Atonement

On the hottest day of the summer of 1935, the world of thirteen-year-old Briony Tallis is a kingdom of exquisite order, waiting to be bent to the will of her imagination. Her new play, *The Trials of Arabella*, is complete, a melodrama of sense and sensibility written to impress her older brother, Leon, on his return from London. But the arrival of her cousins - the worldly fifteen-year-old Lola and the nine-year-old twins, Jackson and Pierrot - disrupts her careful plans. They are refugees from a collapsing marriage, but to Briony, they are merely an unruly cast. Rehearsals falter in the stifling heat of the nursery, her authority is undermined, and a fragile temper begins to fray. Briony is a girl who wants the world to be just so, a place of moral clarity and satisfying conclusions, but the adult world, with its murky desires and unspoken tensions, is beginning to intrude.

From the nursery window, she witnesses a scene by the fountain that she cannot parse. Her older sister, Cecilia, home from Cambridge and adrift in languid boredom, stands with Robbie Turner, the clever, handsome son of their charlady. There is an argument, a moment of tension over an antique vase, and then the shocking, inexplicable sight of Cecilia stripping to her underwear and plunging into the fountain's basin to retrieve broken pieces of porcelain. To Briony, watching from above, it is a tableau of ugly threat and mysterious subjugation. What strange power does he have over her? The scene feels charged with a significance she cannot grasp, a secret rite from which she is excluded. It is her first intimation that the world is not a story she can control, and that it is terrifyingly easy to get everything wrong.

Her nascent suspicions are set ablaze later that afternoon. Tasked with delivering a note from Robbie to Cecilia, Briony's simmering jealousy and writerly curiosity compel her to open it. The note contains a clinical, obscene word that strikes her with the force of a physical blow. It is a revelation of a depraved mind, a confirmation of the darkness she sensed at the fountain. The word becomes a key, unlocking a narrative of lurking evil. Later, searching for her sister, she pushes open the library door and finds them in the half-light, locked in a desperate embrace against the shelves. To her eyes, it is not passion but a struggle; Cecilia's terrified eyes meet hers over Robbie's shoulder. He is an attacker, a maniac. The evidence is irrefutable. Her story now has a hero and a villain, and she, Briony, is its central witness.

That night, as the family gathers for a tense dinner, the twin boys run away. During the search, in the humid darkness of the grounds, Briony wanders toward the island temple by the lake. There, she discovers a scene of true violation. She sees a figure assaulting her cousin Lola before melting back into the shadows. When the figure is gone, Lola is a whimpering shape on the ground. Briony's narrative snaps shut. The disparate, confusing events of the day now form a perfect, horrible symmetry. “I saw him,” she whispers to her cousin, her certainty a beacon in the disorienting dark. “It was him, wasn't it?” In Lola's dazed silence, Briony finds all the confirmation she needs. It was Robbie. Her testimony is unwavering, a child's clear-eyed conviction in the face of adult hesitation. Before the sun rises, Robbie Turner is led away in handcuffs, his mother's cries of “Liars!” echoing across the misty park, unheard or unheeded by the girl who has just sealed his fate.

Years pass. It is 1940, and Corporal Robbie Turner is in France, retreating with the routed British army toward Dunkirk. The world has descended into a chaos that mirrors the ruin of his own life. He is haunted by images of the war's casual brutality - a child's leg wedged in the fork of a tree - and by the memories of a prison sentence he did not deserve. He survives on a single, animating hope: Cecilia. Her letters are his lifeline, her promise his reason to live. “I'll wait for you. Come back,” she writes, and the words are a talisman against the encroaching madness. He carries her last letter, which contains the astonishing news that Briony, now a young woman, wishes to recant her testimony. The possibility of his name being cleared, of a life with Cecilia being restored, is a fragile dream he clings to as he stumbles through the carnage-strewn fields, his only purpose to reach the sea.

In London, Briony's atonement has taken the form of a nurse's uniform. She has renounced Cambridge and a writer's life for the punishing routines of hospital work, a penance of sluice rooms, carbolic soap, and the unthinking obedience demanded by Sister Drummond. The war she has sought finds her when the first wave of wounded from Dunkirk floods the wards. The hospital becomes a charnel house of shattered bodies and unspeakable suffering. In the midst of the horror, tending to the dying, she is stripped of her childish arrogance. When she is sent to comfort a young French soldier with a catastrophic head wound, she holds his hand and enters his dying delirium, pretending to be the girl from his village he mistakes her for. “It's Briony,” she whispers to him as he dies, an assertion of self in an act of selfless compassion. She is beginning to understand the true nature of the damage she has done.

One Saturday in 1940, Briony finally stands before her sister in a small, cheerless flat in Balham. Cecilia is a ward sister, her face hardened by sorrow and resentment. And then Robbie appears, alive, home from Dunkirk on a brief leave. The confrontation is brutal. Robbie's fury is a cold, quiet thing, the anger of a man whose life has been stolen. “I'm torn between breaking your stupid neck here and taking you outside and throwing you down the stairs,” he tells her. Briony stands before them and accepts her guilt. She agrees to their terms: she will go to her parents and tell them the truth; she will write a sworn statement retracting her evidence. Before she leaves, she reveals one last, crucial piece of the puzzle: the man who attacked Lola was the chocolate millionaire, Paul Marshall, whom Lola has since married. The meeting ends not with forgiveness, but with a set of instructions. “Just do all the things we've asked,” Robbie tells her. It is a fragile, conditional peace, but as she descends into the tube station, leaving the lovers to their stolen hour, Briony feels a sense of release. She has a path forward. The attempt to atone has begun.

But there was no reunion in Balham. Today is my seventy-seventh birthday, and I am dying. My mind, a doctor has told me, is closing down. The truth is, I never saw my sister again after her visit to my nursing hostel. And Robbie Turner died of septicemia at Bray Dunes on the first of June, 1940. He never saw Cecilia again, either. She was killed four months later, drowned in the flooded Underground station at Balham during an air raid.

How can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God? There is no one, no entity or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her. There is nothing outside her. In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms. The attempt was all. My fifty-nine-year assignment is over. I could not bear to end my story with the bleakness of the truth. So in my final draft, I gave them their life together. I gave them their happiness, but I was not so self-serving as to let them forgive me. It was a final act of kindness, a stand against oblivion, to let my lovers live and to unite them at the end. As long as there is a single copy, a solitary typescript of my final draft, then my spontaneous, fortuitous sister and her medical prince survive to love.