Unless you’re part of the Russian nobility of the 19th-century, introducing a novel with a long list of character names is typically not the best approach, regardless of whether the book clocks in at nearly 700 pages. Nonetheless, that’s how Andrew O’Hagan decides to present Caledonian Road, his sprawling narrative teeming with art historians, journalists, human traffickers, property barons, social media stars, tycoons, family members, kiddies and scholars. It’s a novel that manages to both exasperate and enthrall its readers.
Heading the roster of characters is Campbell Flynn, a public intellectual, author and 52-year-old, renowned for his widely read book on Vermeer. Despite his seemingly successful resume, his finances aren’t quite as robust. Thus, to maintain a steady flow of the luxury champagne, Dom Perignon, he pens a self-help tome titled Why Men Weep in Their Cars. Predicted to be a bestseller by both him and his publishers, he’s too embarrassed to put his own name on it and instead gets an attractive young actor to masquerade as the writer and endure the double-edged sword of the publicity tour.
This concept could have created an intriguing narrative, had O’Hagan focused on it.
At Flynn’s side, we meet Sir William Byre, Flynn’s dearest friend who finds himself embroiled in a contentious #MeToo scandal and is drowning in astronomical debt. This financial disaster stems from a Saudi Arabian property transaction that’s gone horribly awry, a venture that had the financial backing of a Russian billionaire. It’s hard to say who it’s more dangerous to cross, the Saudis or the Russians, but Byre has managed to fall foul of both.
This premise could have been an engaging yarn, had O’Hagan concentrated on it.
The narrative teems with an array of fascinating characters who move in and out of the storyline. We encounter the humorous elderly tenant named Mrs Voyles, who resides beneath the Flynns. Angus, a popular DJ with vanity outshining even Donald Trump. There’s also a Duke, a Duchess, a Countess, and Yuri, whose existence is a subject of frustration to the oligarch. Furthermore, we see Antonia, a conservative-minded columnist, Jakub, a charismatic Polish gay man and most significantly, Milo, whom Campbell mentors, but who appears to have his own intricate plot.
Potential improvements could have been made to Caledonian Road if O’Hagan had revised the character list, perhaps reducing it by one, or five, even twenty characters. Each of the numerous storylines are compelling in their own right, but unlike other narrative-heavy tales like John Lanchester’s Capital, Philip Hensher’s The Northern Clemency or the more recent work of Paul Murray, The Bee Sting – it lacks a sense of unity, and the narrative becomes disjointed.
However, it has to be said that there are many impressive moments in the text. The intrigue of Milo’s plans take a while to unfold, yet are entirely worth the wait. Sir William’s audacity generates an anticipation for his downfall. A truly enjoyable aspect of the story is the elderly woman residing downstairs whose inexplicable anger provides endless entertainment. The opportunity for an adaptation for this may create an opening in Maggie Smith’s calendar. Notwithstanding, the oligarch appears clichéd while younger characters exhibit a sense of entitlement that is more irritating than comical. I also question the appropriateness of a white middle-aged novelist detailing the speech of young black Londoners as boldly as he has.
Overall, while somewhat disorganised, one is left with a certain satisfaction. Like enjoying an Eton Mess dessert, it may appear appealing and rapidly consumed, yet it may have been more satisfying if its elements – strawberries, meringue or cream, had been savoured individually, rather than indulged all at once.
O’Hagan is credited for authoring at least one classic with his remarkable ‘Be Near Me’, and likely another in ‘Our Fathers’. Utilising Forster’s mandate, ‘only connect’, I personally found the emotional and intellectual divide in ‘Caledonian Road’ to be too extreme, the scrutiny of the affluent uncomfortably juxtaposed with his analysis of academia, public intellectualism, and the world of publishing. Perhaps this is merely an overabundance of ambition, a fault that isn’t exactly a fault at all.
Coco Chanel once recommended removing one accessory before stepping out of the house. ‘Caledonian Road’ might have profited from O’Hagan subtracting one, five, or even 20 characters from his vibrant cast of characters. A high-quality novel is packed with ideas, and this book certainly erupts with an abundance of them, akin to a literary Vesuvius. But perhaps a few could have been shelved, providing O’Hagan’s unquestionable talent the opportunity to echo more potently amid the ambient chatter.
[ The narrative of Headshot provides an account of growing up, depicting the world of girlhood through the prism of competitive contact sports.]