Smile

When it comes to art and culture I’m not a completist. The Smiths are the only band whose back catalogue I’ve completed. With everything else I tend to dip in and out, wanting to hear new voices, experience different styles. I do have favourite writers- Orwell, Dickens, Townsend, Salinger and Heller – but I haven’t read everything they’ve ever written. The author I’ve come closest to covering is Roddy Doyle.

Aged sixteen I picked up a copy of The Commitments from the library and thought, ‘this is the author for me.’ It had what all great literature needs: ordinary characters, inventive swearing, comedy and soul. Prize-winning literature often negates this holy square, instead it has university professors endure personal crisis over whether their paper will be read by one or two people. Essentially, it’s ivory tower autobiography as opposed to real world reportage. I recognise all authors work from their study, but the difference between 'important' writers and great writers is the former live there, whereas the latter leave them to find their stories.

Roddy Doyle was born to a middle-class family in Dublin. After studying at University College Dublin, he became a secondary school teacher in a community school. Here, he met Paul Mercier, a talented teacher and moonlighting playwright; seeing his gritty plays inspired Doyle to capture the spit and sawdust of city life. His first book The Commitments was about a group of unemployed Dubliners seeking fame and fortune in a Soul band. Its protagonist Jimmy Rabbitte is aptly named: he has been a rabbit’s foot for Doyle’s career, being the leading vehicle in three other novels, The Snapper, The Van and The Guts. Just as we followed Adrian Mole from pimpled adolescence to middle-aged health scares, so to do we with Jimmy Rabbitte. To create an enduring character is something few authors achieve; to have a satellite of other great novels points to a master.

The last Doyle book I read was Roy Keane’s autobiography. It’s not often a Booker-Prize author (one of few winners to feature working-class characters) is tasked with ghosting a footballer’s life, but like I say Doyle isn’t like most writers. I love the fact Doyle has one foot in popular culture and the other in unpopular culture (the average literary author earns a £11,000 a year). Like Mike Leigh, he recognises that narrative shouldn’t be co-opted by the middle-class, the working people should have their lives, their heroes recognised.

Roy Keane promoting his fisherman lost at sea look.

Smile is Doyle’s latest work, I first heard about it on Jarlath Regan’s fantastic podcast An Irishman Abroad. Doyle talked about the story’s origins: whilst in a Catholic Brotherhood school he led a cheeky campaign against homework; his teacher’s response, ‘Roddy Doyle, I can never resist your smile.’ Fortunately, nothing happened to Doyle in school; however, since leaving he’s aware that others weren’t so fortunate. The comment got him thinking of how openly the Brothers abused their power. As totems in the community, they were impervious to attack. If a child went home and complained about their teacher’s behaviour, the family would side with the Church. These men were representatives of God: they had Divine Rule; to speak out against them would damn you and your family to Hell. Better to put the Brothers behaviour down to eccentricities and idiosyncrasies than face the cold, hard truth: these men were animals, wolves in God’s clothing, tearing children from innocence.

The book begins with Victor Forde in the pub, nursing his pint, licking his wounds after love's gone wrong. He’s broken, but not beaten. It’s a solitary life: the bartender now replacing his lady for confidences - it’s a life nonetheless. However, this lonely cocoon is broken when in one day slinks Fitzpatrick: a gut wearing shorts. Immediately, Fitzpatrick is upon him, recalling their school days and a sister Victor had a boner for. Victor’s memory stumbles across the girl, but it can’t unearth the man. Fitzpatrick goads him, invoking the story of them in class together, when the Brother made the remark: “Victor Forde, I can never resist your smile.” The premise is Pinter’s The Birthday Party, an unexpected visitor precipitating a character’s crisis – yet Doyle does it with such sleight of hand you’ll be open-mouthed when the rabbit’s revealed at the end.

Pinter's The Birthday Party must have been an inspiration. Pic. courtesy of FT.

I appreciate at the beginning of this piece I praised Doyle for his humour, and now reading this you might be questioning how a story with abuse at its centre could have any comedy. Well, for much of the book childhood trauma is down in the cellar, lost amongst the barrels. Out front, facing the customers, is Victor’s adult life: how he met, married and lost his wife Rachel. The pub conversations from recent work Two Pints is there, so too the family dynamic of his Barrytown Trilogy, meaning humour still holds a place in this eerie tale.

One of my favourite scenes involves Victor meeting Rachel’s father, the notorious Mister Carey. Here’s a sample for you to enjoy:

- Hello, Mister Carey.
- Jim
It was a threat, a verb. He was going to Jim me and it was going to hurt.
….
- What sort of a name is Victor?
- Dad - !
- I mean, where does it come from? What’s the history?
- It’s just a name, I said.
It was the best I could do. My notoriety, my adult credentials, were hiding behind the drum kit, shivering.
- Leave him alone, said Rachel.
She patted my arm and patted her father’s arm. We headed for one of the rooms at the front of the house. She patted my arse. She didn’t pat his. I was ahead.

 ______________________________________________________________________________

Look at the comic brio at play here. He captures  how a noun sounds like a verb in the wrong mouth. That personification of his front man 'notoriety' running for cover at the back of the stage is sublime. And the repetitious back-and-forth of ‘she patted’ allowing for the knockout blow of ‘she didn’t pat his’ proves the man knows funny. In possessing the blarney of the pub and the brain of the library, Doyle is the perfect writer.

If you like Smile, then I recommend John McDonagh’s Calvary on Netflix, which broaches a similar topic with black humour and grey pathos. Although the title might be ironic, having Doyle on your bookshelf really is something worth smiling about.

Smile is out now.