Review: Pastoral Care, by John Prins

Familial relationships, connection, and the complex emotional territory that comes with parenting are overarching themes in John Prins’ wry and well-observed debut short story collection, Pastoral Care. Pastoral Care is the second in the Landfall Tauraka series published by Otago University Press—the inaugural collection, Kirsty Gunn’s Pretty Ugly, was released last year. The series aims to produce a volume of short stories each year, alternating between established and emerging talent. Pastoral Care is a collection of nine stories. Eight unfold over the book’s first half. The ninth is a novella, in 12 parts over 120+pages. The long and the short of it: Pastoral Care is both. Prins is an imaginative writer. He puts layered characters and emotional complexity on the page. His paragraphs spill with observation and texture—occasionally too much for the reader to swallow in one go. He’s also adept at putting his characters in uncomfortable places. The collection opens in the confines of a campervan at the end of a relationship. The aesthetic pleasure design student Flo sees in mid-century furniture is contrast with the revulsion she now feels looking at antique dealer Ross’ aging body (steady on, he’s only forty): ‘the transition from lust to disgust happened like a lifted blindfold.’ In ‘The Passenger’ an estate agent’s obsession with sex is a metaphor for Auckland’s real estate fixation. ‘It’s not been about connection; it’s been about possession.’ In ‘The Falls’ a Pākeha father’s shame for the misdeeds of his ancestors is contradicted by his desire to profit from the same by selling the family bach. At the heart of this collection are the obligations and care we give and owe others. Parenting is especially present—it feels both incidental and pivotal. Prins’ parents often operate in grey areas, knowing the care they give isn’t perfect, or perhaps even good, but they hope for the best. In ‘He Loved Those Boys,’ father Joe says ‘the most dangerous people are traumatised people’. It doesn’t stop him inviting childhood friend and abuse victim Will to spend one-on-one time with his son. Yet Joe knows that if he tells his wife about the abuse, ‘he’d never be allowed to take Yash surfing again’. The story juxtaposes the sort of predatory adults who groomed earlier generations of children IRL with the threat of today’s online predators. Is Yash really safe online in his bedroom? And In ‘A Safe Passage’ Nicole grapples with infertility and wilfully refuses to ask herself the right questions about safety in her family. The ongoing grind of parenting is here too. In novella length piece ‘Pastoral Care’, the daycare drop-off makes teacher Paul late for work on a daily basis. In ‘Rapture’, 25 year-old youth leader Mara is only able to quit when her mum has a word with the pastor. ‘But Baby, I Love You’ features a protagonist on the publicity trail for a book that is an expression of love for his young child. Along the way, poet Bernard Jane is forced to parent, taking his toddler to a radio interview (Kim Hill, is that you?). It’s a connecting story. We see Bernard and his collection again; his poetry is taught by Paul in the final story. The last, longest and titular piece (‘triggering’ says a student when point of view character Paul uses the word titular himself) ‘Pastoral Care’, is prefixed with lyrics from ‘The Swimming Song’ by Loudon Wainwright. So, while it feels like a story about unravelling, it’s more optimistic (or resigned). Paul has lost his enthusiasm for teaching. The kids are relentlessly online. He has to impart knowledge, provide appropriate discipline, and navigate being videoed along the way. He’s also grappling with what he’s going to be when he grows up. A different profession would make a swifter dent in his mortgage. Paul’s work interactions are interspersed with his family and the day-to-day minutia of child care. But these things tether Paul, helping to keep him afloat. As in ‘The Swimming Song’, he ‘kicks his legs’ and ‘moves his arms’ and, lo, he does not drown. The reader is left sharing Paul’s sense of relieved surprise at the turn of events. There has been a fall, but, lucky bloke, he sticks the landing. As a collection, Pastoral Care is well-observed, wry, and offers many recognisable moments. From time to time, the detail and quantity of observation mean that the reader has to kick with particular tenacity to make like Paul or Loudon Wainwright to stay afloat in its currents. Reviewed by Kirsteen Ure