Book review: Small but perfectly formed

In creating these complex, yet unforgettable characters, Danielle McLaughlin has produced a slim volume to cherish; one that is small, but quite perfectly formed

Danielle McLaughlin's debut novel was a shining, seamless work of literature. 'Rituals', written on a much smaller canvas, shows such quietness and sensitivity that it seems this author could achieve anything. Picture: Ros Kavanagh

• Rituals 
• Danielle McLaughlin
• The Singing Fly, €15.00

Joan, a 56-year-old single woman, decides to take in a lodger. 

She’s hoping for a straight, male student of English literature. And when 20-year-old Diarmuid turns up, dragging his worldly belongings in a black holdall, she decides that he will fit the bill. 

Her friend Rosie wonders later why she didn’t ask for references, and find out why he needed a room halfway through the academic year, and the reader will share this sense of disquiet.

With only one friend — because she doesn’t see the need to have more — and only the voice of criticism from her dead mother interrupting the silence of her mind, Joan doesn’t particularly want a lodger, but she needs the money having taken a career break. 

How will she cope with this interruption to her rigid routine?

At first, it seems clear that she won’t get by. The first night the lodger goes out, Joan, sleepless, obsessively checks that the front door remains unbolted, but she’s unable to relax because, however often she checks, she simply can’t trust the evidence that this is so. 

And when Diarmuid brings a friend, Joey, home, Joan is distraught when he mocks her for owning 17 copies of Jane Eyre, declaring the author as ‘racist as fuck’.

It’s hard not to empathise with Joan. She’s a good person but is a ball of insecurity and oddness.

She rehearses everyday conversations — and has to change her hairdresser frequently because she can’t remember what fiction she invented in order to pass muster on her previous visits.

And why, we wonder, was her career break necessary? What was that trouble she had at work?

And what of Diarmuid, the lodger who won’t flush the loo in case of ecological catastrophe? Why does he disclose so little to Joan, and what ‘incident’ led him to the need for a therapist? 

Just as you fear this uneasy alliance will crumble — hastened when Diarmuid ‘steals’ a robot lawnmower from next door — the two start to talk, and find not only tolerance for each other’s views, but a tender understanding of each other’s eccentricities.

The continuing events next door — where the sad single mum of two keeps hens in a plastic tent — cements the fledgling friendship between Diarmuid and Joan and she starts to confide in him, disclosing just what it was she did to alienate her bosses. 

Although not quite understanding his landlady, he accepts her account and starts to reveal more of his own troubles.

If all this makes the novel sound bleak, it’s anything but. 

Stunningly written in clear insightful prose, it’s chock full of warmth and has moments of joyous humour. 

Some of this is provided by the Irish tutor at the classes Joan attends along with some former workmates. 

Constantly oversharing her love life, she’s contemplating joining friends as an English teacher in Switzerland, and quips: ‘All those rich parents paying for their kids to acquire Cork accents.’

There’s no cosy, over-neat resolution for Joan, but she has gained understanding and an ability to cope better in a sometimes-cruel world.

I’ve admired this author’s work since her collection of stories hit the shelves in 2015. 

Her debut novel, The Art of Falling, was a shining, seamless work of literature. Rituals, written on a much smaller canvas, shows such quietness and sensitivity that it seems this author could achieve anything.

In creating these complex, yet unforgettable characters, Danielle has produced a slim volume to cherish; one that is small, but quite perfectly formed.

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