. ‘I’m sure SCRAP have warned you
about me, haven’t they? I’m your praeceptor.
Probably you don’t know what that means.’ ‘You needn’t bother to tell
me.’ ‘It means I’m your guide
and philosopher.’ In deference to Mr Markby, I failed to say friend. ‘I’m here to help you
find a job, a place to live and that sort of thing. Support you in any way I
can. And I’m here to see you don’t ever go back inside that place again.’ The going-to-work traffic
had grown louder and heavier rain was splattering the pavement. I had to
raise my voice to be heard as I said the last sentence very loudly, so a
small party of girls on their way to school turned their heads to stare
curiously at Terry. This caused him to look even more crossly at me. ‘I don’t need no help,’ he growled, ‘so
fuck off, will you?’ Well, I had to look on the bright side. At least he’d
stopped calling me ‘man’. ‘My name’s Lucinda Purefoy,’ I
told him, ‘but that’s a bit of a mouthful, so it’s perfectly all right if you
call me Lucy.’ ‘I don’t need to call you anything. In fact I don’t need
you, full stop. So I’m fucking off, thank you very much.’ ‘Don’t lose your temper with your client. Never give him
that particular satisfaction.’ I was finding Mr Markby’s instructions particularly hard to follow. All I
could think of doing was to look my client full in the eyes and say very
deliberately, ‘Well then, fuck you!’ The effect of this was surprising. First Terry looked at
me and seemed deeply shocked and even silenced. Had I said that in front of
my father, the tolerant bishop, he wouldn’t have batted a single eyelid. Terry Keegan, with a string of convictions as long
as your arm, was far more easily shocked. In fact he said, ‘What do you
mean?’ which seemed to me to be a completely pointless question. ‘I mean I’ve been training for a month listening to dull
lectures. I’ve postponed a job with an almost decent salary in an advertising
agency. I’m prepared to spend time away from my boyfriend, Tom, who’s
good-looking, never swears at me, has a perfectly clean record and is going
to end up with an important job in television. And I’ve done all that to help
you.’ ‘I don’t need no help!’ He was
still angry. ‘Oh yes, you do. Don’t you understand? Eighty-five per
cent of criminals reoffend within two years of
their release from prison. If I take my eye off you you’ll be back pinching
laptops on garage forecourts or whatever you used to do.’ ‘Breaking and entering premises by night.’ It seemed I had
insulted him by talking about the laptops and he had a more important crime
to boast about. ‘All right then. Breaking
and entering. Whatever. Now tell me what you want to do that’s free and legal
and has nothing to do with sex and we’ll do it.’ He stood there, looking at
me in silent thought — I’m
sure it wasn’t silent prayer — and
then he said, rather improbably, ‘Burger King.’ ‘What?’ ‘I’ve had Scrubs food for
nearly three years. I want to go to Burger King.’ ‘All right,’ I said, and I
waved, I’m afraid rather desperately, at a passing taxi. Talk about
extravagance. I’d already broken practically every rule that Mr Markby had ever given us. In the Burger King, Terry’s
behaviour improved slightly, which wasn’t hard
considering it was starting from such a remarkably
low level. I bought him a Whopper burger with fries and onion rings and a big
milky coffee with five spoonfuls of sugar. After he’d finished that, he
ordered another Whopper and I’m sorry, Mr Markby, but I paid for all this because I couldn’t stand
any further argument. I know it was weak of me. As he finished the second
Whopper I thought, poor sod, he’ll become disgustingly fat and lose any
attractiveness he might have to women. I wondered if I should warn him of
this, but then decided that I couldn’t be bothered. Instead I went on to more
important business. ‘I have to make sure you’ve
got a mobile phone.’ ‘You want to give me a few
minutes to pinch one?’ He gave me his first grin, but I decided it was high
time to become strict and stand no more nonsense. ‘Of course not. I’ve bought
you one to save you getting into trouble.’ I gave him the phone I had
paid for, although my instructions from Mr Markby were simply ‘to make sure the client had a
mobile’. It might have been very thick of me, but I couldn’t think of any way
I could be sure of that without buying the thing. ‘Does it take photographs?’ Terry was turning over the
little machine and looking at it critically. ‘No, it doesn’t take photographs. And you’ve got to ring
me on that every morning and at six o’clock every evening so I know how
you’re getting on. Is that understood?’ ‘Yes, man,’ he gave me a sort of mock salute, ‘if that’s
your orders.’ ‘Never mind about my orders. Now, your probation officer
tells me he’s got you a place in a hostel.’ ‘No.’ ‘No, he hasn’t got you a place?’ ‘No, I’m not going to no hostel.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I’m free now, aren’t I? I can live my own life. I
don’t have to spend another night in no sort of prison place Mr Markby’s sent me to. Forget
it, man.’ The worst of it was that I could see his point. That’s my
greatest weakness, being able to see other people’s points. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘where do you want to go?’ ‘My Aunt Dot’s.’ ‘Where’s your Aunt Dot live?’ ‘Buildings up the end of Ladbroke Grove. Kensal Rise area.
She’s always been pretty good to me, my Aunt Dot.’ I looked at him. He seemed to mean what he said. Once
again I disobeyed instructions. ‘OK then. But call me on your phone as soon
as you settle in. I’ll try and smooth it out with Mr
Markby.’ Terry, it seemed, thought it over, wiped his mouth on the
napkin provided and stood up. ‘I’ll be getting along then.’ ‘I don’t suppose you’ll say “thank you”.’ ‘Thank you for what?’ ‘Taxi here, two Whoppers with fries and onions, and
letting you choose your accommodation.’ ‘I never asked you to do any of that,’ he said, and he
sounded serious. ‘It was you did all the asking.’ Mortimer’s always a delight to read.
His dialogue in Quite
Honestly provides clear and distinct voices, punctuated by the
alternating narrators. Fans of Rumpole may miss
that character, but most readers will enjoy all that Quite
Honestly has to offer. Steve Hopkins,
April 24, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the May 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Quite
Honestly.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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