'I realise now why ghosts are not the main characters of stories. Even the cat has stopped paying attention to me.'

Max is dead, but his spirit cannot leave the flat he shared with his troubled girlfriend Hannah. As he lingers, we learn about Hannah's traumatic family history, growing up with her goat-farming parents in the Australian outback on a patch of land called the Echoes. Her uncle Tone is now the only one of her relatives who still carries the memory of the industrial school that once stood there, where Indigenous children were stolen from their people and forced to attend, sometimes until they died. At a family Christmas dinner, he announces, to everybody's discomfort, that he wants to do a toast: 'I'd like to respect the people who were here before. It's not a lot. But it's something'. He takes his teenage nieces to the old schoolhouse, where he tells them 'There's bones over the whole fucking place. My roots shouldn't be growing over those bones'. Evie Wyld's choice of Tone as witness is inspired; as both abused and abuser, alcoholic and self-harmer, he speaks to one of the central questions at the heart of The Echoes. Who gets to tell certain stories? Is Tone right when he says 'I'm the wrong one to be talking, but what's worse, the wrong person talking or no one talking?' or is Hannah's statement 'I think sometimes silence is better than the wrong person speaking' more important, as she thinks back to the impact Tone had on her life and her sister Rach's?

The Echoes seems to be in conversation with all of Wyld's previous work. It picks up on themes of abusive families and men in rural Australia more strongly, for my money, than The Bass Rock and After The Fire, A Small Still Voice. Hannah and Rach's fascination with sharks also recalls how cleverly Wyld explored her own childhood obsession in the graphic novel Everything is Teeth. But the unravelling of a traumatic past has rarely been done better by anyone than Wyld does in All The Birds, Singing, and for that reason some of The Echoes felt superfluous to me. I found the book weakest when it jumped outside the perspectives of Hannah and Max - it's here that it comes closest to being a more simplistic story about how damaged people inevitably damage others, because the voices of most of the other narrators aren't strongly differentiated enough to lift it. This, however, sits in sharp contrast with how vividly Wyld writes secondary characters like Hannah's parents, Piers and Kerry, her best friend Janey, and Janey's daughter Maddie - so long as we stay outside their heads. Tonally, the book also feels a little more uncertain in the middle, when Max's wry, slightly silly narration begins to jar both with the fact of his own death and Wyld's deep, brilliant engagement with the derealisation that Hannah begins to experience. Somehow, though, Wyld brings this back to deliver a knockout ending, as Max too adopts a more elegiac tone.

I was left wondering, as Max does, why he lingers in this story at all, but I think he is there to say something bigger about how we persist as long as there's one person left to remember us. Given this, perhaps Tone's toast isn't completely useless; it's an attempt to speak, however clumsily, to a wider forgetting. Max's role also illustrates the limitations of the white Western narrative structures he taught as a creative writing lecturer; sometimes characters don't have agency, or a clear goal, or a problem they can overcome. Sometimes all they can do is keep hanging around.

A mesmerising novel that asks: what makes you you?

From the off, this book begins with a death. Loving boyfriend Max has died and he returns as a disembodied ghost to watch over his Australian girlfriend Hannah as she deals with the aftermath. So far, so Patrick Swayze in Ghost. But then the narrative turns to Hannah before Max's death. before she even came to Britain, and her childhood in Australia, and then we see the viewpoints of her dysfunctional family, her mum and dad Kerry and Piers, sister Rach, uncle Tone, in the pivotal moments of their stories, as generational trauma echoes and reverberates through their lives, all the way to Hannah in her grief over Max. Meanwhile, Max is getting stronger, and he manages to tip over Hannah's newly adopted cat. Surely, the ghostly reunion is on its way.

In equal parts comedic and disturbing, the ghostly narrative is the least shocking, with the various plot lines of Hannah's family taking a slow boil to reveal what drove them all apart. To hide their shame and their pain, they tell lies to the world, to each other, and. to themselves, withdrawing into least denominator personalities to navigate everyday challenges and mental ones too, with varying degrees of success. But at the end of the day, as it is for everyone, no-one gets out alive.

