Goblin is the only name by which we know narrator, a reader-in-residence at Edinburgh Central Library whose best friend is a homeless Scot whose life goal is to eat (yes, eat) literature. In alphabetical order, of course. But news of a grisly discovery in London which dates back to the early days of the Second World War and Goblin's own difficult East End childhood. The news hits Goblin hard and she falls ill, with only Ben and his dog Sam to care for her. When her strength returns it is only to discover that the contents of the makeshift grave; animal bones, broken toys and a camera among them, have placed her at the site and identified her a the photographer. Eventually she must return to London to face her past, even while the riots of 2011 bring the city into chaos. Her journey in memory takes us even further, from the bombed-out streets of the Blitz, to a less-than-idyllic evacuation in Cornwall, a travelling circus, the canals of Venice and the tenements of Edinburgh.

The blurb is somewhat deceptive. While much of the novel hinges on that liminal area between dream and reality, imagination and the real world, Goblin is not magical realism in the way that that term is usually understood. Instead, Dundas teases us with unsettling penetrations of the impossible (and often nightmarish) into the light of day. Goblin's companion Monsta is unexplained for a long time, described only by a few confusing and and unpleasant features but its constant presence on the periphery adds suitable unease. The final reveal is both touching and troubling, a winning combination that Dundas manages with impressive flair.

This is not an easy read. It is dark and sometimes distressing (the aftermath of the pet massacre of 1939 sets the tone) with themes of war, delusion, abuse, neglect and violence. But it is also bold and baroque. Dundas has a real feel for imagery which is sometimes grotesque but always affecting and really put me in mind of Baudelaire's ability to disgust and invite at the same time. Some of the events are quite far-fetched but they are grounded in wonderful, warm characters and a vivid evocation of place in the wider context of Dundas's peculiar gothic atmosphere they do not feel out of place. Underpinning all of this is a deep understanding of the period of Goblin's childhood. Britain has a tendency to romanticise its wartime experience and expunge some of the darker tendencies of the Home Front experience. Evacuees did not always receive the warm welcome and kind shelter that CS Lewis's Professor gave to the Pevencies, the civilian population were not immune to excessive and violent reactions in time of panic and the need to pull together certainly did not erase all crime or overcome all divisions. Dundas acknowledges all of this without denying that there was also plenty of courage, kindness and sacrifice. It's a clever touch to contrast all of this with the London Riots of 2011. The comparison was made at the time (we always fall back on the rose-tinted idea of the "Blitz spirit) but in Goblin it is far more subtle and credible.

I loved Goblin. Despite all the potential pitfalls of a fantastical plot and monstrous (in every sense) characters it demonstrates Ever Dundas's confidence and a sure knowledge of herself-as-writer that is remarkable for a debut novel. ( )

I think calling this novel a blend between fantasy and reality might be a bit of a stretch. And the reason that I say this is because it misled me a great deal. From the premise, I thought that I would be reading about a girl who flits back and forth between different realms and it is up to the reader to discover which is the truth. The novel is better depicted as flitting between past and present, and there is always this feeling that something is being hidden from the reader and from the protagonist herself. Yes, she makes up things and creates her own reality, but I wouldn't go so far as to portray it as a fantasy because technically, not much of what she says is fake. Most of it is real. Aside from this contradiction, I really did enjoy this story. It is deep and complex, and you get lost in Goblin's world. She is a unique character, one that I have never really encountered and seeing things from her perspective is just such a bizarre and amazing experience. Her life is absolutely ridiculous in its trajectory but that's what keeps the story moving, and keeps the interest of the reader. As the story continued to build, and the digging for the truth begins, the author ramps up the tension - and this is done beautifully, by the way. I was holding my breath, turning the pages as fast as I could until I finally reached the end. And the ending was abrupt, I won't lie, but it worked because this is just one of those books that doesn't really follow the rules. In short, I think this was a very interesting novel that takes place during World War 2 and features a very unique female protagonist; however, if you are expecting some major fantasy elements, then you may find yourself disappointed.

I received this novel as an advanced copy from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

For more reviews, visit: www.veereading.wordpress.com ( )

I wonder sometimes if we’ll ever tire of stories set in World War II. From Ian McEwan’s Atonement to Julie Summer’s Jambusters! and everything in between and beyond, the period makes for rich pickings. Ever Dundas’ Goblin is different. The story opens during the Blitz and is centred on a little known pet massacre, when Londoners, anxious over food shortages and concerned about bombing—pets were not allowed in shelters—voluntarily had their pets put down. An estimated 750,000 pets were destroyed in just one week.

Goblin begins in a library, with an elderly woman, a Reader in Residence, in conversation with a vagrant, Ben, occupying himself with eating the pages of books. Goblin is troubled; she’s a bit of an alcoholic, rough around the edges, self-neglecting. Old photographs, flashbacks, an enquiring Ben and a fainting fit, all bring her back to her childhood; and she decides to write down her life story in the form of a memoir.

