Address Book by Neil Bartlett: Seven stories of love and belonging

Cover image for Address Book by Neil BartlettIt was its structure that attracted me to Neil Bartlett’s Address Book. It’s a set of seven loosely linked short stories each of which takes place in London in different times and different situations, all sharing the themes of home, belonging and love. I usually pick out the best of the bunch with short story collections but every one of these seven is well worth a mention

I think maybe we all have places that we need to revisit in our lives – places we need to go back to, in order to remind ourselves how the hell we got from there to here.

It opens with 14 Yeomans Close in which Andrew finds a slip of paper that transports him back to 1974 when his fifteen-year-old self met the urbane, handsome man with whom he had a loving friendship for almost thirty years. In contrast, 103 Cavendish Mansions sees the new tenant of a council flat, infuriated by the prejudice and distaste elicited by a request for a double mattress, lying in bed listening to ambulance sirens at the height of the AIDS epidemic. In the same building in 1891, 103 Cavendish Mansions (again) sees a teacher, asked to paint a banner with the image of a saint, grab the opportunity to record the face of the young man with whom he’s smitten, wondering if his desire is reciprocated. In 72 Seaton Point Jacky is on his way to celebrate the first anniversary of his friends’ civil partnership, remembering the joy and chaos of that day but also the feelings of uncertainty about welcoming love and happiness like any other couple. A young pregnant woman in the ‘60s realises the smart man who lives downstairs is gay, surprising herself by her acceptance in 203 Camden Road while in 8 Hamlet Gardens a vicar deplores the ‘hostile environment’ of Theresa May’s Home Office on a visit to Harmondsworth Detention Centre. The final story, 40 Marine Parade, sees a man, widowed after thirty-six years, losing his bearings, breaking into a derelict house on the way home from work and finding a surprising solace.

We are all travellers. We none of us know our final destination, or whether we’ll always be safe. And if we forget that about each other, even for one day, then our hearts will harden, and cease to do their allotted jobs

Bartlett’s stories are written with a thoughtful compassion and tenderness, his characters affectionately portrayed. If I had to pick favourites it would be the first and last which neatly bookend this collection, the first celebrating a glorious memory, vividly capturing all the nervous hope, expectation and awkwardness of youth; the second a portrayal of a widower’s wrenching grief. Bartlett is such a skilful writer – at first I thought the extended metaphor of repairing a derelict house to illustrate the slow process of grief in 40 Marine Parade might be a little hackneyed but it proved to be the collection’s most moving story. No idea why I’ve not read any of Bartlett’s fiction before although it’s always a pleasure to discover the work of the writer with a backlist. Clever jacket, too, although you have to look closely to see why.

If you’d like the sound of Address Book and would like to buy a copy, you can order one direct from Inkandescent here. 

Inkandescent: London 9781912620128 245 pages Paperback

19 thoughts on “Address Book by Neil Bartlett: Seven stories of love and belonging”

  1. I want this now! I adore Neil Bartlett’s plays and have read them all after seeing one of his productions in the early 90s. Haven’t read any of his fiction but this sounds perfect.

  2. This sounds fantastic. I can’t resist a linked story collection and I love the idea of London addresses as a structural device. (One of my favourite things about Winter Journal by Paul Auster was that he went through all of the places he’d lived and gave his associated memories.)

  3. It’s such and appealing premise, isn’t it? And very well executed too, by the sound of your review. Like Ali, I’m a fan of interlinked short stories, so I’ll definitely bear this in mind. Lovely review as ever, Susan.

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