In 1948, in a town overlooking the vast, blue ocean, Anikka Lachlan has all she ever wanted—until a random act transforms her into another postwar widow, destined to raise her daughter on her own. Awash in grief, she looks for answers in the pages of her favorite books and tries to learn the most difficult lesson of all: how to go on living.
A local poet, Roy McKinnon, experiences a different type of loss. How could his most powerful work come out of the brutal chaos of war, and why is he now struggling to regain his words and his purpose in peacetime? His childhood friend Dr. Frank Draper also seeks to reclaim his pre-war life but is haunted by his failure to help those who needed him most—the survivors of the Nazi concentration camps.
Then one day, on the mantle of her sitting room, Ani finds a poem. She knows neither where it came from, nor who its author is. But she has her suspicions. An unexpected and poignant love triangle emerges, between Ani, the poem, and the poet—whoever he may be.
Written in clear, shining prose, The Railwayman’s Wife explores the power of beginnings and endings—and how difficult it can be to tell them apart. It is an exploration of life, loss, tragedy, and joy, of connection and separation, longing and acceptance, and an unadulterated celebration of love that “will have you feeling every emotion at once” (Bustle).
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.30(d)|
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
THESE ARE the sort of people they are, Ani Lachlan and her husband, Mac. They are people who make a fuss of birthdays, people for whom no effort is too great in search of the perfect present, the perfect tribute, the perfect experience. Even during the war, when their daughter, Isabel, had asked—impossibly—for a bicycle, Mac found the bits and pieces to craft a tiny ornamental one, to see her through until a proper one could be sourced, and saved for, and procured.
And so in late 1948, on the weekend before Isabel’s tenth birthday, Ani and Mac take the train up the coast to Sydney to find her next birthday present—she’s asked for something magical. All morning they rummage in dusty shops near Central, until they find—in the last quarter hour before their train—a dull cylinder with an eyehole at one end and a round dome of glass at the other.
Mac holds it up to one eye, the other eye closed, and the kaleidoscope transforms the overfull shop into a series of mosaics. Now it’s a stained-glass window; now a fan of Arabic tiles. Now it flares into brightness as he angles the tube towards the shop’s open door. He hands it to his wife, smiling. “You’ll love it,” he says, watching her turn the tube, watching her transform the busy mess of the shop. Its drab brass looks heavy against the glow of her skin.
“Yes,” she says, turning the tube to make another image. “Yes, she’ll want this. She can make everything she looks at into something beautiful with this.” No better present for their Bella. Mac pushes the coins across the counter to the old lady who stands there, wrapping the gift in a thick sheet of paper the color of a pale-yellow dawn.
“For a present?” the shopkeeper asks, tucking the parcel’s ends neatly into themselves.
“For our daughter,” says Mac.
“Turning ten,” says Ani.
The old lady smiles. “So many ways of seeing things,” she says, patting the paper. “I hope they are all beautiful, the things your little girl sees.” And she wraps the tube again in heavy brown paper, tying its ends with string, like a bonbon.
Ani smiles in return. “You should see where we live,” she says, touching Mac’s arm while he packs the parcel into his bag. “Most beautiful place in the world.”
Mac blushes, partly at the extremity of his wife’s words, and partly because he loves it when she says this. Because he was the person who took her there, the person responsible for delivering her to this beauty. In a scratched and spotted mirror behind the counter, he sees them standing together, Ani a little taller, and fine, like the saplings that grow down by the beach. The paleness of her hair is so uniform that she looks as if she’s been lit from above. And there he is, Mackenzie Lachlan, solid next to her, his head thick with hair that looks blond next to any but hers. Her reflection smiles, and he turns to catch the end of the real thing. That’s what illuminates him, that right there.
In the shop’s darkness, a clock chimes, and he grabs her hand again. “Train, love.”
The shopkeeper comes around the counter, bows her head with her hands pressed together like a prayer. “Then a safe journey back to your home and your little girl,” she says, standing by the door. They fly out to the street, past shop fronts, across roads, around corners, up stairs, and onto their platform. As they swing into an empty compartment, the engine gathers steam and lets out one perfect cloud of white, one perfect trumpet of sound, and begins to move off.
“We’ve got a good loco in front of us,” says Mac, leaning over to watch the big green engine take a curve. “Home in no time—it’s a thirty-six; nice run down the line.”
