33: The Facts of Life - Patrick Gale
I read this so you don’t have to. Apparently Patrick Gale was persuaded by Carmen Callil that he needed to write an epic family saga, and this was the result. Unfortunately it ended up being a 547 page slog with DNF an ever-increasing possibility.
Aspiring composer Edward Pepper, né Eli Pfefferberg, meets doctor Sally Banks as he recuperates from TB just after the war. He escaped the Holocaust because his parents sent him to school in England just as things went bad, but (almost) his entire family has perished. Edward and Sally marry, settle down together in an extraordinary round house left to her by her mentor, famed sexologist Dr Alice Pertwee (a sort of latter-day Marie Stopes) and produce baby Miriam. The narrative then comes to a sudden halt with a massive clunk as Gale kills off one of his main characters, and resumes with a new storyline set some 40 years later, based around Edward and Sally's grandchildren, dutiful Alison and pleasure-seeking Jamie, both of whom become emotionally and sexually involved with the mysterious Sam.
Gale seems to love this character but he's a complete cipher - a devastatingly handsome yet inarticulate builder, ex-con and muscular sex god everyone falls in love with, who insists he’s not gay but allows Jamie to woo him (there's a lot of very graphic sex in this book, of all varieties) before finally settling down in blissful coupledom. No happy endings, though, as Jamie succumbs horribly to AIDS while Alison, heroically determined not to reveal that Sam is the father of the baby she’s carrying, conceived after a single encounter with the irresistible sex-god ('he just took over. I didn’t have any will any more'), throws herself selflessly into the AIDS helpline she co-runs. But then, Alison isn’t allowed any real backstory or role other than as supporting character to her more interesting/glamorous/tragic brother.
Halfway through I very nearly binned the whole thing, but I'm always reluctant to give up unless something's utterly dire, and this wasn’t badly written, just increasingly unbelievable and, I'm afraid, shot through with the sort of important solemnity that just makes you want to snort with laughter. Plus, the pedant in me couldn’t work out how Edward's daughter, Miriam, could have been born in - I assume - say, 1950-ish (all the dates are very vague) but have children of 27 and 25 by the beginning of the 90s.
Let's just say there are better family sagas out there.