Tag Archives: Douglas Stuart

Douglas Stuart’s John of John and the Book Club

Douglas Stuart, John of John (Pan Macmillan 2026)

Before the meeting: I love this book.

It’s set on a remote Scottish island where Gaelic is still spoken in a fiercely pious religious community. Cal is a young, gay fine arts graduate who has come home from Edinburgh because, according to his father in one of their painful weekly phone calls, his grandmother is ill – the book’s opening sentence is, ‘Her feet were as purple as calf liver.’ The young man’s full name is Calum John, and on the genealogy-conscious island he is identifiable as John of John. John McLeod, his father, is a church elder and weaver – stern, ascetic, hardworking, painfully honest and a harsh parent. John’s wife, Cal’s mother, has long since left him and been ostracised by the religious community as a result. It’s not a spoiler to tell you that John, the father, has a long-term, secret, sexual relationship with another man, his neighbour Innes.

Chapters mostly alternate between Cal’s and John’s points of view. A rich portrait of the remote community emerges. A good part of this is in the language – not just the occasional Gaelic dialogue and the bilingual chapter numbering (a h-aon / one to fichead ‘s a sia / twenty-six), but in the English words that feel as if they belong in that place. On page 20 in chapter 2 for example, there are five words that were new to me:

  • croft (which I previously thought signified a small farm, but here refers to the house on the farm)
  • harling (here ‘painted an almost painful white’, this is roughcast – plaster mixed with small stones or shells, which I recognised in a scene in 35 Up one night this week)
  • rickle (a loose heap), skive (to pare or scrape, as in leather)
  • semmit (a vest or undershirt).

The meaning of all five is clear enough from context, but they enrich that context.

The plot revolves around the relationships of the three men and Ella, John’s mother-in-law who has been young Cal’s protector and a thorn in the side to John. Cal resumes the exhausting work of weaving at his father’s loom, and deals with unfinished business with other people of his generation, including a woman he was expected to marry and a man his own age who no longer wants to have sex with him. John must deal with Innes’s increasing impatience with their secrecy. More than once, John lashes out violently at Cal, and it’s a measure of the strength of the writing that we understand why Cal not only stays on the island but dutifully tells anyone he meets that the terrible bruising on his face was caused by a fall. It’s partly that Cal feels he has failed to make it on the mainland, but deeper than that is ancient family loyalty. Nobody believes him about the fall, but no one intervenes, and we understand that too.

A potential sexual triangle develops between Cal, John and Innes, which would make great comedy-of-manners if the stakes weren’t so high for all of them. For Cal, to be out as Gay would mean exile back to his mainland life. For the others it would mean the end of their lives as they know it, and for John especially it would mean facing his deep sense of shame. All the same, I must ask at the book group if other people laughed at the scene where Cal tries it on with Innes – I didn’t, but I cringed.

Page 79 is in Chapter a sia / six, one of the few that has a focus on someone other than John or Cal. This is Ella’s chapter. It gives her backstory – how as a young Glaswegian woman during the Second World War she had enjoyed the high life and resisted the attention of a taciturn man from the islands – Old Calum as he came to be known – until she got pregnant by a serviceman and Calum asked her to marry him. In this chapter we meet Grace, Cal’s mother, for the first time, and see Ella’s behind-the-scenes manoeuvrings to make Cal’s time on the island tolerable.

But page 79 itself is taken up entirely with Ella’s visit to a derelict blackhouse. A blackhouse, according to my web research, is a type of house that used to be common in the Scottish highlands and islands, built of stone with a thatch roof (‘laid up of stone and sod’, as Stuart puts it). (Wikipedia has photos.)

The page doesn’t move the plot forward, but the elegiac tone that suffuses the book comes into focus here. The state of the blackhouse works as a metaphor: the old ways of the island are on the way out, partly because of the different morality of the younger generations (Cal isn’t the only one touched by 21st century sexual mores), and partly because the traditional work of small farms and hand weaving is coming to an end.

Ella parked the car and clambered up the overgrown path. It was a long, low building laid up of stone and sod, and if she would have seen it on the mainland, she would have sworn it was a cow shed. There was a knack to opening the door. It had warped in the frame and she had to lift it and force it with her shoulder, much like a bailiff might. She was getting too old to do it. That anyone should see a woman grunt like this would be the talk of the church.

There’s so much happening in that short paragraph. We’re reminded that things are different from ‘on the mainland’, and that moralistic surveillance is everywhere. The clambering, shouldering and grunting keep the narrative firmly in the physical reality.

The Morrison blackhouse had fallen into such disrepair that she felt as though she had let all of Calum’s ancestors down. Several windowpanes had smashed one winter and in the thaw all the textiles sprouted black with mould. With no fire in the grate, finches built their nests in the gable corners, mice tore at the mattress and shat in the drawers. Then a section of the roof blew away. There had been two separate rooms but the dividing wall had liquified to mush. Now there was a puddle in the middle of the dirt floor and the surface was skittering with midges.