She hadn’t washed it for days. You can tell from the photo, if you look carefully, you can tell it has lost its sparkle. I remember it sparkling red in the sun. There’s a curl matted against her forehead. The rest is messy, framing her face. You can see the wrinkles forming around her lips, beautiful perfect lines. She’s wearing lipstick, some of it straying into one of the lines. I can smell her. The warm smell of jasmine and earth, the smell of sweat and the grease that dulled her hair.
From such quirky and poignant beginnings, the narrative jump cuts to 1939, to the London Blitz, to the story of nine-year old Goblin-runt, or so her mother calls her, and her collection of real and imaginary friends. Goblin exists in a hostile environment, typical of the era and area. She plays in amongst the debris of bombed out buildings and wasteland. Her favourite haunt is Kensal Green cemetery, where she hangs out in a mausoleum. At home, her father is silent, their relationship founded on a shared interest in fixing radios; her mother hateful, cruel and dismissive, telling Goblin over and again she should never have been born. Goblin’s only ally in her family is her older brother, David, a sensitive young man and conscientious objector, a conchie, something their parents, and the community, despise.

Goblin is an urchin. She takes life’s punches and gets on with it. She’s practical, big-hearted and caring towards pets. Ultimately, she’s a survivor, escaping into her imagination for solace. She slips into a fairy tale world, her fantasies mirroring the barbaric insanities of a war torn reality. Meet Goblin’s imaginary friends, Queen Isabella, Amelia and Scholler, the lizard people inspired by HG Wells’ The Time Machine. Meet her homemade doll, Monsta, alive in so many ways.

Monsta sees me stop and sway, uncertain. Monsta’s head shakes gently, the worm arm floating to me. I’ve not to sink. There are no Devils, but there are Monstas, and the lizard people await. Gently gently Monsta climbs, encircling my neck with worm tentacles, gently gently, casting a spell of forgetfulness, forgetting the loss above, revelling in London below.
Goblin’s other world is her fortitude, her resilience, providing the reassurance, guidance and comfort all so lacking in her childhood. Real life brushes up against the imaginary through characters such as crazy old Pigeon woman, who keeps birds in her hair, and whose friendship early in the story is a harbinger of the colourful characters, and the tragedy, to follow.

Along with her dog, Devil, and her friends, Stevie and Matt, tomboy Goblin gets into endless scrapes. When the trio confront a pyre of dead pet bodies, the narrative, already bleak, turns macabre. About the same time, David is ruthlessly beaten up by a local gang of conchie haters. Devil is shot dead. Goblin is traumatised. Shortly after, she joins a child evacuation to Cornwall. Deciding boys have better lives than girls, she pretends she’s male and is taken in by a farmer and his wife.

Life in Cornwall with her second set of parents isn’t much better. Goblin eventually escapes and heads back to London to find her brother has disappeared. After a period spent busking with her pet chickens, Goblin joins the circus, garnering a third set of parents, a couple who collect ‘freaks’ and misfits and insert them into one big family. What ensues is an intriguing portrait of a young woman wracked with longing for her disappeared brother, taking the form of obsession and denial by turns.

Goblin’s quest to find her brother drives the narrative, the suspense held in place right to the last page by elderly Goblin’s refusal to talk about her past to a detective investigating an old crime. What did the old lady witness back in 1939? Old-age reticence and childhood innocence are juxtaposed, the parallels teased out, for the child in Goblin is never gone, despite or because of all she has been through.

There is much to love about this book. Written as a frame narrative, the prose is taut, rhythmic, elegant, unpretentious; the pace fast. The occasional short passages of stream of consciousness work well, I thought, as do the jump cuts from present to past, the author never failing to take the reader with her. Dundas explores her themes with exquisite sensitivity and poise; themes of trauma and grieving, survival and belonging, queer theory and love. Elements of magic realism are interwoven seamlessly into the story, and Goblin’s enduring love of animals shines through every page. The narrative never labours, never misses a beat, quickening or lingering when it needs to. There’s a twist round every corner, building to a powerful and satisfying finale.

Written from the point of view of the ‘disadvantaged,’ society’s rejects, the homeless, the elderly, the rough and ready East End poor, Goblin is a story of the fringes; it dwells in the cracks in the pavement, in underground places, in netherworlds existing in the ordinary world, in wounds, open or scarred. Normality is a side show.

Historical fiction in a literary sense, Goblin journeys inside a cultural vein, a place we would rather forget but can’t help returning to. There is no glamour, no warm fuzzy WI ladies making tea, yet the narrative is infused with warmth that comes from the author’s heart in ‘lived it, living it’ style. I am reminded of Edna O’Brien’s Country Girls and Gunter Grass’ The Tin Drum, with a touch of Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory for seasoning. Dundas paints a portrait that is vivid, grotesque, and captivating all at once. The result, Goblin, is a book to sink into in complete trust, a story to savour like grandma’s bread pudding, crusty around the edges, spicy and soft inside, a masterpiece. ( )