(Originally posted 1 May 2007.)
I first saw What Was Lost recommended on Susan Hill’s blog, and it was later longlisted for the Orange Prize. What a pity it didn’t make it to the shortlist - in my opinion, it would have deserved to be there. This book is splendid in so many ways. A page-turning, compelling story, as well as witty, touching, and altogether wonderful.
In 1984, Kate Meaney is a lonely ten-year-old who spends most of her time sleuthing and observing people at the enormous Green Oaks shopping centre, assisted by her trusty side-kick, Micky the toy monkey. She’s desperate for something mysterious and sinister to happen, so that she could solve the crime and prove her mettle as a real detective. Her wish is granted when she herself disappears without a trace.
One night in 2003, Kurt, a young but jaded security guard at Greek Oaks, sees something strange on the CCTV screen: a little girl with a toy monkey. At first he thinks she’s either lost or a runaway and tries to find her, but it turns out only he can see her. Then Lisa, a burnt-out deputy manager at a music store, finds a dusty told monkey behind some old pipes in a service corridor. She and Kurt set out to solve the mystery - and, as the blurb on the back of the book says, ‘as this after-hour friendship grows in intensity, it brings new loss and new longing to light.’
This book is many things at once - a mystery, a piece of social commentary, a realistic look at myriad human relationships, and occasionally a comedy. Somewhat spooky, yes, but more than that bittersweet; charming, funny, and perceptive, but often bleak in its perceptiveness. It’s about people who feel lost, and people who have lost much. To me, this was the most affecting aspect of the book: the sense of time going by, and things and people disappearing from the face of the earth and all living memory. Here’s Kurt, thinking about her dead girlfriend Nancy (and feeling what I myself have often felt to be true):
Sometimes when he was at home in the afternoon, the sun would shine in a certain way through his bedroom window, the net curtain would move in the breeze, causing a rippling shadow on the wall, and he’d have a strong sense-memory of what it felt like to be loved, what it felt like to fall asleep and wake up with someone’s hand in yours. He’d try and hold onto this sensation of euphoria as long as he could but it was only ever momentary. Mainly, all he could dredge up of certain times were memories of memories. He was scared to think back too much, frightened that repeated playing would wear the memories out completely. He’d already forgotten how she laughed. He felt the weight and responsibility of being the only person guarding all these memories. It made him panic sometimes, as if he was trying to hold water in his hands. He wanted to download the memories somewhere safe, keep them backed up.
Kate’s point of view is delightfully convincing, as many reviewers have pointed out: while reading about her, I could vividly remember what it felt like to be a child, to take small things very seriously and long to be taken seriously myself. I was a bit disappointed when her section came to an end; it consisted of 70 powerful pages, but I would have liked to read on and on.
Another thing that is particularly convincing is the closed universe of Green Oaks: its bustle during the day, its spookiness at night; its dehumanised employees and anonymous customers, whose short interior monologues are interspersed in the narrative. These miniature stories are little gems in themselves, heart-breaking or funny, or both at once. According to the author bio, O’Flynn has worked as a teacher, web editor, mystery customer, and postwoman, as well as in a music store - and this shows. The picture she paints of humanity is nothing if not multi-faceted.
My only complaint is that the ending felt a little rushed, and the solution to the mystery a little contrived; the build-up was better than the resolution. But when the build-up is this good, that is a small complaint.
Tindal Street Press 2007 paperback 240 pp. ISBN: 0955138418
[...] You can read Leena’s Review of What Was Lost for Vulpes here. [...]