IT had been “a wild adventure”, said Peter Florence, chair of this year’s Booker prize, on announcing that the bounty was being split between two authors. This was not, he explained, the result of indecision, but because there were “two novels we cannot compromise on.” Florence, who is founder and director of the Hay Book Festival, was insistently thrilled at the outcome – “double the joy” – in which Margaret Atwood’s The Testaments, the sequel to A Handmaid’s Tale, shared the honour with Bernardine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other.

I doubt the Booker organisers are so ecstatic. Since its inception in 1969, the award has only twice before been shared. First was in 1974, when Nadine Gordimer and Stanley Middleton were twinned, and again in 1992, with Michael Ondaatje and Barry Unsworth. After that regrettable outcome, whereby both writers’ thunder was stolen, the rules were changed, vetoing this ever happening again.

During 2019’s final meeting, Florence and his team – Liz Calder, Xiaolu Guo, Afua Hirsch and Joanna McGregor – were reluctant or unable to make a clear-cut decision. Asking for advice, they were reminded of the rules. Gaby Wood, of the Booker Prize Foundation, reported that, “They were not so much divided as unwilling to jettison any more when they finally got down to two, and asked if they might split the prize between them. On being told that it was definitively against the rules, the judges held a further discussion and chose to flout them. They left the judging room happy and proud...”

Should they be proud? I don’t think so. That rule was in place to prevent exactly what is already happening. The impact on an author of winning this prestigious title can be dramatic, as last year’s laureate, Anna Burns, made clear in her speech to the literati in London’s glitzy medieval Guildhall. Gaining the imprimatur of the Booker brings a blaze of international attention, and a Himalayan spike in sales that no sensible novelist would dare dream of, for fear of waking up to the grim reality of meagre royalties that make the living wage look like a Euro Lottery windfall.

Margaret Atwood, a previous winner, hinted as much when accepting the accolade. More than anyone, she understands the stakes. This was attention she does not need, her career already illustrious, and she was gracious in acknowledging that. Perhaps she also knows The Testaments isn’t in the same class as some of her earlier work. It is not one of the best books I’ve read this year, although one that is – Lucy Ellmann’s Ducks, Newburyport, which was shortlisted – was a strong contender for first place.

Atwood, to my mind, was given her share of the trophy because of the hype around her long-awaited follow-up and its cult following, thanks in large part to the recent television series. But even had it been her finest novel yet, the judges have been cruel to Bernardine Evaristo. She is the first black woman to win, a good news story by any standards. That triumph should have been shouted from the rooftops. What a great statement it would have been for her to have been selected, head and shoulders above the rest. Instead, a panel that consisted of four women and one man did a disservice to a writer who deserved the full glory, and the full commercial boost, that this distinction brings.

The make-up of the judging panel is interesting, reflecting the need for greater diversity, and less male dominance, in literary decision-making. And yet this predominantly female group, drawn from a variety of backgrounds and disciplines, blew it. What might have been a historic moment, representing a significant cultural turning point, has had its impact blunted, its significance diminished.

The reasoning behind this is hard to understand. With five members, it cannot be impossible to have a majority for one particular title. A resolute chair would usually insist on that, gradually eliminating books to reach a single choice. Previous judges have spoken of the angst and turmoil in that final meeting, as the clock ticks down to the ceremony that evening. Last-minute deals are struck, compromises conceded, arguments clinched. For the chair especially, blood pressure mounts at the thought of facing the cameras with a speech when as yet no name has been picked.

The reasons for deciding the award on the day of the ceremony are obvious: fear of a leak ruining the live announcement. Yet if it is possible to sign waivers in order to get hold of embargoed books ahead of publication, as happened with The Testaments, which was shrouded in Harry Potter-style secrecy, Booker’s organisers can surely bind the judges to keep their choice under wraps overnight. If the final meeting could instead be held without a gun to the head, in itself a form of literary roulette, cooler heads and better counsel would prevail. Perhaps, like a jury in a murder trial, the five could be holed up incommunicado in a hotel until the award night arrives. Better still, they could simply promise to say nothing and then, for the space of 24 hours, keep their word. How novel would that be?

What this split decision suggests is that in the judges’ minds, the entire shortlist was worthy of the prize, and they wanted to show as little favouritism as they could. Yet what is the point of a life-changing £50,000 reward if not to anoint a standout victor? In effect, this attitude is an echo of the ideology that says we are all successes, and nobody should ever be declared a runner-up or loser in a race or an exam. By insisting on a double honour, ostensibly for big-hearted reasons, the judges have in fact ducked the tough responsibility with which they were charged.

Whatever its impact on Atwood and Evaristo, this two-hander feels horribly, tediously familiar. Just picture the scene, as the adjudication meeting dragged on for hours. Indecision, a mounting sense of impasse, endless, increasingly feverish discussions, and a leader who could not or would not break the deadlock. After this, a last-ditch soliciting of professional opinion, followed by a flagrant breaking of the rules. In this sense, at least, Booker 2019’s unsatisfactory outcome is very much a story of our times.