Only "long-legged slabs of misery", to borrow a cherished epithet from my Dad, would begrudge anyone the chance to let their belts out a notch over the summer holidays. Summer is the due time for permitted indulgences, even if only partial rather than plenary ones. Belt-tightening is surely a winter affliction.
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My family reliably supplies most of the treats I ever need. I rest content while mentally re-playing the image of our youngest grandson frantically chasing a bird in a Melbourne park, yelling out: "seagull, no running". Nonetheless, the merest trickle of supplementary, non-familial indulgences does not seem too much to ask. Other, misguided folk wait for the holidays to watch the latest Peter Jackson film, to knock off an entire packet of Giant Pythons, or to crisp themselves to a carcinogenic cinder at the beach. As for me, I read the new Bernard Cornwell novel.
Literary snobs, back off. I am well aware that Cornwell knows no shades other than black and white, stacks the deck, writes clumsily repetitive sentences, and strings out his stories far too long. He does, however, suck you in, whether writing about guts and grime, the grease and grit of battle in India, the Peninsula War, the Civil War (less convincingly there), the 100 Years' War or, magically, the eight novels which now chronicle the wicked, blood-bespattered deeds of Uthred of Bettanburg.
Cornwell displays similar charms to Game of Thrones, but lots more of them. His violence is rarely gratuitous (many characters deserve to be killed), his sex scenes are short (but not usually nasty and brutish as well), and his heroes invite trouble and court risk for a reason (although with personal enrichment always in mind). Like Ian Fleming with James Bond, Cornwell creates a world of unbridled license rather than indulgence, a realm where people actually profit from lying, murdering, spying, sleeping around, swearing and thuggery. If this comprises wish fulfilment, then we are sicker than we feared.
I suspect, though, that Cornwell's essential charm is based on a quieter, older, simpler foundation. He can deftly create – and we should graciously appreciate – a well-made thing. Well-made does not connote expensive, and is not synonymous with elegance, either. Fit for purpose, reliable, durable, properly crafted: those are all adjectives worthy of their hire.
