The Lamb by Lucy Rose review – cannibalism comes to Cumbria
The Cumbrian tourist board might have grounds to sue this young author for defamation, were it not for the fact that her meaty but overripe debut is set in a north of the imagination, where cellphones don’t work, basic child safeguarding doesn’t apply, and no one seems to have breakdown cover. Margot lives with her deranged and embittered mother in an isolated house in the woods, which regularly attracts lost hikers, injured walkers and stranded motorists. The “strays”, as they call them, are then not just murdered but munched. Margot is more familiar with eating human fingers than the fishy variety, and when the alternative is boring pasta, the prospect of a roasted, rosemary-scented rump or thigh is irresistible.
Margot has known nothing else in her short life: “Mama didn’t feed me from breast or bottle. She gave me blood.” Now, almost 12, she is allowed to go to the local school, on strict instructions not to make friends or draw attention. “Papa disappeared” years previously, but what happened to him is not too much of a revelation. The only visitor is the local gamekeeper, who drops by occasionally for sex with Mama. But everything changes with the arrival of beautiful Eden, who transforms from prospective stray to enthusiastic member of the household.
Despite the viscera, the jellied blood, peeled skins, torsos on hooks and slow-cooked muscle, all lip-lickingly described, The Lamb is in essence a dark fairytale about family secrets, the rites of passage of adolescence, and the regrettable tendency to neglect a child in the face of an overwhelming new passion.
There is a nauseating specificity about what goes on the table: stock pots bubble, gelatinous fingers retain their nail polish, flesh chunks swim in creamy sauces under lids of pastry always described as “buttery”. Margot retains fragmented memories of some of the strays: “I remembered pieces of them: shapes, smells, mouths, chins, noses and eyes.” There is a ritual to food prep, and a rationalisation of the horror: “Promise me she was happy … We can’t eat them unless they’re happy,” Margot pleads.
Mama, seen in unflattering closeup through Margot’s young eyes, is an ogre with yellowed teeth, yet possessed of an eerie sexual allure the child can only guess at. There are no books, no recreations, nothing but an unappeasable hunger in the house. Margot is so used to blood that her first period is as unremarkable as spilt milk. The gamekeeper is the father of Abbie, one of Margot’s classmates, and as their forbidden friendship develops, Margot’s deeply buried natural compassion begins to emerge. The realisation that other ways of living exist starts to break the shell of secrecy surrounding their cannibalistic lifestyle.
Though she lacks the baroque, ornamental prose style of, say, Angela Carter – one of the publisher’s points of comparison, along with Daisy Johnson and Sophie Mackintosh – Lucy Rose can certainly write. She has a flair for Grand Guignol and expert pacing, cranking up the tension as ever greater risks are taken and flesh is sourced dangerously close to home. Margot’s relationship with the kindly driver of the school bus, the only adult who takes any interest in her wellbeing, is a welcome respite from the febrile atmosphere back at the house. The Lamb grips all the way to an unexpected denouement that is as comfortless as it is eerie.
• The Lamb by Lucy Rose is published by Weidenfeld and Nicolson (£16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