Three and a half stars, rounded up to four.

A couple of years ago I read The Bass Rock by Evie Wyld and was deeply touched by it in a manner that so few contemporary authors have accomplished for me. I think this was, at least in part, due to the book's setting, a large portion of it taking place in and around North Berwick which is Scottish seaside town I know well from my childhood holidays. The way Wyld was able to capture something of the simultaneous warmth and coldness that permeates Scottish provincialism was immediately affecting. Small, rugged settlements where the fields, hills, church spires, and quaint cafes exist more vehemently than much of the modern signs of mass industry and the flickering lights of an overwrought populace.

Rural Scotland is a place wherein history is broad and fairly ugly; less tartan glory and peaceful glens and more undernourished, undervalued humans and land. We also have some of the most heinous figures in our annals, for our lingering desire to plant a Saltire over the Union propelled extensive colonial and missionary endeavours, murdering people and cultures alike. Within the socio-economic boundaries this principle still seeps through; do we want association or independence? Within the home, I fear there is a perennial conditioning to remember and retribute injustices with blistering intent. It was this fractured soul of what it means to be Scottish, historically and contemporarily; what is means to be a woman in this country so romanticised for its bards and castles, its pitter-patter of rain, its buttery shortbread, its Gothic greyness ripe for passionate appeals to nature, that tremendously impacted me.

The Echoes, unbelievably, roused a similar feeling within me. Although this time Wyld takes us between London and Australia, I entered back into that same particular, crunching, swirling space where, like the ladies of The Bass Rock, identities tie themselves to anachronic delineations of geography, topography and architecture. A space where people grow and crumble with the friability, the harshness of spades hacking at parched earth or nails wildly hammered through walls at appalling angles. A space where death comes before a performative resurrection; a fantastic play of healing and understanding, a binding of oneself to home as something contained, explicable, and personable. And what a horror it is to observe that terraqueous, tangible wholeness dash itself into emotional, twitching shards.

This is what makes Wyld's rendering of Hannah and her family's story so fluid despite its ostensibly staccato movements. As we attempt to sift through the characters' complex sources of grief, fear, and hope, we are transported back and forth, in time and space, from a slightly eldritch flat in London to an isolated series of homesteads in rural Australia, saturated in despicable histories and elusively recognised as The Echoes. In this latter location, we slowly build a picture of colonialist and sexual injustices pervading the ruptured community whilst various elements of nature emphasise a sense of neglect and familial canker; swamping, scurrying, yet occasionally providing solace. The issues of this family are deliberately contentious, indistinct even; in most instances the pointed distance, distrust, and dismissal the characters actively place between themselves and their trauma reflects back on you as a reader, silencing your probing inquiry.

In London, Hannah is a solitary remnant of her Australian upbringing trying, but unable to, assimilate to the inexplicable routine of physical and emotional autonomy; as a result she wants asphyxiation then billowing, lightening airflow in startling jerks of doubtful selfhood. Hannah has a boyfriend, Max, who embodies both an oblivious modern togetherness and another form of echoes in his ghostly, incisive yet painfully quixotic nature. I feel many of us know a Max, those few people who don't have to (or don't want to) search for their place in the world, likewise their principles, their vocation. They seem static, nonplussed, so connected to society and yet so far away from its individualised, meticulous concerns; those gnarly roots that stretch through the loam and force their way through letterboxes, down the back of cupboards, under the nailbeds.

Perhaps this ignorance is not so veracious, just veiled by Max's impalpable presence in the story, and if we were to hear of his family in the same concentration as Hannah's then maybe we could feel the excrescence of his roots too. For what it is, however, Max stands for the passage of an external life (success in work, relationships, domesticity) whereas Hannah denotes the rolling, caching internal experience roughly shaped into external compatibility. I deeply resonate with this unforgiving moulding; the necessity to look acceptable even if you don't think acceptably. It inculcates an existence of soft pressures (finding matching socks, trying to 'browse' in a shop) and hard pressures (remember to eat, don't think about the woman you have to call your mother.) It's a sickly, vertiginous sensation, like leaping from one demand to the next where rationality slips despairingly through the gaps, leaving mortification and terror to debilitate. Exhaustively, it is mercurial, inconsecutive, briefly but profoundly agonising.

