The French Winter is the highly-anticipated novel by the twice Booker longlisted writer William T McFoster. Like his first two books, it is largely a meditation on the tension between nature and modernity. At least that's what the Guardian review will no doubt say, alongside the five stars they give to everyone who's made it into their dinner party rotation.
While the novel does indeed have some things to say about nature and modernity, it mostly has a lot to say about tractors. The man is obsessed with them. Why he feels the need to feature them so prominently in all his writing is as baffling as his readers' willingness to put up with it. I kept a tally while reading this one, and tractors are mentioned on 68 of the book's indulgently-edited 382 pages. That can't be normal. Is this some weird new fetish I haven't heard of before? I'm definitely not googling it.
When he's not waxing poetically about agricultural vehicles he stretches out the barest of plots across his usual pantheon of caricatures. Last time there was the postman who was afraid of letters, and lo and behold this time there's a hydrophobic angler. How does he think of this stuff?
You might be forgiven for thinking I have an axe to grind with McFoster. It's true that I slightly resent him for having a purely decorative 'T' in his name (according to Wikipedia it is a homage to Russell T Davies) but it isn't a grudge I take very seriously. It's just an unfortunate coincidence. I do have some personal history with him however. Shortly after he had arrived on the literary scene with Feguson's Mass I saw him in the little Waitrose near Holborn tube station. He was easy to recognise because he was wearing the same tweed jacket and T-shirt combo he'd worn in all his recent media rounds. Now, this is London and famous people aren't exactly thin on the ground. I usually leave them alone to get on with their day. But in his case I made an exception because I had felt a kinship with him in those early interviews. He too had struggled to get published for years, and I wanted him to know I was happy to see there could be light at the end of the tunnel.
I introduced myself while he ferreted around the prepackaged cheeses. At first he didn't notice me, but when he did, he turned his head to look at me in complete astonishment.
"I'm sorry," he said, "what did you say?"
I repeated that I was a big fan and that it meant a lot to me to see someone like me doing so well.
This didn't appear to reassure him. "I think you have me confused with someone else."
I explained that there was no need to be modest, and that I just wanted to say hello.
He shrugged, said, "whatever mate," and returned to his cheese selection.
I couldn't see any benefit in further pressing him, so I left him to his shopping. I saw him again at the self-checkout and glowered at him. He glanced shiftily in my direction and hastily stuffed his shopping into his bag so he could make a quick exit before me.
I let him go and tried not to dwell on the encounter, but I kept coming back to it. How could he be so aloof mere weeks after being thrust into the spotlight? I realised that perhaps he wasn't used to the attention and I'd unwittingly freaked him out. Enlightened, I wrote him a letter apologising for the awkward encounter and sent it to his agent. I felt immediate relief and thought nothing more of it until a week later, when I received a reply.
I won't post the full contents of the letter here but in it McFoster expressed surprise that I had seen him in the Holborn Little Waitrose because despite his moderate fame he had yet to become rich enough to shop there. Furthermore he had bought the tweed jacket from Oxfam and wearing it with a T-shirt was hardly a unique fashion statement. He did however thank me for my kind words.
So yes, I do find it hard to read his work without thinking of the staggering arrogance of a man who not only pretends not to be himself but when called out on it doubles down on the conceit. By all means read The French Winter if you're into kinky tractor stuff or whatever genre McFoster is grubbing around in. I'll be giving his future books a miss, assuming any more get published after this dross.
Why can't people just be nice?
