But as if to offset this denial of easy sympathy, every other character becomes weak and needy.
Refreshingly, Melody refuses to be a victim like the many narrators of Ryan’s other novels. The reader is left on the surface of her psychological landscape, unable to delve into what should be a really interesting character. Nor do we get a sense of her feelings about class issues or discrimination against Travellers other than correcting her father and husband for using derogatory terms. In the narrating of her life, we get no sense she has an opinion on abortion other than one fleeting mention of London (a euphemism for abortion in Ireland) while she considers what to do with her pregnancy. She has also written articles on assistance for asylum seekers and abortion. Melody is an educated woman who has written poetry for the local newspaper (this would explain her poetic descriptions and keen observations of the weather and people). It is the flashbacks to Melody’s relationship with Martin that gives the book much of its colour It’s refreshing to find a repulsive protagonist in a novel by one of Ireland’s most successful contemporary writers. On discovering her husband has been using prostitutes, she secretly delights in the news so she can “fashion a scalpel from to silently flay him”. Our protagonist is a horrible person who has been in a toxic, destructive relationship for too long. A 17-year-old Traveller named Martin Toppy, whom she taught for more than a year, is the father. Melody is 33 and has just informed her husband – who “13 and a bit weeks ago was the only boy I’d ever kissed” – that her unborn child is not his. Here, with his female antihero Melody Shee, Ryan turns his back on the formula and veers off-road. With his previous two books he cruised along easy street with tales of woe and tragedy that picked up praise and rewards on the way, their unlikely heroes plucking at our heart strings. D onal Ryan’s third novel is a departure for him.
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