This is still intensely physical, but there’s also a reminder of the importance of tradition in this place, even for an outsider like Ella – ‘she felt as though she had let all of Calum’s ancestors down’. In the first chapter, on the ferry to the island, a woman asks Cal, ‘And who do you belong to?’ and he replies, ‘I’m John of John of Iain of Iain the Breabadair.’ Even for Cal with his long, dyed-blonde hair and his arty ways, ancestry is important. Breabadair means ‘weaver’ – Cal’s family have been weaving for five generations.

She liked to come to the house now and again and look through all the things from her past. The items that were truly meaningful she had rescued long before, but the house still held some odd ends of furniture and little outdated things, all the trinkets that Grace had whined about not having enough space for, her dishes and towels that all seemed to have a pattern or a fleck of colour that Grace didn’t like.

This may be the first appearance of Cal’s mother, Grace. As you might expect, there are interesting revelations to come about why Ella is living with her hostile son-in-law rather than her daughter, and about why Grace left John all those years ago, leaving Cal with him. But here there are just hints of mother-daughter tensions, of Grace as someone who knows her own mind and, though Ella might call it whining, can hold out for what she wants.

At the meeting: We had a terrific discussion of this book. I asked if other people had laughed at the scene where Calum tries to seduce Innes.Nobody had. They agreed it was weird but, as one of the women said, men do weird things. Weird or absurd, believable or not, I think we all agreed that it was poignant, saw it as a measure of Cal’s desperation for closeness and perhaps for a sexualised version of fatherly affection.

But the conversation really kicked off when one person said she found the whole thing unbelievable. Why did Cal stay on the island where he wasn’t welcome, and life was full of drudgery and violence? Why did John’s wife not blab about his homosexuality when she left him all those years ago? Why didn’t she take her sone with her? Why did Innes keep hoping after all this time? How did John manage to have a long-term homosexual relationship while genuinely adhering to stern puritan religious beliefs, preaching and practice?

They were good questions, and the rest of us fumbled around for answers. The importance of attachment to the place was mooted. The way small, isolated communities command loyalty. Cal is young – in his early 20s – and, like a number of unnamed friends of one person, unable to take the initiatives necessary to improve his life.

We spent a lot of time trying to work out what happens at the end of the book. It’s hard to say much here without spoiling, but I think we ended up deciding that while John’s future course is clear, Cal’s is up in the air: he has a momentary fantasy of how it will go, but on closer reading it seems unlikely that that’s how things will come to pass. The very final moments are inconclusive, though when we focused on the word bellwether, at least aspects of it became clearer.

Someone had looked up Harris tweed, and informed us that it is hand woven cloth whose production on rugged Scottish islands is rigorously policed. This is the kind of cloth that Calum and his ancestors have been producing.

We discussed this book in tandem with Omar Musa’s Fierceland. We had a great conversation about each book, but there was no crossover at all.


The Book Club’s five members, all of settler heritage, met on Wangal and Gadigal land, which is where I wrote this blog post. I gratefully acknowledge the Elders past and present of those Nations and welcome any First Nations readers of this blog.


* My blogging practice is to focus on the page that coincides with my age, currently 79.

Douglas Stuart’s Shuggie Bain

Douglas Stuart, Shuggie Bain (Picador 2020)

This is a Book Group book.

Before the meeting

Shuggie Bain is the story of a boy who grows up in poverty in Glasgow, the youngest of three children. His mother, Agnes, is an alcoholic who is brutally treated by her husband, Shuggie’s father, and then abandoned by him. Once a stunning beauty, she struggles to maintain appearances as she descends into increasingly desperate poverty, alienated from other women and sexually exploited, often violently, by men. From an early age, Shuggie takes on the burden of looking after her, protecting her and trying to make things better. The downward trend is reversed at times when Agnes joins AA, finds part-time employment and has a relationship with a decent man, but there is never any doubt about how her story will end, or that she will take Shuggie down with her. Through it all, Shuggie is singled out by adults and other children as different, not a proper boy – it’s a story of growing up gay.

The Wikipedia entry on Douglas Stuart gives an account of his childhood that could easily be a plot summary of the book. It’s surely no coincidence that ‘Shuggie’ rhymes with ‘Dougie’ (though maybe not in Australian pronunciation, if ‘Shug’ is short for ‘sugar’ as in The Color Purple), and the opening line of the acknowledgements refers to the author’s mother ‘and her struggle’. So the book presents itself as a fictionalised version of the author’s own childhood. As such it’s a valiant work of imagination, wrangling terrible experience into words. I admire it, I read it compulsively, I must have been moved by the horror because when I reached the book’s one moment of genuine tenderness I felt an extraordinary sense of a weight lifting from my mind, even though I knew it was only temporary. But …

… if I hadn’t been reading it for the book group, I would have stopped at page 37, where Agnes is beaten and raped by Big Shug. Really, do I need any more images of that sort lodged in my brain? I did read on, encouraged by the fact that the book won the Booker Prize in 2020, and I’m glad I did, but I found the insistence on the misery of Agnes and every other character in the book disturbing. I can explain what I mean by way of a tiny moment fairly early on. Agnes has regained consciousness after a night of drunkenness, destruction and violence:

Agnes wrapped her lips around the cold metal tap and gulped the fluoride-heavy water, panting and gasping like a thirsty dog. 

