If I were a contemporary novelist, each day I would pray in thanks for unhappy families. Where would new writing be without them? Bunderlin is another of those novels in which families’ secrets are slowly uncovered by those whose lives have been unwittingly shaped by their consequences.
The Bunderlin of Bunderlin, is a rather eccentric type who forces his way into the life of the novel’s protagonist, Martin. Bunderlin is a man whom, if I were given to cliché, I would describe as a ‘gentle giant’. Fond of animals, given to wordplay (of a musical if seemingly meaningless nature), Martin first meets him as a schoolboy. When Bunderlin reappears several years later, Martin is annoyed and puzzled in equal measure, but slowly comes to accept Bunderlin as a friend he may not have chosen, but nevertheless must accommodate. When, however, a local barber is killed in an arson attack, and Bunderlin appears at Martin’s flat reeking of petrol and unsurprised by the news, Martin finds himself torn between loyalty and duty. What Martin is only beginning to discover, however, is that the events he has become caught up in are part of a large history about which he knows only scraps and hints.
In addition to the lesson that families can be complicated, Bunderlin also teaches us that it is grim up North. Martin, grown up into a university lecturer, finds himself dragged (intrigued rather than kicking and screaming), into the seedy underworld of his hometown. Through circumstances beyond his control he finds himself the acquaintance of small-time criminals and prostitutes, in possession of a large number of stolen passports and (perhaps, maybe, somehow) involved in a contract killing. So just another week in the life of a teaching academic then. Martin doesn’t seem too surprised by the way things work out in any case, remaining supremely unflappable throughout.
Bunderlin takes some time to build up steam. The first half meanders without a strong sense of direction and it is only towards the end, when family histories begin to reveal themselves and converge, that the novel moves up through the gears. Part of the problem is Crompton’s understated style which is heavy on detached observation and light on emotion. This is good for evoking Bunderlin’s unique perspective on life, but does tend to nullify what should be important episodes. When, for example, Martin suspects Bunderlin of involvement in the arson attack, the conflict between his duty to inform the police and his loyalty to his friend is not half as acute as it could be. This is because, despite the wry affection with which Martin might mutter “daft bugger” in reference to Bunderlin, we have not seen enough to establish any real emotional bond between the two. Bunderlin seems like an annoyance which Martin tolerates, rather than a friend to whom he is bound by affection. Without this, there’s no meaningful tug between the conflicting demands on him.
This is important because this conflict should drive the novel, and it should generate points of intensity which would help to structure the narrative (a significant death later in the novel suffers from a similar emotional understatement). Without such points to hold onto, the story feels a little shapeless at times. This becomes less the case as the novel reaches its climax and sense is made retrospectively of what has come before (a slightly-too-convenient stash of documents, letters, and diaries ties all the threads together and fills in the back-story), but there’s a lot to get through before we reach this point. I found myself infinitely more intrigued by the story at its end than at its beginning, which is probably, I’m afraid, the wrong way around. It’s difficult to escape the feeling that Bunderlin is one redraft away from being a tight novel.
That said, the ending has weight, bringing what has become a detective story to a satisfying close. If, like me, you are unfamiliar with the habitat of a northern town’s criminal underworld, you will probably enjoy your excursions into seedy pubs well stocked with lags and slags. Martin, as a bemused protagonist out of his depth, is a well-realised character who acts as a guide for us naive readers through these sordid haunts. And as if that wasn’t enough, you even get some Nazis for your money.
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