I have a thing about road-trip novels. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Shadow crossing America in American Gods; the burnt-out journey undertaken by Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or the ramblings of Alex in Everything Is Illuminated; there is something brilliant about a novel that takes you places and lets you experience a country for the first time with characters you care about.
The unnamed and faintly kooky protagonist of Butterflies in November is a woman caught in a major life upheaval. Somewhat detached from real life, she is going through a divorce with a husband she barely recognises and is in possession of a dead goose that she has accidentally run over. When her pregnant friend falls over and breaks her arm, she takes on her four-year-old son – a deaf and fragile but inquisitive little boy, and after winning the lottery (twice) takes him on a long and scenic drive to her home town and the ghosts of her past. Along the way she meets a couple of men, learns a great deal about children and runs over a menagerie of animals. Both our heroine and Tumi, her charge, are well drawn – slightly odd and somewhat damaged, they are captivating and Tumi in particular makes a very believable and loveable child.
The scenery is stark and beautiful, even when it takes a backseat to the pair’s slow acceptance of each other. Their relationship is charming and realistic, both a little unsure of each other before forming an eccentric sort of family unit. The story is punctuated by sad and revealing flashbacks to her past, which slowly expose her bruised heart and go some way towards explaining her reluctance at becoming a mother figure.
One surprising feature of this book is the addition of nearly fifty related recipes and a knitting pattern after the novel itself, so you can recreate the food the pair eat throughout the pages. While many aren’t vegetarian, there are a wide variety of foodstuffs, most of which seem edible (with a few amusing exceptions.) It’s certainly an interesting touch, and I’d be interested in seeing it happen more often. (Silence of the Lambs, perhaps?)
We are treated to an interesting view of the somewhat insular and old fashioned Icelandic way of life, by way of lottery tickets and cucumber hotels. It’s often amusing and heartfelt, with a quirky sensibility and a unexpectedly dark centre that mellows slightly as it heads towards a more uplifting end.
