“Balbriggan,” it says in Wikipedia, “is a coastal town in Fingal, in the northern part of the former Co Dublin, Ireland, approximately 34km north of Dublin city. The 2016 census population was 21,722 for Balbriggan and its environs.”
To this population Kevin Curran has added four more. They are fictional but so loudly and vulnerably alive, they seem real. Angel, Tanya, Dean and Princess are the four teenagers who roam through Curran’s third novel, Youth: two girls, two boys; two black, two white; two gangs; two languages – actually, four languages, one each.
“He speaks your voice, Dublin, and there’s something hopeful in the new edges of his words and phrases that has come through revolutions, generations, and across continents to be witnessed here, on these streets, now.” This is the novel’s opening sentence. It’s a manifesto, almost – a statement of intent. Angel and the other three speak English but it is their English. It’s the Dublin brand but they are adding to it. Poverty is very well described in Youth – food-and-shoes poverty – but these teenagers get to own their own words.
There isn’t much of a plot but it doesn’t matter, much. Princess wants to be a pharmacist; Angel wants to be a barber; Tanya wants to be a social media influencer (I think); Dean doesn’t want to be like his father. Angel is aware of the vulnerability of his position in his gang. Princess, the novel’s most complete character, is learning sad lessons about the reliability of others. Tanya, the self-confident little young one we see bouncing down the street every day, is actually the most vulnerable of the four.
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There’s very little of the what-happens-next in the novel, although it is full of shocking incidents and attitudes – the violence, the racism, the videoed sex. But the big shocks are less glaring and much more interesting. It’s a shock, for example, when Curran writes, about halfway through the novel, that Tanya is wearing her school uniform. She’s the youngest of the four but seems the furthest away from school and anything that school might give her. All four go to school but this is important only to one of them, Princess. School, for the others, isn’t bad or good; it’s a building. Their lives – their futures – are elsewhere.
If the book if worth reading – and it certainly is – it is because of the language and the ways these kids use and create it
Another shock is the adults: they are dreadful, almost every one of them. The fathers are absent or bad; the mothers are absent or exhausted. Men, in particular, are grim – they’re creeps.
Kindness is rare, and humour is close to nonexistent. The moments of joy are to be found in the way the characters speak. “On his own,” for example, has become “on his ones”. I laughed as Angel had to translate his English into his mother’s English:
–Serious bags. I’m really good at it, swear down.
–Excuse me?
–Sorry mam. I’m doing very well.
The two girls are much better captured than the boys. Princess is a wonderful character; I’d happily follow her into another book. Tanya is also great; the contrast between her reality and her social media presentation is well achieved, and frightening. The boys, however, are too similar, despite their ethnic and other differences; their stories are too alike. There were times when I wondered if I’d read a paragraph before; too many people seemed to be doing and saying the same thing.
But if the book if worth reading – and it certainly is – it is because of the language and the ways these kids use and create it. On the page, put there by Curran, it’s a treat and an education. Balbriggan is called “the Brig” if you’re white, and “the Briggz” if you’re black. The white kids favour “Story” – ie “What’s the story?” – as a greeting. For the black kids, it’s “Wagwan” – ie “What’s going on?” – lifted from the Jamaican English of south London.
They can put the translation from Irish “I’m after” into the same sentence as the very London “innit”. (The innits reminded me of Keith Talent in Martin Amis’s London Fields, and I wondered what Keith would make of Curran’s Balbriggan or, more to the point, what Balbriggan would make of Keith.)
The confrontation is vicious – serious violence seems inevitable – but, as told by Angel, they’re loving the word fight
There’s a brilliant passage late on in the book when, in a confrontation between black and white gangs, there’s a dispute about the right to say “our” – a local term of affection that makes sense when seen elsewhere in the book as “ourlad”.
–I can say it. My lads here can say it. Aul lads from the Brig can say it. But you can’t say it, ye get me.
It is chilling, but invigorating. The confrontation is vicious – serious violence seems inevitable – but, as told by Angel, they’re loving the word fight. “The Brig” or “the Briggz”, “story” or “wagwan”, “our” or “fam”? The answer, being worked out on Balbriggan’s Mainstreet, is: both. Irish-English has always been wild. Kevin’s Curran’s Youth, at its liveliest, seems to be telling us that we’re only starting.
Roddy Doyle’s latest book is Life Without Children
