The Book of the Gaels

James Yorkston

Oldcastle Books, £9.99

Review by Susan Flockhart

There’s no money in poetry and no poetry in money, observed Robert Graves – although that famous wordsmith succeeded in creating plenty of both. Aspiring poet Fraser McLeod seems incapable of producing either as he lies abed, soporifically avoiding the muse while his children fend for themselves downstairs, scavenging crumbs from an empty larder and drinking water from the bath taps because they’re too small to reach the kitchen sink.

Their father’s lassitude is punctuated by bouts of manic typewriter-bashing followed by long walks to the post office. (This being rural West Cork in the mid-1970s, there are no laptops, emails or mobile phones.) But Fraser McLeod has a masochistic relationship with his oeuvre and before long, self-doubt begins closing in. A mile or so into his journey, he’ll “go quiet, or start muttering to himself, or growling, swearing through clenched teeth”. Another mile and he’ll rip up “the entire package of words, the last month’s clattering of keys”, scattering what’s left of his manuscript to the sodden winds before seeking solace in the nearest pub.

This gleefully unromantic picture of the creative process comes courtesy of James Yorkston, whose 2016 debut novel, Three Craws, charted the misfortunes of a luckless artist’s shame-faced return from London to rural Scotland. Given his own impressive discography and burgeoning literary reputation, you might wonder at the Fife-born author’s apparent preoccupation with artistic failure. Then again, Yorkston has doubtless been knocking around on the Scottish arts scene for long enough to have witnessed plenty of shattered dreams on the hardscrabble road to recognition.

The Book of the Gaels is Yorkston’s second novel and his narrator is 10-year-old Joseph McLeod, Fraser’s elder son and a captivating witness to the family’s misfortunes. When a letter arrives offering the faint promise of publication, Fraser decides to hitchhike 100 miles from West Cork to Dublin with nothing but a battered suitcase and a child on each arm, leaving behind the squalid home that’s been steadily disintegrating since his wife’s untimely death.

On the rain-splattered road to Dublin, the trio spends long days and nights shivering by the wayside, snatching the odd burst of progress by cart, van or Shanks’s pony. When they seek warmth and sustenance by raiding a church store of clerical robes and communion wafers, they attract the attention of the resident priest.

“Is it money you’re after?”

“No, Father. We’re not beggars … I have a wage waiting for me in Dublin. I’m a writer, you see.”

“A writer? Well, you’ll need all God’s help with that, my son. Here – it’s not the smutty stuff, is it? I’ve no time for that.”

“No, it’s – poetry.”

“Well, you’ll need God and beyond then to help you!”

He surely has a point. Yet our tin-eared scribe, convinced Dublin’s streets are lined with literary gold, persists in his preposterous plan.

And after all, there had been precious little comfort at home. Rendered motherless in circumstances they’ve yet to fathom, the boys have been spectacularly neglected by a devoted but hapless father so ravaged by grief he’s incapable of nurturing them. In their lough-side hovel, they amused themselves with the army of flies that infested every room. At school, they could only watch ravenously as their classmates and teacher – a nun – tucked in to their packed lunches.

“The nun removes a brown paper bag from her satchel and slowly, precisely, irritatingly, nibbles away at a large cheese sandwich. Paul is watching her, quietly sobbing.”

Now, on the road to Dublin, square meals seem more elusive than ever. Indeed, in its vivid evocation of physical hunger, The Book of the Gaels gives Zola’s Germinal a run for its money – although thankfully, with a lot more laughs. Like Timothy Winters, Joseph McLeod appears miraculously immune to self-pity and the story trips along, recounting adventures aplenty involving rat-hunts, hash-happy hippy communes and kind-hearted strangers – not least, a silver-tongued bar-owner called Mary, who offers a roof, crisps for the boys and a little romance for their still-grieving widower father.

So, are Fraser Donald McLeod’s poems any good? Readers can judge for themselves. Those that survive his outbreaks of self-loathing form the basis of his hoped-for publication and are scattered throughout The Book of the Gaels. Addressed to the children’s dead mother, they offer glimpses of the couple’s lost happiness and dark hints of the tragedy that ended it.

“Here are the dragonfly/ you loved./ ‘This! This is why we’re here!’/The long, hidden pond, the still, the warmth around it ... / It is ours alone, for now./ But watch your step/for the moss on the water/can be deceptive.”

Interestingly, it’s music, rather than poetry, that brings rewards for McLeod – a native Scot whose strong voice and stock of traditional folk songs earns him beers, applause and even a few shillings thrown into his hat. Ominously, however, his accidental street-busking also attracts the attention of some sinister Dublin ne’er-do-wells, catapulting the family into the dark and violent place that leads to the novel’s final denouement.

I say “final”. Enough questions remain unanswered that I wonder if Yorkston is leaving the door open for a sequel. I hope so. I’d happily spend more time in the company of Joseph McLeod whose enchanting voice still rings in my head, long after closing the book. Like Trainspotting’s Renton or Angela’s Ashes’ Frank, Joseph is a remarkable creation, whose testimony succeeds in bearing powerful witness to harrowing events without ever becoming mawkish or depressing.

As with Welsh’s novel and McCourt’s memoir, The Book of the Gaels exudes humour despite the grimness of its protagonists’ circumstances. I wasn’t entirely convinced by the final plot turn, which almost too neatly echoed the book’s central catastrophe. And I’ve never met an able-bodied 10-year-old who couldn’t reach the kitchen sink.

Still, I was happy to suspend any scepticism, so much was I enjoying the ride. Funny and touching, The Book of the Gaels is a good story, beautifully told.