(page 72)

She has been beaten up, raped, and shunned. She has done appalling things in her drunken state. Now, the tone of this sentence implies, she has reached such a state of degradation that she drinks directly from a tap, and not only that, but the water has been fluoridated! Where I come from, you don’t have to be subhuman to drink fluoridated water from a cold tap. It feels as if the narrator, if not the book itself, has lost perspective, and I lose faith. It could be that this sentence is a momentary false note. After all, as Randall Jarrell said, a novel is a prose narrative of some length that has something wrong with it. But my uneasy sense that perhaps this was a work of Misery Porn persisted for the rest of the book, even while I engaged intensely with the characters.

Between reading the book and the Book Group meeting: I took the book, and my unease about it, seriously enough to do some counterpoint reading – that is, to read writing that deals with similar material from different points of view. Interestingly enough, the other reading led me to a better appreciation of Shuggie Bain.

1. Jimmy Barnes’s memoir Working Class Boy (link to my blog post here). The early chapters tell of a childhood in a family and community in Glasgow, where alcohol-fuelled violence is as prevalent as in Shuggie’s. Young Jimmy could easily have been one of the boys who terrorised young Shuggie.

They are different kinds of book, of course. Jimmy Barnes can expect his readers to know him as a rock star, and to read the memoir as his back story. As he tells it, the young Jimmy was able to escape from the violence at home, and he went pretty wild on drugs and alcohol himself. Writing as a grandfather, he repents the errors of his youth and writes with generosity and forgiveness of his parents.

The narrator of Shuggy Bain doesn’t have that kind of safe distance from the events he describes. The novel has a visceral immediacy. The account of Agnes’s degradation is told from a point of view not far removed from Shuggie’s own, so the reader is aligned with the helpless child bystander. If the narrator has any distance at all, I imagine it’s that of an adult Shuggie who has escaped Glasgow, and looks back in horror at what he witnessed and endured.

2. Wendy McCarthy on the ABC’s Conversations podcast describes her own response when she saw her father lying drunk in the gutter.

This boy said to me, ‘You know your father’s a drunk,’ and I said, ‘Yep,’ and just kept walking. I learnt something then: I’m not going to carry his shame.

(The link is here. The quote is at 14 minutes and 20 seconds.)

Wendy McCarthy was already at high school when that happened, and had had time to build her inner resources. Shuggie Bain is a novel about a child who didn’t have that chance, and who was caught in the vortex of his mother’s shame.

3. Kit Kelen’s Book of Mother (blog post to come). On the face of it, this poetry collection has nothing in common with Shuggie Bain. Mostly, it plunges the reader into the experience of living with the poet’s mother’s dementia. The son/poet-narrator is an adult, but the poetry captures a kind of mental vertigo that has a lot in common with the way Shuggie is drawn into his mother’s struggles. Comparing the books, I realised Shuggie isn’t just a dreadfully abused child, but he’s also a person of extraordinary heroism. When everyone else abandons Agnes or – in the case of Shuggie’s siblings – escapes her destructive gravitational pull, Shuggie stays, loving her and trying to make things better for her, until the bitter end.

After the meeting: We met in person, all but three who were respectively on the road with a theatrical production, visiting New York for major family event, and home with non-Covid sick children. As usual we ate well and eclectically. Among other things we discussed the role of table tennis for one of us in the process of retiring from regular work; the joy for another at having no income to declare as he too is in the process of hanging up his tools; and our shared relief at having a government that isn’t just about slogans, announcements and cruelty.

The Chooser kicked off conversation about the book by saying that if he’s known what it was about he wouldn’t have picked it, but he’d trusted his wife’s recommendation. I think we were unanimously glad he had, as the book provoked animated, and at times intensely personal conversation.

Many, if not most, had had to overcome initial reluctance that ranged from my own borderline prissiness to not wanting to dredge up memories of a major alcohol-related disruption in his own life.

A number of the chaps said they’d had to take breaks from reading it – one said a dull work on (I think) the energy grid was a perfect palate cleanser. One of the night’s three absentees texted that it was like Hanya Yanigahara’s A Little Life ‘but without the gratuitous violence etc.’ Another absentee sent us a long text part way through the evening, and encapsulated the general sentiment in his summing up: ‘In the end it was really good but hard going. I’m glad it’s over but glad I finished.’

A number of things were identified as having won us over. We agreed that it’s beautifully written – one man said he kept stopping to reread sentences for the sheer pleasure. It feels real – you believe that the author has experienced something close to Shuggie’s life. The narrative has a strong forward drive: as readers we share Shuggie’s hope that Agnes will snap out of the downward spiral, or at least we want it desperately even though we know it’s futile – and we keep turning the pages. The moments of lightness, tenderness and spirited resistance (there are more than the one I remembered) are beacons in the gloom. And we feel strongly for all the characters: Shuggie’s older brother Leekie won more than one heart, and (for me at least) Eugene, the one man who genuinely loves Agnes, tore my heart out when he became the unintentional agent of her destruction.

It’s a terrific book. Next meeting’s Chooser has been urged to choose something cheerful.