Rozie Kelly's frank and feisty debut novel, shortlisted for this year's Women's prize for fiction, begins with a case of lust at first sight. The unnamed narrator, a 35-year-old writer in a complicated but loving relationship with the equally attractive yet somewhat dull Michael, becomes infatuated with a famous poet 17 years his senior. She runs a popular course at the same university where he is marginally attached. He barely knows her but immediately desires 'to be inside her.' The revelation shocks him: 'A woman! What was the world coming to?'
A Compelling Start
The poet is smart, good-looking, well-dressed, rich, and famous. This last fact initially exerts the greatest hold over the narrator. 'I wanted to be her, to be like her, to have her success and to know the people she knew,' he admits. Yet, as they sit quietly on a park bench watching ducks, he also confesses a desire to subjugate her, 'to push her down, to render her imperious intelligence stupid with the weight of my body, with my younger, harder form.'
Kingfisher is unafraid to shock, and it grabs attention from the start. Told in close first person, the novel recounts—perhaps unreliably and with increasing fantasy—the complicated relationship that develops between the narrator and the poet, whom he later names 'Kingfisher' due to her love of birds. They meet to discuss his forthcoming (nonexistent) poetry collection, and one thing leads to another. The narrator remains surprised: 'I thought she thought I was gay. I thought I thought I was gay.' Over time, hastened by a terminal cancer diagnosis, they settle into a regular loving relationship.
Messy Complications
But things remain messy. The narrator's relationship with sweet but dull Michael deteriorates. Fed up, Michael disappears to Mexico for two weeks and returns with a much younger model. The narrator spirals into drink, drugs, and impromptu sex with strangers. 'Polyamory,' suggests a friend. 'Many loves. That's what you're doing.' Meanwhile, the narrator must contend with his racist and homophobic mother, Hetty, confined to a care home. 'And you're still living in sin, are you?' she asks during one of his reluctant visits—one of her more polite utterances.
Kelly shrewdly explores the different forms love and lust can take, sharpened by a power dynamic that shifts from older woman-younger man to patient-carer. The narrator constantly mulls over the question posed by a wise friend: 'Who's using who here, do we think?' The answer: both are using each other. They are writers on the make; everyone is potential copy.
A Fizzling Middle
Despite a confident start and intriguing premise, Kingfisher fizzles out after the first few chapters. Interesting characters are established then forgotten; narrative threads are not so much lost as never picked up. The novel seems uncertain which way to go. It seems odd that the bracing language and violent desires of the opening give way so quickly to bedside solicitude and quiet domesticity. There is an uncertainty of style and tone throughout, most clearly signalled by a late-stage change of genre into gothic fantasy. The ending comes dangerously close to 'it was all a dream.'
Kingfisher has verve and energy. It is not afraid to take risks or look absurd. It crackles and sparks, but it never quite catches fire.
