Bernard MacLaverty's writing is acutely observed as these tensions emerge, but decorated with the cultural opportunities that Amsterdam offers, the Rijksmuseum, Rembrandt and Vermeer, Anne Frank and the architecture, which had been Gerry's profession. It would seem that Gerry is more devoted to Stella than she to him but his devotion to drinking is in competition with his commitment to anything else, not that he is a falling about alcoholic but it is his main priority.
MacLaverty has long been a class act and I'm surprised to realize how long it is since I last read him, the books of his I have upstairs being titles from decades rather than years ago. And this new novel, one that could only be written in later life, you'd think, is as convincing if not more so than his earlier work. Coming so soon after Julian Barnes (below) for me, some comparison is unavoidable. Not least because they have similarities in their examination of an aftermath of love, although in different circumstances, but Barnes' term, 'played out' is applicable to MacLaverty's characters.
And yet, it might not turn out as we expect. A traumatic incident in Stella's past, when she was caught in the crossfire of a shooting incident in the Belfast troubles, surfaces in the text as much as her consciousness. She has formed the idea that she could remove herself from such the happenings of the real world by joining the religious order but finds that it ceased to be anything like that some years ago and now has a waiting list for when vacancies arise. Gerry, of course, has no such spiritual inclinations. We are led to believe that we are witnessing a 'break' in their relationship, as we are encouraged to do by the title, but with Gerry's implausible intentions to do without Guinness and whisky and Stella's plan not realizable, maybe not.
It may not be satisfactory but MacLaverty ends with an epiphany of Gerry's gratitude, the 'privilege' he feels, which many in enduring relationships might and what had appeared to be the gradual dismantling of a marriage might have ended in its redemption.
There's no need to score it between Barnes and MacLaverty, or anybody else, because we should be glad of both, this finely-judged, unflashy writing that is evidence enough that the novel as an art form still isn't played out, as it is regularly claimed to be by some wiseacre. It is in good health and if every weekend could be furnished with a book quite so admirable I'd probably have to start taking Mondays off.
