Summerwater by Sarah Moss

Review by Han Clark

The cover of Summerwater — a minimalist slash of matte green-gradient — carries a quote from Hilary Mantel which ends: ‘Summerwater throws much contemporary writing into the shade.’ High praise indeed, and yet it is a barely necessary embellishment. Sarah Moss has long since established herself as a vital literary troubadour. Hers is a name, much like Mantel’s, capable of speaking for itself.

Written long before the coronavirus pandemic began, in the wake of the UK’s shameful decision to pursue not only its geographical singularity from Europe, but its increasing political, ethical, and moral otherness to the continent, Sarah Moss’ sixth novel is a subtle, courageous exploration of ordinary people’s capacity for both kindness and cruelty.

Set on the longest day of the summer in a faded Scottish cabin park on the edge of Loch Lomond, the story of twelve people cooped up in their summer cabins – either rented or owned – unfolds, as they try to keep themselves occupied despite the ceaseless, torrential rain. In a series of vignettes punctuated with dispassionately conveyed reports from the natural world around them, Summerwater captures the insidious rise of distrust and suspicion that builds in the tiny make-shift community over the course of a single-day. These tensions stem largely from innocent activities carried out by people who are living on the fringes of societal norms: predominantly an Eastern European family who like to play loud music at night. Their only real crime is being different.

The title of the book comes from The Ballad of Semmerwater: a poem by Sir William Watson, which in turn is based upon the legend of Semmerwater. The legend tells of a stranger (some versions say an angel in disguise) who sought hospitality in the village of Semmerwater and was rebuffed by all except one poor household. Upon leaving the village, the stranger/angel cursed the place and doomed all (bar the one kind family) to drown in a sudden flood. Moss’s interest in folklore, particularly its darker side, is well known and expressed in some form in all ofher previous novels. That she should choose this particular legend to re-tell in the wake of Brexit… well.  

Yet despite this, Moss writes each of the twelve characters with a deeply humanist and abidingly sympathetic consideration of their individual needs and desires. The building tensions within the novel may be warnings, but they are not judgemental on an individual scale. These twelve people, Moss tells us, are doing the best they can in difficult circumstances, and their individualism is made more poignant by their isolation — whether it is a working mother snatching an hour for herself to run, a teenage girl desperate to find a phone signal so that she can speak to her friends, a boy fighting against the feeling of being hemmed in by taking his kayak out on the perilous loch, or an older couple enjoying afternoon coffee in separate places, unable to establish a connection.

The backdrop of the Scottish highlands is accented by interludes that gift the natural world a series of fitting sub-titles: There Are Always Wolves, The Weight of Water. This styling pulls the focus slightly, creating a side-view of the characters’ problems, lending them, almost, an air of insignificance.  

Time, Moss tells us, is not on our side. Our lives are all as simultaneously precious as they are meaningless. Somewhere within that revelation lies a beautiful paradox that floats just out of reach, like a summer storm cloud reflected on a silver loch.

Summerwater is published by Picador, 20h September 2020

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