This Is How

by M. J. Hyland

Overview

From the Man Booker–shortlisted author of Carry Me Down comes “an unflinching, absorbing, morally complex portrait” of a man in search of himself (The New York Times).
 
Patrick Oxtoby is a perpetual outsider who has always longed to find his place in the world. So when he’s faced with yet another disappointment after his fiancé breaks off their engagement, Patrick moves to a remote seaside village to escape.
 
But in spite of his hopes for a new and better life, Patrick still finds himself struggling to fit in. He can’t shake the feeling that his new friends are conspiring against him, further fracturing his already fragile personality and prompting him to take a course of action that permanently alters his life.
 
This Is How is a psychologically probing and deeply moving account of a man at odds with the world, and whose conflict with that unyielding reality leads to his own downfall. It is a masterpiece of inner tension that is “bleak yet moving, mercilessly dispassionate yet shot through with kindness and wit . . . a profound achievement” (The Guardian).

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780802197665
Publisher:	Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Publication date:	11/20/2018
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	256
File size:	3 MB

About the Author

M. J. HYLAND was born in London in 1968 to Irish parents and spent her early childhood in Dublin. She studied law and English at the University of Melbourne and worked for several years as a lawyer. Her first novel, How the Light Gets In, was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book (Eurasia Region) and for The Age Book of the Year in Australia and, in 2004, she was named Young Australian Writer of the Year.How the Light Gets In also took third place in the 2004 Barnes & Noble Discover Award for fiction. M. J. Hyland lives in London, England.

Hometown:

Melbourne, Australia

Date of Birth:

June 6, 1968

Place of Birth:

London, England

Education:

Arts/Law Degree, the University of Melbourne, Australia, 1996; M.A in English, The University of Melbourne, 2004

Website:

http://www.howthelightgetsin.com

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

I put my bags down on the doorstep and knock three times. I don't bang hard like a copper, but it's not as though I'm ashamed to be knocking either.

The porch light comes on and the landlady opens the door. She's younger and prettier than I expected.

'Hello,' I say. 'I'm Patrick.'

'I thought you'd be here hours ago.'

It's after ten and I was due at six. My mouth's gone dry, but I smile, friendly as I can.

'I missed the connection,' I say.

I've not meant the lie, but she's forced me.

'You'd better come in.'

We face each other in the hallway. I've got my back to the door and she's got her back to the stairs. I should say something, but I can't think what. I put my bags down again and my hands hang heavy.

'You'll have to meet the other boarders tomorrow,' she says. 'They've gone out.'

She takes hold of her long brown hair and pulls it over her left breast like a scarf.

'Let me take your coat,' she says.

'I'm not bothered,' I say. 'I'll keep it on.'

I want the pockets for my hands.

'There's a rack just beside you.'

'I've said I'll leave it on.'

'I thought you might feel more comfortable with it off. It's a very warm evening.'

She looks at me and I look at her and she takes a step back as though she blames the place where she's standing for the silence.

I want her to show me to my room and get it over with. I take my coat off and put it on the rack.

'There,' I say.

She coughs and I get to thinking maybe she's nervous, same as me. Maybe she thinks I'm all right.

'Is that all the luggage you have?'

I've got clothes in one duffel bag, my toolkit in the other.

'Yeah.'

My coat falls off the hook and, because neither of us picks it up, it's as though there's something watching us.

Beside the hallway telephone, a pen hangs from a piece of string. I flick the string and the pen swings.

She laughs, but it's not a mean laugh.

'What did you do while you waited for your train?' she says.

'I read a book.'

I cover my throat with my hand. I didn't read. I went to an off-licence and they had a four-for-two deal on bottles of beer. I drank three at the station to get in a better mood and I've still got one in my bag.

'Is it a good book?'

'So far.'

There are pictures of boats on the wall.

'I'm building a boat,' she says. 'Bridget Bowman's building a boat.'

