WHEN WILL A COOL hero or heroine in TV or books or films who is growing up alienated and alone in the Eighties, aping Rimbaud rather than Rambo, hate the Smiths? Yes, that's right, the unthinkable. Say that Morrissey is boring. That his songs suck. Walk into their bedroom and instead of turning on This Charming Man, compose poetry to Charlene's I've Never Been To Me?

All the acceptably fashionable signifiers of Eighties life are present and correct in Helen Walsh's Once Upon a Time in England. Ellie, the cool daughter is into Ecstasy and Manchester raves. Vincent, the sensitive son, is the Smiths fan, a writer, the one victimised for his skin colour and sexuality. Walsh's bruising, realistic bullying scenes, which feature the abuse (and later an even more violent attack), recall the extremities of Brass, her 2004 novel that swaggered with sex, violence, drugs and magnificent deviancy.

Once Upon a Time in England has its livid moments - at the beginning Susheela, the matriarch, is gang-raped in her kitchen - but secrets and their corrosive power emerge as Walsh's central theme. The novel follows the Fitzgerald family in three spotlit years: 1975, 1981 and 1989. Through the prism of a mixed-race family in Thatcher's Britain, Walsh far from clunkingly interrogates race (from every conceivable angle), sexuality, class, feminism and addiction.

Susheela, a Tamil from Malaysia and married to Irish Robbie, covers up the rape, her name slides to “Sheila”, and her initial silence over the attack triggers other destructive resentments. Robbie is hiding a desire to sing and an affair with another woman. Vincent is hiding the bullying, his true feelings about men and, later, a heroin habit. Ellie, the daughter, is hiding her weekend clubbing, another drug habit and guilt over being a less than perfect daughter.

Walsh brilliantly exposes the fears and vulnerabilities bred from these and other concealments. She is also a lively, keen-eyed guide to Warrington and the North West. The subject matter is harrowing but, as with Brass, Walsh's writing has a wonderful, propulsive exuberance.

This is not a perfect state-of-the-nation novel, it is not a perfect family saga, but it is chippy, lyrical and moving. It doesn't give the Eighties a synthetic sheen. The raw memories are not easily erased by a burst of Karma Chameleon.

Once Upon A Time In England by Helen Walsh
Canongate, £14.99; 368pp

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