In the 1960s in a town of Wadeville, on the then outskirts of Auckland, promising local student Celia Inverarity is discovered murdered and hastily dumped in the weeds of a local park. Suspicion naturally falls upon the last person she was known to visit, her English teacher at Wadesville College, Paul Prior, who served as her mentor and seemed to derive a certain satisfaction from seeing in her some of the promise that he had failed to achieve in his own empty life. Prior was raised in a family characterised by a powerful atmosphere of religious repression, owing to the stern Presbyterianism of his mother and the stale morality of small town closed-mindedness that otherwise surrounded him. But Paul himself had been encultured into the world of rationalism and art by his timid father in the private den that he kept stocked with books — something that he seemed to hope he could reenact with the one prodigy that had emerged out of his otherwise unsatisfactory school-teaching career.
The shock of Celia’s death, along with the cloud of suspicion that overcomes him, causes him to revisit his own childhood and the way his past interacted with the others in the small town around him. In particular, he visits his own literary awakening and his first youthful romantic affair with Celia’s mother and then his own bitter retreat into ironic detachment and isolation at its failure. Celia occupies a complex position in his life, as the daughter he never had, and the nostalgic shadow of desire he once held for her mother, and also, crucially, as the still hopeful image of the sort of person he once wanted to be but lacked the courage to pursue. Her father too, is a childhood friend and occasional one-time rival of his, who grew up together in the pastural world of West Auckland before it became factories and polluted streams. And then his brother, Andrew, a stern moralist and sour-minded Christian in the mould of their mother, who judges Paul from afar while also having a fascination with all the affordances that his brother’s sense of freedom has allowed him to enjoy. Unpicking his past allows him, and by proxy his readers, into the simmering small-town tensions that have brought meaningless death to an innocent young woman.
Though Maurice Gee had published two novels prior to this, he would later be dismissive of their place in his overall body of work and I’ve never seen or read a copy of either. It was instead his third novel, In My Father’s Den, that earned Gee wider critical acclaim and, crucially, a publishing contract with a prestigious publishing house that would bring him wider readership. It’s easy to see why. Gee has always been a writer who can comfortably blend the literary and the popular mass market and In My Father’s Den is an excellent example of this particular mode that he works in. It has the plotboiler elements of a confessional noir, but also a certain elevation in its diction and thought. For a while, I was most put in mind of Sebastian Faulks’s Engleby, another novel that features an unreliable, first-person narrator who describes all around the ostensible subject itself and leaves you with the growing realisation that something is direly wrong with the narrator without needing to give anything away. Of course, the wrongness in Paul Prior isn’t necessarily that he’s guilty, but more than that he's a pathetic hollow figure unable to escape the shackles of his past. He moves in his narration from a potentially dangerous figure to one you hope won’t do something embarrassing.
Compared to some of his contemporaries, Gee’s writing comes across as somewhat unadorned and his narrative is straightforward. This, along with his prodigious output and the body of popular books he wrote for adolescents and children has meant that he doesn’t always get the recognition for his full literary achievement. No matter what sort of books you tend to read, I think you’d find few things indeed to fault in this novel. I really enjoyed it.