The Dark Flood Rises

Margaret Drabble

Canongate, £16.99

Review by Rosemary Goring

As she grows older, Fran is increasingly drawn to the phrase, “Call no man happy until he is dead”. She is sure her own last words will be “You bloody old fool”, or similar, “as the speeding car hits the tree, or the unserviced boiler explodes, or the smoke and flames fill the hallway, or the grip on the high guttering gives way”.

The epigraphs alone, from DH Lawrence and Yeats, prepare one for the story to come. Taking its title from Lawrence’s The Ship of Death – “Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul/has her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises.” – Drabble’s novel is a comedy of manners in the face of increasing decrepitude. Memento Mori it is not, for almost all her characters remain in their own homes, and retain their wits. Nor are they under imminent threat, though as anyone who has reached their biblical span is aware, there is never any certainty about what the next day might bring.

At the heart of the story is Fran, who keeps busy with her charity job which entails improving residential care for the elderly. At 70 she is no spring chicken, but she refuses to go gentle into the elasticated trousers of her peers, and instead tackles life if not like a scrum half, then with calculated enthusiasm. She takes no heed of her children’s disapproval of her flat in a London tower block, where she has an eagle’s eye view of the city. It is a necessary detachment, we come to realise, as we are allowed a glimpse into the abyss of grief for her lost partner into which Fran fears she will fall if she takes her foot off the pedal.

This partner is not her former husband, Claude, with whom she had her family. A distinguished surgeon, Claude is now housebound. On top of her work, Fran cooks him meals, and keeps in regular touch. It is a measure of her generosity of spirit that she does this willingly, and of his boundless egotism, that he accepts this almost as his due.

Counterpointing Fran’s situation is that of a gay couple, sweet-natured Ivor and his elderly partner Sir Bennett Carpenter, a well-known popular historian. They live on Lanzarote, where warmth and tranquility keep the worst ravages of age at bay. Ivor is nevertheless conscious that already they are an anachronism: “We are a dying breed. The very thought of us is old-fashioned.”

Connecting this cultured household, about which there is a feel of aspic, to the rest of the book are the couple’s guests and friends who are also part of Fran’s circle. A darker tragedy also links them, which involves the death of her son Christopher’s girlfriend some months earlier. This is the only strand that feels somewhat shoehorned, and least convincing too.

As the novel sets sail, Drabble quietly, wittily and searchingly portrays her crew. There is a gentleness about her touch, a mood of sympathy and understanding, as if the wisdom of years have allowed a kindly perspective. As always with her work, she is acute on the problems of today, and possibly of tomorrow. The dark flood that is rising might also be read as a nod towards the plight of immigrants desperate to reach safer shores, and the uncertainty of world politics as power shifts and peoples collide.

Her story, however, is rooted in the personal, in the daily manoeuvrings of those of pensionable age who hope that when the end comes it will be relatively painless. There are brief disquisitions on art, books and history, her protagonists being highly educated and curious, and keen to remain alert. It is to Drabble’s great credit that these passages are as compelling as those where, say, Fran is stranded by a flood and must take shelter with her cold fish of a daughter, or Ivor finds Bennett collapsed on the patio.

Indeed, its sophistication and understanding of human nature are what make this such a satisfying, rich read. With death as its subject, it could be intolerably dark, but Drabble’s mordant humour is a bracing antidote to self-pity or maudlinity, as is Fran’s ceaseless activity.

Perpetual motion must, of course, eventually come to an end. Sadly, so do novels, although one could have read twice as much again with great pleasure. Only in the rather abrupt and perhaps unnecessary epilogue is there a hint of weariness and ennui. But which of us, once in middle age, has not at some point felt that?