Losing a child is every mother’s nightmare. But must it define her?
When shy student Isla Shaw meets nihilistic ‘Doctor’ John Palmer, the repercussions ripple and ring. A lone child, she becomes a lone mother crashing through work, relationships and rent.
From gritty London to bohemian Paris, adrift in films and books, drink and drugs, and therapy, wherever Isla looks for answers, the questions that she uncovers are always the same:
What does love really mean?
What is a ‘good mother’?
Isla needs to share her secret before it kills her.
This is the very start of the novel, the short preface before the first chapter…
When I lived in Paris, I had a neighbour called Madame Regnard. The first time I met her, she whispered something very odd to me, just as we were parting. It sounded like a proverb or maxim. I didn’t understand it at first. My French wasn’t good enough. But over time, I pieced it together.
She said: Don’t use the bidet for washing your feet.
Once I had translated it, I still didn’t understand. After all, in a city where you did a lot of walking, the bidet seemed ideal for washing your feet, a lot easier than getting into the half-bath or shower.
It was actually a joke, I think, at the expense of the English. We misunderstand how to use a bidet just as we misunderstand so much about France and hence about la joie de vivre. It also provides some insight into how the English are seen. Washing someone else’s feet might be considered a sign of humility in some faiths but, if it’s your own feet you’re washing, it’s really just self-worship.
The phrase stayed with me. I discovered, in my professional life, that the vast majority of us are ‘foot washers’. The others are the rare few who are genuinely prepared to deal with their own shit. I suppose you could say this is my attempt to join them.
I wonder how many secrets have vanished with the deaths of their owners? After all, if it’s genuinely still a secret and you’re the only person who knows it, that little flicker of glitter expires at the precise moment you do. It’s quite a thought. It is for me anyway, as someone who deals in secrets.
Then, if you think of all the millions of people who have ever lived…
That’s a lot of secrets.
Of course, most of those secrets would be small I’d imagine. Trivial.
Asking for a well-done steak at Le Pavé des Lombards. (Guilty.) Losing the Queen from Dad’s travel chess set. (Ditto.) But some, perhaps not. Waking up the sabre tooth tiger pack that killed the entire tribe. Sorry, guys, I didn’t realise we were the last of the species.
I don’t quite know where on the scale my wicked little secret falls. Maybe nowhere. Maybe I want it to leave the material world with me. But I’m not sure. Not yet. I don’t even know whether it’s wicked or whether it’s little. Not yet.
They say that secrets isolate us even from the ones we love. Perhaps they isolate us especially from the ones we love. But what if the truth isolates you more? They also say that writing about whatever’s on your mind helps you to process it in a way that thinking alone never can. I’ve said it myself umpteen times. Time to see if it works.
So, here goes, my name is Isla Shaw and I live in… well, that can all wait for a moment. (It’s a bit of a grey area.) Suffice to say that, for now, my name is Isla Shaw and I live.
I need to be very careful answering this one, says author Jim Pollard, as I wouldn’t, in a century of Sundays, compare my writing to William Boyd’s.
However, I am a big fan of his whole-life novels like Sweet Caress and Any Human Heart. Isla isn’t quite a whole-life novel as we only get hints of what happened to her as a child but it is close.
Boyd has said: ‘I think that one of the greatest appeals of the whole-life novel is that we can see in a fictional alter ego’s journey from the cradle to the grave a paradigm or model of our own journey in all its aleatory and fascinating nature.’
In novels of this type, as we follow the main character through highs and lows, in good luck and in bad, we certainly get to know them better and maybe even understand them. They can become very real. That’s something I hope for the reader of Isla.
As for the subject matter itself, I don’t know if there’s anything similar. It occurred to me while writing the novel and exploring some of the possible twists that there are a lot of unwritten rules in story-telling. For example, when someone puts on a mask in Shakespeare we accept they are unrecognisable even to their closest family. The way a mother reacts to the loss of a child often feels similarly hard-wired. We know how she will feel and we know what she will do. I was interested in looking at that afresh.
The films of Eloïse Emond are imaginary. This is a shame because some of them sound really good. The music is available, though. Here’s Isla’s playlist:
1. This Is The Right Time – Lisa Stansfield
2. Go Your Own Way – Fleetwood Mac
3. Can’t Be Sure – The Sundays
4. Breakout – Swing Out Sister
5. All Around The World – Lisa Stansfield
6. Old Friends – Simon & Garfunkel
7. Don’t Stop – Fleetwood Mac
8. I’ve Got Something Better – Lisa Stansfield
9. Honey Pie – The Beatles
10. The Chain – Fleetwood Mac
11. Here’s Where The Story Ends – The Sundays
12. Where In The World – Swing Out Sister
13. Everyday I Write The Book – Elvis Costello
14. Avec Le Temps – Léo Ferré
15. I’m Only Sleeping – The Beatles
16. You On My Mind – Swing Out Sister
17. Le Mal Aimé – Claude François
18. Let Them All Talk – Elvis Costello
19. Tout Pour La Musique – France Gall
20. Something – The Beatles
21. Le Temps de l’Amour – Françoise Hardy
22. You’re Going To Lose That Girl – The Beatles
23. Imperfect Girl – Bérénice
24. Si Maman Si – France Gall
25. Tous Les Garçons Et Les Filles – Françoise Hardy
26. We’ve Only Just Begun – The Carpenters
27. Musique – France Gall
28. Goodbye To Love – The Carpenters
29. Que Reste-t-il De Nos Amours – Françoise Hardy, Alain Bashung
30. Rainy Days And Mondays – The Carpenters
31. I’m Proud – Bérénice
32. Don’t Turn Around – Aswad
33. Le Jardin Extraordinaire – Charles Trenet
34. Les Champs-Elysees – Joe Dassin
35. Il Jouait Du Piano Debout – France Gall
36. Comme d’Habitude – Claude François
37. Paroles, Paroles – Dalida, Alain Delon
38. Pour Un Flirt – Michel Delpech
39. La Bohème – Charles Aznavour
40. The Green Fields of France – The Men They Couldn’t Hang