Jericho by Dirk Bogarde

With love broken down

A brotherly key arrives

Provence rekindles

A light holiday novel with a deep shady touch of JG Ballard

Jericho

by Dirk Bogarde

Viking 1992 ISBN 0670840440

Dirk Bogarde: Legend on Leinwand; legend in life. Legend of literature? Jericho is an invitation to visit Provence to unravel the Bogarde Caldicott Mystery. It is admirably paced (until the end, which seems to rather rush to wrap things up, and the pacing is helped along by remarkable coincidences of timing) and each chapter ends on a cliffhanger (albeit from a low cliff, unlike the Cliffs of Jericho). It is also somehow thinly written so that not a lot seems to be happening even when a lot is happening in a short space of time. That combination makes it gripping – in a very kid glove way – and a light, lazy read; which many would consider a highly successful book. The dialogue coming from anyone other than Caldicott is frequently jarringly unreal and expository (especially children) and the heart of the book really is the successful tension of the mystery, the locale, and the Bogardisms. Certainly, if you enjoy reading the sweetly caustic and Bogardian such as: 

"She slopped across... Like the whole dreary kitchen: a mixture of the twee and the dreadful... dimmed now by years of fry-ups and quick wipes down with a dishcloth... I didn't like her much... 'Mail perhaps. It's his time'... I'd miss the kids, in a way... As far as I was concerned, Helen was an empty yoghurt pot... She'd need glasses soon... men were after her like chickens... 'Commercial TV is the pits'... 'I know every nook and cranny of your highly desirable body, but...' ... But the tyre went flat anyway... 'I talk in cliches, I bloody know I do'... admitted wrongs which were not of my doing... I really didn't much care for him... It didn't bother me at all... I was at home quite a lot now, to support her somehow. But that wasn't enough, so it was, all in all, a bloody year... I didn't get married; for some reason I was inhibited... The physical side was okay – managed that very well, I was often told – but, somehow, I didn't want responsibility... my work, which was alright – better than alright, really... 'You will eat well.' 'I expect to.' ... Perhaps borage?... eating rather coarsely at table... Not particularly beautiful; pleasant looking in a perfectly ordinary peasant way... humdrum tasks performed by a humdrum creature... I had no vestige of Edgar Allan Poe about me. Nor did I wish to have... cheap modern mirror... hand-knitted, judging by the sag at the hem... 'You speak very good French'... as if I was sitting in a dentist's waiting-room... 'But heaven turns to hell sometimes, doesn't it?'... tut-tutting with anger... 'They were caught out in their sin'... have a beer and a meal at Chez Titin... The muguet almost smothered in kitsch... A sad, weak, ill-written letter... I had a splendid reputation for my avuncular benevolence... I state this in all humility... Their intense concentration on a fairly tough guinea-fowl in a thick red wine sauce irritated me... I was extremely pleased with myself... The world could get on without any assistance, or interference, from me... 'There are over three hundred varieties of cheese here in France, we'll manage'......"

then you will enjoy a book of the sort, as William Caldicott self-deprecates, that is left behind in airplanes.

© Bryn Roberts 2023

Published 2 July 2023