Charlie Porter, known for his work in fashion journalism, makes a striking literary debut with Nova Scotia House, a novel that plunges readers into the emotional aftermath of the Aids epidemic in 1980s and early 90s London. Through a fragmented, urgent prose style—propelled relentlessly by a cascade of commas—Porter crafts an immersive narrative that evokes both the intensity of the era and the lingering grief of those left behind.
At the heart of the novel is Johnny, a 19-year-old who is introduced to the London gay scene by Jerry, a charismatic and world-weary 45-year-old. Jerry becomes Johnny’s guide, lover, and link to a vibrant, if precarious, queer community. Their bond is forged in nightclubs and alleyways, in red light and cigarette smoke, captured in passages that tumble forward breathlessly: “people more people, noise like I had not known it… Jerry grinning maniacal, in my ear he said, follow me, and Jerry took my hand…”
Jerry, Johnny recalls later, “was the first man I loved, the first man I loved who died.” It is a loss that continues to define him, three decades on. Porter writes with stark clarity about the emotional toll of survival: “If we normalise Jerry’s death, we eradicate Jerry. If we normalise the nightmare of HIV, we eradicate its victims.”
Now approaching 50, Johnny still lives in Jerry’s old flat—No. 1, Nova Scotia House—a symbol of emotional stasis as much as nostalgic attachment. He has not moved on, not really. His job remains undefined, his connections are fleeting, often sourced through hookup apps, and his reflections drip with a sense of futility: “Will I see anyone. Don’t care. Sounds rude, it’s not rude.” Beneath the surface lies a deeper yearning—for meaning, connection, and community in a city that feels increasingly alien due to gentrification and rising costs.
“I want a beer and I want that guy to come over and I know he won’t come over so why do I bother when I know he won’t be coming over,” Johnny thinks. “The game is the game. Can I get out. Do I want to get out.”
The novel’s breathless style creates a sense of claustrophobia, mirroring Johnny’s emotional confinement. Yet, the rhythmic intensity serves a greater purpose. It captures the chaos and heartbreak of a generation that came of age during a health crisis that decimated its community. Porter’s writing is intimate and visceral, his characters rendered with such authenticity that the line between fiction and memory blurs.
While it is tempting to read autobiography into the novel, the emotional realism Porter achieves gives the story the weight of lived experience. Nova Scotia House stands as both an elegy for those lost to Aids and a broader meditation on love, grief, and the enduring scars of survival.
Profoundly human and deeply affecting, Porter’s debut is a vital addition to the growing literature of remembrance—an unflinching look at what it means to endure, to mourn, and to live on.
