John Of John, Douglas Stuart, (Picador, £20)
How hard it must be to follow up a Booker-winning debut like Shuggie Bain. Although excellent and arguably more focused, Douglas Stuart’s second novel, 2022’s Young Mungo, didn’t make quite the same waves as its predecessor. But in the shift of settings from urban Glasgow to windswept Harris, Stuart’s prose has taken on a powerful new lease of life, playing out tempestuous passions to gripping effect.
It’s 1998, and 22-year-old Harris native Cal is sofa-surfing in Edinburgh after completing a degree in textiles when his father summons him home on the pretext that his maternal grandmother is ill. Cal, who is gay, dreads returning to the strict Free Presbyterian community of Falabay and to his domineering father John, who, in addition to being a weaver and sheep farmer, is precentor of his church and part of the elite group that polices the community’s behaviour. With his dyed hair and charity-shop chic, Cal’s return goes about as well as it can.
His grandmother Ella, a Glaswegian incomer who never got around to learning Gaelic and defies the church by cutting her hair short, turns out to be in good health after all. John has lived in an uneasy peace with his mother-in-law since her daughter left home when Cal was still a child to move in with John’s brother. With the return of the wayward, rebellious son, the tension in the croft is unbearable.
Concerned with keeping his own sexuality hidden, it has never occurred to Cal that his father is also gay and certainly not that he’s been having a painstakingly discreet affair with their neighbour Innes for decades. When Cal takes a fancy to Innes, unaware of their longstanding relationship, things threaten to get very awkward.
Throughout, Stuart’s depiction of his central characters’ inner lives is rich and believably nuanced. Cal may feel most himself when he’s on the mainland and able to express his sexuality freely, but his love of his homeland and its stark beauty is still evident. His relationship with his father is more complex still. There’s another side to the stern, scripture-quoting disciplinarian who isn’t above punching his son when he gets out of line. John frequently opens up to Cal and expresses fondness for him. But his resentment at living a lie and missing out on the life he could have had has poisoned himself and his family.
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After months spent living there in 2019, Stuart depicts Harris in acutely-observed detail, from the chained-up swings and roundabouts on the Sabbath to the flanks of salted beef hanging alongside the washing and the phone box with its door removed so that callers can be eavesdropped on. The author’s experience in the fashion industry also informs the way John and Cal see the world as weavers, their sensitivity to colour and their ability to find exact matches for natural shades bringing a rare aesthetic sensibility to a censorious, Bible-centred community.
But it’s his empathic understanding of his characters and his deep exploration of their feelings that makes John of John so impactful. Rarely can a novel set on such a small scale have seemed so epic. Stuart can make three men in a field sticking their arms up ewes’ backsides feel as momentous as War and Peace. It’s a long book that takes its time, but it’s always simmering, and when it comes to the boil tragedy strikes, life-changing decisions are made and carefully-laid plans shockingly thwarted. For a slowly-unfolding literary novel, John of John is almost indecently captivating, with such melodramatic flair that it feels indulgent to be so enthralled by it.
