Very entertaining and intelligent tale of the residents of an Irish town reacting to an Englishman who descends with offers of loot for the lands they own along the Shannon. But who’s the cute hour and who’s the patsy? The author’s love of phonetically transcribed dialect can become a little wearisome. “Tanks be to de Lord God Almighty an’ His Mudder, an His faster-fodder St Joseff, an’ all de saints of Ireland includin’ them dat’s not canonicated or ized - yet- like me own fadder and mudder dat’s always prayin’ in heaven above fur me an’ me friends..” can be amusing in the short term, but palls by page 300. But when Broderick switches to third person narration, he can delight. “And all the time the fire in the range burned lower and lower and the lane outside darkened and voices were heard faintly from the street and a cat jumped up on the window-sill and the wind blew a paper across the door and the little old house creaked and nothing apart from the torn old newspaper came to the door nor had anything else or anybody for a long year now.”
This was one of several books that I bought 20-odd years ago and which, because of my travels, have been sitting unread until now. Most have been read as long-lost treasures recently found, but not, I'm afraid John Broderick's The Flood.
A rambling tale of scullduggery in 1930s Ireland, this crams in the stereotypes which might play to a stage-Irish American readership, but to me seemed tired and overplayed.
It is OK, but not much more and there were moments when it came close to going unfinished into another box bound for the OXFAM shop.