Most beautiful place in the world. He feels Ani tuck herself between his body and the angular edge of the train’s wooden window frame. The warmth of her arm brushes his own as he turns the pages of his newspaper and mutters the names of the countries in the news—Burma, Ceylon, Israel, South Africa, two new Germanys. By the end of the second page, he feels her heavy against him and knows she’s going to sleep through this patchwork of suburban backyards, their clotheslines, their veggie patches, their hemorrhaging sheds. She’ll sleep through to the slice of the journey she loves best, when the train surges through one long black tunnel and delivers her onto the coast, the northern tip of Ani Lachlan’s most beautiful place in the world.
“I’ll wake you up when we get there,” says Mac. And she nods, squeezing his hand. She sleeps quickly, deeply, on trains, as if their rhythms and noise were a lullaby. He watches her breathing, feels the air from her mouth on his shoulder.
They cross the Cooks River, then the Georges, pushing south. Through the window now, thick bush rushes by, transformed into fragments and segments of trees, palms, grasses, birds, and sky as if they’d been poured through the kaleidoscope too. His eyes flicker and dart, trying to isolate a single eucalypt, the fan of a palm, and then they close. His newspaper drops to the floor as the landscape changes from eucalypt forest to something more like a meadow—almost at Otford; almost at the head of the tunnel—and her fingers, light, begin to pat his arm.
“Not often I get to wake you.” She smiles.
“Almost there,” he says. The engine is puffing and blowing, pulling hard, and the train presses on towards the archway that’s been carved to open up the mountain. “Now,” says Mac, taking his wife’s hand. “Now,” his mouth so close to her ear. They’re in darkness, the sound monumental, the speed somehow faster when there’s only blackness beyond the windows. And then they’re out, in the light, in the space, in the relative quiet.
And there’s the ocean, the sand, the beginnings of this tiny plain that has insinuated itself, tenuous, between the wet and the dry.
It’s a still and sunny day, the water flat and inky, the escarpment colored golden and orange, pink and brown. As the train takes the curves and bends of its line, the mountain’s rock faces become great stone monoliths that might have come from Easter Island, and then the geometric edges of some desert temple. Here are the hellish-red gashes of coke ovens; here is the thin space where there’s only room, it seems, for a narrow road, a narrow track, between the demands of sea and stone. And here is the disparate medley of place-names—simple description, fancy foreign, and older, more original words: Coalcliff, Scarborough, Wombarra, Austinmer. And then Thirroul.
They pass the big glass-and-wooden roundhouse in Thirroul’s railway yards—Ani’s favorite building is how he thinks of it, although it’s where his every working day begins. As the train slows, they’re almost home.
The engine lets out a long whistle and pulls into Thirroul’s station, its low waiting rooms set back from the platform’s edge and the Railway Institute and its library on the opposite side of the tracks. Ani reaches for Mac’s hand, and steps out of the carriage. The air is thick with salt and ozone from the unseen ocean nearby. Arranging their bags, they begin their slow walk home, east towards the water, south up the hill, east towards the water again, and halfway along Surfers Parade. From the steps to the front door, the view is all mountain and water, while behind the back fence, and maybe a mile farther south, a headland rules off the space she’s told him she regards as the edge of their world.
“A mile south of that pine tree, sitting in our yard like a pin in a map for X marks the spot.”
“Then I leave the world on any train run to Wollongong,” he protested once. “I go out of your world in the course of every day.”
“Out of our world, yes, but you’re very good about coming home.”
When they first came, newly married and more than twelve years ago now, they’d climbed the mountain too, straight up the cliff face to the summit of the scarp, where they turned and stood, gazing east over the limitless blue.
“Nothing there,” said Mac quietly, “nothing at all—until you hit Chile.” The tops of the trees below looked like crazy paving, and among the grey-green of the gums were the odd cabbage-tree palm, the odd cedar, the odd tree fern an almost luminous green among the eucalypts, the turpentines. In late spring came extra punctuation—the fiery scarlet of the native flame tree; the incandescent purple of the exotic jacaranda.
They’d watched a storm come up the coast that day, clambering down the track in its noisy wetness, and arriving wild and muddy at the bottom. “I’ve got you.” Mac had laughed, wrapping his wet arms around her. Then closer, quieter—“I’ve got you now”—and he held her fast with a kiss. She’d squirmed then, anxious at the embrace in the open air, and he’d laughed at her for it, hanging on. Hanging on.
