For her first venture into Dickens territory, the British novelist reimagines the Tichborne affair and the Australian fraudster at its heart.
But there is something enduring about the Tichborne saga – a kind of allegorical plasticity. Every era has its imposters, identity shibboleths and shared delusions, and so we stare into that Westminster courtroom the same way we stare into a funhouse mirror, to laugh at our own distortions.
Smith’s post-Trump, post-Brexit, post-Queen retelling gives us a tale of a credulous populism, exalted buffoons and the bloody machinery of empire. But above all,is study of truths and the people who concoct them: liars, lovers, lawyers and – worst of all – novelists.Mrs Eliza Touchet – pronounced touché, a punchline in waiting – has spent her decades-long widowhood as housekeeper, literary cheerleader and occasional domme to her feckless cousin, William Harrison Ainsworth.
The Tichborne case offers Eliza an unexpected diversion. William’s new wife is swept up in the grand melodrama, and needs a courtroom chaperone. In the viewing gallery – amid the jostling zealots and sceptics – Eliza is captivated by the calm, sober testimony of Andrew Bogle, the Aussie butcher’s star witness. A former servant of the Tichborne family, Bogle was born to enslaved parents on a Jamaican sugar plantation.
A quiet abolitionist , Eliza entreats Bogle to share his story with her. As she listens, something opens in her. Long stuck on the literary periphery, Eliza begins to imagine writing her own book. Is this compassion or ambition stirring? Does Eliza know the difference? Do we? Bogle’s story appears unbroken in the middle ofis a critique, defence and object lesson in artistic thievery all at once.
And the writers – the obsequious, vampiric, backstabbing, petty-hearted writers – penning exotic tales of places they never intend to see.What mighty fun Smith is having, especially with William Ainsworth, a man so reliably tedious that Eliza gags him for practical rather than erotic reasons . And having been relentlessly – often lazily – compared to Dickens for most of her career, Smith conjures him here and then kills him off. You can almost hear her snickering.: it’s a grand in-joke.