Some time ago I went through a spell where I could only read books by Marian Keyes. I was exhausted by literature – exasperated with its coolness and impenetrability – and my tattered paperback of The Mystery of Mercy Close (found left behind in a holiday home), my earmarked copy of Angels, and my never-returned library copy of Rachel’s Holiday felt like literature’s last remaining bastions; proof that words could still hold me and lift my spirits.
I’m sure there are many readers like me, who turn to Keyes when no one else will do. In fact, there must be a great many, since she’s Ireland’s bestselling living author. We reach for them, like a spouse’s hand, from sun loungers and hospital beds. We tuck them into our schoolbags when we should be studying loftier things. On a dull winter night or in the depths of a hangover, there’s no better cure than a Keyes.
The thing about Keyes is that she gets people. She doesn't allow a character cross the threshold of her books without excavating their psyche
Part of the draw is the unspoken pact she seems to have with her readers. She knows who she’s writing for and we know why we love her. All the things she has secretly promised tend to feature in her books: intricately-drawn characters, a dysfunctional family, lots of riding, snappy dialogue, a teaser followed by a flashback, “sexy mens”, on-the-money descriptions, multiple converging plotlines and unabashed Irishisms – or Keyes-isms.
She also writes big books: “Why use one word when four thousand will do,” she recently jested, and more often than not there is an “issue” at their heart. She has covered addiction (Rachel’s Holiday), domestic violence (This Charming Man) and abortion (The Break), all within intimate, unassuming settings. Her 14th novel, Grown Ups (a gigantic tome), addresses bulimia and overeating with seriousness and particularity. Direct provision and all our biases and contradictions around it are also handled with nuance and care.
It may seem dismissive to reduce her books to a series of traits – I don’t mean to – but if I am being dismissive, the book saw me coming. It plays on the idea of worthiness in art. The central family, the Caseys, are philistines. They baulk at the idea of going to art galleries, and the only books father Johnny will read are Jack Reacher thrillers. “What he found immensely satisfying was that the Lee Child book was always just long enough for his holiday […]How many other writers could promise that?! None, he was prepared to bet.”
I can think of one, mind. But Keyes isn’t making a hard and fast point about “high” v “low” art. As Johnny reads his Lee Child, two other characters, Ferdia and Nell, are off enjoying Italy’s finest art galleries.
The overarching characteristic of this book is that it seems to dance around righteousness. The large and contrasting group of characters means the “point” being made is constantly shifting. “Worthy Nell”, an eco-friendly, penniless stage designer is just as likeable as shamelessly capitalist boss-woman, Jessie. Each has their flaws and motives, but they like each other, and learn from each other.
The reader can’t help but like them, too. The thing about Keyes is that she gets people. She doesn’t allow a character cross the threshold of her books without excavating their psyche and giving their story all its relevant dimensions. College-kid, Ferdia, at first high-minded and insufferable grows in depth as we read on. Our perceptions of inscrutable former womaniser, Johnny, are constantly being flipped. If we’re looking for a baddie, we can concentrate our energies into the loathsome Liam: a once successful sportsman whose weaknesses gradually become more and more pronounced. For me, the sweet and kind couple, Cara and Ed, command the most sympathy. They are strong and selfless, yet nonetheless find themselves afflicted with the scourge of Cara’s food addiction – a force which is powerful enough to break the whole family. Keyes has written about addiction before and spoken about her own experiences with alcoholism. Cara’s situation is a more niche one (or niche-seeming, though the issues Keyes portrays often turn out to be more common than we think). And either way, many will relate to Cara’s frustrating struggle and the far-reaching power it holds.
But while we read with our hearts in our mouths, we can trust that all will come good in the end. A happy ending is another clause in the imaginary contract between Keyes and reader. “I would rather never be published again than write a downbeat ending,” she once said. Which may seem sentimental but somehow, she makes it work. Maybe because a happy ending is always possible. Or, because depicting one in a story is, in its own way, subversive, important and worthy.
