Araby
A funny and intensely moving portrait of childhood, death and a man’s relationship with his larger-than-life mother.This poignant, witty, warm-hearted yet unsentimental novel charts the turbulent relationship of a mother and son.As a young boy, Rory Keenan finds his mother bewilderingly and embarrassingly eccentric as his childhood is punctuated by hilarious, cringe-making episodes caused entirely by her unpredictable behaviour and bizarre habits and exploits. Kitty has a huge appetite – for food, for mysterious imaginary illnesses and for strange hobbies. Her irrepressible, opinionated nature ensures that she (and against his will, Rory too) is the centre of any attention to be had.At the end of Kitty’s life, Rory, now a grown man, begins to come to terms with his confused feelings for Kitty – he loves her devotedly, but nevertheless her cussedness still infuriates him. As memories and secrets from his family’s stormy past in Ireland and London echo through the tragedy of her final, very real illness we are given an outstandingly vivid and compassionate vision of life, love and death.
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Flamingo
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublisher 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
Published by Flamingo 1999
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
First published in Great Britain by Flamingo 1998
Copyright © Gretta Mulrooney 1998
Gretta Mulrooney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
The poem ‘On the Death of His Wife’ by Muireadach O’Dalaigh, translated by Frank O’Connor is reprinted by permission of the Peters, Fraser and Dunlop Group Limited on behalf of the Estate of Frank O’Connor
Photograph of Gretta Mulrooney by Niall McDiarmid
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Source ISBN 0 00 655101 7
Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007485291 Version: 2016-03-16
Set in Galliard by Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that it which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
From the British and Irish reviews for Araby:
‘Wonderful.’
MAEVE BINCHY The Late, Late Show
‘I loved it. Such a sweet story, without being in the least bit sentimental, and very moving without being harrowing. There are moments when the reader is absolutely there so acute is this novelist’s eye and ear.’
MARGARET FORSTER
‘[An] engaging novel … A topic as forbidding as the death of a parent can certainly do with some uplifting warmth and humour, and Mulrooney is good at providing this, making the reader feel like a guest in the family kitchen rather than a voyeur prying on the protagonist’s feelings.’
Guardian
‘Araby is a wonderfully funny view of Irish motherhood, but Mulrooney also evokes powerful emotions as Rory comes to appreciate quite how much his infuriating but irreplaceable mother means to him. Highly recommended.’
Literary Review
‘It’s the cringe-making moments that Rory Keenan cannot forget. His mother created a lot of them. Kitty was bizarre, unpredictable and addicted to imaginary illnesses. Now she’s heading towards the end of life, and as Rory struggles to come to terms with this, he sees his parents – beautifully drawn characters – in a new light. Hysterically funny, desperately sad, always compassionate but painfully touching.’
Choice
Further reviews overleaf
‘A poignant, warm-hearted (and very funny) London Irish novel … A story about childhood and death and laying to rest the demons of the past.’
Northern Lights
‘Araby is a tour de force of humanity, a recognition of the complexities of filial and parental loves … With Kitty, Mulrooney delivers a remarkable and triumphant character in this, her first novel.’
RTE Guide
‘This poignant novel has the ability to play havoc with your heart strings, making you laugh and cry at the same time.’
Ulster News Letter
With thanks to East Midlands Arts, who offered encouragement and financial support at the start of my writing career.
A special thank you to my agent, David O’Leary, whose friendship, humour and savvy have been magical.
To Peg and her grandson, Darragh and for Kath, Hugh, Jim and Mary; my very own diaspora.
CONTENTS
My plane was late taking off because a hijacked aircraft had been diverted to the airport. The captain of our flight chatted to us about it over the intercom and pointed it out as we finally taxied to our runway. It was the yellow-tailed one, he said, adding that he hoped the poor panic-stricken souls on board wouldn’t have too much longer in there. We were informed that there would be a tail wind so our flight time to Cork would be just fifty minutes.
I had been panic-stricken myself when I’d turned on the early news and heard that Stansted happened to be the airport designated to receive hijacked planes for London. The report had said that the place was closed off but in the end I’d had no trouble getting there despite the busy late-summer roads, driving in through the TV cameras and tight groups of uniformed men with guns on their hips.
I was glad now that I hadn’t rung my father, alarming him with fears of a long delay. I thought of how thrilled he and my mother would be that I’d actually seen the hostage jet with its canary yellow markings. They had always relished random misfortune, a good disaster; a motorway pile-up, a plane crash, a sinking ferry. Pulling their chairs around the television they would tut and invoke the blessings of God on the poor victims of chance, crossing themselves when a body-bag appeared. Extra interest would be provided for my father if there was any suggestion of sabotage or treachery. Then he would follow the story for weeks, poring over newspapers and cursing the bifocals he had never mastered. The grassy knoll in Dallas had provided him with years of satisfying theory and counter theory; sometimes he would favour the CIA conspiracy then after reading another book he’d switch to KGB and/or Cubans as the assassins of JFK. My mother’s attention span was shorter; such reports confirmed her view that life was a series of catastrophes waiting to pounce and so she would mark time until the next, uninterested in fine details. After a solemn prayer for the dead and wounded, uttered in a devout voice while fingering her St Christopher medal, she was ready to turn to a quiz show.
