Cuddy is one of those characters who sneaks up on you—quietly complex, surprisingly layered. At first glance in the novel, he comes across as just another side character, maybe even a bit of a comic relief with his awkward mannerisms and tendency to fumble words. But as the story unfolds, you realize there’s a lot more beneath the surface. He’s fiercely loyal, almost to a fault, sticking by the protagonist even when things get messy. His backstory isn’t dumped all at once; instead, it trickles out through small moments—like how he flinches at loud noises or how he always carries a worn-out photo in his pocket.
What really got me was his arc. He starts off as this timid, almost invisible figure, but by the end, he’s making choices that change the entire course of the story. It’s not some grand, dramatic transformation—it’s subtle, earned. The way he balances vulnerability with quiet strength reminds me of characters like Samwise from 'Lord of the Rings' or even Hodor from 'Game of Thrones', though less tragic. Cuddy’s the kind of character you root for because he feels real, flawed, and deeply human.
The ending of 'Cuddy' by Benjamin Myers is this beautifully layered, almost poetic culmination of history, myth, and personal redemption. The novel weaves together multiple timelines centered around St. Cuthbert, and the final section ties everything together in a way that feels both surprising and inevitable. A modern-day laborer, living in the shadow of Durham Cathedral, becomes the vessel for Cuthbert's legacy, blurring the lines between past and present. It's not just about closure; it's about how history echoes through individuals in unexpected ways. The laborer's quiet, almost mystical connection to the saint suggests that some legacies transcend time, and the ending leaves you with this lingering sense of reverence for the unseen threads that bind us to the past.
What really stuck with me was how Myers avoids neat resolutions. The laborer doesn't get some grand epiphany—it's subtler than that. His life just... aligns with Cuthbert's story in a way that feels organic. The cathedral itself becomes a character, standing as a witness to centuries of change. If you're expecting a traditional 'twist' or showdown, you won't find it here. Instead, it's a meditation on faith, place, and the weight of memory. I closed the book feeling like I'd wandered through Durham's history myself, haunted by its ghosts.
The twist in Cuddy's arc is one of those moments that hits you like a ton of bricks—not because it's out of nowhere, but because it feels painfully inevitable once you piece together the clues. Throughout the story, Cuddy's relentless idealism clashes with the grim realities of her world, and her refusal to compromise becomes both her strength and her downfall. The narrative subtly foreshadows her fate through small moments: her unwavering trust in people who don't deserve it, her habit of seeing the best in situations where there isn't any. When the twist finally happens, it's less about shock value and more about tragic irony—she's undone by the very hope she fought to protect.
What makes it resonate so deeply is how it mirrors real-life struggles. We've all known someone who burned too bright, who couldn't—or wouldn't—see the darkness creeping in. The story doesn't villainize her for this; instead, it frames her downfall as a kind of martyrdom. Her death isn't just a plot device—it's the culmination of every theme the story's been building: the cost of purity in a corrupt world, the fragility of good intentions. It lingers with you because it asks uncomfortable questions about whether idealism is worth the price.