The setup of Cambridge by Caryl Phillips is very promising: we get two perspectives on slavery in the English-speaking Caribbean, one from a white Englishwoman visiting her family’s plantation, and another from one of the human beings she owns.

To some extent, the book delivers on its promise. It’s set in the early 19th century, in the period between the abolition of the slave trade and Emancipation. With the institution of slavery increasingly under attack, the young Emily Cartwright devotes a lot of time in her narrative to defending it, prompted it seems by a combination of racist ignorance, family loyalty, and credulous acceptance of everything she is told by the local whites.

Then comes Cambridge’s account, which completely undercuts Emily’s. For one thing, it shows him to be an intelligent man and an eloquent writer, not the dumb brute she takes him for. And for another, where his account overlaps with hers, it shows events in a very different light from the way she has presented them.

So far, so good. But the problem, for me, is one of balance. The book is 184 pages long, and it’s not until page 133 that Cambridge gets a voice. His narrative is just 34 pages long, and then we get an official document mostly supporting Emily’s version, followed by an epilogue where Emily gets the last word.

It feels unbalanced, especially because Emily’s story is a largely dull affair covering a few months of social engagements and ill-informed diaristic observations, whereas Cambridge’s brief 34 pages tell of his capture from Africa, his first voyage to the Caribbean, his sale and transfer to England, his ten years there mastering the language and converting to the Christian religion, his marriage to a white English woman who’s a servant in his master’s house, the death of his master, his religious tour of England, the death of his wife and child, his missionary trip to Africa, his re-enslavement by an unscrupulous sea-captain, his years and relationships on the Cartwright family plantation, and finally the events that intersect with Emily’s account.

It’s a huge, complex story, and it’s amazing that Caryl Phillips manages to tell it in 34 pages at all. But the result, inevitably, is that it feels rushed. A good reason is given in the text for this, but still, as a reader, I would have preferred to spend a lot more time with Cambridge and a lot less time with Emily Cartwright.

Ultimately, we are left to decide for ourselves which account is true. Phillips presents both conflicting tales to us, alongside the dry official report, and that’s that. For me, it was pretty clear that Cambridge’s account was much more plausible, and I took it to be the real course of events. But the interesting thing about conflicting narratives like this is that it calls everything into question. It’s possible that there are elements of truth and falsehood in both accounts. Different readers could reach different conclusions.

So this was an interesting novel, but I wouldn’t say it was particularly enjoyable to read. Emily is a somewhat sympathetic character, especially at first, but the tedium of her life and the odiousness of her judgments made her 133 pages feel very long indeed, while Cambridge’s sped by in a blur and left me wanting more. In the end, I’m glad I came across it and read it (this was another of my Barbados bookshop purchases), but I wouldn’t whole-heartedly recommend it.