I smile and she smiles right back. She's got a few stains between her teeth, like grout between tiles.

'That's good,' I say.

She points to the hallway wall, to a picture of a half-built boat in a dark shed. I should ask her what kind of boat it is, but I know nothing about boats and she'll think I'm an idiot.

I pick up the coat.

'I'll take you up now,' she says. 'You're on the first floor.'

My room's small, but it's at the front of the house and I'll bet it has a good clear view of the sea.

There's a single bed, a sink, a draining board, and a rack for cups and plates. Under the window, there's a table and a wooden chair.

I put my bags down under the sink, go to the bed, and sit. I wouldn't mind a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. After that, we could lie down together and I could put my head in her lap, or the other way round. It'd be up to her.

She comes over, stands close to me. 'What've you got in the big bag?' she says.

'My toolkit.'

She looks at it.

'Do you want me to open it up?'

'Never mind,' she says. 'I was just curious.'

I stand.

'Is the room okay?' she says.

'It's more than okay.'

She smiles. 'How long do you plan to stay?' 'Indefinitely.'

'You've come here for good then?' 'Or bad.'

She laughs, takes a step back. 'We'd better go down to the office now.'

I follow her down the stairs and she takes her time, goes too slow, keeps turning back to look at me, tells me the ins and outs of the running of the boarding house.

Three weeks ago my fiancée Sarah was standing at the top of the stairs when she said, 'I can't marry you, it's over,' and when she was halfway down, I called out her name, but she didn't stop, didn't so much as look at me, just said, 'Please don't follow me.'

I wanted to push her down the stairs, make the kind of impression I didn't know how to make with words. But I didn't, and when she'd closed the front door I said, 'Okay, then,' and, 'Goodbye, then.'

Afterwards, I played the scene over and over, imagined how I planted my hands in the middle of her back and pushed hard enough to send her flying.

And I got this sentence in my head, over and over, 'You broke my heart and now I've broken your spine.' It was something I'd never say, not like anything I've ever said. I've never done any serious violence to anybody, never even thought about it all that much.

The next day I set about looking in the papers for work and lodgings down south near the sea and three weeks later my bags were packed and I was on the train.

I'm here now, a hundred miles away, and that's the past. Sarah's the past. It's done with. I don't have to think about it again if I don't want to.

At the bottom of the stairs, Bridget takes a left turn to her office. The writing in the frosted glass says: Do Not Enter. She unlocks the door, goes in and sits behind her desk. There are more pictures of boats and her black-and-white wedding photographs on the walls and a pile of books about boats on the desk and a vase full of white flowers on top of a filing cabinet. I wonder where her husband is.

'You'll need to pay for the first two months and a six-week bond in case there's any breakage or malicious damage.'

I've only ever heard my father use the phrase malicious damage and I expect it from him because he's a miserable factory foreman, always on the lookout for thievery and wrongdoing. She's too pretty to be saying it.

'Right,' I say.

I open my wallet and take out a wad of notes and without so much as blinking I give her the money. I bet she'll think there's a lot more where that came from.

She looks at the notes and frowns.

'Wait,' I say. 'Let me count it for you.'

I've given her all she's asked for and I've only got a hundred and fifty pounds left.

'Is everything all right?' she says.

I nod.

'You're just tired.'

'Yeah, it's been a long day.'

'Of course.'

She wants more.

'I'm sorry I haven't been more friendly,' I say. 'I'll be a new man in the morning.'

'We'll do the paperwork and get you a set of keys tomorrow then.'

'That'd be good.'

She moves round to the front of her desk. 'Well, goodnight then, Patrick.'

She's lovely.

'Goodnight.'

I reach the first-floor landing and she calls up.

'Breakfast's at seven-thirty on weekdays and eight-thirty on weekends.'

I call back, 'Okay, thanks. See you tomorrow.'

'Sleep well,' she says.

'You too.'

