Standard Time. By Keith Ridgway. Faber & Faber. 248 pp, £9.99 in UK
Keith Ridgway first came to prominence in 1998, when his debut novel, The Long Falling, gained considerable critical acclaim for its disturbing and intelligent examination of lives wasted and gone awry, and there is something of the same dark complexity to Standard Time, his new collection of 12 short stories. Set in and around contemporary Dublin, these narratives form a kaleidoscopic view of the city, the characters and landscapes - both emotional and physical - varying widely from story to story. In fact, so different are they in tone and form, that at first it's difficult to get a firm grip on them, which seems to be exactly what Ridgway wants. There are no easy options here.
Appropriately, the volume opens with a touchdown in Dublin. "We came in over the sea," Ridgway writes, "low out of the east . . . We watched boats scratch the surface, we put our seatbacks in the upright position, we called for more drinks but they were having none of it, they were cross with us - they wouldn't let us toast your first sight of Dublin." But soon after this seemingly warm, celebratory opening, the tone changes: this homecoming is not the beginning of something, but rather an end, as the story goes on to detail the abrupt break-up of a relationship. In this way, and throughout the collection, Ridgway scrapes away at the surface of things, confounding our expectations to reveal some deeper level of meaning and uncover the truths buried in everyday experiences.
Memory, perception and obsession all come under scrutiny. In `Off Vico', two elderly men recall an encounter they had as lovers 50 years earlier (in a nice twist, this actual incident is a contemporary one, told from the vantage point of the future). But doubt hangs over the entire occurrence and we are never quite sure (nor is the narrator) how much is suggestion, fantasy or memory playing tricks.
`Headwound', a gripping and shocking story of a child being seriously injured, is similarly oblique. The story is told by the measured, reasonable, if somewhat charmless voice of the child's father, but as it progresses, we discover that he has, in fact, been accused of inflicting harm on his son. Whether he is guilty or it was an accident, we are never quite sure. And all the time, unseen characters hover beyond the boundaries of the narrative, exerting their influences, like the mother in `Headwound' or the gambling father figure in `Never Love a Gambler'.
Other stories focus on spirituality and religion: in the rather off-the-wall `The Dreams of Mary Cleary', a woman receives messages from the Virgin Mary as she sleeps, while in `The Ravages', a suburban father becomes obsessed with his own power to control his environment and perform miracles. A wry humour often informs Ridgway's writing and also a gentle understanding of the nuances of human relationships. He is undoubtedly a gifted writer, adept at creating complex, convincing characters in writing that is fluid and unshowy. But perhaps his greatest achievement is the Dublin he evokes: familiar yet still mysterious, teeming with life, but always full of secrets.
Catherine Heaney is a journalist and critic