Kidd blends Irish wit with the supernatural
Jess Kidd follows her remarkable debut, “Himself,” with another spellbinding, Irish-infused tale.
When elderly, foul-tempered Cathal Flood encounters his new caregiver, Maud Drennan, sparks fly. Not only is Maud psychic — her pals include a raft of garrulous Catholic saints — she is also determined to tidy the old man’s “Gothic crap heap” of a West London house — and perhaps his life as well.
Given to King Lear-like rages, Flood’s “blarney-coated” voice still charms the tough, sympathetic Maud.
When, to our relief, she manages to get him outside, they partake in tea and stories on the lawn.
But first we must brave the onslaught of Kidd’s word-packed sentences evoking hoarder hell.
“I wade, tripping over boxes and piles of mildewing curtains, getting caught in cables, hooked on hat stands, and assaulted by rutting ironing boards.
“I flounder over records, books, stained blankets, greasy collections of garbage bags, garden forks, antique mangles, a woman’s patent leather shoe, and an unopened blender that also grates and peels. And cats, cats, cats.”
To be fair, the cats bear literary names such as Beckett and Cartland; a tame fox is called Larkin.
Should we run for cover? Too late. Soon old photos are popping up, mailed like clues from death’s other side to Maud and Renata, her wonderful, transgender landlady.
Faces on the pictures have been scratched out. Clearly something bad has happened in Mr. Flood’s past, but what?
As Cathal warms to Maud, a woman burdened by her own blighted history, he entertains her with lurid tales centring on cruelty and the supernatural.
When handsome Sam appears, the “geriatric whisperer” Flood previously chased off with a “hurling stick,” full of concern for Maud’s safety, we are relieved, for not a single saint will enter this house of peculiar oddities.
In short, once the sardine tins are cleared away, we are hooked by Kidd’s blend of the supernatural with the comic.
There’s something rotten here, and it’s not just garbage: secrets are stashed, diaries hidden, villains lurk, eyeballs roll. And pages fly as Maud dusts away the dark mysteries of a house where “objects disappear and reappear somewhere else at will.”
May the saints preserve us all.