There's a good atmosphere made by our voices calling up and down the stairs, something like the mood of being on holiday, just me and Bridget, alone.

CHAPTER 2

I'm asleep when the front door slams.

It's half-midnight and the other boarders are home. Somebody's fallen against the wall outside, and there's laughter.

I get out of bed and open the window, try to hear what they say, but all I hear is a tomcat crying for sex.

'Fuck you,' I say.

I dress and put my shoes on, try talking myself into going down, but change my mind and take my shoes off.

The other boarders, two men, they go on laughing and talking.

I put my shoes back on.

'Forget it,' I say. 'You'll meet them in the morning.'

I've not meant to talk to myself and, if I've done it now, maybe I've done it before and not known it.

I take my shoes off again, undress, get back into bed.

But I don't sleep, don't even close my eyes.

When the men come up the stairs, one of them laughs and says, 'The new boy.'

I wake at 4 a.m. The man in the next room's farting, a sound like sausages bursting in a frying pan. I'm wide awake now and staying in bed's a waste of time. I won't sleep.

I get up and dress.

I'll go out and walk by the sea, watch the sunrise and be back in time for breakfast.

I go down quiet as I can and take one of the keys hanging on the hooks beside the coat-rack.

I cross the empty road to the promenade and walk down to the water's edge. The only light comes pale from the moon and a few of the unbroken orange lamps further down the esplanade. Waves roll to the sand and suck as though for food and the sound of the sea is like applause.

I walk towards the town. By the time I reach the main street, my tongue's sticky with thirst.

All the shops are closed. I go on further, down to the train station at the junction. It's about twenty minutes from the boarding house.

There's nobody at the station, no attendant, no cleaner, and the buffet's closed. I climb over a barrier and go out to platform 2. The air here's cold and there's a smell of stale ash and engine oil.

I turn back.

When I reach the boarding house, the sun's risen and the light's foggy and blue.

I go straight up to my room, open my big bag, take out the toolkit and put it safe under the bed, grab a towel and go to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I lock the door and undress for a bath, but the water runs cold. I try both taps, adjust the pressure, but still no heat. I take the plug out of the bath, wrap the towel round my waist, go out to the hall and check the closet for a meter or a boiler. There's neither.

I pick up my clothes, go back to my room and get into bed.

When I wake, it's quarter past eight. I've almost missed breakfast.

I wash my face in cold water, tuck in my shirt, wipe the muck off my shoes, then go down.

When they hear my fast feet coming down the stairs, they'll know I'm fit and keen to make their acquaintance. Going quick's a trick that helps kill some of my social nerves.

There are two men in the dining room. They sit together at a table under the bay window. There's another table, set for one, in the middle of the room.

I go in, put my hands in my pockets.

'Good morning,' I say.

One of the men stands. His hair is jet-black.

'Hello,' he says, 'I'm Shaun Flindall.'

Flindall's got a posh London accent and he'd have the looks of a movie star if not for his big ears.

'Hello,' I say.

The second man stays in his seat and he only bothers to nod in my direction. His arm's draped across the back of the chair and his long legs point out from under the table, crossed at the ankles.

He's not as good-looking as Flindall, but he's tall and he's got a thick head of blond hair and the kind of big blue eyes girls love so much. And he's got a tan.

'I'm Ian Welkin,' he says, his voice even posher than Flindall's. 'Why don't you sit here with me?' Flindall doesn't protest, picks up his plate and goes to the table in the middle of the room, looks at me, then takes hold of the cigarette he's got behind his ear. I expect he'll smoke it, but he just moves it to the other ear.

I sit opposite Welkin.

'Welcome aboard,' he says.

'Thanks,' I say.

Both men have got their hot breakfasts.

'We were hoping to meet you last night,' says Welkin. 'We thought we could show you round the town.'

'I missed my train,' I say.

'And you've missed breakfast, too,' says Flindall.

'Bridget's gone into town,' says Welkin. 'But she'll be back soon.'

