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The Guardian
23-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Groundwater by Thomas McMullan review – a lesson in foreboding
Thomas McMullan's debut novel, The Last Good Man, was a darkly unsettling post-apocalyptic fable about moral puritanism and the perils of mob rule. Set in an isolated Dartmoor village, it was commended by Margaret Atwood as 'a Scarlet Letter for our times' and won the Betty Trask prize. His follow-up, Groundwater, opens in similar style, with its protagonists fleeing a city in favour of rural seclusion, but this time his story is rooted in a more prosaic and recognisable present. An unexpected inheritance has spurred John and Liz to trade in their rented flat in London for a remote house by a lake. After years of trying unsuccessfully for a baby, their relationship strained, both hope that the change will shift something inside them. Meanwhile, though most of their furniture is yet to arrive, they must prepare the house for Liz's sister Monica and her family, who have invited themselves to stay. From the opening pages McMullan stokes an unambiguous sense of foreboding. It is August and the weather is stifling. Walking by the lake John encounters a baby deer, struggling to stand on an injured leg. The next day after breakfast, Monica's children find the fawn dead on the doorstep. A stranger claiming to be a local warden materialises on their land and invites himself to stay. No one thinks to check his claims. When three students from a local campsite also contrive to inveigle themselves into the group, something terrible, it seems, must happen. Reading Groundwater, I was repeatedly reminded of Chekhov's famous exhortation that one must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it. The warden, Jim Sweet, tells John and Liz about the caves deep below the surface of the lake, miles and miles of unmapped tunnels snaking through the limestone. Liz is haunted by the memory of a dog she watched dying in the hallway outside their London flat. She stares at the walls of trees around the lake and thinks of the California wildfires on the news: 'All that burning, a thousand things dying.' Ominousness is piled upon unease and yet McMullan meets his own challenge only with the humdrum. Terrors are proved baseless. Confrontations blaze briefly and fizzle out. Unable to bring themselves to say what they are really thinking, the adults conduct long and often mundane conversations about inconsequentialities, while the twin interior monologue that shifts often confusingly between John and Liz adds little insight or forward propulsion to the narrative. Insufficiently differentiated, their voices blur: though we spend much of the novel inside their heads, their true selves remain opaque, unformed, out of reach not only of themselves but of the reader. Liz, a writer, is working on a scheme to monitor the black rhinos in a national park in Kenya, but 'she hadn't been to the national park herself … everyone was remote'. The same sense of remoteness, of a reality half-understood but never experienced, pervades these pages. Meanwhile a second intercut narrative, in which dream-like versions of John and Liz draw items including a crystal decanter, a crutch and a child's hobby horse from the waters of the lake, adds a baffling dollop of mysticism to proceedings. As I read on, my thoughts kept returning to another novel set by a lake, Sarah Moss's Summerwater, and not only because of the powerful echo in the title. Like Groundwater, Summerwater, told over a single rain-lashed day in a lochside holiday park in Scotland, is preoccupied with the quotidian, exploring through its 12 narrators the fissures and fractures that open in relationships, the certainties brandished like weapons against fear and vulnerability, the joys, yes, but also the small, terrible failures of courage and understanding. Why, then, does Moss's novel triumphantly succeed and McMullan's never take flight? It helps that Summerwater's simmering tension finally explodes into catastrophe, while Groundwater swerves perplexingly away from climax and sputters out. But it is Moss's astonishing acuity, her uncanny ability to see inside the human heart, that lends her work such power. It is much, much harder than she makes it look to draw readers deeply into the small dramas of small lives, harder still to find the universal in the particular, to draw fresh and meaningful patterns between people and landscape, between age-old cycles of existence and the insistent demands of the here and now. Moss manages it with flourishes of sly humour that both leavens and intensifies the horror to come. McMullan's novel would definitely have profited from a few more laughs. Instead, in striving for an elusive profundity, he reminds us how strikingly difficult it is to spin gold from straw, and how very rare and precious are those Rumpelstiltskin writers who show us how it's done. Groundwater by Thomas McMullan is published by Bloomsbury (£18.99). To order a copy go to Delivery charges may apply.