Now, as Ani makes a pot of tea and hides the precious present, Mac watches the sun set, remembering that kiss, that discomfort, and the messy embraces that came next. The shapes of the shadows, the colors of the world begin to shift and change towards nightfall and he longs for the gloaming, for one more walk in the wide dusk of a Scottish summer and an unexpected kiss in the braw open air. But it’s too far away, the other side of the world, and too many years since he left. Kisses now tend towards the perfunctory, the habitual, with the occasional moment of surprise, spontaneous or remembered. It’s just life, he knows, rather than anything particular or sinister. Still, he’s glad for recollections, and the privacy of imagination.
From the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of color against the growing dark, and it’s Isabel coming home from a friend’s house by the shore. He whistles three times, twice low and once high and long, so that the sound slides back to the pitch of the first two notes. Even through the gloom, he sees her stop and steady herself before she whistles in reply. It’s power, to whistle your girl home, he thinks, opening the gate and feeling her hug hard against his body.
The next weekend, on Isabel’s birthday, after breakfast and the present, Ani slides the birthday cake into the oven and the family walks to the beach with the kaleidoscope. It’s a clear morning, the sky very high and light, with a band of clouds, thin and white, tucked in beyond the ridge of the mountain. Isabel stands with the brass tube of her gift, changing the world with the smallest movement of her hand. “Like magic,” she says, and Ani and Mac smile. She loves birthdays; the present, the cake, and always an excursion—a milkshake in Wollongong, she wants, and they’ve promised to take her after school, one day in the coming week.
“Maybe chocolate,” she calls now, “or maybe chocolate malted. Or would it be more grown-up, now I’m ten, after all, to have caramel?” She dances circles in the sand around her parents, looking at this, at that, with her precious new spyglass while they head towards the silvery smooth pylons, the fractured segments of joists, that are all that remain of the old jetty, pushing inland above the line of the low tide and out to sea the other way.
“We should’ve given you a telescope, love,” Mac calls to his daughter. Then: “Looks like there’s someone sitting up there on one of the poles.” And the three of them pause, peering ahead, the sun warm on their backs as they separate the shape of a man from the shape of the weathered wood.
“You know, I reckon that’s Iris McKinnon’s brother,” says Mac at last. “One of the drivers said he was home. You remember, love—he’s the one published the poem during the war. We took it round for Iris, do you remember?” He shades his eyes, more a salute than anything to do with glare. “Wonder what he’ll do now he’s back here? Not much call for a poet in the pits or on the trains.”
Offshore, a pod of dolphins appears in the face of a wave, curling and diving as the smooth wall of water curls, and breaks, and surges in to the shore. Isabel laughs, and the dolphins rise up and jump and dive again.
“They look like they’re on a loop,” says Mac, “like something at a carnival, spinning round and round. And another!” he cries, as a dolphin leaps clear of the sea. “Always there’s dolphins for you, my girl, but still no sign of my great white bird.” Mac’s fantasy, on every coast he’d been on: to look out towards the horizon and see an albatross, bobbing gently and at rest.
“Maybe for your next birthday, Dad,” Isabel calls, whooping as another dolphin somersaults from a wave’s sheer face.
On the top of his pylon, the poet has seen the creatures too, leaning forward towards their movement, leaning back as they plunge down into the blue.
“There’s got to be a poem in that,” says Ani. “If I was going to write a poem, I’d write about dolphins. They always look so happy—and it’s always such a surprise to see them.”
Mac laughs, grabbing her hand with one of his, Isabel’s with the other, and skipping them all along the sand. “It’s a grand omen for Bella’s tenth birthday—that’s what it is. Now, I want to pop home and try a slice of that lovely cake.” And he starts to run, his two girls—as he calls to them through the wind—hanging on to him and flying across the sand like his coattails.
But as they reach the rocks and begin to climb up to the street, he pauses, looking back along the stretch of sand. What does a poet look like, up close? he wonders. Would he look different to how he looked before the war? Would you be able to see some trace of his occupation about him somewhere, like loose words tucked into his coat pocket? Mac strains to pick out the shape of the man’s hat, his head, his body way off down the beach. And how will he get down? The incoming tide is roiling around the bottom of the uprights, white flecks of spray bursting as the water breaks.
