'The Field of the Cloth of Gold', by Magnus Mills

Δημοσιεύθηκε: 8 Μαΐου 2015 - 16:46

Some see a world in a grain of sand; Magnus Mills sees one in a campsite. In The Field of the Cloth of Gold, the meadow in question is, according to the narrator, "the place where momentous events would unfold and come to fruition". The fact that these momentous events mostly involve putting up tents, then taking them down again is irrelevant. Life lived under canvas is still life.

This is Mills's eighth novel. He sprang to public notice back in 1998 as a Man Booker Prize-shortlisted author who also worked as a bus driver and has long hung his prose upon the simple things in life - camping, fence-building, neighbours. It's a good thing that his subject matter is so simple because Mills excels in keeping his readers guessing.

Take The Field of the Cloth of Gold. The one thing it doesn't seem to be about is Henry VIII's little excursion to Calais in 1520. Instead it could be a parable about immigration neatly launched in time for the UK's general election. Or perhaps a modern retelling of Britain's ancient history. It's certainly one long extended metaphor. But is it also an ode to the important role played by biscuits in our island's identity?

Almost the only thing we can be sure of is that Mills chooses to begin with a timeless setting and a nameless narrator who sets up his camp in a field bounded on three sides by a river: "The field was flourishing, and I eagerly awaited the halcyon days which I was certain lay just ahead." Slowly others drift in to join him. Some, such as Hen, who initially claims to be the first resident of the field, prefer a life lived largely in isolation. Others bring with them the trappings of civilisation and the double-edged sword that is companionship.

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Mills renders each character with the broadest of brushstrokes. They are recognisable types, symbolised by their choice of abode. Isabella, the only woman in the field (and seemingly a fan of "glamping") arrives with a crimson tent, an eiderdown and a collection of velvet cushions. "I was coming to realize that what mattered most to Isabella was the inner tent, rather than the outer trappings." Hartopp, on the other hand, is deeply practical. "He was visibly proud of [his tent's] innovations, which included an extended awning and a set of pulley blocks for adjusting the guy ropes from within."

More and more individuals crowd into the field - first the inhabitants of a Roman-style encampment, then a band of Viking-like marauders and finally a loincloth-sporting holy man. The happy summer days start to cloud over as factions form, tensions rise and loyalties splinter.

Thomas Pynchon has praised Mills's deadpan comedy, and it remains a sly, understated yet knowing humour of the kind any Brit will instinctively recognise. Even his treatment of biscuits, a recurrent theme in this novel, provides a masterclass in how to combine the surreal and the mundane. The narrator is forced to hand over one of these treats in a much-begrudged gesture of civility: "I'd harboured ambitious plans for that biscuit . . . [it] was an integral part of my project to forge trading links between the field's many diverse settlements. Seen from this perspective, the biscuit's intrinsic worth went far beyond its face value."

<>The biscuit's fate, like that of the field and its inhabitants, is a wry commentary on society: the inescapable, predictable, argumentative community in which all of us have to make our lives. The narrator, our everyman, may want to escape, and indeed strikes out for the far end of the field: "Just for a change, it would be me who was the man of destiny, the adventurer and the pioneer." But he is unable to extricate himself from other people and continues to watch their activities obsessively from his new vantage point.

There is a moment in the text when one of the characters is described as having been "ambushed by his own imagination". Mills's readers will know exactly how this feels. His utter originality continues to jump out at us until the very last page. Slowly we come to realise that we each exist in a field of our own, counting our biscuits and worrying about who is tightening their guy ropes next door.

The Field of the Cloth of Gold, by Magnus Mills, Bloomsbury, RRP£16.99, 224 pages

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