2011, PANK
Reviewed by Kenny Mooney
I began reading Ethel Rohan’s Hard to Say (PANK 2011), a slim volume of very short fiction, with very little exposure to her previous work. I’m not sure what I was expecting from those fifteen little stories, but it’s fair to say that I was unprepared for just how deeply I would be affected by them. Spread over fifty-three pages, they document a tale of life in an Irish Catholic family, and although each story is an individual, they have been deliberately ordered so as to run in chronological order, taking you from the narrator’s birth to her new life in the US and her struggles dealing with the emotional turmoil of a dying mother.
The book opens with “Crust,” a story that appears to set the tone for the rest of the book, and hints, with its talk of bloodletting as a form of medical treatment, at the emotional bloodletting that is to follow:
“Open, bleeding, my body rumbling and raged, and drums started up inside me, faster, louder, till I was throbbing. Speak, the ancient beat commanded. Speak! I gurgled and strained, my drowned tongue the rope in a tug-o-war. Through bubbles of blood, my voice finally sounded, garbled and halting at first, but then stronger, surer, till at last the words tumbled forth like warriors. Till I was shouting. Till I was heard.”
It reads like these stories are words that needed to be written, that needed to be heard. Perhaps silent for too long. This blood-soaked prologue segues into “Fresh From God,” in which we realise not all is well in the family. The birth of a new child should be joyous and celebrated, yet the mother here is weary and her thoughts are of cigarettes and brandy.
Through each story we learn more of the mother/daughter relationship, which is central to the whole collection, of the distance between them and the sometimes cold, unfeeling way in which the children of the family are treated. The unease grows and spreads with each story, and your discomfort grows with it. These are not easy stories to read; the prose is taught, precise, sharp like a scalpel and it cuts deep.
One of the standout pieces from the collection is the story “Passages,” which recounts a school trip to some ancient monuments. I found myself nodding and smiling in recognition of the details, of the excitement felt by the narrator at being out of the classroom, on an adventure. Also by the description of her classmate’s nosebleed, something I have suffered from my whole life.
Contained here is also the poignant reference to our narrator’s desire to get away from her home life:
“When it came time to leave, Jennifer Burns and I were the last to drag ourselves onto the bus. As I took my seat, I again felt the heat of Sister Humbert’s stare. I met her eyes, steel blue under the folds of wrinkled skin. She nodded, satisfied, seeming impressed by my interest in the tombs and my reluctance to leave. She’d no idea just how much I’d wanted to stay, how much I hated to return home. Home and all its evidence of how far we could sometimes fall.”
Immediately following this, we are drawn into the troubling account of alcoholism in “Here, Daddy,” which reveals to the reader just how far this family does sometimes fall. And this sequencing of stories, the clever way they have been arranged, really does begin to shine.
Just when you thought that perhaps there were no redeeming qualities to these parents, that the narrator would be better off in care, “Fracture” shows that there is indeed, on occasion, some signs of love and care. An uncomfortable tale about self-harm, at a time when such a thing would not really have been recognised, the narrator remembers deliberately hurting herself to avoid having to go to school. Here, the coldness instead is from the teacher, and on fracturing her wrist, is looked after by an apparently worried and perhaps guilt-ridden mother. The closing line, however, does suggest a sense of unease within the girl:
“Finished, I licked the warm butter from my fingers and ignored the burnt aftertaste.”
Perhaps she feels conflicted – accepting the care of her mother who so often treats her badly, yet craves her love, as any child does.
Ultimately, the girl becomes a woman, and the roles are reversed. She leaves for New York, an adult, finding her way in the world, finally away from her past. But that past does keep drawing her back and in the closing story, “Mammy,” we are treated to a painful, heartfelt tale of dealing with the turmoil of a terminally ill parent, and the same conflicting emotions this woman has felt since childhood.
Hard to Say is clearly a work of a deeply personal nature, but it’s themes are universal. Perhaps I recognise a lot of myself and my own life in these stories, having also come from a large Catholic family in the West of Scotland, but I by no means think that is necessary to fully appreciate the book. We all know what it’s like as a child, grappling with the fear of the adult world our parents occupy; the pain of growing up; the desire to be ourselves and strike out on our own.
Ethel Rohan has written a brave, deeply moving series of snapshots, like a family album. It’s uncomfortable and uneasy, beautiful and moving, and written in a way that will leave you staggered. You really should read this.
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Kenny Mooney lives in Glasgow, Scotland and blogs at This Is Dragline
