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There is a common greeting in the Outer Hebrides: the introduction of the line “Who are you?” When this question is asked to the 22-year-old from the island of Harris John-Calum Macleod, or Cal, in the new book by Douglas Stuart, there is an idea that Cal is John’s father beyond what it says about blood – his shock has an oppressive ownership.
The novel opens with the pair performing a strange ritual on the phone, which has been happening regularly since Cal moved to Edinburgh to study textiles: John, the headmaster, reads to Cal in Gaelic from the New Testament and makes him sing in response “with all the strength of his faith”. The passage that John repeats – which foreshadows the book’s themes of oppression and self-denial – encourages the faithful to lead sinners and be vigilant in resisting temptation. After getting Cal’s permission, John tells him to return home, apparently because Cal’s maternal grandmother, Ella, is ill. Although John lives with Ella in his house, she is his ex-wife’s mother and not his responsibility.
Having been part of a Free Presbyterian association of farmers, weavers and fishermen in what seems to be the 1990s, John of John tells the story of Cal’s difficult coming of age. It is a retelling of the parable of the prodigal son and an active exploration of the half-lives of old men condemned to love, pain and suffering in silence. Intimate but poignant on a grand scale, it is equal parts pastoral drama, a tale of family breakdown, a love story and an inquiry into the different kinds of loneliness: the loneliness that can exist between fathers and children, between lovers, between man and God, and between the small place and the big world.
John does not approve of Cal’s appearance, his magical choices and his long, flaming hair, confused “with the confused signal he sends, a strange conflict between a man and a woman”. Cal’s unwillingness to be “rescued” creates a conflict between them that later turns violent. Meanwhile, childhood friend and former partner Doll is giving Cal a hard time, something he’s been dealing with for a long time. Tired of his conservative environment, where communication is out of reach, Cal is happy with his father’s friend, confirmed bachelor Innes MacInnes. Cal is impressed by Innes’ “gentleness, kindness” – something Cal had never appreciated before, which, if he was honest, he would have found boring, uninteresting boys.
This, however, may not be the happy May-December romance that Cal wants it to be. Innes and John are lovers, we learn early on, and it’s the pair’s tortured relationship from their teenage years – hidden from everyone, including Cal – that forms the center of gravity. Smart geniuses, John and Innes are, to the townspeople, the neighboring sheep farmers. The first time we see them alone together, at Innes, they go through a routine that has been going on for a long time, only allowing themselves to be approached until John confirms that every room is empty and they are alone. Later, as John prepares to leave, Innes calls out for his help in an unknown “two-man job”, “both if anyone knew and asked what John Macleod was doing on top of the MacInnes house at an ungodly hour”.
This book examines their relationship in ways both small and large. Aside from Cal’s problem, there is also the matter of John’s other relationship with a married man, and soon Ella’s house will be transferred to Cal’s mother. Innes floats the idea of John moving in with her but thinks “how, even with the threat of homelessness, living with him seems like no comfort at all”. John is a man tormented by the thought of his humiliation: “He loved God, he loved Innes, he loved God and God hates the way he loved Innes.” At one point he imagines the possibility of Innes, Cal and himself becoming a couple, but even in fantasy, the idea of Cal being gay, like him, remains unimaginable: “They would live like this every day, being productive, peaceful, happy in their country, waiting for the day when Cal married a local girl and filled their valleys with grandchildren.”
This book is very famous and very arrogant, about the tedious art of deception, and the contradictions that we all have, and the conflicts that can exist between people and society. As worldly beliefs settle, there is a suggestion that John and Innes living together could kill their churches, which leaves us wondering if John and Cal will – or can – find each other. In the midst of all this, Stuart finds opportunities to touch upon the crofter’s subjection to absentee landowners, the scorn and prejudice of the mainlanders, and the place of the Western Isles within the English mind.
John’s John is interesting, but round The pain of the world and self-pity can often be lost. Stuart’s first two books, Booker winners Shuggie Bain and his following, Young Mungothey were told from the heart, telling random stories, written as if against our cynical and clever times. Although he had a tragic streak at times, the emotions felt genuine and real, whether it was Shuggie’s love for his alcoholic mother, Agnes; Jodie for her brother Mungo; The husband of his bird-raising neighbor James or his dead, alcoholic mother, Maureen. The poor Glaswegians where it was set – marked by Thatcherite decay, homophobia, sexism and class strife – made for serious reading; but these were sweet and kind books, so touching, that you faced their darkness with pleasure.
Here Stuart leans heavily on melodrama and sensationalism as a shortcut to disaster. Towards the end, the book is problematic and full of pathos: we are pregnant; a test-gun wedding (“In Thomas Hardy’s world?” says Cal); death is a great departure from the island. While this book may not appeal to those with a slightly over-indulgent tolerance, die-hard fans will find much to like; I can see Cal, John and Innes – perfectly connected and imperfectly in love – appreciated by the reader’s dedication. And that is no small thing.
