The opening line is one of the most famous in New Zealand literature: ‘The same week our fowls were stolen, Daphne Moran had her throat cut.’
But it is a bit of a bait-and-switch. The book is mostly a tragi-comic, rather earthy coming-of-age story, mixed with domestic farce and comic sketches of provincial New Zealand life during the depression (Morrieson spent his life in Hawera). The gothic/thriller elements are minimal.
Which is a shame because those are the best things about the book. Some of the comic writing has dated well but most of it hasn’t, and Morrieson has a very limited repertoire. The Scarecrow is a short book but by the six-or-seventh lengthy dialogue between drunken halfwits – all written in dialect – it is no longer even slightly funny.
The book is weirdly similar to It by Stephen King: the small town setting; the heroes who are outcasts and misfits; the dual antagonists are a gang of young bullies and a shadowy killer; even the themes and narrative style are comparable. And the head bully’s name – Victor Lynch – is a very Stephen King name. Probably just a coincidence – King is a well-read guy but I still kind-of doubt he read The Scarecrow.
Morrieson’s writing was unrecognised during his life but celebrated – in New Zealand at least – after his death, a fate he anticipated and dreaded. Both judgments feel right to me. He has all the skills and talent of a great writer and that’s worth acknowledging, but he never managed to produce a great book.