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If some authors have an peak phase, in which they achieve the summit repeatedly, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s lasted through a series of four fat, rewarding works, from his late-seventies success The World According to Garp to 1989’s Owen Meany. Those were generous, humorous, warm works, linking figures he refers to as “outliers” to social issues from gender equality to abortion.

Following Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing outcomes, except in size. His most recent novel, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages long of themes Irving had examined better in previous works (inability to speak, restricted growth, gender identity), with a 200-page film script in the heart to extend it – as if filler were needed.

Therefore we come to a recent Irving with caution but still a tiny flame of expectation, which shines hotter when we discover that His Queen Esther Novel – a just 432 pages long – “returns to the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is one of Irving’s very best novels, taking place primarily in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Larch and his assistant Homer.

Queen Esther is a disappointment from a writer who previously gave such joy

In The Cider House Rules, Irving discussed abortion and acceptance with richness, wit and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a important book because it abandoned the subjects that were becoming repetitive patterns in his books: grappling, ursine creatures, Vienna, prostitution.

The novel opens in the made-up village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the twentieth century's dawn, where the Winslow couple adopt teenage foundling Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of years before the storyline of His Earlier Novel, yet the doctor is still identifiable: already using ether, respected by his nurses, starting every speech with “In this place...” But his appearance in Queen Esther is limited to these opening scenes.

The Winslows fret about parenting Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a young Jewish female find herself?” To address that, we move forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to Palestine, where she will enter Haganah, the Jewish nationalist militant group whose “purpose was to defend Jewish communities from hostile actions” and which would subsequently become the foundation of the Israel's military.

Those are huge themes to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that this book is not really about the orphanage and the doctor, it’s even more disheartening that it’s also not focused on Esther. For motivations that must involve plot engineering, Esther ends up as a substitute parent for another of the couple's daughters, and bears to a son, James, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this novel is his narrative.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both regular and particular. Jimmy goes to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s talk of avoiding the military conscription through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a significant name (the dog's name, remember the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, streetwalkers, novelists and penises (Irving’s throughout).

He is a duller character than the heroine promised to be, and the minor players, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are a few nice scenes – Jimmy deflowering; a confrontation where a couple of thugs get beaten with a crutch and a bicycle pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a subtle author, but that is is not the difficulty. He has always reiterated his ideas, hinted at plot developments and allowed them to build up in the reader’s mind before bringing them to fruition in long, shocking, funny scenes. For example, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to be lost: remember the speech organ in The Garp Novel, the hand part in His Owen Book. Those missing pieces resonate through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a major character loses an arm – but we only find out 30 pages the finish.

Esther comes back toward the end in the book, but only with a eleventh-hour sense of wrapping things up. We do not do find out the complete story of her life in the region. This novel is a disappointment from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure. That’s the bad news. The positive note is that Cider House – I reread it alongside this novel – yet remains excellently, four decades later. So choose it in its place: it’s much longer as this book, but far as enjoyable.