John of John by Douglas Stuart review: 'I'd give him another Booker right away'
The level of writerly empathy is off the scale in this superb third novel from Douglas Stuart, writes David Robinson
Twice on Sundays and once every Wednesday at 6pm, 22-year-old Cal Macleod waits at a phone box by the Meadows in Edinburgh for his father John to ring from Harris, singing the day’s chosen Gaelic psalm down the line and expecting his son to sing it back to him. There’s not much conversation, because John isn’t one for small talk, though he does mention that Cal’s beloved grandmother hasn’t been well. For his part, Cal keeps quiet about the men he is sleeping with.
Already, then, at the start of Douglas Stuart’s third novel - the first he has written since winning the Booker in 2020 for Shuggie Bain* - the connection between the two men contains a disconnection too. There are secrets neither can share with the other, all weighted against a faith which, in the 1990s, permeates island life: John is deacon in a church that still disciplines backsliders in public shaming sessions and chains up swings on the Sabbath.
Until now, fathers have been largely absent in Stuart’s fiction (as they were from the age of four, in his own life) and the grittier side of a Glasgow life very much present. To this extent, John of John marks a sea change. Indeed, it is only when Cal is crossing the Minch that the novel explains its title. Asked “Who do you belong to?” by an elderly passenger, he replies “John of John of Ian of Ian the Breabadair.” (Breabadair means weaver, and is the first of several Gaelic words you may find yourself looking up).
So the prodigal returns: broke and jobless despite getting a first at a Borders art college, Cal heads home to the croft at which John works as a sheep farmer and weaver. Tensions between the two are inevitable, because Cal has dyed his long hair, wears torn, low-slung jeans and at church services shows no inclination to join the elect in the pews nearest the altar. So far, so predictable, and when John raises his hand to him for insolence, and when Cal writes off in response to a “Men Seeking Men” advert in the newspaper, we might imagine we can see the direction in which the novel is heading.
Yet Stuart is such a superlative storyteller that no sooner does he allow one plot possibility to form in the reader’s mind than he takes it off on another tack. Never mind Cal taking ecstasy on the ferry home, or accidentally letting his Walkman clatter to the floor in the shocked silence of a Sabbath service: what is John doing gently stroking the hand of Innes, his one close friend on the island? Is it just because Innes has just reassured him about Cal (“It must be something to see a little bit of the world. Imagine having to quiet yourself after that”)?
Stuart has indeed imagined a life where you really do have to quiet yourself, whether in the name of God or getting on with your island neighbours or merely to avoid saddling yourself with a lifelong nickname. There is a huge cast of characters, all of them well realised, right down to the smallest roles. The level of writerly empathy is off the scale.
John himself has tried to live such a quiet, narrowed, God-fearing life ever since his wife deserted him. Stoically, he keeps weaving in his shed even when Cal, who also takes turns at the loom, discovers John is allergic to wool. Hand-weaving is an individualistic craft, with each cloth invariably bearing the subtle signature of its maker, yet when they take it to the blending shed, no-one can tell the difference. “We could be the same man,” Cal notes. Are they though?
Apart from a somewhat rushed element to part of the ending, John of John is a superb example of what a novel can do. Its characters have psychological depth, its descriptions are convincing, its plot weaves back decades yet is never less than tense, and there is a visceral sense of place. If it were up to me, I’d give Douglas Stuart another Booker prize right away.
John of John, by Douglas Stuart, Picador, £20
*Stuart began writing his 2022 novel Young Mungo in 2016, after setting aside the finished manuscript of his first novel, Shuggie Bain, due to frustration that he was unable to find a publisher for it. He finished writing Young Mungo in 2020, before winning the Booker Prize for Shuggie Bain.
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