Atkinson has done it again, producing a compelling and often unexpectedly funny portrait of wartime Britain. It is 1940 and Atkinson’s protagonist Juliet Armstrong is a newly recruited M15 agent in London. She is also an orphan and almost entirely alone in the world;
Her mother was-had been- Scottish (although you couldn’t tell by looking), and they had once made the long journey to her homeland. Juliet had been very small and could remember little of this hejira. An oppressive castle and everything smudged in shades of sooty charcoal. She had expected relatives, but she remembered none. Nor, apparently, were there any on her father’s side. “You have his curls,” her mother said. It seemed a poor legacy.”
Juliet is however sensible, thoroughly British, a little devilish and startlingly good company. In the immediate aftermath of a spontaneous murder in the MI5 apartment where she works, one of Juliet’s (male) colleagues suggests she might like ‘to clean up a little’: “Why was it that the female of the species were always the ones left to tidy up, she wondered? I expect Jesus came out of the tomb, Juliet thought, and said to his mother, ‘Can you tidy up a bit back there?’”
Ten years later, the murder still plays and replays itself in Juliet’s head. She is fully aware it is only one murder amongst millions in the war but nevertheless it continues to disturb her, as does her complicity in the death of a maid. She can never quite remove herself from the intensity and entanglements of the war years, especially after she receives an ominous letter suggesting “You will pay for what you did”. Which bit, she wonders.
Juliet is a beautifully drawn character. Her experiences reflect much of the casual sexism and rigid social class divisions of the time. Her naivety in relation to her boss’ homosexuality is never more poignant than when she spends a night beside him in bed, expecting a much wanted release from her status as a virgin but awakening, deeply disappointing and still chaste, the next morning; “She was not to be ploughed, but left fallow and parched.” Nevertheless, she keeps calm and carries on. Bless her.
It is occasionally difficult to keep track of all the characters and loyalties and pseudonyms in Transcription, but oh so worth it. It’s the kind of book you carry around in your head for days afterwards, and press on people. A sumblime portrait of an woman and the interesting times she lived in.
