As a child reciting The Lord's Prayer during Sunday church services, I was fascinated by the word trespass. Layered with nuance, trespass is a word of motion that expresses a violation of boundaries, a word of emotion that signifies a betrayal of loved ones and of course, of God. A dark word of intrusion, lawlessness, a sibilant hiss passing through lips that murmured the familiar chant week after week "...Forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us...". Then suddenly, a change of church and a change of syntax: trespass was substituted with sin — a bludgeon of a word that offers no nuance, only a declaration of right or wrong.
And so it is with Louise Kennedy's brilliant, mournful and delicate Trespasses, a book of betrayals and violations, of faith, of all the gray between right and wrong.
The setting is Belfast, mid 1970s. Bombs, beatings, bedlam are quotidian facts of life in a city torn apart by sectarian violence. Cushla Lavery, in her early twenties, teaches at a Catholic primary school, cares for her alcoholic mother and helps out at the bar her older brother now runs after the untimely death of their beloved father. She and her mother live in a suburb just outside the city, far enough removed from the civil war to not fear for their immediate safety, yet threat is all around them. Soldiers frequenting the pub ritually harass Cushla and she must bear it, for fear of their guns and their retaliation. And when she falls in love with Michael Agnew, a barrister and pub regular, it is less that he's married and more that he is a Protestant that keeps their affair a necessary secret.
Michael is older, erudite, a liberal who defends young Catholic men who've run afoul of state. He invites Cushla to tutor a group of his upper-middle class friends in Irish. Cushla is acutely aware of the economic, class and religious divide between her and Michael's bohemian cohort. In turn they treat her with casual condescension, their knowing smirks revealing they are in on the illicit affair, her first clue that she's far from Michael's first dalliance.
While Cushla is treated like a curious accessory by Michael's friends, she is equally out of place in the cement high-rise ghettos of Belfast, where she visits the family of one of her students, Davy. The seven-year-old is bullied at school for his diminutive size and hesitant speech, but at home the situation is more dire: his is an interfaith family living in a Loyalist enclave. Davy's Catholic father is beaten nearly to death, forcing Davy's older brother to quit school to support his family. Cushla does what she can to protect young Davy, transporting him to and from school, but in this area of betrayal, retaliation and violence that is somehow calculated yet careless, Cushla's protection becomes the family's undoing, and soon enough, her own.
Louise Kennedy writes quietly into this madness, inviting you to lean into her precisely-rendered details: the warm glow of a study lit by a single lamp, the tangling vibes of a jazz record, the scent of skin upon waking, the heart-thudding fear of being pulled over by soldiers in an armored vehicle, a field covered in gorse where lovers meet, wounds sliced into palms like stigmata on a saint. The plot is a series of inevitably tragic connections and yet the reading is propulsive because you care so damn much about the characters—about Cushla and Davy, about Cushla's mother, Gina, who can't be much past her mid-40s, her beauty draining into the bloat and ruin of drink, about Davy's brother Tommy, who watches Cushla with ink-blue eyes, recites poetry and is drawn inexorably into the civil war that is destroying his family.
Kennedy calibrates the serious subject matter with pleasure and humor, sensuality and longing. This is a deeply humane, insightful, unflinching novel of the human condition set in a place and time defined by politics. Stunning and so very highly recommended.