Review: The Drowning Girl by Margaret Leroy

'That's my seaside, Grace.' Very matter-of-fact, as though this should be obvious. 'I lived there, Grace. Before.'

Margaret Leroys The Drowning Girl was the February read for my monthly book club. I was ill last week, and so the book accompanied me to the doctors and back, and kept me busy for a few hours thereafter. The Drowning Girl is a haunting and eerie book, and was possibly a good distraction to take my mind off my poor stomach and my fluttering chest. Truth be told, it was about all I had, given that my doctor had me swear of chocolate or any food that wasnt white and bland for the duration of my illness.

The Drowning Girl is Leroys fifth novel, and a quick check of the interior notes tells me that shes quite the popular author, with a number of foreign sales and television appearances to her name. Theres no denying that there are elements of The Drowning Girl that are rather accomplished, but I cant truthfully say that the book had me thoroughly convinced, particularly as it took a sudden left turn about halfway through that left me rather bewildered.

The Drowning Girl is the story of single mother Grace, and her odd and painful relationship with her young daughter, Sylvie. Grace is portrayed as though struggling to get by, and we first encounter her as she is desperately clutching at the threads of her social life, pleadingly trying to fit in. We see that her struggle is in part due to the low opinions she has of herselfGrace seems to pull herself out of any social situation where there is a risk of losing further face, or where she feels she is inadequateand also due to the strange behaviour of Sylvie. Sylvie is an eerily precocious four year old who insists on calling her mother by name, and who interacts very coldly and at a distance with other children. She has unusually dramatic reactions to being around water, and exhibits obsessive, compulsive behaviour.

Its difficult not to question this relationship as a reader. Grace seems almost subservient to Sylvie, whose tantrums and odd behaviour seem to dictate not only the terms of their relationship, but the relationships of the two with everyone else they encounter in the book. Grace appears unnerved by Sylvie, and seems to act constantly to placate her. This only escalates when it emerges that Sylvie has been incessantly drawing pictures of a beach house where she claims she used to live. When the possibility of autistic spectrum disorder or other illness are ruled out, Grace begins begins to suspect that Sylvie may be reliving a past life.

It is here that the book should begin to flourish, but unfortunately where it begins to wander away from the creepy and foreboding path that it has so far been treading. Grace hunts down a scholar who specializes in past lives, and rather on a whim, they head off to Ireland to solve the mystery of Sylvies potential past life. Up until this point I had been readily suspending my disbelief, but I struggled to do so as the book reached its conclusion. What should be a curious and chilling mystery seems instead too neat, and is too perfectly wound up. The people who are encountered throughout the latter part of the book are entirely too credulous of strange Sylvie and her assertions of a past life (personally, I tend to give reasonably little weight to the claims of a morose four year old who says she has lived in a beach house when this is certainly not the case). Sylvie somehow seems to lead along not only Grace, but the population of the small Irish town they visit, including the police, into solving the mystery of the death of the girl she claims to be.

While there are some beautiful moments in this book, and some gorgeously tragic ones where we watch Grace struggle with the backwards reality of her relationship with her daughter, I found myself frustrated by Graces unwillingness to take on a role as an active agent, but to let everything proceed according to how she interprets Sylvies occasional sullen and laconic comments. The final reveal where we find out who Sylvie claims to be seems strange, too, as the fact that she has been written as so precocious and old beyond her years seems arbitrary and pointless.

The Drowning Girl is a standout book in its first two thirds, but for me sinks too far into coincidence and disbelief as the denouement approaches. However, Leroy does seem to be an interesting writer to watch, and Ill likely pick up her future titles.

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