Once a native, now an outsider, William Maginn chances upon a story while drinking in a London pub. It concerns the death of a Co Kerry village. What could be yet another account of the effects of emigration turns out to be far more sinister, as Maginn learns of a defrocked priest and several dead women. From the outset he sounds more like a world-weary detective than the contented editor of a London literary magazine.
For all the hint of scandal and mystery O'Doherty quickly dilutes the reader's interest when describing his mother's fondness for her second cousin "once removed", a Father Hugh, as "a necessarily sublimated passion, I imagine."
So far, so sophisticated - and perhaps that's what happens if you have been living in London. But by the next sentence he is remarking, "Sometimes the dark passions of Irish housewives come right up against the white circlet of the Roman collar, and stay there. My mother, now that I can think of her from the ruins of my own untidy passions, was man-crazy and a devout Catholic. In another culture she'd have afforded a great deal of pleasure - as well as mischief - to many."
He takes off for Dingle determined to find the answers. Luckily the entire deposition of the disgraced priest is available. Therein, literarily, lies the story. Luck seems to be on Maginn's side throughout. When it looks as if he is not going to get the freedom of the local records office, he merely has to appeal to the young assistant, a female "with a figure of definite pneumatic possibilities". As depositions go, Father Hugh's is an unconvincing marathon of total recall complete with dialogue, gestures, glances, moments of self-doubt. Far from being the villain he emerges as a hero, devoted to his flock and determined to conceal the more unsavoury aspects of life in a poor mountain village battered by its climate.
His worst crime appears to be trying to prevent post-mortems from being carried out on the dead women. In the aftermath of their mystery deaths, he discovers another problem. One of the sons of a fine local widower is himself a tragedy, rendered mindless by an accident and referred to throughout as the amadan. The youth has an obsession, engaging sexually with sheep. Father Hugh is concerned. "There isn't a sheep on the mountain that's safe from him." The local doctor, when consulted, laughs in his face. "Is the sheep going across the road there to a solicitor, to sue the poor man for breach of promise?" Later the grotesque Biddy who acts as Father Hugh's housekeeper, is happily tapping a spoon along the youth's rampant penis when the priest comes home.
Poor Father Hugh is under pressure as well as suspicion. Much of the book is unbelievable. It is difficult to imagine an unaggressive 1930s Irish priest saying, "It makes me want to puke my insides out". And would he say he wanted his breakfast at "twenty of eight"?
As there is a small boy in the house, Father Hugh attempts to speak to the amadan's father. At first Muiris refuses to deal with the boy. Yet eventually he does act - and one way or another, the boy dies. Then there is a scene with a ram chasing about the cottage as the dead youth is laid out.
O'Doherty's previous novel The Strange Case of Mademoiselle P. (1992) flounders under the weight of its intellectual pretensions. This novel reaches after an earthy humanity and folksy usage. Described as a masterpiece on the jacket, and hailed as "the international best seller", this novel, first published in the US last year, is footnoted by way of explaining Irish historical and cultural references. Some of the Irish language is translated. It is a curious performance, random and inconsistent, somehow lacking real drama despite the violence. The crazy, rambling, now Booker-shortlisted story could as easily be placed in the hills of Tennessee.
But the real problem with this dated novel is its lack of conviction, combined with Father Hugh having to do too much in an improbable monologue in which everyone sounds the same. The narrator doesn't seem to believe in it. Nor did I.
Eileen Battersby is the Literary Correspondent of The Irish Times
