Bridge of Clay – Markus Zusak

It is, essentially, the story of the Dunbar boys down under. And of their parents, and of their curiously named menagerie living in the Sidney suburbs.

Matthew narrates, in unconventional style, both staccato and fluent, poetic and prosaic, always readable, always enjoyable. He is the eldest, necessarily the responsible one. Then comes Rory (the fighter) and Henry (the grifter). Fourth is Clay(ton), the eponymous one, quiet, deep, gentle, uncommunicative, but universally liked. Little Tommy (bewildered spectator) completes the quintet.

The story evolves a-chronologically, with flashbacks providing their parents’ backstories - Penny Lesciuszko’s Polish roots and iron curtain escape; Michael Dunbar’s broken prior relationship – before settling down into two broad timelines. One leads up to Penny’s demise and Michael’s desertion leaving the teenage boys to fend for themselves. The other, later, covers Michael’s return to face the music, looking for what? Forgiveness? Understanding? Or just help to build a bridge at his place in the outback? Clay is the only one to respond. There’s a reason.

There is more, much more. There is Michael’s art, Penny’s music, Michelangelo’s architecture, running, fighting, horseracing and the stable girl turned jockey. And throughout, echoes of the Iliad - in the Homeric telling and in the names of Hector the cat, Agamemnon the goldfish, Telemachus the pigeon, and Achilles the mule. And Penny, of course, is Penelope. But, in the end, it all comes back to Clay.

It is good, very good, celebrating life’s rich tapestry but not avoiding the reality, the flipsides: no life without death, no love without loss. Its quirky style and jumbled timeline keep the reader on their toes but reward them with spikes of joy, nuggets of pathos, gems of one-liners, and, not to dodge the issue, the odd lump in the throat.