Satirical state-of-the-nation reading: "Number 11" by Jonathan Coe

Note to self: I must stop reading books in the wrong order. Number 11, the second of the audiobooks consumed on my recent trip to Nottingham, was for me a follow-up to the  delightful Expo 58, a spy-ridden, Cold War Belgian romance. I noted at the time that the ostensible 1950s lost innocence of Expo 58 was reportedly untypical of Jonathan Coe (so far, so right), but also that I would be back for more to try out some of his more reputedly politically trenchant and acerbic fiction. Hence, when the opportunity presented itself, Number 11 went onto the iBooks account. Except that, it seems, it should have been What a Carve Up! to which this novel is a (sort of) sequel. Oh well.

Mind you, there's no problem about reading Number 11 as a standalone novel. I just have the feeling I would have registered what Coe was up to sooner if I had read the earlier book. As it was, Number 11 was a slightly odd experience, as it was not immediately apparent what kind of book this was. Indeed, even at the end, I am not quite sure. The story starts with an account of a childhood visit by two friends, Rachel and Alison, to Rachel's grandparents in Beverley, Yorkshire. There are hints of weirdness, even of the supernatural, in the girls' adventures during their brief holiday, during which, in a kind of Famous Five style, they unravel the mystery of a strange local woman, her spooky house and a possibly undead character seen in the woods at night. But - or at least so it seems - this is no ghost story, but perhaps more a tale of growing up and friendship. Except that we are then abruptly transported into what seems a completely different story - a completely different style of story - from which Rachel and Alison are suddenly absent.


Of course, it all comes together over the length of the book, with the fates of disparate characters intersecting and intertwining in a narrative which seems ultimately to become a kind of jaundiced and misanthropic state-of-the-nation novel. The tone becomes predominantly one of biting satire - there is not a male character, Rachel's ailing grandfather excepted, who is not obsessive, greedy, ruthless, self-absorbed, exploitative or a combination of these, while only a few of the female characters manage to retain their basic humanity and our sympathy. Coe's main satirical target its found in  London's new super-rich, whose soulless hubris sows the seeds of their (possible) downfall, together with the inverted political values which guarantee their place in society. However, subsidiary targets can evince even greater passion. For me the most emotionally powerful denunciation in the novel is aimed at the distorted values and brutal cynicism expressed in reality TV and the morally unfettered social media universe which feeds off it. Other targets include academia, the police, the news media and the welfare system, all nailed quite effectively through absurd stories and vaguely unhinged characters. 

Nor does that initial hint of weirdness go away. Indeed, it storms back, presaged by digressions on 1950s and 1960s British sci-fi (think Quatermass), though highly ambiguously, in the form of a different, possibly metaphorical, creature from the pit. I'll leave you to find out about that.

Jonathan Coe

There is a lot in this book: there are many characters, some real humans and some caricatures; there are many stories, sequential and overarching; there are different tones, sinister, lightly comical, bitingly satirical, personal and emotional: there are different agendas. It does all connect narratively, but maybe not so well in terms of the impact it has on the reader. For me at least, it all ended feeling just a little too diffuse, episodically purposeful but perhaps losing impact over its whole length. What exactly is Coe trying to do with this novel? There is no question about his strong feelings, or his ability to generate anger about the unfairness of the world (the reality TV show again), but, when he's got you all fired up, he takes off at a tangent. We do care about the main characters, look out for them, hope they will pull through, but then Coe seems to get distracted, drop them and head off on a new course. Perhaps that's how the world is, but the overall effect is to leave (at least this) reader feeling a little disengaged, amused by a kind of shaggy dog story (of the sort the kind of stand-up comedians who also feature in this book would tell), but also a bit distanced. 

There might be a message there too, of course.