'She might make you a bacon sandwich,' says Flindall. 'If you ask nicely.'

'Good,' I say. 'I'm starving.'

Neither of them offers me any food. A piece of toast would do.

'Do you know she's a widow?' says Welkin. 'Her husband was killed by a train.'

'How?'

Welkin laughs without opening his mouth. 'He was in his car and got stuck on the tracks.'

'The train was running early,' says Flindall. 'Astonishing bad luck.'

Flindall moves the cigarette again, back to the other ear.

'When?' I say.

'Two years ago,' says Welkin. 'Imagine the carnage.'

'Now she's building a boat with the other woman,' says Flindall.

'The other woman?'

'Her husband had a passenger in the car,' says Welkin. 'A man he worked with.'

'The other woman is the other widow,' says Flindall.

'Jesus,' I say.

Welkin wipes his mouth clean with a napkin and Flindall cleans his teeth with a toothpick.

They both look at me.

Welkin's left two sausages on his plate and some black pudding. I wouldn't mind a bit.

'What did you read?' he says. 'At university?'

Bridget's been telling them the stuff I put in my letter.

'I didn't finish.'

'What did you take?'

'History and Psychology,' I say, 'but I left after a year.'

'That's a shame,' he says.

'That's too bad,' says Flindall, who's holding the cigarette, looking at it.

'I wasn't really bothered,' I say.

There's silence while they pour themselves tea.

'I was just telling Flindall earlier about my trip to Australia,' says Welkin.

I say nothing, can think of nothing.

'I was hoping to see a few sharks, but I didn't see a single one.'

'Me neither,' I say.

What I mean is that I've never seen a shark, but I'm not sure it makes any difference to him what I've meant. He goes on talking in his booming voice like he's on a stage.

'I think if sharks had arms,' he says, 'they wouldn't bother killing. They only bite legs off because they're curious. If they had arms they'd just —'

'Hug people?' I say.

Both men laugh and the laughter's in my favour and it's the first time they've looked at me like they think I'm not an idiot.

I'll relax a bit now.

Welkin leans across the table.

'Welcome to Vauxhall Street, Pat.'

'It's Patrick,' I say.

'Have some toast then, Par-trick.'

Bridget's come back and she's carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Maybe she's got our dinner in there.

'Good morning,' she says.

I stand up to say hello.

'Did you have a nice sleep?'

'Yeah, thanks.'

'You've missed breakfast. Are you hungry?'

'I am a bit.'

'I'll get you a bacon sandwich,' she says. 'Will that do?'

'That's great, thanks.'

Flindall puts the cigarette back behind his ear and stands. 'I've got to get to work.'

We say our goodbyes.

Bridget puts the parcel down and sits where Flindall was sitting. I'll have to wait a while for that sandwich.

'Shaun's an architect,' she tells me. 'He's one of the head architects for the new pavilion.'

'Right,' I say.

'And Ian's a mathematician.'

'An actuary,' he says, 'actually.'

She smiles.

'But I'm on an informal sabbatical,' he says. 'I'm sick of the big smoke and I'm taking the sea air. A rest cure.'

'You been sick?' I say.

'Not exactly,' he says.

'Just a bit too rich and a bit too idle,' says Bridget.

Welkin nods. 'That's right.'

Bridget smiles, takes the parcel, leaves.

What's gone on between them looks like something that's gone on before.

Welkin stays with me while I wait for my food.

'Why doesn't Flindall light that cigarette?' I say.

'He gave up two weeks ago and he sticks one behind his ear so he's got something to play with.'

'Isn't that like torture?'

'Yes, but I suppose that's the very point. Don't you see?'

I don't see. I say nothing.

'Have you got work here?' he says.

'Yeah, I'm a mechanic. I'm starting at the place on the main road on Monday morning.'

'Is that the one that does vintage cars?'

'Yeah, and sports cars.'

He turns his cup round, looks at the tea leaves.

