There's a charmingly mad woman at the heart of Mick Jackson's latest foray into the perils of the human mind. And much like his first novel, the Underground Man, we see a return to form and a method in madness after the inconsistent and muddled attempt at populist nostalgia in Five Boys.
What makes Jackson so special and The Widow's Tale such a rewarding and entertaining read, is his light touch to the weighty topic of grief. It's truly enough to make you laugh out loud at some brilliant comic observations resting on a thin film over deep depths of despair. Even if Jackson can't quite walk on water as a classic novelist just yet, his treatment of this topic is a fair comparison all the same. It's quite a trick as we trip along with our widow on her random adventures around the Norfolk coast and wistful past life memories.
Jackson intends to drag you in, and along, for the ride. It's a minute examination of a lady without a name and the frequent clever references to places Jackson assumes we know, " ...and ate at that Italian place in the corner of the open market". Enough to make one do a double take: do I know that place? And indeed do I know this lady? Save for the geography, of course we do, it's about all of us in one way or another.
Here's a book that for once is just a pure pleasure. It's straightforward and desperately honest, funny and heart warming. Such is Jackson's manipulation of our empathy, just maybe come the novel's end you might also want to jump in the car and go join our heroine rather than have to leave her life in the cottage. A masterstroke in the art of loss made real.