An epic about life underground

By Maggie Fergusson

SOCIAL HISTORYThe Valley by Richard Benson, Bloomsbury, hardback, out now. “Worms of the earth” is how Nancy Astor is said to have described miners. If that revolts you, just wait till you’ve read this book. Richard Benson’s great-grandfather came to the Dearne Valley in South Yorkshire as a first-world-war veteran, forced down the mines despite crippling injuries. Two generations followed him into the pits. Writing with involved detachment, in a novelistic present tense, Benson recreates the valley over a century through a kaleidoscope of lives—from quiet heroes and heroines to bigamous wife-batterers. He’s good at high drama, with a particularly powerful chapter on the 1984-85 strike, when the miners took on Margaret Thatcher and lost. But he’s equally gripping on the daily round—the rough, unspoken intimacy among the miners; their wives’ foreboding while they are underground. He transforms the long littleness of life into an epic, and a masterpiece.

FICTION All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, Fourth Estate, hardback, out now. As he writes at his desk in Boise, Idaho, Anthony Doerr wears ear defenders, blocking out external noise, and it’s almost as if he has tuned into some beautiful private frequency. Ten years in the making, his second novel follows the lives of two children in the 1940s—the blind daughter of a French locksmith, and a German orphan boy recruited into the Hitler Youth—as they become entwined over the radio waves. As the tide turns against Germany, the barbarity is increasingly desperate: in one chilling scene German teenagers are raped by Russian troops. But Doerr sees evil as essentially empty, whereas hope, goodness and grace are constantly replenished. He interleaves narrative and dialogue with images and feelings in short, chiselled chapters, building to an uplifting denouement.

Eyrie by Tim Winton, Picador, hardback, out now. Tom Keely is an unlikely hero. On the run from life after public humiliation and private heartbreak, he has holed himself up on the top floor of a tower block in Fremantle, Western Australia, using drugs and alcohol to sidestep the void. But reality breaks in, and through a mixture of goodness and physical need Keely’s drawn into the troubled lives of 40-something Gemma Buck and her grandson, Kai. Winton writes with all five senses. As compelling as the drama here is his evocation of “Freo”: its roasting salt winds, the stink of “toxic crap” in the docks, the orange crane lights strobing the sea at night, the boom of containers hitting the deck. There’s nothing so trite as a happy ending, but there is a suggestion that providence answers our deepest longings in surprising ways.