Ode to human imperfection
Octogenarian Maurice Hannigan sits alone at the bar of a grandiose hotel in a small Irish town. Nothing unusual about that (he’s been doing it every evening since his wife died) but on this June night, he orders five drinks — consecutively, I rush to add — and uses each to toast those who have shaped his life, joyfully or tragically, positively or destructively.
That’s the premise of this first novel by the author from Mullingar (County Westmeath, pop 21,000, since you asked). Wife Sadie; daughter Molly, “the bundle of our making”; sister Noreen, forever on Maurice’s conscience; son Kevin, contented and successful in the US; brother Tony, dead for 70 years but still idolised: for four hours, he sits and remembers them. We learn much about the quintet. We learn even more about Maurice.
The retired farmer’s fingers are cracked and dust-ingrained but his shoes are polished, his jacket brushed and his navy-blue tie stain-free. He’s a proud old man, even if his dentures have a mind of their own and a Filipina cleaner helps look after him. You’ll pity Maurice; you’ll rejoice with him and, a few times, you may wish to smack his leg.
He’s contrary, miserly, “not one for pretending”. Not one for communicating, either, and he regrets it now. We get bereavements, exultation, multiple revelations (some on the melodramatic spectrum). He yearns to atone. He’s defiant; God has never earned his “full forgiveness”.
The narrative loops through Maurice’s long life. There’s much giving and grabbing; chest-beating male scores are settled; a small coin carries a huge symbolic meaning. It may test a few readers during its longer reminiscences.
It moves to an ending which is either heart-squeezing or stomach-turning. It’s a triumph of tone. Anne Griffin gets her voices pitch-perfect. They’re quintessentially Irish, lilting and mischievous, full of cadence and images, inventive syntax and inventive truths.
She lifts the mundane into the mythical. The smell of furniture wax evokes decades of “industry and sustenance”. The first glimpse of a banana — yes, I said banana — becomes a paean to beauty and delight.
It’s potentially sentimental but saved by sly, subversive humour and a sense of human imperfections.
It works splendidly. The Irish don’t win only at rugby.