If Montpelier Parade had a soundtrack, it might well be The Summer of 1942, and indeed, the key theme is evocative: a young and disenfranchised teenage boy named Sonny and a beautiful older woman named Vera who seems out of his reach.
Life seems pre-destined for Sonny: his father can’t seem to hang onto his wages, his mother is weary and resigned, and his future seems to be headed nowhere, toward a butcher apprenticeship. He suffers from the yoke of low expectations: no one believes in him and he barely believes in himself. And then the quixotic Vera comes along.
Vera places Sonny on “a restless carousel, excitement, dread, excitement.” Although she is, in many ways, a cipher – unknowing and unknowable – she is also Sonny’s fantasy woman and, in ways, his kindred spirit. Neither feels a sense of belonging and each feels unmoored in the gritty world. While Sonny’s demons are right out in the open, Vera’s are held tightly; as readers, we don’t know until the end what drives her.
The book is written in the second person tense, a hard feat to pull off, and a tense that is often used to “twin” the reader with the character. Although there were times that I questioned whether Karl Geary was pulling it off, I felt – for the most part – that he did. The reader is forced into inhabiting Sonny’s life and mind, and seeing the unfolding of the affair through his as-yet-unjaded eyes. As a result, his own vacillating emotions, Vera’s unapproachability, and Sharon – his street-smart yet still tender friend – all come fully alive. In ways, this is a book about unfulfilled potential; readers can almost envision how these trapped characters will squander their chances as life disappoints them, time and time again. The book transported me to 1980s working-class Dublin and, to my mind, was totally convincing.