Tessa Hadley presents everything as fine at the front while it comes apart comprehensively at the back. The dozen short stories that comprise After the Funeral, her absorbing and thoroughly readable fourth collection, manage with a quiet dexterity the emotional situations that promote this kind of undoing.
Lynette, central character of Dido’s Lament, bumps into – or is bumped into by – Toby, her ex of many years. The collision, and what they make of it, will maintain a certain ambivalence. Who actually bumped into whom? Which of them, if either, has recovered from the damage they did one another in the past? Elsewhere it’s a different story, although as a story Old Friends occupies the same carefully curated kind of space: Christopher and Sally are made for one another – “she fitted into the shape of his own serious nature like a nut in its nutshell”. But Sally is still married to celebrity BBC war correspondent Frank, so she decides they’ll have to wait. Christopher isn’t sure what they are waiting for exactly, while the “whole exaggerated scale of Frank’s personal operation” continues to draw in everyone else “like a baggage train dragged after some showy emperor”.
That use of “personal operation” to describe a familiar kind of energetically middle-aged male narcissism sums up Hadley’s talent: the ruthless analysis of unstable situations, and of how we maintain them while we extract their resources. Her unpicking of character is focused, intense and yet always, somehow, in parallel, kind. What it does best is produce in the reader exactly what she offers her characters, for a sickening moment or two, in each story: a vast, difficult, unruly elation. For this to work, they need to arrive in front of us with comprehensive histories.
They’re often mature survivors of the 1970s or the children of those survivors: lecturers, musicians, civil servants, writers, comfortably off, less comfortably self-aware. Angie, for instance, has “escaped” a “posh county family” while Sally does “something or other part-time for the British Council”. Your overall impression – perhaps unfair – is that they have settled somewhere between Bristol and the Cotswolds in shabbily expensive old houses. The author lays off them a little but details their floor coverings and kitchen tables in gleeful closeup. They’re at ease enough with their class to enjoy the way someone holds a fork (“the poised, elegant angle of her wrist and her rather big tanned hand”). They support an affective regime in which everything from sex to nice cooking is a performance, a controllable resource that can be withdrawn instantly, “like a favour they were bored with proffering”. It’s not that the stories can’t be told without these densely worked characteristics of theirs, more that the character is the story. Often, perhaps, too obviously. Children at Chess, a study not much more than three pages long, remains unstorified by the strange little point-of-view flip in its last paragraph – although similar brisk redirections of readerly gaze are used successfully elsewhere to finesse endings that combine delicacy and horsepower.
A Hadley story will often require an outsider, or at least someone who thinks of themselves as an outsider – someone who performs that role not so much for us, the readers, but to and for the other characters. Difference is to be cherished, from the ad hoc hippy rituals of My Mother’s Wedding through the faddy diet and spectacular dissociation of Robyn, titular child of Funny Little Snake, to the cast of The Bunty Club, in which three middle-aged sisters still unconsciously await the “all transforming mystery” hinted at by their ramshackle childhood in a house by the sea. Adults who don’t fully remember an odd upbringing are still trying to find somewhere to fit in while their hearts seem to understand that childhood long ago shaped their adult circumstances. You could find this conclusion banal, but the author’s deft switches from comedy to drama won’t permit it. Sometimes a kind of gothic is required to turn the trick: there are pungent, luxurious descriptions of magic gardens, magic houses, magic families, and especially of magic interiors in which something’s not quite right – though never visibly wrong. Rain “comes sluicing” across big windows, wheelie bins blow over, rooms are either “greenish and spectral or bleak with the lights on in the middle of the day”. The disaster is sensed, if never quite consummated.
And anyway, down the road somewhere another story is always already fermenting. In Men, two women called Jan and Michelle find themselves in a hotel bar. They are sisters, but in the Hadley way: that is, they haven’t set eyes on one another for 15 years. We want to know why. Beautiful Jan is “tall and serene, and pale”. Michelle works in the hotel office, never was beautiful, has “a little pasty face as soft as putty”. She’s instantly aware of her sister’s presence, “like an animal picking up a scent, a smear of something rank”. The men, meanwhile, unaware of this suddenly resumed, weirdly tense relationship, are loud and middle-aged; stand easily at the bar, relaxing into their money.
What’s revealed before the story ends might change something, even for them, smug as they are. More likely, it will make a small but significant adjustment in the reader’s view of the world. In a 2007 review of Hadley’s first collection, Anne Enright described her as “immensely subversive” – a judgment that has only gathered force since. Whatever Hadley’s characters believe about themselves, they’re always working hard for change, striving, consciously or otherwise, to knock the props out from under whatever life they’re leading.
• After the Funeral by Tessa Hadley is published by Jonathan Cape (£18.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