Wyld's style of interwoven significance between person and place permits a discomfiting, effectively jumpy narrative voice, where undrunk coffee, rock cake, and locked bathrooms have as much import as inner despair, physical injury, and intergenerational contemplation. In turn, this is a tale of neither consummate failure nor success, of sadness nor joy; it is simply, and sincerely, a story of being, a family rumination that prompts silent feeling instead of crushing societal questions. Like The Bass Rock, reading The Echoes directed me to take an oblique saunter through my life, emotions, and experiences. Rather than forcing drastic self-reassessment or fervent activist awakenings, Wyld created an environment that enabled me to pass by my existence without derision or denigration; merely a desultory glance and a few nods, confirming I am here, and that's the kind of subtle empathy I crave and, ultimately, adulate.

*I was gifted a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. All thoughts and opinions are my own.*

The Echoes is an emotional, character-driven novel, moving between the perspectives of Max, Hannah, and Hannah’s family. It shows Hannah’s childhood in rural Australia, and the traumatic events that shaped her, piecing together memories that she tried to leave behind.

I loved Max’s ghostly perspective, combining haunting humour with the tear-inducing reflections on being unable to continue your life with loved ones. This was a refreshing exploration of grief and relationships, emotionally impactful and beautiful, showing a complex picture of romantic love.

Hannah’s past was revealed piece by piece, with seemingly insignificant moments coming together to form a harrowing narrative. This structure was unsettling, with time jumps and perspective shifts making this more intense, revealing a past far-removed from her present reality. Evie Wyld can really create an atmosphere, and these childhood scenes felt distant but so vivid, creating an effective representation of trauma. This all came together at the end, in a way that was satisfying but realistic, bringing the threads together with an incredibly powerful ending that had me tearing up.

Loved this so much and can’t wait to read more from Evie Wyld. Thank you to Vintage Books and NetGalley for the gifted copy 😊

Wow! What an intriguing jigsaw puzzle of a book, from its opening line spoken by a ghost, “I do not believe in ghosts, which since my death, has become something of a problem”, to the fractured narration in vignette format, split between time-lines, different locations and different voices.

On the surface it is the story of the relationship between Hannah and Max, a couple in their thirties, strained by whether they should marry and have children. We learn early on that Hannah has just undergone an abortion but unknown to Max. In their six-year relationship, Hannah has kept her past a secret. She has never introduced Max to her parents in Australia.

Through this intricately structured book, Hannah’s backstory slowly and tantalisingly unfolds, with its secrets and past traumas, revealing four generations of the family Max has been kept away from. From Hannah’s early childhood in Australia, growing up in the shadow of a dilapidated reform school for indigenous children,(The Echoes) to her adolescent longings and emotional confusion as she becomes aware of the strange relationship between her older sister Rachel and uncle Tone, her mother’s brother. He is a hard-drinking labourer with a quick temper who can’t keep down a job and whose upbringing, like her own mother’s, is one involving drink, drugs and child abuse.

Hannah hoped that with Max she could leave her past behind, but her past won’t go away, it expresses itself in the untold stories of the people she grew up with, and the events that broke her family apart and led her to Max. She struggles in her adult life in London, self-harming and refusing to confront her past. Max the reluctant ghost watches his girlfriend in their shared flat as she works through her grief at his death. He slowly begins to realise that he didn’t really know her. Hannah is haunted by the secrets she left Australia to escape.

This beautifully written book full of pathos and humour, is often unsettling as it explores loss, grief, traumatic pasts and complex relationships. However, the end does offer hope, and left me with a sense of closure.

The Echoes is Evie Wyld’s fourth book apparently. It is a short novel, but goodness me, she packs a lot into it. I had never heard of the author before. But thank you NetGalley for introducing her to me and I look forward to catching up with her other books.

Yvonne Maxwell
31st July 2024

I found this really emotional! So insightful on grief and missed chances and how life can take unexpected turns. A great central mystery plot at the heart of it too.

