Books written by modern authors about youth in the 1950s can be problematic, since the era holds an uncertain place in the popular imagination. From 60s rock ‘n’ roll to the Britpop of the 90s, the music of each subsequent decade has expressed a distinctive flavour that both forged and reflected how the young rebelled.

Yet the 50s were where the social ruptures that gave form to the discontent that fuelled this process originated. Young people found a reason to break away from the older generation with its lack of imagination and stiff upper lip, its complacent establishment that had failed to see the consequences of the future. The Cold War. The rise of Europe. Suez.

Sadie Jones’ The Outcast takes this social canvas and plays it in microcosm through a story that exposes the social fractures of middle-class England. It follows the youth of Lewis Aldridge, a boy from a comfortable upper-middle class family. When his father, Gilbert, returns after the War, it seems Lewis’ childhood is set to unroll in idyllic fashion, with his steady, caring, if reticent father, and his beautiful, loving, borderline alcoholic mother, Elizabeth.
That is, of course, until it begins to unravel after Elizabeth drowns on a picnic with her son. What follows is a familiar story about the protagonist’s alienation from a society that is too emotionally brittle to understand the intricacies of a young boy’s grief, from a father who moves on too quickly to keep up appearances and heal both himself and his son:

“You’d better not make your mother’s death an excuse. That would be a terrible thing to do, like hurting her again.”

This inevitably turns into unconscious rage, directed first inwards through teenage alcoholism and self-harm, and then outwards, as Lewis ruthlessly follows his teenage drives, rebelling against an abusive society’s hypocritical disdain, and his own family’s awkward concern:

“Even when she tried to be kind he turned away from her, but all the time he hoped, shamefully, in his child’s heart, that she would notice him, and hold him, and help. The bad things he did had been useful at first, but now they were stronger than he was. He knew he needed her help, or somebody’s. He scared himself.”

What stops The Outcast being a standard yarn about emotionally dysfunctional families from the 50s is the interplay between a few key characters. Jones skilfully crafts the narrative to avoid self-righteousness; and rather shows how the effects a single tragic event can be mishandled into a malicious force. Lewis’ self-abuse and destructive tendencies are sadder in light of Gilbert’s desperate attempts to mend his ‘broken’ son through ‘tough love.’ And another dimension is added through the perspective of Alice, Gilbert’s new wife. Her desire to understand Lewis, to be liked in return and form a new family are thwarted by her innocent naïveté; caught between Gilbert’s repressed grief and Lewis’ brutal cynicism; the boy scorning her “love me, love me laugh,” whilst himself being unable to cope with her sympathy and neediness:

“She looked up into his face and her need was so great he couldn’t look away from her.
‘You were this little broken thing and I was too young to mend you, and I’m sorry.’
He felt sick with himself and as if he had forced her to say it.”

Witnessing the family’s silent pain is the young Kit Carmichael, a precocious and understanding girl, who knows Lewis’ unhappiness all too well through the physical abuse of her respectable and thoroughly repugnant father, in the face of complaisance from her mother and sister.

Jones’ characters are extremely well crafted, with each event teasing out delicate, confused emotions as the characters try to express things they feel unable to vocalise, to justify actions that originate from deep-seated hurts. It results in a flexible narrative that exudes pathos, yet which still has the ability to protract horror at actions that display a crude malice, complacent arrogance, or love, be it plain and true, or clumsy and resulting in more harm than good.

The plainness of Jones’ tone allows the emotions and motives of the characters to be reflected clearly and without judgement. The trouble is this serves to hide the absence of a deeper meaning. Jones skilfully manipulates the historical setting of her book and in this sense The Outcast is a good novel; but she does not say anything of great significance to agree or disagree with.

The book fits nicely with our liberal view of society today, and ticks the boxes that view demands: that domestic abuse is wrong, that children are complex psychological entities we often fail to comprehend. This stops the plot becoming too complicated, which is a danger if an author has an agenda to put forward, but it doesn’t inspire deeper reflection. I think most people would read the book and think “bit of a bum deal that, losing your mum at an early age” and then carry on with their day untroubled. 

This is also in part due to the novel’s ending. The Outcast begs comparison with Atonement and The Remains of the Day, but while those books retain a sense of bittersweet half-closure, with the tragic impact of events hitting home even at the finish; Jones chooses an ending more loaded with finality, resolving many, possibly too many tensions. There is something of a grand climax, imbued with hope and optimism, but this seems to betray the prolonged pain of the characters into a somewhat uncomplicated, easy resolution. This in my mind is what stops this fine book truly being a winner.