Comic cruise round Galway Bay

A priest walks into a sacristy where his long-time cleaning lady is tidying up and notices that the key to the tabernacle is missing. He asks if she’s seen it. “That depends, Father,” she replies. 

“On what?”

“On what a tabernacle is.”

You expect this sort of elbow-in-the-ribs humour in a story written by an Irishman and set in Ireland. You typically expect quirky priests and quirkier cops, all shenanigans and shillelaghs, tumbling in a chaotic spin-wash of deception and counter-feint that’s an ordeal for the participants but, for the rest of us, great fun to watch. Toss in optional references to potatoes, the Troubles and Bob Geldof, and away you go.

These sorts of yarns can turn into terrific movies, and that’s exactly what Ronan Joyce has in mind as he churns out a slew of screenplays about Father Marcus Nee, a priest so devoted to his flock that he’s not above a little illicit behaviour to get them whatever’s needed. (Somehow he eventually becomes Pope, which certainly sounds like an episode not to be missed.) Until Hollywood picks up the whisky-tinged scent, the screenplays are taking the form of novels. “Week at the Nees’” is the first to become available online.

I am duty-bound but happy to mention that the author, a former Nation subeditor, is a long-time acquaintance of mine, but, despite Ronan once assuring me that he is the grand-nephew (or something like that) of James Joyce, I can honestly say I didn’t expect much from this book. He’s a rookie at this, after all. But when I add that I ended up thoroughly enjoying the book, I’m still being honest.

“Week at the Nees’” is entertaining from start to finish – almost. Joyce the Younger makes the odd rookie mistake, notably an urge early on to insert Wikipedia-like explanations – of what a “currach” is, for example, or even the “sacristy” (though not, unfortunately, a “feckin’ chisseler”).

Once out of the dictionary and among the thrum of waves on the rocky Irish coast, however, we’re having ourselves a wonderful week’s sailing through a classic whodunit packed with characters that are cleverly drawn and then cleverly placed. 

Where in Thailand, or more recently Cambodia, one wonders, did Ronan come up with the idea of illegally distilled poteen (no definition offered, but obviously it’s booze) being distributed in holy-water bottles shaped like the Virgin Mary? This is how Father Marcus is earning extra income for his parish, with the aid of an ageing ex-hippie Englishman, and this is why we get into a situation like this:

Marcus’ dad Eamon plays the role of endearing village drunk, but his love of spirits goes unrequited in all the pubs, so he talks elderly Father Tom O’Flaherty, Marcus’ predecessor, into fetching him a stock of “holy water” from the aforementioned sacristy. Father Tom of course brings him the real thing, from the baptismal, a gulp of which might be a blessing to Eamon but is anything but bliss. Eamon explains that the bishop sanctified the water in the Virgin Mary bottles, while the water in the font has merely Marcus’ endorsement.

“What feckin difference does that make?” O’Flaherty asks, since bishop and priest alike share the same ability. “It’s a mortal sin to drink holy water blessed by your own blood,” Eamon explains, to which Tom replies, “You must think I came down in the last shower.” And, anyway, how could Eamon tell where the water came from just by tasting it? “You can always tell when it’s blessed by a relative,” says Eamon. “It tastes a bit like vinegar.”

So now you know.

Giddy nonsense like this swirls around a baffling bank robbery, a palaeontologist’s career gone askew, a mum (the story’s love interest of sorts) with a dangerously wayward daughter, a fetching boat skipper’s pot-smoking daughter who wears a silk negligee under her oilskins, and a conveniently isolated pub that has donkeys to carry home its inebriated patrons and, out back inside a shipping container, a casino that “looks for all the world like a Victorian brothel”.

There’s quite a bit of action and dramatic tension, too (Hollywood take note) – fistfights, lethal gunfire, a bicycle chase (!) and a perilous storm at sea. There are tender moments among the central characters and, somewhat surprisingly for a cheeky tale like this, a more-than-passing respect for the Catholic Church.

Add to all this enough twists, turns and surprises to have Agatha Christie scratching her head and you’ve got what they call in the trade a genuine pot-boiler. The race to the ending is thrillingly contrived, yes, but that’s what Hollywood does best. Get the casting agent to see if Liam Neeson’s available. I’ll be first in line at the Lido.

 

An excerpt

“The experienced officer wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t yet found the suspect. If his long, decorated career as a detective had taught him anything, it was that people would do almost anything to prevent the progress of an ongoing police inquiry. He reflected on the rebellious nature of the Irish people and felt that it didn’t bode well with the task at hand. For centuries, the Irish had fought against authority and the heavy hand of uniformed officials, primarily because those men in uniforms were foreigners who didn’t belong. For centuries, the Irish had lied, cheated and sometimes killed to protect themselves against the tyranny of their British oppressors. Even in the early days of the Irish republic, they’d found it difficult to trust the Irish-born police officers who were charged with their protection, simply because they wore uniforms and embraced the ideals of the same British system they had fought to overthrow.”

 

Nees up

“Week at the Nees’” is not available in bookshops but can be obtained as a paperback from Amazon.com for about Bt320 plus shipping or downloaded as an ebook from Amazon (Kindle) and the Apple iBookstore (iPad and iPhone) for Bt90. Find it also at Smashwords.com in a variety of formats.

 

 

Week at the Nees’

By Ronan Joyce

Published by Smashwords

Available from Amazon etc (see end note)

Reviewed by Paul Dorsey