Everything you have with you, already in
your heart, arrives with you on the island, and only becomes amplified,
greater, in such isolation.
And so the story begins. Eight lonely souls on an island off the English coast; spending Christmas at the house on Saints’ Climb because, whatever their superficial reasons, they have nowhere else to be.
Between a cast of wealthy recluse father and traumatised adult son (George and Xavier Starvely), a taciturn archaeologist (Ryefield), documentary-makers Nathan and Chris, French widower Victor, groundskeeper Rik, and housekeeper Marianne… I’m proud to set my third gothic crime novel somewhere entirely unoriginal. In fact, it was sort of the point.
Whether it’s the Queen of Crime’s unbeatable And Then There Were None, literary gems like Elizabeth O’Connor’s Whale Fall, or delightful romps like Louise Minchin’s Isolation Island, the island holds an enduring appeal for reader and writer alike. And when a setting becomes such a cultural artefact, it also becomes self-perpetuating, because nosy writers like me want to know why.
Pull up for my TED Talk, and I’ll tell you why I brought you back to the island…
As a psychology
By its nature, the island is a separate thing. An isolated piece of land, cut off by sea on all sides. And more often than not, in crime fiction, it’s just within view of the mainland’s shore. Tantalisingly close, and when the bodies start dropping, it’s all the more agonising that help is just out of reach. When a storm blows in, the inhabitants of Saints’ Climb could almost reach help if they tried, couldn’t they?
Physically and psychologically, the island acts as a liminal space; land in the water, adjacent to but not part of the main. We see the island from the shore, and we see the mainland from the island. And so the island doubles the psychology of the lonely characters, stranded on their own emotional bits of rock and wondering if there is a way to connect with each other amid the violence.
The specifics of Saints’ Climb as an island were also inspired by that most Freudian pit, childhood. Growing up in the West Country, islands were quite literally on the horizon whenever my family took a jaunt to our local seaside, Weston-super-Mare. A rundown coastal town in the British tradition, I love it with all my heart. Between cold sloppy sandcastles and donkey rides, my three siblings and I would look at the horizon and see two mysterious lumps out at sea - Flat Holm and Steep Holm islands. Only as an adult would I discover their fascinating records as seabird colonies, cholera isolation hospitals, pieces of radio history… As a kid, they stuck in my mind as gothic lacuna just out of reach, and full of magical potential. Anything at all might fill them. Perhaps it’s not surprising that as an adult, they would re-emerge in a novel.
As a writer
Being a writer is about choices - of the infinite possible stories in the universe, you have to choose, winnow, erode all the possibilities until you’re left with the story you want to tell. And because of this immense freedom, I actually find it useful to have a containing framework. Stick eight people on the island. Now some of them have to die without anyone knowing how. Make me work for it. Make me give you something new in a space that’s already a densely populated fictional landscape. How much new ground can I find on a rock?
And that’s where the literary tradition that might seem like it restricts the writer, opens it up. Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None is a masterpiece. Her ten victims trapped on the island die off like flies as every possibility evaporates as soon as the reader has thought of it. It has also sold 100 million copies worldwide; commonly cited as the bestselling crime novel of all time. The majority of the readers of We Search the Island for Grace will have read it or seen a TV adaptation… and some still won’t. Now I have the additional challenge of writing a novel for two distinct audiences. Is George Starvely an echo of one of Christie’s characters? What about Ryefield? Marianne? Are these tropes about to be subverted or leaned in to; are they breadcrumbs or traps? Does this still compel a reader who has never touched a Christie in their life?
It’s the author’s joy of never having a singular unitary reader. A book is a new story under every set of eyes that reads it, and all the associations, experiences, and pre-existing knowledge they bring. We’re all our own islands, and we’re all connected by the act of reading.
We Search The Island For Grace by
Bonnie Burke-Patel (Bedford Square Out Now
They gather at Saints’ Climb, the
only house on an island off the Somerset coast. Seven men with nowhere else to
be at Christmas. Father and son George and Xavier Starvely; James, a taciturn
archaeologist uneasy with the living; Victor, a French widower; Rik, the
groundskeeper; and Chris and Nathan, the two men who want to make a documentary
about this place and its extraordinary collection of medieval art. And the
housekeeper Marianne, who seems to find peace in serving. Erected around the
stone labyrinth built into the floor by monks, Saints’ Climb is a house heavy
with loneliness. Xavier Starvely is a successful academic with a real life
elsewhere. Yet he is wracked with guilt over the fragmentary memories of a
childhood tragedy, and when his guests arrive on the island for Christmas, the
deaths begin afresh. A labyrinth is different from a maze. There are no false
turns or dead ends: there is only one winding path, which, followed faithfully,
will always lead to the centre. What will each find at the centre of the
labyrinth? And can it save them?
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