Kunapipi XXVI:1

BÉNÉDICTE LEDENT
‘Of, and not of, this Place’: Attachment and Detachment in Caryl Phillips’ A Distant Shore

Interviewed about his novels in 2003, Caryl Phillips declared ‘These all seem to be the same book, part of a continuum’ (Morrison). Obviously, his seventh work of fiction, A Distant Shore (2003), does not disrupt this sense of great cohesion, also acknowledged by his commentators. Although the contemporary setting of A Distant Shore is unusual for a novelist who has occasionally been labelled a chronicler of the African Diaspora, this new book constitutes another memorable stage in Phillips’ subtle, yet dogged fictional exploration of the tension between attachment and detachment, between belonging and unbelonging that has been part of human life since the beginning of times, especially for the migrant. If this concern sticks to Phillips’ novels almost like a second skin, it is addressed more openly in his non-fiction, notably in his recent collection of essays A New World Order (2001). There, commenting on his own life, the author writes of the places that have made him — Africa, the Caribbean, Britain and the United States — in these almost incantatory words: ‘I recognise the place, I feel at home here, but I don’t belong. I am of, and not of, this place’ (1, 2, 3 & 4). Because the last section of this statement ‘captures the essence of Phillips’s work’ (Procter), it seems an appropriate guiding light in an analysis of his latest novel. My intention in what follows is therefore to attempt to demonstrate that an ambivalent combination of attachment and detachment similar to that contained in ‘of, and not of, this place’ suffuses all aspects of A Distant Shore, making it a singularly accomplished piece of fiction. Not only does this double, intrinsically contradictory move between closeness and remoteness inform the novel itself — its characterisation, title, themes and narrative technique — but at a further remove, this dialectic also applies to the way in which this book — at once realistic and allegorical, thus both faithful to and distant from the ‘real’ — positions itself in relation to generic definitions of the novel. By extension, A Distant Shore also raises questions about contemporary British fiction and what can be regarded as its enduring inability to mirror a society in flux.

Like many other narratives by Phillips, whether fiction or drama, A Distant Shore presents a white woman and a black man and focuses on their intense, yet flawed meeting. Dorothy Jones is a newly retired, divorced music teacher in her mid-fifties who has never left her native England; Solomon Bartholomew is a 30-year-old refugee recently arrived from Africa who lives and works as a ‘handyman-cum-night-watchman’ (14) in Stoneleigh, a new estate in Northern England where Dorothy has just settled. The novel provides a psychologically complex charting of these two newcomers’ unlikely friendship, seen in the perspective of their lives before their encounter. Everything keeps them apart — gender, race, age and lifestyle — yet deep down they are very much alike and feel instinctively at ease with each other. Both are haunted by a painful past, made up of rejection at the hands of men for Dorothy, whose ‘story contains the single word, abandonment’ (203), and of tribal violence for Solomon, ‘a man burdened with hidden history’ (300). In other words, they share an experience of loneliness, invisibility and exclusion, which culminates in Dorothy’s eventual madness and Solomon’s murder at the hands of local skinheads. Though denied by outward appearances, this sense of profound kindred is dramatically expressed by a mad Dorothy when, after Solomon’s death, she takes up his routine task of polishing the car and using her own jacket as a cloth. Dorothy’s act is one of solidarity with dead Solomon, aware as she is that ‘the circular motion of his right hand … [is] an attempt to erase a past that he no longer wishes to be reminded of’ (268). Solomon’s demise has finally brought home to her that she is as much a stranger as he is and that, like him, she cannot find refuge in the village community. This realisation causes her to jeopardise the sartorial pride that she wrongly expected to be a guarantee of civility, but also of social respectability and therefore integration.