'Why did you give up university to fix cars?'

'I prefer it,' I say. 'You've got to do the thing you prefer.'

'Yes,' he says. 'I suppose that's the right decision.'

I hadn't asked him for his opinion on my decision.

'Anyway,' I say, 'it's a good line of work, and the money's not too bad. And I get to drive some very nice cars.'

Bridget's come back with my bacon sandwich.

'Here you are,' she says.

'Thanks.'

I start to eat and she stacks dirty dishes onto a tray at the next table. Welkin stands to help her and when the job's done she puts her hand on his arm and leaves it there, and they look at each other, longer than usual, and even though it's not me she's touching, the heat shoots through my legs. I hope she's not one of those women who can touch a man she hardly knows without meaning anything much.

'I'd better be going,' says Welkin. 'I've got to see a man about a dog.'

'See you later, then,' I say.

'You've finished your breakfast,' he says. 'Why don't you come up with me? You've got the room right next door.'

I'm not in the mood for more chat.

'I'll stay down here,' I say. 'I need to make a few phone calls.'

Bridget leaves and Welkin follows close behind. I'll be damned annoyed if it turns out they're having sex.

I wait for a few minutes, then go up to my room, get a towel, try the bath again.

The water's still running cold.

I go downstairs to Bridget's office and tell her, 'There's no hot water.'

'The best time is earlier in the morning.'

She's searching for something in the top drawer of the desk and looks at me as though she blames me for the fact she can't find it.

'I tried earlier,' I say.

'Oh.'

'Can I have my key?' I ask.

'Of course.'

She goes to the filing cabinet and gets two keys.

She looks at me.

'Don't forget to put your front-door key on the hook inside the door when you get in. This way we all know who's home and who isn't.'

'Okay.'

'Yours is the blue hook, which is the same colour as the number on your bedroom door.'

(Continues…)

---

Excerpted from "This Is How"
by .
Copyright © 2009 M. J. Hyland.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---

Editorial Reviews

[Hyland] makes it look so simple, with her words of one syllable, with a style almost entirely devoid of affect; but there is nothing simplistic about her achievement. This Is How is an unflinching, absorbing, morally complex portrait of one life gone suddenly and terribly awry…an eerie, commanding book. It is a novel about crime, though not a crime novel; it has an almost stately pace and yet it's thrilling. It is, most important, a moving and compassionate portrait of a human being who is fully himself and yet stands for all of us, for what we fear, or fear to hope. And that is the best that most writers can ever hope to achieve.
—The New York Times

Erica Wagner

Hyland's clever prose is first-rate, but wit makes a weak substitute for insight in this novel about a deeply troubled young Englishman who seeks a fresh start, only to end up facing serious criminal charges. As a child, the unreliable 23-year-old narrator, Patrick Oxtoby, was an excellent student, but after a breakdown at age 14 he became fascinated with mechanics. Now, shortly after his fiancée leaves him, he lands in a small seaside town, takes a job at an auto repair shop and moves into a boarding house he can't afford. It seems as if Hyland misses every opportunity to delve into the roots of Patrick's awkwardness: his landlady and a local waitress provide him fantasy material, and it's clear, even from Patrick's problematic perspective, that he comes across as creepy. Nonetheless, both women inexplicably trust him, just as his parents and older brother appear to love and encourage him-until his arrest, at which point, and without explanation, they abandon him. Hyland (Carry Me Down) sails across Patrick's dark exterior with humor and empathy, but as with everyone Patrick encounters, she hesitates to dive below the surface. (Aug.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Publishers Weekly

