Set in a small, unnamed, fictional town somewhere outside Limerick, this is a neat little novel(la?) about the financial crash as it happened in rural or semi-rural Ireland. It’s Donal Ryan’s first book, and it’s published by Lilliput Press, a small Dublin-based outfit who have produced their fair share of lovely editions of Irish work–both fiction and non-fiction. Ryan’s book is structured around the first-hand accounts of a number of local inhabitants. Each chapter is narrated by a new character, and narrators never repeat–so the storytellers get only one shot at their tale. This keeps things fresh and propulsive, with a slightly different style every few pages.
The jacket copy boasts a comparison with Synge, and so it would be forgiveable to fear that Ryan will risk lampooning the accents of speech and thought in his provincial characters. Quirks in dialect are actually handled very well–Ryan has a good ear–and though there is sometimes a tension between the aesthetic, literary language of the book’s descriptions–which language finds its way into many chapters–and the conversational tone of each narrator, for the most part it’s balanced with poise and skill. We get a dignified character from Khakassia who suffers constantly from his neighbours’ mislabelling and ignorance (mine too–it’s in Siberia, in case you were wondering) about his place of birth. We even get some top-notch wink-and-nudgery in the style of the best self-conscious ironic tricksters. Here’s a nice paragraph from the “Brian” chapter, laced with pain and humour and a kind of premature, world-weary sadness:
You know the way you get used to getting the ride? And then you’re cut off, like, all of a sudden? That’s what all them wankers do be feeling when they’re going around crying over women. They’re only missing the ride. Love is a physical mechanism that ensures humanity’s survival. It’s an abstract concept as well, for people to write songs and books and make films about. Either way, it’s nothing but a construct. That’s the kind of auld shite I used to write in English. Pawsy [his teacher] used to cream himself over it. You have a keen mind, Brian. I do, ya. In me hole. You should look at arts or humanities, Brian. Avoid construction, Brian. Don’t be tempted by the high wages, Brian, they won’t last. Don’t waste your brain, Brian. All right Pawsy, leave it go, in the name of all that’s good and holy, let it go.
The book centres loosely around Bobby Mahon, a tactiturn, morally upright builder who narrates the first chapter. Thereafter, we only hear about him through the stories of others, which is fitting for someone who “was never able to see how he affected people”. The book is filled with bitterness and rage and self-hatred–but Bobby is the hero insofar as he’s the only one who elicits even a little grudging praise from almost all of the townsfolk, and fear from those who have wronged him.
The content of any one character is less important, though, than the sense of a complex community which is outlined by the many varied sections of the book. This is a story about perceptions and opinions among a wide range of characters stuck together in a very small space. It’s like a time-slice, or cross-section of a town at an opportune moment,as a series of scandals emerges. The contradictions and absurdities of the place are laid bare in the “Triona” chapter, the last and probably best section of the book. After an exasperated rant about the hypocrisy of the “Teapot Taliban” who delight in piety and judgement alike, who finger rosary beads and act as conduits for rumour, Triona spits:
The air is think with platitudes around here. We’ll all pull together. We’re a tight-knit community. We’ll all support each other. Oh really? Will we?
And after reading about all the betrayals and cons and misplaced allegiances in this book’s past, you’re genuinely not sure how to answer. But after further cascades of angry invective, Triona stops herself and catches us off guard with one of the most compassionate, poignant lines of the book:
God I’m gone awful cross. People are scared, that’s all. I know that.
And that’s what you get in each chapter–a little glimpse into the inner nature of each character, beyond their outer show. Everyone occupies a distinct, personal position apart from their appointed place in the community, whether that place is determined by wealth, opprobrium or admiration.
As for the plot, the initial crisis is precipitated by a local developer absconding with millions in unpaid taxes and pensions. Further scandals develop from there. But the real focus is on each character’s reaction, how they deal with the sudden dissolution of all convenient social norms and structures: the loss of money, religion, family, community. Ultimately we’re left to ask what any of those things actually meant, after all. The difficulty we face in answering is all too human. But the book’s last line reminds us that what remains is ultimately what matters. And no, I’m not going to give it away.
Available from Lilliput Press.
Speak, Memorise 