4.5★
First. Before anything else. Thank you Maggie O’Farrell for this (and you’re welcome, anyone else like me who has never got this right either):
“‘Mum,’ Aoife says again. ‘It’s me.’
‘Aoife?’
It strikes Aoife in that moment that her mother is the only one who can properly pronounce her name. The only person in whose mouth it sounds as it should. Her accent—still unmistakably Galway, after all these years—strikes the first syllable with a sound that is halfway between E and A, and the second with a mysterious blend of V and F. She drives the name precisely between both ‘Ava’ and ‘Eva’ and ‘Eve’, passing all three but never colliding with them. Aoife, she says, exactly and like no one else.”
Disclaimer: I am predisposed to like Maggie O’Farrell’s stories. They are inhabited by real people, haunted by their pasts and their upbringings. They may not know, if you asked them, what’s wrong, why are you the way you are, but O’Farrell knows and shows us. Each member of this family has their own story as well as their shared story.
A man arriving home, quietly lamenting his all-too-short bachelorhood, finds his little kids waiting for dinner but nothing’s ready. Again.
Then, up comes his little girl “knocking her curly head into his thigh, like a little goat . . . He is, again and for a moment, completely the person he is meant to be: a man, in his kitchen, lifting his daughter into the air. . . He is filled with—what? Something more than love, more than affection. Something so keen and elemental it resembles animal instinct. For a moment, he thinks that the only way to express this feeling is cannibalism. Yes, he wants to eat his daughter, starting at the creases in her neck, moving down to the smooth pearlescent skin of her arms.”
What parent hasn’t said to a small child, I could just gobble you up? But O’Farrell says it better. This book is about what happens when this man gets a phone call that his mother is home alone and frightened because his father has disappeared.
Michael Francis, Monica, and Aoife all return home from their own precarious lives to attend to their difficult, demanding mother, who has been lonely for years as an unwelcome Irish woman in England. (Yesterday’s refugees.)
Michael Francis lives nearby, his dreams of being a professor in America abandoned because “He’s gone and knocked up a Prod” as Aoife so delicately put it. While their Irish Catholic background colours the story, it isn’t the whole story.
Monica is divorced (oh the shame of it) and living with a new partner and his kids. She doesn’t want kids – she was nine when her mother had a difficult pregnancy with Aoife, and then Aoife was a noisy, crying, complaining, fractious baby whom only Monica could manage. So manage she did. For years. Forever, it seems. And she's told Aoife this.
Aoife never coped with school, never learned to read, and has fled to New York where she works for a photographer and is falling for a nice guy who’s hiding from the draft. She has hidden her disability, but it’s kept her on edge, always. She is cut from a different cloth, and an interesting one it is, too.
These are Gretta’s troubled children, who have come home to investigate their father’s disappearance, but who are out at the moment, so the house is empty. I completely relate to this:
“It’s this kind of emptiness she likes—signs of people around, their discarded possessions left as a reassurance of their return. Monica’s jacket on a hanger, Michael Francis’s car key on the hall table, that scarf of Aoife’s draped over a peg.”
England is in drought, suffering a heatwave, and the heat permeates every movement of this family as they look for clues to find their father. Each resents being there, and they fall back into their old patterns of parent/sibling bickering (as we do). Each thinks he or she has more troubles than anyone, until a family bombshell is dropped late in the story.
The first half of the book moves very slowly – the heat, perhaps? – as we learn about the characters. And I did get frustrated for a while. Still, I’ll be left thinking about these people for a long time, I suspect.