“I was slicing carrots for soup and thinking of teenagers and how very different they seem now to the ones I used to teach. There is something very impressive about the way the flesh of a carrot resists before it gives in. Mind you, I have the sharpest of blades.” (The Woman on the Bus)
Fergus Cronin uses many different voices in this collection of 14 stories, some witty, some clever, some unreliable, mostly men but some women. They are always original, and given to arresting, striking turns of phrase and incisive observations. His style is a reminder not so much of John McGahern, who is mentioned in a blurb, but of another highly original writer, Evelyn Conlon. Lively and entertaining, much of the writing exhibits the acid humour typical of Conlon.
But the McGahern analogy is understandable – for one thing, the stories almost all evoke country rather than city life (although Cronin was a Dubliner originally). More strikingly, he has McGahern’s great gift for characterisation, and for superb dialogue. Although there are a few quiet Joycean stories, many are dramatic and focus on quirky, tragic characters, as if the author were a practised observer and eavesdropper in a country pub, a setting for more than one story.
Witness the title, references to music permeate the book – jazz, pop, traditional, classical. The wonderful A Feint is a sort of ode to music. Set at the funeral of Margaret Moran (“Her life didn’t seem to add up to very much… Grief had boarded with her since she lost her mother”), it focuses on the playing of the organ in the Catholic chapel by a Protestant woman and her daughter, called in because the usual organist broke his hand.
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“She found the strains and the fluency to lay down a marvellous bedrock, allowing her daughter’s violin to state clearly and rhythmically the plaintive tones of the piece… the intense excitement of his feelings was something new for Finnerty… he was ecstatic in himself.”
Cronin gets to the heart of what music can do, in this little story (even if its ambitious reach and nobility is somewhat marred by an unnecessary comic twist). Darker themes are dealt with in the outstanding triptych, Saviours, one of the strongest pieces of literature about child abuse and its effects that has ever been written in Ireland. He is also very good on Travellers – in Saviours, and the lovely, sparkling story called Mischief.
Night Music is an impressive collection by a very talented writer. The surprising thing about it is that it is a debut, although the author is not young. What has he has been doing all his life? Still, better late than never!
Éilís Ní Dhuibhne is a writer and critic
