Stories we tell ourselves

Sofka Zinovieff’s new novel, Putney, is an involving, beautifully written, and subtle account of an affair in the 1970s between Ralph, a composer in his thirties, and Daphne, a young girl, who is nine when she is first encountered: ‘Flitting, animal movements; narrowed, knowing eyes; dark, tangled hair; dirty bare feet.’ Enchanted by this creature, whom he idealises as a kind of embodiment of the free spirit of the age, he convinces himself, though he has never felt love for a child before, that this is a new, powerful and pure thing — ‘the beginnings of love’ — and grooms her, kissing her under a tree when she reaches the age of 12, before embarking on a full blown affair.

He even takes her on holiday with him to Greece — an act which later times would term an abduction. Daphne’s father, Edmund, is a laissez-faire Putney novelist whose house is full of the students he sleeps with; her mother is a Greek who spends more time on political protests and seeing her lover than looking after her child, who is largely left to her own devices. It was the 1970s, says Ralph; things were different then.

What follows is an incredibly unnerving account of abuse and its consequences, told through three perspectives. Ralph, looking back on his successful life from his cancerous old age, remembers the ways in which he — in his eyes — seduced Daphne: the presents, the ‘little secrets’, the whole revolting arsenal of a grooming paedophile. There are many horrible contrasts: the adult man sleeping with a little girl in her bedroom, driving her around in cars, writing to her and blinding her with his power. Daphne believes she was truly in love with him; despite the fact that her adult life was a mess, she is unconvinced that Ralph had anything to do with it.