In the recent years, a realization has dawned on me – the loudest of essences comes from the quietest of people; it is to say that those who do not give away words for a trifle, give words to matters that are substantial, and these very words invariably tend to ring long after they have been uttered and left into the world.
All the quiet in this book then – of Furlong (the father), of Sarah (the child mother), of the Convent (run by Mother Superior), of the Christmas Eve (at the Convent), of Eileen (Furlong’s wife) and of Furlong’s final action – conjure up a vessel of such power that I felt, at once, relieved and distressed.
Claire Keegan’s story, set in Ireland of 1986, has the 40-year-old Bill Furlong, a coal merchant, at its centre, who is busy coordinating deliveries at this busy time of the year when Christmas is merely a few days away and the weather gods have decided to shower snow in abundance. A loving family of 7, with all his 5 daughters growing up well under the nurturing eye of his wife, Eileen and a decent business. What could possibly trouble him with the festivities around the corner? The unexpected red on the scene – The Convent.
Akin to watching a cinema where one invariably lets out a hurrah at a fulfilling climax that smears dust onto the villain and shows the meek getting their dignity reinstated and walking out, head high, but also almost immediately thereafter, falls into a vortex of thoughts circling over those millions of victims in real world who do not get the gift of rescue, I felt a mix of emotions. Keegan touches upon few important social ills and orders that plagued Ireland through much of the late 1900s and right into the early 2000s, snatching the basic human rights of its women and girls in more ways than one.
That she shows it quietly, without fanfare and loudspeaker activism, is why it cuts so deep.
Let the gash throb, and let the tremors take root in me the way it did in Bill Furlong – doggedly, inspiringly, healingly.
SEEMITA DAS 