Review: One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson

I have only read one of Kate Atkinson's books before, but I really enjoyed it and often thought that I must read more.

Well, I say I enjoyed it - I enjoyed the language, the insights, the wit. Behind the Scenes at the Museum is one of those books that doesn't really have a plot as such. It's just a story about life and some aspects of it were a bit depressing, in that they pinpointed some elements of human relationships with unromantic accuracy. But it was a good and memorable read, so when I spotted One Good Turn in the bookshop, I remembered Atkinson's previous work and snapped it up with great expectations.

And I enjoyed this one too, but in a very different way. One Good Turn definitely has a plot and quite a complex one at that, all about how one bizarre incident of road rage brings a number of diverse lives together in unlikely fashion. Before you start thinking it's just a rehash of Crash, it's not the same idea - this story links the witnesses to the attack, with the two feuding figures that open the action turning out to be the least interesting characters in the book.

There are elements of the murder mystery to it, though it is the investigations and adventures of the witnesses which take centre stage over the police procedures. In this way, One Good Turn seems more lightweight and unsubstantial that I had expected. The story takes its time introducing all the characters, by which time you begin to fear that threads picked up by the reader in the first few pages are already being dropped, but Atkinson soon picks up the pace and the story held my interest until the final page.

But I wouldn't say that I was gripped by it. Despite murder being at its heart, the story is more about the machinations of human emotions and the way life sometimes deals you a duff hand. For although the general tone is quite lighthearted, no one in the book is happy. Those who have become wealthy are living with loveless marriages, or no marriages at all; those who are fulfilled in their work have no home life; those who seem to have it all really have things which turn out to be charades. In this way, Atkinson continues to pick apart the human condition and although the story ends on an upbeat note for at least two of the characters, it left me feeling that the sweetness was tinged with a sour note.

I suppose that's just the reality of life and maybe I am too naive, wanting my literature to make that reality different. But isn't that the point of fiction, sometimes?

The Game Is Nearly Afoot

So, here we are. After our big demonstration of democracy in action, after all the hoohah about this election being so important and our vote really, REALLY counting, here we are. Standing impotently on the sidelines while the politicians decide amongst themselves who's going to be in charge.

Is it me or does it all feel a bit like being back in the playground, picking teams for elastics or that sadistic version of dodgeball they used to make us play at primary school? David Cameron stands on one side of the court, his swaggering pals resplendent in shiny new squash shorts, jeering and quaffing swan juice while he looks thoughtful and tries to make that nylon Ken hair move a bit when he turns his head.

On the other side, the Labour party languishes against the wall, expressions sullen, dirty socks bagging around their ankles. They are fat, spotty and on the losing side already. On the edge of the crowd, Gordon Brown dangles hopefully and tries to catch David Milliband's eye, before having an empty Dr Pepper can lobbed at his head with a cry of 'sod off Fatty, we missed that goal coz of you!'

Between the two factions, Nick Clegg and his hyperactive cohorts jog on the balls of their feet, yellow tabards glistening in the sun as they twist excitedly from one direction to the next, awaiting the shrill whistle blast that will signal the kick-off.

Because they might not be team captains, but they know they're going to be picked first. For them, there'll be no dawdling about, one leg twisted behind the other, almost dying of embarassment as the crowd thins around them and they are left wondering who will be chosen last - them, the Green Party or the I Eat Chickens In The Bath Party.

As poor old Brown (whom the sublime Charlie Brooker once described as 'a haunted elephant' and no other description can possibly surpass that) drags his sorry ass away from the match and roots about in the stinky Lost Property box for a decent pair of trainers to wear on the bus home, the fit kids get ready to play nicely and show just how co-operative and mature they can be. While secretly working out how to kick each other in the bollocks the moment Teacher's back is turned.