“Do you not want your cake then?” Ani teases from the top of the cliff, hurrying him up. And Mac takes the stairs two at a time, breathless when he reaches the grass.
Reading Group Guide
This reading group guide for The Railwayman’s Wife includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Ashley Hay. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Amidst the strange, silent aftermath of World War II in a small Australian coastal town, a widow, a poet, and a doctor search for lasting peace and fresh beginnings in this internationally acclaimed, award-winning novel.
Topics & Questions for Discussion
1. Consider the following quote: “Mac raised his cup and paused—the smallest toast—to drink. That was marriage, he thought, remaking yourself in someone else’s image. And who knew where the truth of it began or would end?” (p. 149). Do you agree with Mac’s interpretation of marriage?
2. In response to Isabel’s question about where Mac is after death, along with fallen soldiers, Annika states: “It’s probably like your kaleidoscope: you look at one piece of space, and every tiny twist or turn multiplies that into somewhere new—somewhere different. More than enough room for everyone’s version of everyone to fit in somewhere, to be doing different things we all think they ought to be doing” (p. 154). Discuss Annika’s thoughts and feelings when confronted with information and anecdotes about Mac after his death.
3. Both Mac and Roy think of Annika as angel. Why do you think this is so?
4. What do you make of the conversation between Dr. Frank Draper and Annika in the library, on their first meeting? (pp. 85–88).
5. What role does the ocean have in each of the characters’ lives?
6. What do you think of Mac’s statement to Dr. Draper and Roy: “It’s not my war, not my world. I’d stay here, you’re right. I’d stay here and keep my wife safe, and my children.” (P. 243) To what extent was this Roy and Dr. Draper’s war?
7. Consider Roy’s poem ”Lost World” (the poem appears in its entirety pp. 183–186). Do you think it is a nexus between the world he has seen torn apart by war, and what he has found in Thirroul?
8. Annika carries Kangaroo “like a literary Baedeker” (p. 18), using it to identify places around Thirroul. Discuss the comfort she gains from using literature as a guide.
9. Discuss the effects of the war on Roy McKinnon and Dr. Frank Draper.
10. The act of mourning and memorial takes various shapes and forms in The Railwayman’s Wife—as Annika tells Isabel, “We’re his memorial, I suppose.” (p. 44). Do you think it was important to have a memorial service for Mac, even though Annika was against it? In what ways does the town differentiate between those who were killed during the war and those killed at home?
11. What did you think of Roy’s idea to leave the book of poems on Annika’s bookshelf?
12. Did you like the ending? Why or why not?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. The Australian backdrop of The Railwayman’s Wife is significant in setting the place and tone of the story, but both Annika and Mac come from rich traditional heritages as well. Research traditional Australian, Scottish, and Nordic dishes to bring to your book club’s meeting.
2. On page 84, a librarian says to Annika (paraphrasing Jorge Luis Borges’s Poema de los Dones), “I’ve always wondered if paradise might not be a little like a library.” What books would you include in your ideal library?
3. There are many works of literature and poetry that make cameos in The Railwayman’s Wife. Assign each person in your book club a second book or poem to read and discuss how it relates to the book in the context of its appearance and as a whole. A list of books may be found below:
Kangaroo – D. H. Lawrence
Jane Eyre—Charlotte Bronte¨
Foal’s Bread—Gillian Mears
The Service of Clouds—Delia Falconer
In Falling Snow—Mary-Rose MacColl
Currawalli Street—Christopher Morgan
“Everyone Sang”—Siegfried Sassoon
“How Do I Love Thee?”—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
“On Being Asked for a War Poem”—W. B. Yeats
“Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven”—W. B. Yeats
History of the Day—Stephen Edgar
Over the Brazier—Robert Graves
A Conversation with Ashley Hay
What was the genesis for The Railwayman’s Wife?
My father’s father was a guard on the railways. He was killed in a workplace accident in the early 1950s, and his wife, my grandmother, was given the job of librarian in the local Railway Institute Library as a kind of compensation. I was always fascinated by this story – this gesture; I’ve since found out it wasn’t an unusual response to an accident. The widows of Australian railwaymen were sometimes given jobs as librarians, as station mistresses, as the laundresses for railway workers’ barracks and so on.
