The Book Tower

In a year or two, the older generation that still dreamed of Empire must surely give way to politicians like Gaitskell, Wilson, Crosland – new men with a vision of a modern country where there was equality and things actually got done. If America could have an exuberant and handsome President Kennedy, then Britain could have something similar – at least in spirit, for there was no one quite so glamourous in the Labour Party. The blimps, still fighting the last war, still nostalgic for its discipline and privations – their time was up.

On Chesil Beach examines one evening in the life of a young couple called Edward and Florence, the most important in their lives as they prepare for their wedding night in a Dorset hotel. It’s 1962, and Ian McEwan is knowingly aware of the worldwide cultural changes that are beginning to take place. The novel portrays Edward and Florence as products of a stifling era that will thankfully soon be over – both are sexually inexperienced, the former frustratingly so – and they both face their wedding night with terror. And this is the rub. Such importance has been placed on this experience – this event – this night – that the odds are very high on things going wrong.

There is a sense that McEwan hates this point in history, that he can’t wait for the 1960s to get into swing and for the English to grow their hair and let it down. Even though On Chesil Beach can’t help appearing to view the respective childhoods and adolescence of Edward and Florence as taking part in charmingly innocent times, I still (as a cynic) read a lot of sadness into McEwan’s account of their formative years. Edward’s mentally unbalanced mother, his strange flirtation with physical violence, Florence’s desperately competitive father; it’s all brilliantly subtle writing – the sort of thing that makes McEwan the master he is.

Ian McEwan has a knack for slowing down time, examining events that happen very quickly by reducing them in his narrative to a snail’s pace. The ballooning accident in Enduring Love and a road rage incident in Saturday are two such examples, where he thoroughly examines what is only really a fleeting moment in time. In On Chesil Beach it’s this fateful night, no more than a hour in real time, that is examined so thoroughly and becomes so unforgettable, haunting and poignant.

There’s a point where our most vivid memories become ingrained on our consciences forever. For Edward and Florence it’s this very evening that they spend together on and near to Chesil Beach; still vivid, disturbing and nightmarish to them for the next 45 years. This is the substance of the novel and of their memories. The concluding “catch up” part of the novel – 1962 to the present day – comprises only a few pages; without giving anything away the lives of Edward and Florence are brought promptly up to date. Events since 1962 are insignificant and fleeting – for the reader and for them. For significance as one of life’s major turning points, it really does all happen on Chesil Beach.

On Chesil Beach may appear insubstantial in its brevity but I really believe that McEwan is at the height of his powers, mastering the ability to leave a lot unsaid, and leave a lot to the consideration of the reader. I’ve been rereading one of his earlier novels, The Child in Time, and it’s noticeable how much he has matured, becoming much less laboured as a writer. His prose is graceful, flowing and absorbing. Britain’s greatest living author? He’s getting there.