Light Frayn

Headlong is one of those likeable, almost funny, middle-of-the-road English novels which somehow create the impression of one of the those likeable, almost funny, middle-of-the-road English television sitcoms. Nothing too demanding, but such novels and TV shows are a bit self-regarding all the same. Just as the actors seem to feel the material is a lot funnier than it actually is, the tone of Frayn's 1950s-type novel - David Lodge meets John Mortimer - also suggests that he feels his book is a comedy classic. It's not. It's not even particularly well written - the prose has the earnest, laboured quality of a writer hoping not to get found out. Waugh it is not.

But it is English, pleasantly unopinionated, fast-moving and unusually lacking in aggression at a time when so many British novels set out to expose the Establishment and so many narrators sound like frustrated serial killers. Above all, it is not clever - and, better still, does not appear to be trying to be clever.

For a novel which is so over-plotted in a ramshackle, skittish way, and encompasses serious art history and Dutch history, Headlong is surprisingly slight. The opening sequence, "Aims and Approaches", which acts as a preface of sorts, also prepares the reader for the flatness of the writing which is to follow. Exactly how Frayn managed to drag it all out for close on 400 pages is in itself a feat. Perhaps the real achievement here is not only how it managed to be short-listed for this year's Booker Prize, but that any panel of judges could select such an average, unoriginal yarn over two superior English novels: former Booker nominees Jim Crace and Tim Parks both published outstanding novels this year, and neither made the shortlist.

Considering that Frayn is this year's only English nominee, and that the Booker is an opportunity for showcasing the English novel, it leaves one wondering not only at the Booker panel but also at the English literary establishment in general. Reviewers often differ but some of the glowing reviews given to this book beg the question: what book did they read? From its publication, it seemed a likely Booker contender and not on its literary merit.

Leaving British fiction aside, many novelists from elsewhere must be wondering at this short-listing. Frayn, who has written eight previous novels and is also a playwright, is in the curious position of having the weakest book on the list and is also probably the most popular of the contenders.

Early into the narrative, narrator Martin Clay introduces himself as a man intent on changing his life. Admittedly the methods he uses are surprising and far from honest, but he is a likeable chap and what's a small crime when the victim seems such an upper-class rotter? Martin, his wife and small baby are off to their cottage in the country - she has a scholarly text to finish, he thinks he has a book to write.

At first there are strong echoes of John Mortimer's gentle English satire at work: "We're on our way to the country. Where is the country? Good question. . . It's all a bit neat and organised still, as if it were merely a representation of the country in an exhibition. The hedges are machined smooth. There are too many stables and riding schools."

And then there are all those Land Rovers "designed for rural life" and coyly referred to as "squarish vehicles very high off the ground, made to keep their occupants well clear of foot-and-mouth disease. But the people inside them look disconcertingly urban. . . We don't want to drive a hundred miles out of London only to meet people who have driven a hundred miles out of London to avoid meeting people like us."

Martin is a philosopher attempting to become an historian but is really an intellectual drifter whose world is caught up between contentment with his wife and baby - the domestic gush, complete with Madonna and child set-pieces, can rankle - and the other darker aspect of his personality, which is desperate to achieve something big and life-changing. A chance summons to the local big house - in fact, a decaying heap owned by a shabby and obviously dodgy landowner and his unhappy young wife - provides a chance-in-a-lifetime scam.

And so off we go with nice guy Martin, who proves to have not only criminal tendencies which he can justify to an uptight and righteous wife who disapproves and yet supports him at a distance, but also some mystery appeal which attracts the lord's unhappy spouse. Not quite a farce, but at times not far off one.

It is an easy read. But while none of the characters emerge beyond their stereotypes, the main story is ironically sidelined by the intriguing asides which, in fact, add up to a small thesis in its own right. These are long passages given over to Martin's art-history research. To be honest, the theorising about the mysterious Brueghel, creator of Hunters in the Snow and other masterpieces and patriarch of an extraordinary family of Flemish painters, is far better than Martin's story. Frayn has obviously put a lot of background work into this breathless and old-fashioned novel, but it never quite lifts itself above a workmanlike level of narrative competence. It is impossible to feel sorry for Martin. In ways, he gets away with everything; in others, he loses everything. It could well make a better TV show than a novel. It already reads like a script.

Frayn possesses a good eye, there are a couple of vividly described comedy set-pieces, and at times he displays unexpected authorial discipline. But even at its best, Headlong is never better than goodish and fails to develop into the comic morality play it is intended to be.

Eileen Battersby is a critic and an Irish Times journalist