Plucking at the sighing harp of time

William Trevor is the voice of a civilised Anglo-Ireland capable of apologising for ancient privileges and extensive estates while discreetly lamenting their departure. Laying out and constantly refolding a finely observed landscape (County Cork) of water, rock and sand, of religious divide and class deference, Trevor conveys the baffled rage of Fenian fire-bombers and the sighing flight of their victims to relatives in Wiltshire. Deft touches of irony abound; the upright Gault clan, we are told, have gambled away much of their land to the neighbouring O’Reillys at the card table. The Gaults are yet one more Protestant ‘big house family’ about to leave their rural home because of an incident during the Troubles – low-born intruders carrying cans of petrol and an answering shot from Captain Everard Gault which wounded one of them. Young Lucy, understanding little or nothing of why her parents have decided to leave her beloved Lahardane, stages a carefully planned protest which ends disastrously. She cannot be found. A vest and a sandal are unearthed beside the sea. After much searching of sea and soul, the bereft parents desperately depart, and begin to travel; the haunted mother, Heloise, refuses to settle in any fixed abode, refuses further inquiry about Lucy, refuses even to inform the caretaker servants and their solicitor where she and her husband can be contacted. And the Captain goes along with this out of love for his wife, even though he has left behind a farm, cattle and faithful tenants to be cared for.

An assured master of low-key story-telling, Sir William, as he has become, caused even this sceptical reader to turn the pages in absorbed enjoyment. Sceptical because the central chain of events upon which everything depends is downright unbelievable. One notices that Trevor fudges a number of vital details: how far did Lucy venture into the woods of the glen before twisting her ankle? Not so very far, because it was a place she visited quite frequently.