Stories we tell ourselves

Sofka Zinovieff’s new novel, Putney, is an involving, beautifully written, and subtle account of an affair in the 1970s between Ralph, a composer in his thirties, and Daphne, a young girl, who is nine when she is first encountered: ‘Flitting, animal movements; narrowed, knowing eyes; dark, tangled hair; dirty bare feet.’ Enchanted by this creature, whom he idealises as a kind of embodiment of the free spirit of the age, he convinces himself, though he has never felt love for a child before, that this is a new, powerful and pure thing — ‘the beginnings of love’ — and grooms her, kissing her under a tree when she reaches the age of 12, before embarking on a full blown affair.

He even takes her on holiday with him to Greece — an act which later times would term an abduction. Daphne’s father, Edmund, is a laissez-faire Putney novelist whose house is full of the students he sleeps with; her mother is a Greek who spends more time on political protests and seeing her lover than looking after her child, who is largely left to her own devices.