More than ten years ago, the rooms where the Railway Institute Library had been housed were opened for a local History Week event, and I went to hear my dad talk about his memories of the library his mother had run there. And while he was talking, a train came through the station – only a few feet from where we all sat, in a little building that literally butted onto the platform. It was shockingly close, and shockingly loud. And for the first time, I realized that my grandmother, in taking that job after her husband’s death, had had to work, every day, so incredibly close to the sound of the very thing that had killed him.
This isn’t the story of my grandparents, but I borrowed the idea of an accident, and a librarian’s job on the other side of it, and began to imagine a novel from this kernel.
Why did you choose to set the story in a small town about an hour south of Sydney, on the east coast of Australia?
My grandparents did live in Thirroul, and my grandmother’s job was in the Railway Institute Library. I grew up in that part of the world – it’s a beautiful landscape, with a high escarpment coming right down to meet the Tasman Sea – and I’d always wanted to write about it. When I came to begin to imagine the story of Ani and Mac, I tried other landscapes, but none of them rang true. Then I tried writing the landscape of Thirroul but changing its name and the names of other places nearby – which didn’t ring true either.
One of the reasons I was hesitant about setting the novel in Thirroul is because it’s the setting – and the birthplace – of D. H. Lawrence’s Australian novel, Kangaroo. Lawrence rented a house on the cliff-top of Thirroul during the winter of 1922 and wrote a draft of the book in six weeks. Those were some large literary footsteps in which to try to follow. The key turned out to be incorporating both the memory of D. H. Lawrence – and the book he’d written – as part of the book I was trying to imagine, making them part of Ani’s story in that way. Once I’d put that piece into place, I felt like I was able to imagine my own historical version of this small seaside village.
Why did you choose to set the book in 1948?
As someone fortunate not to have been alive during any of the 20th century’s international conflagrations, I’ve always been intrigued by the way conflicts bleed beyond the dates in which history constrains them. Ani has a line in the book about expecting World War II to be like a tap, its stop-start dates giving it a sense of a thing turned on, and then turned off. I guess it’s almost a default to think about them that way when you’re reading about them, rather than having experienced them.
But war can never be like this – no part of life is ever so corralled. By setting the story in 1948, I wanted to think about that space just after war, when everything is supposed to have returned to “normal”, and the waves of war-time deaths have stopped. I wanted to think about the space that disappears beneath the wonderful moment marked “peace”, and how complex and messy a space it might still be.
How did you choose the poetry and other writing that’s mentioned by the characters in the book?
In some cases, I chose poems and novels that resonate with me and would also make a particular sort of sense to my characters. The moment when Mr Rochester talks about being connected by a string, somewhere near the heart, to the small person of Jane Eyre – and his fear that that connection might, over too much distance, simply snap; that seemed like a perfect literary moment to give to someone who’s beginning to learn about grief, about what it is like when that cord of connection is snapped. The exhilaration of Siegfried Sassoon’s “Everybody Sang” felt like exactly the right gift to give Roy McKinnon as he tries to make sense of this other side of war – and I liked the juxtaposition of Mac Lachlan’s thick Scottish accent and the rich words of the Irish poet, W. B. Yeats.
For the books that people were borrowing in the library, I researched new releases and popular volumes that had been around in those immediate post-war years – particularly the serials and the sequels – and I gave some of those to my readers. And a long time ago, I wrote a book about Lord Byron, so when I was thinking about the kinds of love poems that Roy might turn to, I snuck in “She Walks In Beauty”, which is one of my favourites of Byron’s poems.
What is the provenance of “Lost World”, the poem Anikka Lachlan finds in a bespoke anthology that’s left for her in her house?
I wrote a draft of the poem that Ani finds when I was working on the manuscript. I remembered a poem that a friend had written years ago when we were at university – it had a line about a woman looking like “an angel in a lost world”, and that seemed like the central image that the poem in The Railwayman’s Wife needed.
But I’m not a poet, and my poem wasn’t particularly good – for one thing, it didn’t have the feel, the voice, of the poem a poet like Roy McKinnon would write in the late 1940s. For another, this poem needed to be something that would stop its reader – Ani Lachlan – in her tracks. My Australian publisher suggested that I try to find a poet who could write a poem for me, and a friend suggested the wonderful Australian poet, Stephen Edgar. I read some of his work and immediately recognized in one poem, Nocturnal, an idea that was central to the story I was trying to tell in the novel itself. (We used it as an epigraph for The Railwayman’s Wife: “It’s not what we forget / But what was never known we most regret / Discovery of.”)