The Guardian
23-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Groundwater by Thomas McMullan review – a lesson in foreboding
Thomas McMullan's debut novel, The Last Good Man, was a darkly unsettling post-apocalyptic fable about moral puritanism and the perils of mob rule. Set in an isolated Dartmoor village, it was commended by Margaret Atwood as 'a Scarlet Letter for our times' and won the Betty Trask prize. His follow-up, Groundwater, opens in similar style, with its protagonists fleeing a city in favour of rural seclusion, but this time his story is rooted in a more prosaic and recognisable present. An unexpected inheritance has spurred John and Liz to trade in their rented flat in London for a remote house by a lake. After years of trying unsuccessfully for a baby, their relationship strained, both hope that the change will shift something inside them. Meanwhile, though most of their furniture is yet to arrive, they must prepare the house for Liz's sister Monica and her family, who have invited themselves to stay. From the opening pages McMullan stokes an unambiguous sense of foreboding. It is August and the weather is stifling. Walking by the lake John encounters a baby deer, struggling to stand on an injured leg. The next day after breakfast, Monica's children find the fawn dead on the doorstep. A stranger claiming to be a local warden materialises on their land and invites himself to stay. No one thinks to check his claims. When three students from a local campsite also contrive to inveigle themselves into the group, something terrible, it seems, must happen. Reading Groundwater, I was repeatedly reminded of Chekhov's famous exhortation that one must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it. The warden, Jim Sweet, tells John and Liz about the caves deep below the surface of the lake, miles and miles of unmapped tunnels snaking through the limestone. Liz is haunted by the memory of a dog she watched dying in the hallway outside their London flat. She stares at the walls of trees around the lake and thinks of the California wildfires on the news: 'All that burning, a thousand things dying.' Ominousness is piled upon unease and yet McMullan meets his own challenge only with the humdrum. Terrors are proved baseless. Confrontations blaze briefly and fizzle out. Unable to bring themselves to say what they are really thinking, the adults conduct long and often mundane conversations about inconsequentialities, while the twin interior monologue that shifts often confusingly between John and Liz adds little insight or forward propulsion to the narrative. Insufficiently differentiated, their voices blur: though we spend much of the novel inside their heads, their true selves remain opaque, unformed, out of reach not only of themselves but of the reader. Liz, a writer, is working on a scheme to monitor the black rhinos in a national park in Kenya, but 'she hadn't been to the national park herself … everyone was remote'. The same sense of remoteness, of a reality half-understood but never experienced, pervades these pages. Meanwhile a second intercut narrative, in which dream-like versions of John and Liz draw items including a crystal decanter, a crutch and a child's hobby horse from the waters of the lake, adds a baffling dollop of mysticism to proceedings. As I read on, my thoughts kept returning to another novel set by a lake, Sarah Moss's Summerwater, and not only because of the powerful echo in the title. Like Groundwater, Summerwater, told over a single rain-lashed day in a lochside holiday park in Scotland, is preoccupied with the quotidian, exploring through its 12 narrators the fissures and fractures that open in relationships, the certainties brandished like weapons against fear and vulnerability, the joys, yes, but also the small, terrible failures of courage and understanding. Why, then, does Moss's novel triumphantly succeed and McMullan's never take flight? It helps that Summerwater's simmering tension finally explodes into catastrophe, while Groundwater swerves perplexingly away from climax and sputters out. But it is Moss's astonishing acuity, her uncanny ability to see inside the human heart, that lends her work such power. It is much, much harder than she makes it look to draw readers deeply into the small dramas of small lives, harder still to find the universal in the particular, to draw fresh and meaningful patterns between people and landscape, between age-old cycles of existence and the insistent demands of the here and now. Moss manages it with flourishes of sly humour that both leavens and intensifies the horror to come. McMullan's novel would definitely have profited from a few more laughs. Instead, in striving for an elusive profundity, he reminds us how strikingly difficult it is to spin gold from straw, and how very rare and precious are those Rumpelstiltskin writers who show us how it's done. Groundwater by Thomas McMullan is published by Bloomsbury (£18.99). To order a copy go to Delivery charges may apply.
Daily Mail
18-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Daily Mail
This weeks lit fic picks: Groundwater by Thomas McMullan, Selfish Girls by Abigail Bergstrom, Edenglassie by Melissa Lucashenko
Groundwater is available now from the Mail Bookshop Groundwater by Thomas McMullan (Bloomsbury £18.99, 304pp) John and Liz abandon their city life for a new start in a remote house by a lake. Their furniture is delayed, the local warden seems a bit strange and Liz's sister, her husband and two children have turned up, expecting a bit of a holiday. Then there is the longed-for child, John's brewing work problems, the peculiar behaviour of Liz's brother-in-law, who may be seriously ill, and the three students from a local campsite who start hanging around for no discernible reason. McMullan's shape-shifting novel is a masterclass in apprehension, exposing the fissures between an imagined life and its reality with stealthy power, and boldly upending reader expectations. Richly unsettling. Selfish Girls by Abigail Bergstrom (Hodder and Stoughton £20, 272pp) When Ines has a miscarriage, her boyfriend appears more upset about it than she is. She agrees, all the same, to return with him to her family home in Wales for a new beginning: after all, her career as an actress in London isn't exactly going anywhere. But also in Wales live her two elder sisters, Dylan and Emma, and their mother, Gwen, and before long the unspoken secrets and buried difficulties of their unconventional childhood start to rise to the surface. Bergstrom, whose novel What A Shame was a Gen-Z hit, roves between the lives of all four women across a time span of several decades in ways that echo both the mess of remembered experience and the chaotic make-up of a life. The story is not always easy to follow but Bergstrom's prose has a rangy, off-the-cuff immediacy, as though you are reading what is happening from inside each character's skin. Edenglassie by Melissa Lucashenko (Oneworld £10.99, 320pp) Melissa Lucashenko's latest novel is full of stories. There are the tales Granny Eddie, a spirited First Nations elder, mischievously spins about her past when a team of white liberals co-opt her into their progressively minded bicentennial celebrations. There are the consoling myths Australia likes to tell itself as a way of whitewashing its savagely colonial history. And there is the story of Mulanyin, a Yugambeh man who falls in love with a Nyugi woman in 19th century Queensland as his life plays out against the pernicious reach of British colonialism. Looping back and forth between the 1850s and the present day and steeped in the rituals and storytelling of First Nations culture, Edenglassie at times feels as vast as Australia itself. But it's also written in a spirit of reconciliation, daring to dream what a future version of that country might look like.
