[In the following review, Taylor delineates the tragic aspects of the stories in After Rain.]

William Trevor is a prolific writer and has won many awards. If you have never read his work, After Rain is a good place to start.

After Rain is a collection of a dozen very powerful, tragic tales, truly beautifully written. Trevor's stories are black. Sinister. Poignant. Shockingly real. And, above all, tragic. For a character to earn the description “tragic”, he must contribute to his own downfall. If a tree falls on him, it might be a disaster, but it is not a tragedy. But if he climbs a tree to rescue a kitten, and falls to his death, it could be a tragedy.

Every one of Trevor's stories is a tragedy. In each case, the protagonist could have chosen another direction, and the outcome would have been quite different. Belle, the piano tuner's second wife, did not have to spend her precious time with her husband resenting his first wife. Timothy could have visited his parents on his birthday as planned, instead of avoiding the lunch for no good reason and sending the message with such a disreputable friend. Catherine did not have to pay the fraudulent Leary. She knew the money was not owed. Her husband (were he still alive) would not have paid it. Yet she decided to pay it, knowing that her relationship with her sister would be changed forever. Gilbert's mother could have taken decisive action about her son years ago. She may not have had evidence of what he had done, but she knew. Ellie did not have to tell her child of her father's identity against the wishes of her husband, her mother and her uncle.

On the front cover of this book, Auberon Waugh is quoted as describing Trevor as “outstandingly our best fiction writer”. Waugh must mean the British Isles' best fiction writer, as Trevor is Irish. He was born in 1928 in County Cork.

So we can assume that he was nearing seventy when he wrote “Child's Play”. Yet he can still see life vividly through the eyes of a child. It is disconcertingly real.

But perhaps it isn't memory. Had I been given “A Friendship” to read, without being told who the author was, I would have been sure of only one thing: it was written by a woman. This story describes a marriage through the eyes of a woman. It is so real, so perceptive, has such insight, it goes way beyond what might be called “empathy”. It is hard to believe that it was written by a man.

Trevor is also described as “a master of domestic horror” (by Clare Boylan), which is apt. However, I could never describe his work as “glittering” (Peter Kemp), or his world as “inviting” (David Profumo). I find his world full of horror and despair, but awfully real.

Trevor peels back the veneer. Everything is exposed mercilessly. Everyone is as naked and as aware of nakedness as Adam and Eve after they ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Trevor's cruel pen etches the horror into our minds. And, quite apart from the horror, his observation of the mundane makes everything real. For example: “Mrs Leary in fluffy pink slippers, her stockingless legs mottled from being too close to the fire.” Trevor has a way with words which makes you re-read sentences, either because he has packed so much meaning into so few words—“The day was over; there was nowhere left to hide from the error that had been made”—or because he has said something quite unusual and yet totally credible:

[She] let herself through the back iron gate that led to the sloping three-cornered field beyond the outbuildings, the worst two acres of her uncle's property. Ragweed and gorse grew in profusion, speckled rock-surfaces erupted. It was her favourite field, perhaps because she had always heard it cursed and as a child had felt sorry for it.

The reader is left wondering how different life would be for Ellie if no-one had ever cursed the three-cornered field. It would have had no special significance for her. How silly to feel sorry for a field—and yet how credible. If Ellie had not felt sorry for the field, would she have been so vulnerable to the curate? Perhaps she would never have become pregnant.

My favourite story is “A Day”. It is a perfect tragedy. Mrs Lethwes is destroying herself in front of us. We are forced to wonder what will become of her. For how much longer will her husband remain so loving and so understanding?

If I had to find a fault (and I don't suppose I do) it would be with the titles of the stories. I am sure that Trevor does not put as much effort into his titles as he does into his stories. Sometimes the titles give nothing away (“A Friendship,” “A Day”); sometimes, on reflection, the title alone can evoke the very feeling of black despair that the story created (“The Piano Tuner's Wives”, “Child's Play”, “Gilbert's Mother”, “Marrying Damian”).

Interestingly, I enjoyed the title piece least. Wouldn't you think you'd choose the best piece to name the volume? Or does Trevor (or his publisher) think that “After Rain” is the best piece? My theory is that Trevor thought it was just the best title. If I'm right, then I wish he'd heed my criticism and spend a little more effort naming his stories.

You may think I am nitpicking. After all, Shakespeare wasn't big on titles, was he? And there's no doubt that Trevor is a wonderful writer. I'm sure you'll agree. You may even want to go as far as Auberon Waugh.