Haweswater by Sarah Hall

Harper Collins. New York
October 2006

First impressions of both the setting and synopsis of Haweswater promises the reader an English historical romance soaked in social and geographical commentary, reminiscent of Elizabeth Gaskell or, according to The Independent, Hardy and Lawrence. Despite the clear applicability of these comparisons, however, Sarah Hall’s debut novel, together with a fierce heroine and surprisingly unique locale, defy categorization as merely one amongst their predecessors. Something about Hall’s creation, lying perhaps in its comparative modernity (the novel is set in 1936) or the strangely violent, animalistic nature of her protagonist’s independence—but most likely an amalgam thereof—lends it a compelling distinction unlike most prior novels of its kind.

Haweswater takes its name from a dam construction project, begun on the site of a tiny and rustic outpost of anachronistic existence located in the far north of England’s Lake District. The village of Marsdale nurtures its erratic own (as showcased by the Lightburn family, upon whom much of Hall’s background narrative is centered) in relative isolation. Then a representative of Manchester City Water, herald of modern industry and innovation, breaks into the Marsdale enclave with the news of the intended reservoir; and Janet Lightburn, a blue-blond anomaly of a woman with a dangerous energy that seethes beneath an oddly feline aspect, takes up immediate defense of her home against the stranger. Somewhat predictably, Janet’s quarrel with outsider Jack Liggett soon evolves into a passionate, secret, and scandalous affair. What is thoroughly unpredictable, however, is the way in which Hall crafts and unveils their fate, increasingly and inextricably linking both lovers to the land and water from which their passions are born and made.

Allusions to Hardy and Lawrence automatically portend a tragic end for Janet Lightburn (as do Hall’s own early indications her heroine’s penchant for self-destructive behavior). But again, this author evades her forefathers’ trademark sense of futile hopelessness. She evokes an organic connection between Janet and the wet earth she works, lives and loves upon with an almost mythic vitality, one which is spread to Liggett, born within Janet’s brother Isaac, proves all-consuming in each case—and yet strangely, reconcilably so by the novel’s end.