Bone Bred

By John Skow

THE CUTTING EDGE by Penelope Gillian Coward, McCann & Geoghegan 150 pages; $8.95

There is not much meat to this delicate, whimsical little novel about the friendship of two English brothers, but the bones clack together nicely. Peregrine is a precocious child. His younger brother Benedick is thought to be dull, because for several years he speaks in a private language only Peregrine can understand. Their father, a literary scholar and full-rigged eccentric, is never ruffled by his odd progeny; but their mother, a dithered creature who soon fades out of the scene, is confounded. At the age of six, for example, Benedick inquires, "What's a prostitute?" Peregrine knows: "A lady with high heels and a tight satin skirt and dyed hair." Replies Benedick: "Oh, like the housemaids. Have you noticed the new parlormaid's bosom?" Their mother demands to know what they are jabbering about. "Ladies," says Peregrine. "They call them intercourse on the news bulletins." Mrs. Corbett retaliates by marching the boys to church, and there, as a child chorister passes by, swinging incense, Peregrine remarks, "Excuse me, but your handbag is on fire."

At first, these elliptical discussions seem arch and aimless. But Gilliatt, a film critic for The New Yorker and the author of several brilliant short story collections and novels, subtly builds them to establish the existence of a singular bond between singular men. In time, Peregrine becomes a barrister and then a curmudgeonly journalist whose essays excoriate the modern world. Benedick becomes an electronic harpsichordist and marries a difficult woman named Joanna, who speaks eight or ten languages and runs what appears to be an armaments brokerage from a telex machine in their Wiltshire house. When Joanna restlessly and ruthlessly divorces Benedick, the two brothers push on to Istanbul. There Peregrine tries to be a poet. Benedick settles in as his secretary. But events soon separate them, and Peregrine takes up with Joanna. Finally, Benedick rejoins the pair in a fond menage `a trois.

The author deliberately, and sometimes perversely, provides a fragmentary narrative. Huge pieces of the brothers' lives are left out, and odd bits are included: the agreeable information, for instance, that Peregrine finds an auction house where he purchases a pair of Henry James' pants.

Gilliatt seems to have discovered a few of the master's old raiments herself, for the reader is invited to believe in her characters not as authentic personae, but as profound sketches of imaginary people. It is impossible to refuse the invitation. Gilliatt's narrative line is sure, and her antic spirit is unflagging. What is fully drawn and wholly believable, curiously enough, is the great love between the two brothers. If the result is fiction as eccentric as its subjects, no matter. Most current novels err in the direction of stultifying detail and would be better if they were supplied with less meat and more bone.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.