Brilliant. This book is like Jane Austen among the eucalyptus, but with so much more sex.
In writing what purports to be the ‘true’ autobiographical account of Elizabeth Macarthur -wife of Australia’s first wool baron- Grenville has actually created a gripping meditation on power in the late 18th century. Women’s power (or lack of it) features strongly, especially with regards to dominion over her own body. The one time a young Elizabeth feels and exercises her own sexual power she becomes pregnant, and marriage to the boorish, insensitive John MacArthur becomes an inevitability. Power over her own body is further diminished: “As a wife, with nowhere to go beyond wifedom, I was no more than a tenant in my body. If the landlord came to the door, I was obliged to let him in.”
During the course of her marriage Elizabeth does however learn subtle ways to manipulate the actions of her unbalanced bully of a husband. And within the confines of the life made by her husband, she creates her own life and finds, as a wise woman once said to her, “A woman can do many things, but she has to bide her time.”
The Elizabeth Macarthur of Grenville’s imagination is such good company; wry, funny, unflinchingly honest yet compassionate. Her voice stays with you well beyond the final pages of the book. But what really resonates is the injustice of the most unrelenting loss of power in the early days of colonial Australia; that of its original inhabitants.
A Room Made of Leaves is a beautiful and haunting piece of historical fiction. 4.5 stars.
