‘It’s a woman’s thing, creation,’ says Sarah,a girl accused of witchcraft in 18th-century Scotland, in one of the three storylines in Evie Wyld’s powerful new novel. Sarah is pregnant, having been raped and nearly killed. She is looking at a piece of sacking sewn by a sister and mother, and continues: ‘You can see how they felt in each stitch, you can hear the words they spoke to each other and into the cloth.’ The Bass Rock is in many ways an amplification of these words spoken into the cloth, a feminine counterforce to the masculine violence that pulses viscerally throughout.
Stitched around Sarah’s story are Viv’s contemporary thread, and Ruth’s in the 1950s; all three take place in Scotland, in the shadow of the looming Bass Rock of the title. We first encounter Viv doing a late-night supermarket shop on her way to clean out her great-aunt’s and grandmother’s house, when a stranger, Maggie, offers her a choc ice, then warns her about a man hiding behind her car. Maggie’s insistent pretence of friendship succeeds in frightening the man off. When Viv wonders if they should tell someone, Maggie responds: ‘Tell them what? There’s a man being creepy? There are men being creepy all over the place, hen. Believe me.’ As the novel continues, we encounter many more.
In Ruth’s storyline, she eventually confronts her seemingly respectable husband about an affair, only for him to hit her, tell her she’s ‘talking like a madwoman’ and threaten to put her in an asylum, then rape her. She must also contend with the more overtly creepy Reverend Jon Brown, who’s in on the child abuse going on at local schools and oversees an annual winter picnic, where a sinister version of hide-and-seek echoes —perhaps honours — the brutal fate suffered hundreds of years ago by Sarah’s mother.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Don't miss out
Join the conversation with other Spectator readers. Subscribe to leave a comment.
UNLOCK ACCESSAlready a subscriber? Log in