A beautifully written complex novel about secrets and trauma set in Australia and London. As you go back and forth in time and place, and get different perspectives from various characters, all secrets from the past are slowly being unfolded. Intense, impressive and absolutely brilliant!
Thanks you Jonathan Cape and Netgalley UK for the ARC.

This book reminded me of Demon Copperhead. Tragic patterns of generational abuse and trauma. Set in the UK and Australia which I loved.

This novel is so much more that can ever be expressed by words.
It is a tender study of humanity, relationships, mistakes that can never be erased but can perhaps be healed. Spanning across decades and continents, Evie Wyld’s characteristic style conjures vivid memories, images and powerful feelings. A brief but impactful read that, like her other novels, will be on my mind for a very long time.
With many thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for providing an advance copy of this novel in exchange for this honest review.

Wyld's fourth novel is arguably her strongest yet - and that's saying something for such a consistently strong writer. Her trademark narrative puzzle trail is put to brilliant work here – as ghost Max, (bound to the London flat he shared with girlfriend, Hannah) attempts to uncover how he died. Meanwhile, the recently bereaved Hannah's childhood in rural Australia is revealed in beautifully managed stages. Deeply moving and wonderfully balanced. Five stars all round.

Thank you NetGalley and the publisher for this ARC.

I thoroughly enjoy Evie Wyld's writing style, it is so beautiful and she handles complex issues so well.

The concept of this book is really interesting and it did not disappoint at all. The overall topics of relationships, grief and trauma were all dealt with care.

I will be recommending this and reading more from the author.

*4.5

Max is trapped in purgatory. Why? What will it take to set him free from the flat he shares with his girlfriend, Hannah? And as he watches her grieve, we are transported into their past, witnessing the complexities of their love and the ways they let each other down; and then taken back much further, to Hannah's family in Australia and the terrible secrets they hid. As we slowly understand what happened to Max, and what caused Hannah to flee her country, we explore trauma through the eyes of her relatives. Each one has a section that changes our understanding of them, and unpacks levels to the dark history of their property and their relationships, while remaining propulsive and tense. It's a true feat to write a story that is both a character story and a pacy mystery, but Evie Wyld has done it. I devoured this.

Thank you NetGalley for this review copy!

A complex and searing meditation on the things that haunt us. Wyld is a deft and skilled writer that beautifully explores these complex issues.

An additional review added on Instagram:

I have spent a lot of time over the last year thinking about ghosts. So much so that I have created a note on my phone to keep track of each mention, each time they crop up in conversation, in books, in music or art. So when I was sent an ARC of THE ECHOES I knew I needed to dive right in.

On the face of it, THE ECHOES is a ghost story, one that understands that ghosts are not just a spooky vision of the dead but can also be the images, ideas and memories that continue to haunt us. It is a story of grief, of a complicated childhood, of how the past shapes our future. It reminds us we can be haunted by a great many things: our past, our decisions, those who leave, the place we grew up, the feelings we hold onto.

THE ECHOES is published in the UK on 1st August.

The Echoes is a complex and powerful novel about intergenerational trauma, moving between Australia and London.

We are initially introduced to Max, a creative writing professor who now haunts his girlfriend Hannah's apartment in London and powerlessly watches Hannah's grief after his sudden death. the novel then cycles back to show us the faultlines in Max and Hannah's life together as a couple, and Hannah's childhood in Australia, growing up on a goat farm on a piece of land called The Echoes, previously home to a colonial school and before that to indigenous people whose absence reverberates throughout the novel. Evie Wyld also shows us the past lives of many others connected to Hannah - her parents, her sister Rachel, her uncle Tone and his partner Melissa, the retired schoolmaster Manningtree and her grandmother Natalia who originally left London for Australia two generations before. Through these connected stories, we see how trauma and abuse form part of a vicious cycle.

This is a compact novel with real depth. It is frequently funny, particularly in tracing the contours of Max and Hannah's relationship (including some wonderful culinary moments), but also profound in the questions it asks, particularly about the unspoken shadow cast by colonial violence: as Hannah's Uncle Tone observes "My roots shouldn't be growing over those bones." The awkward silence with which this observation is met encapsulates the deep uneasiness the novel's characters feel in navigating this subject.

