Frazer and Caitlin have been emotionally entwined since schooldays. Now in their mid-20s, and parents of a five-year-old, they live in a grotty flat in a Scottish new town – the faded posters read “Happiness, Here” – that has crumbled into decay. Jobs are scarce and unrewarding; little Jamie, who has autism, is silent; and the pressure is starting to tell.
Frazer’s adored Caitlin is “beautiful and driven”, fit, petite – and a rageaholic. At her mildest she’s irritated and unreasonable, at her worst violent and intimidating. She is incensed at Frazer’s refusal to move from their mould-infested block to the new council house they’ve been assigned. Apex Court is where he was brought up, filled with relics of his dead parents, and it’s the only home his son has ever known. “You’ve become the sad sack guardian of a bunch of shite that belonged to your parents, including their hovel of a flat,” Cait sneers.
Caitlin’s shrewish mother Janetta also thinks Frazer is the problem, and is forever scheming to separate him from Jamie. Weighted towards Frazer’s dazed perspective, Nothing Like Happiness would seem a better title for the novel. Why doesn’t he leave?
Tom Newlands’s 2024 debut Only Here, Only Now centred on vivacious teenager Cora Mowat, tenderly depicted in the manner of fellow Scot Alan Warner’s brilliantly realised portraits of young women. Cora’s physical “fizziness” turns out to be ADHD. For his follow-up, Newlands, himself billed as a “neurodivergent writer”, focuses on a troubled young man. The plot concerns the aftermath of the punch by Cait that fells Frazer during one particularly vicious row.
This novel feels thinner in texture than the exuberant Only Here, Only Now, leaving the reader largely to infer the characters’ motivation. Grief-stricken at the loss of his mother, indecisive Frazer could have PTSD or a variant of the autism experienced by his son, while Cait’s hair-trigger fury could be a result of growing up with a violent father, her gruesome amateur boxing bouts a bid to impress him. At least the pair are united in caring for their small son; the concern they devote to a mostly oblivious child is heartrending. Cait screams abuse at teachers and other parents for what she sees as their violation of Jamie’s norms and boundaries. The question looms: is their protectiveness stopping him integrating with peers?
Beyond Jamie’s welfare, the pair’s love of childhood pets – Frazer’s budgie Sequin, Cait’s iguana Natasha – hints at a softer connection, but their significance isn’t fully explained. Frazer does have potential confidants, but stubbornly resists seeking help until he reaches the point of breakdown. Hoping to dissolve his shame, one helpful contact avers that one in six domestic abuse cases involve a female perpetrator and male victim. There are angels in unlikely places, the novel proposes, if you look for them.
Frazer can get riled himself, bristling at a description of the Apex as “this grey shithole”. Seeing through his eyes, Newlands conjures a bleak poetry in descriptions of the estate: “The wind had changed, and rain was drifting through the gap in the breezeblocks now. Over on Donaldson Drive someone was dragging a wheelie bin with a broken wheel.” Whether the rowing couple’s relationship will ever amount to “something like happiness” is once more left to the reader to decide.
• Something Like Happiness by Tom Newlands is published by Phoenix (£20). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