So I sent one of the strangest emails I’ve ever sent – to someone I’d never met – explaining who I was, and what I was trying to do, and that I was hunting for a poet to write me a poem. Stephen Edgar was charming and friendly, and sent a very friendly message back saying he’d be happy to give it a try. He asked me just to send the skeleton of the poem I’d written, and any images or phrases that were integral to what I needed. He said he’d let me know within a week if he couldn’t come up with anything – so that I could try to find someone else.
Less than a week later, he sent me a poem, the poem that’s now in the novel. And it was perfect, completely perfect. It took my breath away. Not only was the voice of Roy McKinnon so perfectly captured; not only were all my images and ideas so beautifully incorporated into its text; not only did I know it would leave Ani speechless: the piece also had a number of intersections with other points and moments in the rest of the novel – a novel that Stephen hadn’t read. It was a moment of profound synergy or synchronicity, I think. And the poem – “Lost World” – seemed to strengthen and clarify the whole spine of the novel that I was trying to make.
But there’s a lovely postscript to this story: in 2014, The Railwayman’s Wife was shortlisted for the Colin Roderick Prize, awarded annually by the Foundation for Australian Literary Studies to the “best book reflecting Australian Life” – as was Stephen Edgar’s own verse-novel, Eldershaw. The judges chose to present the award to both our books, which I felt made Stephen Edgar the only writer to win the award twice in a year, given that his words were so integral to however my own words had worked.
Where did your characters come from – Ani, Roy, Frank and Mac?
Although Ani and Mac are not based on my grandparents – and the story in the novel is not their story – I did borrow some parts of my grandparents’ lives to vivify these fictional ones. I made Mac Scottish; I gave Ani some Scandinavian heritage. I realized, after the book was first published, that I’d fed so many bits and pieces from all sorts of branches of my family and its local history into the people I was trying to invent.
I knew very early on that Roy needed to be a poet, and I began to read about poets who’d begun to publish during WWII, and to think about people who might begin to use words that way during such extreme circumstances – I thought about people who love words, and I thought about some of the teachers I’ve been lucky enough to have, and it made sense to give that background, and that passion, to Roy.
And the genesis for the character of Frank Draper, the doctor, came from a tiny snippet of conversation with another wonderful Australian poet, Les Murray, a long time ago when I was writing a book about Australia’s iconic trees, the eucalypts. Les was talking about people from his part of the world who’d come home from World War II, and he mentioned someone who’d seen some of the German camps just after their liberation. He didn’t say much about him; he just said that he was never the same again. Frank Draper grew out of that sentence.
There’s a kind of power to the job of small-town librarian that Ani Lachlan takes on, in terms of helping people to find new or misplaced parts of themselves through the stories they read. Do you ascribe such super-powers to librarians?
I love libraries. I love the idea that you can walk into a library and disappear – just by entering this one space – into other lives, other eras, other places, other universes. I love the fact that when you go to a library to look for Book A, you invariably find Books B through Z as well, which you didn’t know you even wanted and which send you in thousands of new directions, whether you’re researching a project or simply looking for something to read. All those options; all that choice.
I think I wanted to be a librarian when I was little; I think I thought they got to sit around and read all those books all the time, and that seemed like a perfect occupation. So many people have stories of librarians who sent them off in a different direction or showed them the magic of reading or rescued them from their own particular circumstances. That has to be some kind of super-power, doesn’t it?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This is a novel of grieving. It is a story of three people who are trying to make their way after terrible losses. First, the widow tries to make it day by day with her young daughter. Second, a poet tries to find his art after fighting in World War II. Last, a doctor tries to find meaning again in helping others after all the deaths he witnessed and could not stop during the war. Excellent character development. Excellent story how grief affects people. This is not a "happy go lucky" read, but worthy read. This book deserves an A++++
My last couple of books have been all girly and feely- placing me out of my element, but I survived. This novel, The Railwayman's Wife, by Ashley Hay is one of those feely books. It's takes you to a time when war and the railroad were all people spoke of. Enter 1948 in South Wales, Australia, where marriages were made to last a lifetime and death can be sudden and swift... Picture Okay, I don't want to do this book an injustice, so I have to type slowly, ensuring I actually think for myself instead of my fingers doing it all for me. The RailwayMan's Wife, by Ashley Hay is a poetic novel. Not because it's on poetry, but the careful way it was written. The story is soft, flowy (Yes, I said flowy) and romantic. It's a girly book, full of love that makes your knees weak and your heart sigh, But it doesn't last long. This story is tragic and full of pain. Three individuals deal with loss in one form or another and their getting though these trying times all seem to be around the Railway Institute's library. I won't go into detail, for fear of giving SPOILERS, but I can say Hay has the gift. Her writing is beautiful. She allows you to experience all that takes place in the life of Anikka Lachlan, Roy McKinnon's and Frank Draper's lives... a little too much... For the full review: http://bit.ly/TheRailwaymansWifeNovel **Book published by Atria Books.
