Late one night, Arthur, or Q as he is more commonly known, a middle-aged “quantum cryptographer” employed by the British government to handle technological disasters, is startled by a knock at the door. Standing there is a man wearing a cape and a fedora who recites a poem prophesying the coming apocalypse and Q’s instrumental role in the new dawn that will follow. Apparently, Q is one of the chosen ones. Troubled but unsurprised, he returns to his armchair, furrows his brow, steeples his fingers, and sets to wondering “whether there was any point in doing anything”.
This opening scene pretty well sets the tone for what follows. Light Over Liskeard is an unhurried, whimsical, slightly grouchy and often surreal novel about the end of the world. Long-term readers of Louis de Bernières may come prepared. In a career that began with a magic realism-inspired Latin American trilogy, took off with the historical romance Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, and has gone down such byways as Red Dog, a rather heartwarming tale of an Australian sheepdog, and Notwithstanding, a collection of determinedly eccentric stories of English village life, De Bernières has shown himself to be full of surprises, conjuring narratives of considerable charm and impressive sweep.
It is a pity, then, that Light Over Liskeard, despite its fanciful characters and pressing theme, never comes to life. It depicts a dystopian Britain in the not-too-distant future, entirely dependent on increasingly malfunctioning technology, with a declining population of aimless and useless layabouts. Q, disgusted with humanity (“these maggots”) and spurred by the stranger’s message (“I always had the feeling that I would one day be at the forefront of a new beginning”), heads, seemingly on a whim, to Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. There, he finds a dilapidated farmhouse that he decides to kit out as a state-of-the-art bolthole where he will bring his wife and children when the time comes.
And there he meets the weird and wonderful local characters. There are his neighbours: Theo, a huge park ranger in army fatigues, and his daughter Eva (or “Runnergirl”), a free-spirited young woman who sprints everywhere. There is also Maidie Knox Lilita, the ghost of an Edwardian schoolgirl; Maranatha, a messianic Welshman; and Fergus, a prickly Scot who has gone off grid. Stalking the landscape are people dressed as characters from Arthurian legend as well as previously extinct animals and a friendly lynx.
This setup suggests there is fun to be had. And, in snatches, there is. But the dawdling and unfocused narrative, made more so by constant changes in point of view and frequent side quests, means that the overwhelming feeling is one of frustration. Most damaging is De Bernières’ seeming lack of interest in his theme. Despite a few amusing scenes – a disastrous meal in a fully automated restaurant, for instance – the reality of life in a technological dystopia on the brink of oblivion is ignored in favour of a rural love story between Q and Eva, with only the occasional knowing aside left over (“Mind you, now they’re predicting an ice age, I expect they’ll be trying to get us back on fossil fuels again”).
The heart and soul of the novel is meant to be the real human relationships that flower once Q leaves the city for the country. But these seem as phoney as those of the reviled city dwellers and their sexbots. Q, a dull and pasty middle-aged man, supposedly enraptures Eva, a vivacious artist half his age. A country bumpkin, she is in awe: “‘Would you like to know something about quantum mechanics?’ he asked, and she widened her eyes in assent.” This reader’s advice: stop him before he starts.
• Light Over Liskeard is published by Harvill Secker (£20). To support the Guardian and the Observer buy a copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