This is both a challenging and rewarding read. Many thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for sending me an ARC to review.

The story centres on Hannah and her dead boyfriend Max, who, as a ghost, provides a fresh and ironically humorous viewpoint. The novel is primarily driven by their relationship, switching between different timelines and viewpoints. It is an intense read, one that deals with tough topics such and abuse and grief.

It's also a read that stays with you long after you finish it. Highly recommended for those looking for a deep and beautifully written story.

Literally haunting book that creates a believable and heart-breaking world of love loss and abuse that is beautifully told from different perspectives. A terrible and awful story of generational abuse becomes something transcendent and touching, as we see the stories of Hannah, her family and her dead boyfriend laid out before us without judgement. Something very new and fresh about this book and its perspective.

Wow. ‘The Echoes’ by Evie Wyld, will undoubtedly be a contender as my favourite read of 2024. Wyld sure can write and it’s one of those incredible page turners that also make you want to slow down to absorb every word. It’s a vivid novel that will stay with me for long time.

Echoes is largely about a relationship that was ‘not perfect. But just right’, between Hannah and Max, and the life that went on before and after tragedy. We therefore know from the offset that Max is also the ghost of the husband past and his ending isn’t going to be a happy one. I was intrigued as to how a ghostly character would work and also somewhat concerned that I may find it to be a silly device; but the effect was far from it, it allowed us a unique perspective on the lives Max witnessed after his death, in a way that would only be possible through the omnipresence of a ghostly spectre. Max also offered a humorous, and ironic narrative at times, which was richly effective and gave the whole plot an entirely extra dimension. Oh and Cotton the cat deserves a mention here too - he deserves his own riotous applause.

The novel’s structure is defined by chapters around the ever changing time periods ‘before’ his death, ‘after’ and ‘then’, along with individual chapters which provide character focus on singular minor characters, to add extra perspective and plot depth. The revelations that come throughout the development of the story are often not an easy read, as past traumas are unsurfaced, but boy is it well crafted.

It’s an incredibly intimate novel, with a remarkable level of literary observation. And the ending… no spoilers, but I think it’s exquisite! I will be seeking out Evie Wyld’s back catalogue for sure.

I feel very honoured to have received an ARC from NetGalley in exchange for an honest, unbiased review of ‘The Echoes’. I highly recommend it.

Interesting book with a dark, reflective story. I have not been introduced to such writing style before. I also enjoyed the ending — made me think about the book long after I had finished it.

Evie Wyld is a skilful writer, and I will be reading more of her works in the future.


Thank you NetGalley and Random House UK, Vintage for bestowing this book to me.

Both a celebration and autopsy of a relationship, The Echoes is a novel about stories and who has the right to tell them, asking what of our past can we shrug off and what is fixed forever.

A stunning dark, intimate, and affecting book which grabbed my attention from the first page.

Recently dead Max haunts the London flat where Hannah his grieving girlfriend still lives. They are both stricken by the loss of what they could have been and the recognition of what they never were.

While Max permeates the flat, trying to make some kind of contact with her, Hannah is dogged by her past, a dark thing of desperation and trauma which she has tried to bury, and which brought her from the Australian bush to this precise place 

The timelines shift between generations and countries exploring Hannah’s secret, and the couple’s shared, pasts, and revealing the monstrous and beautiful complexities of human connection.

We see the harsh realities of trauma and the pernicious coping strategies which can inhibit our ability to move beyond the echoes of our past, or cause us to amplify those echoes. There are horrors, glimpsed fleetingly - like ghosts, no less - and they linger for us, and for the characters, without melodrama, They seep into us. A cold clammy weight, growing heavier as we piece together the fragments of Hannah’s family history.

It’s not an easy comfortable read by any means, and it contains pretty much every trigger you could expect.

It is dark and strange and it will settle around your shoulders for days after you have finished it. You will marvel at the economy and precision with which Wyld can depict a complex relationship dynamic or a shrouded tension, and make you see and feel it all while keeping so much unsaid and unseen.

Remarkable and brilliant.