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Mrs Somebody Somebody
by Tracy Winn
Random House
2010
Paperback
First
Collection
Awards: Finalist, John Gardner Book Award, the Julia Ward Howe Award, Massachusetts Book Award.
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"Many years ago, Frenchie used to drive around Lowell on Sundays
with his wife, Martine, just for something to do. After she got too
sick, he drove alone. That was how he’d found the stone wall to
work on."
Reviewed by Sarah Salway
If
I call this book "old fashioned fiction", I mean it as a
compliment. Both the writing style and the way the narrative evolves,
are formal, mannerly, proper – unlike
some of the delicious characters Winn writes aobut. Dawn, for
instance, the step-mother in Another Way
to Make Cleopatra Cry, runs off with
the bikers who stole her purse leaving three children in a bar. Or
Delia in Glass Box,
who married her husband before he went off to war, and then fell in
love with the gardener who still torments her many years (and several
stories) later when he turns up at her husband's aunts' table.
Although
the title story is over 40 pages long, it's not just the length of
the stories that make this collection different from some
contemporary collections where the narratives are over almost before
they've started. With those, I'm jolted into feeling before being
left with a startling, often beautiful, image. It is as if we've
kissed and parted before being introduced. Now, that can be nice
sometimes, but Mrs Somebody Somebody is after a more serious and,
well, courtly courtship.
And
yet this might also be at the heart of the
book's challenge for me. In an essay included in the book, Winn
says that when she was exploring the countryside she wrote about, she "mostly stayed in my car – a shy voyeur – and drove around
looking and looking, a notebook in my lap, a map on the seat". And
indeed, although there were many sentences and images rich enough to
underline, there were times when I was left longing for someone to
leap out of the car and do something, and for the regrets – and
there are more than a few here – to be for actions taken, rather
than missed.
However,
when the stories work, they repay every second of the slow reading
you are seduced into. To take the title story, Mrs
Somebody Somebody, which starts with
this arresting image:
Lucy Mattsen was nobody – like all the women I worked with –
until the day the baby fell out of the window.
As
the story progresses, it becomes apparent that the shocking fact of
this first sentence is not the baby falling, but the idea that any of
the women portrayed could be described as "nobody". By showing
the details of their day to day life, and the excitement over a work
dance, their everyday bravery and humanity hits home, and hard. Lucy
is a mystery to everyone, and particularly to Stella, the narrator of
the story, when she first comes to work at the mill. Clues creep out
– she's educated, she's not poor like the others, she's a
union organiser – at the same pace as learn the consequences these
facts may have for a mill worker. Winn makes no judgements; instead
she shows us so slowly, so delicately what goes on that we live the
hours alongside her characters.
After reading this story, I turned to the back and wasn't surprised
to find tht the mill town of Lowell, Massachusetts, where the book is
set, is based on a real place, and the mill building – albeit Winn
found it with "broken windows and a front door hanging open" –
a real building. Where Winn suceeds is in bringing it and its people
so much to life.
Of
course, the joy of linked stories (as in Elizabeth Strout's
masterly Olive Kittredge) is that you get to see characters at
different times in their lives. This gives the stories a new layer,
so that when someone walks into a story, even as a reader you can
have that yummy shudder of understanding exactly why a hush comes
over the room. Winn shows us every side of the story, from parents,
their children, workers and bosses. And although in comparison to
Strout's book, this collection feels less narrative driven, it is a
serious rumination about what it means to live in a certain time and
place, and what it means to have a sense of duty – or otherwise –
to the others who live with us.
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Sarah Salway
is
a novelist, blogger and journalist. She is currently the RLF Fellow
at the LSE, and her novels include Something Beginning With and
Getting the Picture. With Catherine Smith she runs the writer-led
initiative, Speechbubble Books (www.speechbubblebooks.co.uk)
designed to publish short stories in innovative forms.
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