The William Trevor Reader: “Access to the Children”

October 5, 2021 | 6 4 min read

In a way, I owe the genesis of The William Trevor Reader to this one story. “Access to the Children” might not have been the first Trevor piece I read, but it was the first I fell in love with. I didn’t really need to reread it for this entry—I’ve read it so many times over the years that I can practically recite the story, beat for beat. It was one of a handful of pieces of short fiction that, as a young writer, rewired my brain. It demonstrated a narrative technique about which I was perhaps dimly aware, but that I had no words for. What I now think of as Unreliable Third Person.

“Access to the Children” concerns Malcolmson, a man recently separated from his wife, who is allowed to spend Sundays with his two daughters. He picks them up, they go to the park, watch TV back at his flat, and he returns them. Along the way, we learn of the infidelity that destroyed his marriage, and Malcolmson learns of a man who has been visiting his wife. All the while, throughout the day, he steadily and surreptitiously drinks. Back at his old apartment, he has a truly spectacular go-to-pieces in front of his wife and her soon-to-be new husband. She expresses worry for him, and via her shocked concern, we finally see him as he is: a pathetic alcoholic wreck. We leave Malcolmson in the pub, where goes after visiting with the children every Sunday night, weeping to the barmaid, as always.

Trevor is commonly known as a master of free-indirect style, a type of close third-person that blends narrative POV with the main character’s POV, creating a productive ambiguity as to where the story’s “thoughts” are coming from. “Access to the Children” goes a step farther than usual free indirect style, focalizing the narration so closely through Malcolmson’s perspective that we lose any sense of objectivity. We are getting the world through his eyes just as much as we get the world in first-person through Humbert Humbert’s, and with the same degree of distortion.

Malcolmson becomes, effectively, the unreliable narrator of his third person narrative. His denial is so fulsome and complete that we spend most of the story regarding him as he regards himself: a normal estranged father. He deeply regrets his affair and believes his wife will, must take him back; it takes her vocally disabusing him of this notion to disabuse the reader. The story offers small clues along the way, for instance, Malcolmson’s dismissal from his job and the fact that he spends his days in the Red Lion playing dominoes—but since he seems to regard these things as normal and unworrying, so do we. The strongest clue provided is when, walking through Hyde Park with his girls, a vagrant approaches and offers him a drink of wine, seeing Malcolmson—we understand later—as one of his own. The scene when Elizabeth, Malcolmson’s ex-wife, finally sets things straight is one of the most brutal in short fiction:

“You’ve gone to seed,” she said, hating herself for saying that [note, by the way how the narration admits another viewpoint here, introducing objectivity as it brings down the axe], unable to prevent herself. “You’ve gone to seed because you’ve lost your self-respect. I’ve watched you, week by week. The woman you met on a train took her toll of you and now in your seediness you want to creep back. Don’t you know you’re not the man I married?”


“You didn’t have cigarette burns all over your clothes. You didn’t smell of toothpaste when you should have smelt of drink. You stand there, pathetically, Sunday after Sunday, trying to keep a conversation going. D’you know what I feel?”

“I love—”

“I feel sorry for you.”

He shook his head. There was no need to feel sorry for him, he said, remembering suddenly the elderly assistant in Frith’s Patisserie and remembering also, for some reason, the woman in Hyde Park who peculiarly had said that he wasn’t shaved. He looked down at his clothes and saw the burn marks she had mentioned.

Trevor, like Flannery O’Connor and John Cheever, is a master of this kind of narrative indirection. When a character’s wrong belief about themselves is strong enough, the world, as seen through their eyes, deforms to accommodate that belief.  Trevor’s characters, in the stereotyped Irish tradition, often are wrong because of drunkenness, just as O’Connor’s are often wrong because of pride and Cheever’s because of lust (something I wrote about here). This is an artificial move (as everything is) in fiction, but it models something true about the world, about the way that we get things absolutely wrong when it suits us. We live in one world with nine billion people, but there are nine billion versions of that world to go around.

This is to say that third person can be as subjective as first person. Maybe more so, because to appearances we are getting an objective view. When we read first person, we are habitually and constantly aware of the narrator’s bias, of their little lies, to us and themselves. When we read third, we enter, to some extent, a zone of ostensible neutrality that can be exploited by the author. “Access to the Children” offers a brutal master class in this form of pleasurable manipulation.

Next week: “The General’s Day.” See you then!

is a staff writer for The Millions and the author of two novels: The Grand Tour (Doubleday 2016) and The Hotel Neversink (2019 Tin House Books). His short fiction has appeared in The Paris Review, VICE, The Iowa Review, and many other places. His podcast, Fan’s Notes, is an ongoing discussion about books and basketball. Find him online at and on Twitter at @AdamOPrice.


  1. Great analysis. I’ve pulled out my Collected Stories to follow along and I’m loving Trevor all over again. I find his style just perfect, never a wasted word, but just enough detail for the reader to know what’s happening.
    He was the greatest.

  2. In the first sentence he’s wearing a “green tweed suit that required pressing,” but nothing about cigarette burns on it. Trevor allows that to come out much later, and near the end it’s revealed that the burns occurred after a few drinks while he “dropped off to sleep with a cigarette between his fingers.” So the burns were on the suit all along (and he probably added a few new ones that day). It would be a different story if details like that came out right away, if we knew from the start how far this man had fallen – it could still be a good story, but it would be a lesser one. As a reader I had some hope for him, and felt the loss when it became clear that he had no chance.

  3. Peter, yes. The burns are withheld from us strategically, and can be withheld in the logic of the story because Malcolmson (as we come to learn) is in such deep denial about how far he’s fallen. The “green suit that required pressing” is really coming from him, from his inability to deal with what has happened in his life—and pressing vs burns is such a perfect metaphor for the difference he intuits in his relationship, i.e. something that can be cleaned up vs permanent damage.
    Thanks for reading!

  4. Great Analysis – but I have a few more thoughts. There is a constant thread through the book where I find myself questioning Malcolmson’s capacity to care for his children. He sees them as a means to an end – a way to meet his wife on Sunday’s so that he can try to win his way back into her affections. Even when he is living with Diana he seems to have little to no interest in his children – they are, therefore rather distant from him. His interest in them seems to extend only to how much information they can give him about his wife and whom she might be seeing.
    Also , I might be misreading it but are his daughters now calling Richard Daddy?
    Re: Diana, she tells him she is leaving him for a man named Abbotforth. The English mouthful and similarity to Malcolmson’s own rather stereotypical name makes me imagine he is another happily married man she is moving on to. I might be wrong but this speculation is enjoyable.
    The ending left me shaken – on paper the story is nothing much but Trevor’s slow unveiling of the depth of Malcolmson’s degradation coupled with that fantastic ending – the experience of reading that is really something else.
    Looking forward to story no. 3!

  5. An exceptionally acute analysis, Adam.

    Another use of that indirect-free style is Trevor’s daughters’ dialog/conversation which is entirely conveyed by Malcolmson as spectacularly normal, innocent, and empathetic.

    I thought this story was also a masterclass in pacing..

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