The Railwayman’s Wife justly deserves praise for it’s lovely prose. Ashley Hay’s depiction of a young family in NSW, Australia during and after the second world war is particularly touching. The war has not left their town untouched as it has taken away many of its fathers and husbands. Although, Annika feels for these women, it is not until her husband Mac is killed in a railway accident that she fully begins to comprehend the grief and loss of someone she loved. Several main characters form part of this storyline. Roy, a poet and former teacher is lost and foundering after returning home from the war and Frank, a medical doctor who deals with his feelings of inadequacy as a healer is unable to make a commitment to the woman he loves. And there is Isabelle, Annika’s daughter who must learn to live without her father but who’s pragmatic view of the events around her teach Annika that there is life beyond grief. As their lives intertwine, the healing that comes from finding contentment in friendship, the joys of nature and the love of a good book help to put to rest the memories of war and grief.
This is a difficult one to review. The writing was done well. I felt like I was really there in Australia and along the oceanfront. I could hear the waves crashing and the train engines. The characters were believable, but I finished the book feeling what was the purpose? All I got out of it was a railway man's wife who had two loves. Her husband who she really didn't know after all and a poet who she didn't even know loved her. And the majority of the remaining characters had chips on their shoulders for different reasons, good or bad. I agree with the one reviewer, there was a lot of icing but very little cake. It started out a happy book and ended up a very, very sad book. I guess I'm the type that likes a little happier endings. Thanks to Allen and Unwin for approving my request and to Net Galley for providing me with a free e-galley in exchange
The Railwayman’s Wife by Ashley Hay is a melancholy yet beautiful tale of love, loss and grief. This story is set in the small coastal village of Thirroul, New South Wales, Australia a couple years after the end of WWII. Hay’s prose is exquisite. Her vivid descriptions made for bucolic images of the town and its people while reading. The Railwayman’s Wife is told in dual time periods; the story of Ani’s and Mac’s early relationship is interspersed with the story of Ani’s grief after his fatal accident. The novel proceeds at a leisurely pace with most of the action taking place in the minds of the main characters as they struggle to move on post trauma. Anikka and Mackenzie Lachlan have been married for over 10 years, and they have a precocious 10 year old daughter named Isabel. The close-knit family doesn’t have a lot, but they creatively show their love for one another with unique gifts and outings. Their idyllic life by the beach includes shelling, bird watching, and cartwheels on the beach. While they are untouched by the war, several of the town’s men have returned with deep psychological wounds. Roy McKinnon, teacher turned poet, is struck by the beauty of his hometown, but it doesn’t inspire him to write as the horrors of war did. Dr. Frank Draper is deeply affected by the POW who he couldn’t save during the war, and he struggles to find the confidence needed to resume his practice at home and to reconnect with his girlfriend, Iris McKinnon (Roy’s sister). This motely group of grievers meet at the town library which, along with books, plays a central role in the story. Their inner turmoil is evident through their literature and poetry discussions. Ani’s mixed emotions over the loss of her husband are as clear as Roy’s growing affection for her. The dynamics among the three are interesting, and Hay’s story seems to question whether a happily-ever-after is ever possible. Our nature as readers is to look for characters to arrive at a destination at the end of the story, not just to enjoy their company for a brief part of their journey. The Railwayman’s Wife is beautifully written and explores grief, loss and the complexities of love. It leaves you with much to ponder. There is no big, explosive culminating event that leads to the quintessential HEA, but The Railwayman’s Wife is an enjoyable meandering through the lives of Thirroul’s survivors. 3.5 - 4 stars