So, here we are. There are only two books remaining on this years Booker shortlist and, a few high points aside, it’s been... forgettable. Carol Birch’s Jamrach’s Menagerie was surprisingly brilliant however, and it’d be nice to think that the shortlist might throw up a few more second-half surprises. Unfortunately, the superlative hype that has outridden Stephen Kelman's Damilola Taylor inspired Pigeon English means that it won’t get much of a chance to surprise us. Although it does augur well for a decent read at least.
The circumstance of Pigeon English’s inception and incubation makes for a pretty decent story by itself. The debut novel from a former care worker, it sat on a literary agent’s slush pile before being ‘discovered’ and sparking a 12-way publishing Battle Royale. The result of which was a book deal resembling a nauseous procession of digits and, presumably, an extremely happy Stephen Kelman. Cacophonous fanfare abounded, the more restrained critics thrummed with praise, while some of the more excitable types thrashed themselves into a euphoric frenzy.
It has all the makings then of a bestseller, but is it actually any good? Well, it’s interesting… Written in the first person, it describes the experiences of 11-year-old Harrison Opoku, who has just moved to a London estate from his native Ghana. It encompasses the usual trials of being an 11-year-old; including boyish rivalry, incipient morality and a fledgling love interest. As well as taking a look at some of the more unique challenges that immigrants face, all framed by Harri’s partial comprehension. The real focus though is on inner city gang culture, which forms the crux of this narrative. After an older boy is knifed outside a fried chicken place, Harri naively plays detective, unwittingly endangering both himself and his family.
The aim of Pigeon English is admirable at least — it’s a mature portrait of gang culture and inner city youth. In this vision, the actions of gang members are governed by fear and the exigencies of bravado. And even the most violent teenagers are at heart just frightened boys. Their lives are, literally, poised on a knife-edge, subject to the vicissitudes of chance. Sadly though, the execution of the book is beyond disappointing.
You’d have thought from the title that the voice would be a pidgin dialect, but if it is then it’s a shockingly bad attempt. Caught between trying to voice the Ghanaian and the 11-year-old, it fails spectacularly at both. The Ghanaian is represented by a few stock words sprinkled obtrusively over an otherwise derelict voice. And as for the 11-year-old, it’s either appallingly observed or an irritatingly conspicuous attempt to make him oh-so-cutely naïve. In which, I strongly suspect the latter.
Elsewhere, Kelman attempts to introduce some much needed gravity by use of a talking pigeon. Yes, a talking pigeon. Admittedly, it’s unambiguously supposed an abject manifestation of an angel which, with all credit to Kelman, does provide some spiritual relief from Pigeon English’s inescapable conclusion. And it was probably wise of him to anticipate the undoubtedly fragile constitutions of the kind of readers that are enamoured by this kind of lachrymose pandering. Nevertheless, the pigeon spouts such offensively portentous drivel that you finish the book with just a terrible sense of the injustice of the pigeon failing to die.
I always strive to be even handed in my reviews. And, believe it or not, I actually took great pains to neuter this piece, stripping it of excess and unwarranted cruelty. But in this case the edited review was just too short.
