The Testaments

The Testaments is the publishing sensation of the year. Just over a week ago in Waterstones' Piccadilly Store Margaret Atwood headlined a festival celebrating its release. Leading fiction authors discussed the writer’s oeuvre, and the all-conquering Guilty Feminist considered how The Handmaid’s Tale even mirrors liberal society: we have the privilege of commanders and sometimes turn a blind eye to the injustices done unto others. At midnight there was a 10-1 countdown, ushering in Atwood's new world. The author then read her first chapter. Told from Aunt Lydia’s perspective, it reveals how nine years earlier her statue was debuted, a monument she describes:

 Clutching my left hand is a girl of seven or eight, gazing up at me with trusting eyes. My right hand rests on the head of a woman crouched at my side, her hair veiled, her eyes upturned in an expression that could be read as either craven or grateful – on of our Handmaids – and behind me is one of my Pearl Girls, ready to set out on her missionary work.

Lydia’s ascension to the pedestal is complete. People can look up to her in human form and stone too. It perfectly encompasses her power and dominion over women: the child ‘clutch(es)’ her hand in faith, Lydia’s ‘right hand rests’ on the Handmaid as a mother would a child or a master a dog, and ‘behind’ her knowing their place are the Pearl Girls. Lydia comments at how this unveiling is met by ‘discreet clapping’ as ‘we don’t do cheering here at Ardua Hall.’ Conversely, Atwood’s reading was met by vociferous applause, being the rock star of our times.



Given Atwood was brought up in the quiet backwoods of Northern Quebec, it’s antithetical her books cause so much noise. No other author has her level of pull and influence. Last year women’s rights activists protesting funding cuts to Planned Parenthood wore the red robes of her central character. From there women across the globe have done the same to express anger at legislative subjugation. In pop culture there aren’t many older people anointed Voice Of A Generation, but Atwood bucks the trend. People queued around corners for her books. An interview with her was beamed into cinemas nationwide. Her book is on course to be this year’s best seller. Not since J.K. Rowling has a writer been so in demand. The big question now is: Was Atwood right to go back? Does The Testament enhance her feted work or desecrate it?

A literary event. Pic. courtesy of Waterstones.

The Testaments takes place fifteen years after the events of The Handmaid’s Tale. At the end of that novel Offred had put her faith in Nick, hoping to be delivered to freedom, away from Gilead’s tyrannical regime. The TV show adaptation by Bruce Miller has led viewers past that point, leaving Atwood in a quandary as to whether to allude to the screen version or ignore it altogether. Interviews have emerged stating that Atwood and Miller were in correspondence throughout the shifting television seasons with the novelist giving the showrunner certain conditions: the first was to save Aunt Lydia from the hangman's pen, the second to protect Baby Jane's storyline. With this book it’s evident why she requested this.


Unlike The Handmaid’s Tale the book has three narrators. The first is Aunt Lydia. Protected in an sanctum within a sanctum, she writes her testimony in Ardua Hall library, a private place that she holds the keys to. Also, we have a transcript of Witness Testimony 369A, a young woman whom was captured by Gilead and raised within its system. Finally, there’s Witness Testimony 369B, a Canadian teenager whom was smuggled out of Gilead. Now looking at those character summaries, fans of the The Handmaid’s are going to jump to conclusions as to who these women are. It must be stated that Offred’s name is never once mentioned in this book; this is a story about two young women and one older one: the future protectors/rebels of Gilead and its architect. By having these revolving voices we learn what it's like to support, oppose and undermine the system. Initially these narratives diverge, but in time they collide with dramatic consequences.

Aunt Lydia doesn't make the cover.

Aunt Lydia’s narrative was my favourite of the three. Unlike the other two women, she intimately knows life before and after Gilead’s formation. This give her a wider understanding of totalitarianism and its implications. We find out early from her how she submitted to the State’s will. She describes her conversion ‘like a recipe for a tough steak: hammer it with a mallet, then marinate it and tenderize.’ Unlike the televangelist Serena Joy, Lydia wasn’t a religious fundamentalist. She became one out of need, not want. When the judges were rounded up and thrown into football stadiums, she had a choice: to denounce the coup and die, or submit and survive. As she put it, 

I needed to revert to the mulish underclass child, the determined drudge, the brainy overachiever, the strategic ladder-climber who’d got me to the social perch from which I’d been deposed. I needed to work the angles, once I could find out what the angles were.

Lydia is the arch-strategist, a Machiavellian tactician who prioritises her own advancement above all else. In an ideal world she wouldn’t browbeat and cattle prod young girls, but this isn’t an ideal world so out goes ethics, conscience and morality; in comes ruthlessness and self-preservation. ‘What good is it to throw yourself in front of a steamroller out of moral principles and then be crushed flat like a sock emptied of its foot?’ Atwood’s Lydia is a warning on how easily a human can become a monster when a uniform is put on them. The fact she is writing in secret though is testament to how humanity can be reclaimed.

Ann Dowd as Aunt Lydia in the TV series. She must have been licking her lips when she read this book. She's in for quite a pay day when this book is adapted. Pic. Jill Greenberg

Out of the other two narrators I enjoyed Agnes Jemima’s, the adopted daughter of Commander Kyle and Tabitha. For Handmaid’s Tale fans this is an interesting perspective as it fills in the gaps we didn’t get with Offred. There we saw grown women being thrown into captivity, consequently railing against their bars, longing for the wild, wild nights of freedom. Here though we witness how Gilead indoctrinates the young through its schooling. The school is not a centre of learning, but method of inculcation. Our narrator speaks, 

I agree with you that Gilead ought to fade away – there is too much of wrong in it, too much that is false, and too much that is surely contrary to what God intended – but you must permit me some space to mourn the good that will be lost.’ 

 A child born in prison won’t think the bars are a strange thing- for them it’s a design choice. Atwood is nuanced in capturing the Stockholm Syndrome of young children.

Finally, there’s Daisy, the teen who lives outside Gilead. Raised by protective parents, she sees her life as Gilead: a punitive place where she’s stripped of her liberty (sometimes she must help out in the shop) and is denied freedom of movement (they won’t let her go on protest marches). Life for her is so unfair. Out of all the characters I don’t think she is etched as well; there’s something a little YA about her dialogue and characterisation. Although her passages are integral for the novel, I longed to return to Aunt Lydia and her Cromwell/Iago plotting and scheming.

The book has quite the Wolf Hall about it.

Ultimately, the novel is a success. It is a different beast to Handmaid’s, moving at a quicker speed with a focus on dialogue and plot over introspection. The tone of it is lighter too. Whereas The Handmaid’s documented Gilead’s rising; this presents its fall. It's less about the stripping of women’s rights, more the chaos of male governance. Unlike the ambiguous ending of the first novel, you'll be in no doubt whether its the light or dark you're heading. Praise be.

The Testaments is out now.