Jessie Burton became an international bestseller in 2014 when her debut novel The Miniaturist hit the shelves, its global popularity resulting in the BBC’s decision to produce an adaptation that will hit our television screens later this year. Set in late seventeenth-century Amsterdam, Burton proved herself a master of blending fact with fiction in her construction of a historical setting. I remember devouring the novel within a few days, and whilst I felt slightly deflated with the outcome of the plot I couldn’t deny how intoxicating her writing was.
Two years on and Burton followed up her initial success with her second novel, The Muse. It was released last summer, but due to my ever growing “TBR” pile of books – and never ending university reading list – it got pushed aside until a few weeks ago. My mum, who decided to read it first, assured me it was worth a read but couldn’t remember exactly what happened in it. I therefore went into The Muse with some initial reservations and not very high hopes, all of which were eradicated upon reading its opening lines:
“Not all of us receive the ends that we deserve. Many moments that change a life’s course – a conversation with a stranger on a ship, for example – are pure luck. And yet no one writes you a letter, or chooses you as their confessor, without good reason. This is what she taught me: you have to be ready in order to be lucky. You have to put your pieces into play.” (pg.5)
Who is the unnamed “she”? What is the narrator getting ready for? Burton really likes to plunge you straight into a mystery, one that you eagerly wait for her to unravel as you make your way through the book.
It is soon established that our narrator is Odelle Bastien, who grew up in Trinidad and moved to London with her friend Cynthia prior to the start of the story. We begin the narrative in 1967, with Odelle working in a shoe shop by day and pursuing her dreams of becoming a writer in the evenings. We are told that she had gained “a first-class English Literature degree from the University of the West Indies” and was awarded prizes for her poetry in school. Yet in England, as a foreigner, she is reduced to measuring people’s feet all day. Burton subtly alludes throughout to the casual racism Odelle experiences on a regular basis, emphasising Odelle’s strength and endurance in the face of stigma.
Odelle’s hopes are lifted when she is given a job as a typist at the Skelton Institute, which is teased out as the administrative office of a famous London art gallery. Her employer, Marjorie Quick, is shrouded in mystery and allure; pencil skirts, sharp red lipsticks and carefully held cigarettes are all brought to mind, presenting us with a businesswoman of many secrets. My obsession with the BBC show The Hour has built me up a pretty clear image of what sassiness looks like in male-dominated industries.
Outside of work, Odelle becomes romantically entangled with a young chap named Lawrie, who has been left a potentially famous painting by his recently deceased mother. Work and pleasure soon become intertwined when Lawrie’s painting is examined by the Skelton, believed to be the long lost work of a famous Spanish painter.
Suddenly the narrative shifts and we are introduced to a second story, that of a young Olive Schloss in 1936. Her family, consisting of Olive and her socialite parents, have moved to a village in the south of Spain so that Olive’s mother Sarah can recover her health. Olive – similar to Odelle – hides her creative talents for painting because female artists aren’t taken seriously, even though her father Harold is a famous art dealer. The family employs two local siblings, Isaac and Teresa, who become embroiled in the lives of these wealthy people. It soon becomes apparent that the political climate of Spain in the 1930s is extremely tense, and does not favour the wealthy foreign settlers who prefer leisure over labour. The Spanish villagers, particularly those toiling in the fields all day, complain of unfair pay and misrepresentation, tersely sparking what will become all out war in their disputes with the authorities.
Parallels soon become apparent as the two leading characters of the novel take turns having their stories heard. Both Odelle and Olive have to hide their talents because they are treated as outsiders in their own ways. They both fall in love with men incompatible with their temperaments, men unaware of their hidden selves. Burton juggles the time periods seamlessly, building more and more suspense as the reader impatiently reads on to find out how the two stories directly relate to each other. Inklings arise around the mid-way point, but come to an astounding climax towards the end that is both shocking and heart-warming. The outcomes of these character’s lives send a message about the fallibility of history and accepted factuality, as well as the dangers of secrecy when time is of the essence.
Burton shows herself to be deeply concerned with how the past is relayed to those of the present, and her attention to detail marks the speciality of her craft – it’s not very often that an author will attach a bibliography to their novel, but in doing so Burton gestures once more to the issues of truth and representation. She deftly moulds the setting of the Spanish Civil War and a knowledge of artistic movements of the early twentieth-century with the experience of foreign citizens in 1960s London, a creative feat that certainly pays off. The imaginative possibilities afforded by the multiplicity of individual histories provides the reader with an immersive experience bound to leave you reeling when you turn the final page. I can’t wait to see what she comes up with next, and will leave you with the novel’s epitaph as some food for thought: