I could not have predicted that my book group would have been reading Rose Tremain this month or that this review is of a book written by the same author as that on my inaugural post two years ago today! Serendipity? Coincidence? Symmetry? Whatever it is, it certainly was not planned.
Rose Tremain’s 2008 Orange-winning “The Road Home” was a novel I approached without much enthusiasm – the subject of immigration not one to raise my hopes and my expectations were of a pessimistic tale of unrelenting misery. (That is probably a lingering aftertaste of Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle”.) Well, after 30 minutes of discussion involving much laughter, I had to ask the group whether they’d considered “The Road Home” a comic novel!
It’s not but the woeful tale of the dilapidated Chevy, the ultimate success symbol in Eastern Europe, and the many ingenious uses of vodka and other unexpected liquids in keeping it on the road are very entertaining. As are Rose Tremain’s potshots at London’s luvey-duvey arts scene. Employing her immigrant, Lev, in a restaurant allows her to explore the age of the celebrity chef and the other side of the kitchen doors. Food is an important motif running through the novel – food as a symbol of wellbeing or otherwise, a symbol of belonging or alienation, of love or complete indifference. You can enjoy Greek, Indian, Morroccan and haute cuisine in its pages. But where I ask would you find a menu like this ….
Wickedly lovely free-range chicken breasts stuffed with mushrooms, shallots and herbs, served with a totally brilliant jus
Watermelon sorbet with no black seeds or rubbish in it
There are many strands to Tremain’s novel and she has blended them all seamlessly. This is due mainly to the compassionate way in which she depicts her main character, Lev – an economic but legal – as he is at pains to point out – migrant from an unnamed Eastern Europe country. He is not without flaws – in fact, there is a huge rafter in his eye when it comes to his relationships with women – but this does not alienate the reader. Recently widowed, he comes to London seeking to make money to send back to his impoverishered mother and his young daughter. Now it could go terribly badly – and in places it does – but fortune is smiling on Lev and, despite shooting himself in the foot more than once, there is a happy ending.
While this is very satisfying, Lev strikes lucky far too often. Lydia, the woman he meets on his journey into England, should be beatified. Christy, his landlord, is too tolerant. The job at the old folk’s home lands in his lap too coincidentally.
But these are trifling concerns in the context of the overall subtlety of the novel. In refusing to stereotype her immigrant, Tremain humanises him. Lev would drown in his grief without the strength imparted to him through his friendships. Without the right breaks, he wouldn’t be able to carve out a future for himself and his family. In a time economic instability, when distrust of immigrant workers is growing, Tremain’s novel can be read as a call for compassionate understanding. It’s of no benefit to anyone to keep willing workers on the poverty line.
1/2
Lizzy's Literary Life (Volume One) 
I’ve got this waiting to be read. Love the idea of runninga car on vodka! Think I’d rather drink it though! Lol
Do you think it matters where he is from, or do you think it is deliberately non-specific? Other internet reviewers (who have obviously not read it as closely as you) suggest Poland, or even Russia (which is way off IMO) – what did you think?
This is on my TBR and will be moving higher up it thanks to your recommendation Lizzy, great review.
My wife read this in her book group. I tried it but didn’t quite finish. It seemed a little bit Maeve Binchy to me – which is a shame, because Tremain’s earlier novels have been fantastic.
You’ve described it really well and written an excellent review.
ABB
I admit I initially thought Lev was from Poland but I don’t know specifically why. We’re not given his last name and the village he originates from doesn’t exist. Then the building of the dam saw my mind flitting off to China, of all places.
Tremain has deliberately left the country vague. When asked about the research for the novel, she said “The most important piece of research I did for The Road Home was to interview Polish field-workers in Suffolk. I learned a lot from them – about what they hoped to achieve in England, how they viewed the people here, and how much they worried about their parents at home, left adrift – after 40 years in a Communist political system – in a world they might never fully understand. I also read many books about life in post-1989 Eastern Europe and returned to my own notes made on earlier visits to East Berlin and Russia. This research drove me to locate Lev’s backstory in an unnamed country, to create for myself an imaginative freedom.”
Full interview here.
Thanks for sharing the link and your feelings too – I agree the Polish feel comes through strongly, especially as he is dark and good looking and that would reflect a few Poles I know 😉 But I guess I was looking for more anchors ion time and place when I read it – I kept seeing post 1999 Eastern Europe, but Lady Di died in 1997 yet from the way she is talked about in the story occasionally, it feels as though she is alive. But I agree it is not central; but it must have been very deliberate – I’d love to ask her why she wrote it that way, than more time and place specific. I loved it.
Funnily enough I intially assumed Lev was from Russia, due to the Russian cigarettes he smokes, he often mentions home being close or within Baryn, which is a city in the Ukraine.
I thought this was a really bad book, an unbelievable plot, lots of stereotypes and a protaganist we are asked to synpathise with although he rapes his ex girlfriend. Why does he refuse food although he hasn’t eaten for ages? How does a smoker ever throw away an unsmoked cigarette? It reads like a hastily thrown together determined attempt to put people from several nationalities together. Full of phrases that if you stop to examine are ludicrous and meaningless.