Review: Unraveling Oliver by Liz Nugent

Pity is an emotion that seems good and harmless at the first flush, understandable in the face of neglect, but becomes toxic in practice, fueling violence and serious damage if allowed to fester. Pity was the first emotion children felt for Oliver as they attended school together and sparked sympathy when school fellows invited Oliver home with them to share holidays and seasons where it seemed to them he had nothing to look forward to stuck behind at the Catholic school with the priests and never going anywhere during breaks or at Xmas. His clothes looked as though they came from the poor box, cast offs that did not fit well and had seen better days.

Pity gave way to anger for Oliver's father who was a prominent man in the parish and left his son to the priests to care for. Oliver grew up and spent time with some of his mates families, always eager to make Oliver feel wanted as he shared their happiness and family togetherness. No wonder Oliver felt he should have the life he should have when he grew up and graduated. A friendly priest also looked out for him, paying his way to college to further his education and fill in the gaps left gaping because of Oliver's father's abandonment of his only son. It was insufficient to pay for his primary schooling, especially after Oliver's father married and had another son by his new wife. At least the second son who attended the parochial day school was treated better as Oliver could see from an upstairs window that looked down at his father's house that was brought into clear focus through binoculars. Oliver's half-brother had everything Oliver lacked and was determined to have when he went to France for the summer between terms at college, working in a vineyard with Laura and her brother, Michael.

Laura was vivacious and beautiful, so like the wife Oliver would marry when the time was right. Michael was a good mate, but not acceptable to Oliver once it became clear Michael was in love with Oliver who was decidedly not interested. Living with the French family, Oliver soon made the transition to the house to work with and live with the family while Laura remained in the quarters meant for seasonal help, especially after Michael began working in the kitchens, leaving Laura behind with the African laborers who were learning to make wine and take that experience back to South Africa to begin a vineyard for their masters.

Unlike Laura and Oliver, both of whom spoke French, the African workers understood very little French and learned nothing when they were subsequently sent back to Africa after the fire that ended the Irish workers' French work-study holiday. A fire mysteriously started that burned down the chateau, killing the vineyard's patriarch and his grandson and ended everyone's summer break. Michael, Oliver, and the other Irish students went back to college, leaving Laura behind to care for Madame who had severely burnt her hands trying to rescue her father and son. Laura insisted remaining to help Madame, returning home the following spring thin and worn out only to commit suicide. By that time Oliver had moved on to another girl who was plain and biddable with a mentally retarded brother and an older mother who soon died, leaving Alice the house and her brother with Oliver. Alice had met Oliver during her summer breaks while traveling and fell in love with Oliver's stories of the prince and his magic kingdom. Alice agreed to provide the illustrations for Oliver's books on the prince and soon was folded into Oliver's life.

Nothing in Oliver's life was as it seemed to be. He worked very hard at fashioning the illusion of the happy and productive life of a children's book author living the perfect family life with Alice in her childhood home. Oliver was also instrumental in making sure her brother was placed into an institution where he could not hurt himself or others. What a shock it was the day after Oliver struck Alice, putting her in hospital and showing the cracks and chasms in their perfect life.

Liz Nugent begins with Oliver's awe-struck and smug declaration that beating his wife was necessary and right. The story of Oliver's life behind the scenes is told through different people, all of whom had played a part in building and maintaining the fictional kingdom where Oliver lived and what he became. Unraveling Oliver is a testament to pity and the force good intentions have in fashioning monsters, villains, and saviors. It is only with the widest possible view Oliver and his carefully created kingdom is at last understood and where readers fully understand who the monsters and villains are and how even villains may have redeeming qualities. Monsters are not created through the application of an abnormal brain as Igor procured for Victor Frankenstein but often through pity when all the pieces are masterfully put together. Nugent's piecing together the final picture is daunting, haunting, and nuanced where no carefully crafted piece is left out or ignored. The reader will be amazed when the puzzle comes together.  5/5 stars.

Dancing Barefoot Among Goats

It was the first book that was all mine and I slept with it under my pillow. All the other books in the house belonged to Mom or were shared with my brother and sister, neither of whom cared anything about reading or books, not then, not when I was ten and they were eight and five. My sister was more interested in clothes and accessories and my brother in playing outside barefoot and getting dirty and into trouble. Only I cared about the books, the children’s library of fairy tales that I absorbed as a sponge absorbs liquid. Unlike the sponge, I didn’t let go of what I absorbed, carrying the stories with me to regale the neighborhood kids with tales of Ice Queens, adventure, sword fights and magical animals under curses who talked. The book I received from my aunt when I was ten was mine.

The book arrived in time for my birthday and a week long bout of measles that kept me confined to my bed. I opened the package and uncovered Heidi by Johanna Spyri, diving into the world of the angry Grandfather forced to take in Heidi, the five-year-old child of his dead, disinherited daughter. Aunt Dete, who trudged up the mountain to Grandfather’s hut, unceremoniously informed him that Heidi was his responsibility; she had better things to do with her life and Heidi was not an asset. Meanwhile, Heidi shed her clothes down to her shift and ran barefoot through the soft alpine grass, as free and happy as only a five-year-old child can be. I was caught in Heidi’s spell, eating golden toasted goat cheese on bread with a chair for a table and a stool for a seat. Nestled in sweet-smelling hay, I gazed in wonder up at the star-filled sky in the black sky visible through the window, lulled to sleep by soft alpine breezes scented with edelweiss. Johanna Spyri shared a new world with me, a world I could visit any time I wished in my very own book.

Owning my first book was important to me. It’s still important as anyone visiting my cottage can quickly see. Stacks of books cover most of the flat surfaces and fill boxes in my office beneath bookshelves groaning under the weight of words and ideas. Heidi was very different fare for me. I cut my teeth on Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey and thrilled to Ivanhoe’s adventures. Outside of the fairy tales I collected, and continue to collect, the only children’s books I read were the ones assigned by teachers unfamiliar with my particular taste in literature. Johanna Spyri’s classic tale was a children’s book only because I was a child when it was given to me. I’ve read it over many times since those long ago days stuck in bed, my skin itching like mad from measles and unable to scratch.

In Heidi’s world, I found a soul mate in the little dark-haired girl entranced by new experiences and open to adventure, a little girl unafraid of anything but being cut off from what she loved most. In Herr Sesemann’s house, among the rich furnishing and sumptuous meals, Heidi longed for Grandfather, blind Grandmother, Peter and the goats, but she wasn’t afraid. She knew the change wasn’t permanent. She could go home whenever she wanted. The only thing Heidi feared was being exiled from the mountains, never to sleep in the sweet-smelling hay beneath the glittering stars and run barefoot with Peter and the goats.

Heidi’s nightmares and exile ended when she returns to the Grandfather’s hut. There she remains, running barefoot with the goats in her shift and eating toasted golden cheese on bread and drinking goat’s milk at the table the Grandfather built for her. With Clara beside her in the hayloft, they fall asleep to the lullaby of pine trees sighing from the soft caress of alpine breezes laden with the scent of edelweiss.

When I read Heidi, or any book, I travel beyond the confines of my responsibilities and chores to different worlds in the care of skillful writers painting dreams with words. I see through eyes not so different from mine, except in color or shape, and inhabit a world where anything can happen. The views are not always so beautiful or so rare, and all the people aren’t good or kind or generous, but they are worth visiting, worth experiencing even second-hand. Books are open doors to realms of possibility that open the mind and the heart to show that no matter who we are or where and how we live, we are connected. Books change us and prove we are not alone, provided we let down our guards and welcome dark-haired orphans dancing barefoot in their shifts on the mountainside among the goats.