Solitary young man descends into a prison of his own making in this bleak tale from Booker-nominated Hyland (Carry Me Down, 2006, etc.). Protagonist and narrator Patrick Oxtoby, 23, is a failed university student who has recently been dumped by his fiancee Sarah and subsequently moved to a lonely seacoast village. Only partially registering the life around him, Patrick finds lodgings at a young widow's boarding house and parlays his almost instinctive mechanical skills into a job at an auto-body shop. But he never frees himself from inchoate memories of a troubled childhood and some unspecified emotional trauma suffered as a teenager. He finds little solace in promised intimacy with an attractive waitress and keeps his distance from the abrasive camaraderie of fellow male boarders. Then, without ever quite knowing why, Patrick commits a brutally violent act; he is immediately apprehended and imprisoned pending trial. The novel's second half details his withdrawal from (predictable) threats lurking in his new environment, as Patrick tries and fails to make his stunned parents, a compassionate doctor and the sexual predators around every corner in jail understand him better than he understands himself. Hyland brilliantly creates and sustains a mood of unrelieved bafflement and tension. But she neglects to make Patrick sympathetic, or even credible. The idea of an unexplained, perhaps inexplicable crime recalls The Stranger, but this redundant and slow-moving tale lacks its predecessor's introspective richness. Two wonderful segments-Patrick's plaintive letter begging his parents to visit, and an unexpected meeting with the elderly couple whose lives he has ruined-amount, alas, to too littletoo late. A disappointment, though by no means an indication of diminished skill, range or seriousness; this gifted Irish writer will find a way to do better next time.

Kirkus Reviews

A moving and compassionate portrait of a human being who is fully himself and yet stands for all of us, for what we fear, or fear to hope.”—New York Times Book Review

“[A] visceral, deeply affecting tale . . . Causality is a question at the heart of the gripping narrative . . . This is a compassionate, disturbing novel, tragically showing a human learning to appreciate life only when his own has been incarcerated.” —The Independent (UK)

“MJ Hyland is an expert anatomist of the bruises left on a fragile mind by a hard world . . . Every word of Hyland’s narrative – observed with the bright, deranged precision of a Richard Dadd painting – resonates.”—The Telegraph (UK)

“This is How, the fearlessly disturbing new novel by M.J. Hyland, takes us inside the mind not of an innocent but of a killer . . . Young Patrick Oxby . . . Hyland’s pared-down descriptions of Patrick’s life—as it once was and as he now endures it—convey excruciating tension and pain. Yet the claustrophobic world that she creates has at its core a disfigured yet recognizable humanity."—Boston Globe

“A tour de force. Hyland illuminates this damaged soul with such a steely, brilliant clarity that your heart breaks for him.”—Helen Garner, author of The Spare Room

“This Is How confirms M.J. Hyland as a true original. She has a ferocious imagination, and an eerie way of squeezing the distance between author, character and reader, so that the atmosphere of the book soaks and penetrates the reader’s mind. When you’ve been reading Hyland, other writers seem to lack integrity; they seem wedded to weak confabulations, whereas she aims straight for the truth and the heart.”—Hilary Mantel, Booker Prize-wining author of Wolf Hall

“Bleak yet moving, mercilessly dispassionate yet shot through with kindness and wit, [This Is How] is a profound achievement . . . it reminds us that there are some truths only fiction can carry.”—The Guardian (UK)

“There is no fanciness to Hyland’s prose. Everything — first person, present tense — is controlled and precise. In the second half of the book, Patrick’s claustrophobic world becomes unutterably grim, but it never feels less than completely real. If you are looking for light entertainment, this is definitely not it. But when it comes to social complexity and nuance, Hyland is compelling.”—The Times (UK)

“Novels are strange beasts, and you can’t always know how one is going to affect you. I finished This is How feeling slightly short-changed, disappointed that I’d somehow been denied a solution to the mystery that its author had set up. Three or four days later, however, Hyland’s white-hot prose was still smouldering in my head and I found myself intensely, almost helplessly, moved by Oxtoby and his tragedy. Some novels play a long game. It’s all credit to Hyland that I’m still thinking about this one, still excited and perturbed by it, still trying to work out what exactly it is that I just read.”—Financial Times (UK)

From the Publisher