On a sunny, cloudless day, with marshlands stretching to an endless blue horizon, there is nowhere in the world more beautiful than Norfolk. But make that a heavy, grey sky over mud flats and you have an entirely different, oppressive landscape. Jacqui Lofthouse is good at weather. And she evokes, sometimes lyrically, a brooding landscape that echoes the state of mind of her suicidal female writer, Alison Bliss.
Bliss, daughter of a poetess and ex-model, is, or rather was, a novelist. It is through her writing notebooks and her husband's narration, as he retraces her steps to the Norfolk coast, that we begin to unravel the mystery at the heart of Jacqui Lofthouse's novel: why, having survived anorexia and the unwanted attention of a voracious press, and with her writing going well at last, did Alison Bliss decide to walk to her death into the North Sea?
Bluethroat Morning is about suicide. It is about loss, about beauty and fame, and the space between people. And it returns again and again to the feelings of inadequacy and unhappiness that ripple out into adulthood from an unsatisfactory parent-child relationship. .
Lofthouse's characters really live. They are vividly portrayed and unexpected things happen to them. Particularly wonderful is the manipulative, ninety-eight year old Ern Higham who spins his yarns to the suicidal novelist in his isolated cottage encrusted with the relics of his past. Then there is the narrator of the book, Harry Bliss, breaking out of years of mourning and celibacy, in an act of desperate coupling with his best friend's 19-year old daughter in a Norfolk graveyard.
Bluethroat Morning can be read as an accomplished and gripping gothic mystery, as the story of Harry Bliss's journey out of the halfway house of his grief and incomprehension, and also as an exploration of one woman's relationship to beauty, fame, love and death. Most memorably, however, Bluethroat Morning is a novel about writing a novel. As we watch Alison Bliss struggle to put form to the ghosts that haunt her, Lofthouse creates a convincing and poignant picture of what it means to write: the deep-seated need to create; to produce something of lasting value; to be true to oneself; to validate oneself; to understand, or at least come to terms with, one's world through literature. Alison Bliss uses her pen as an explorative, escapist and destructive tool. Ironically, it is only through solving her creative problems that Alison Bliss finally loses the plot.