Fiction:In the opening chapters of this intelligent and entertaining novel about complicated genealogical lines, we are introduced to the Doyles of Boston. This family comes equipped with a red-haired Bernadette of a dead mother, a lovely statue of the Blessed Virgin which has passed from daughter to daughter over several generations, a Tip, a Fr Sullivan, and several versions of a myth about the family origins in Ireland.
The myth involves the statue and someone called Kilkelly, one of those names which immediately alerts us cynical critical natives to the fact that we may now be in some version of the land of Darby O'Gill. The surname Kilkelly - beautiful as it is - certainly exists. Four people bearing it are listed in the Dublin telephone directory. But one suspects they strayed in from an Irish- American novel and one wonders why a novelist working on the Irish would consult Walt Disney rather than the Dublin telephone book, as reliable a guide as any to the surnames of Ireland, and available online. But there it is. Writers of fiction take short cuts, which often lead to the place we might call fakeland.
A quibble. And after that first hurdle is crossed, much improves in this novel. The Doyles indeed have a few stage Irish- American characteristics, some of which they no doubt share with real Irish- Americans, especially the Kennedys - political, rich, highly competitive as they are. (And one of the sons has a Chappaquiddick-type incident lurking in his past.) But unlike the Kennedys, the Doyles have two adopted black sons, Teddy and Tip, and the heroine of the novel is a poor black neighbour, the charmingly precocious 11-year-old Kenya Moser, a gifted runner. After a series of unfortunate events, Kenya joins the Doyle family and influences it for the better.
The novel is sprinkled with inspired moments, indeed with flashes of brilliance. Any insomniac will appreciate "He fell asleep constantly, but the sleep was a bean he managed to balance for a moment on his nose. He had no ability to hold it." Kenya's mother, Tennessee Moser, listening to Jesse Jackson speaking inspiringly at a political event, thinks: " 'I do appreciate your inspiration and leadership,' she wanted to say, 'but I need some more specific advice. I need to know how to keep my child safe in public schools, safe from guns and chipped lead paint and pushers and bullies who have been bullied too much themselves. I need to know how I can walk her straight to the door of her classroom in the morning and still get to work on time.' "
Patchett's prose is fluid and elegant in a colloquial way, her tone is hypnotic in the manner of the born storyteller. Subtle understatement is used to good effect. Her story, exploring a family situation which reverses the classic theme involving uncertainty about fatherhood and instead presents us with characters whose mothers are the elusive figures, is intriguing.
And yet. "Expect miracles when you read Ann Patchett's fiction" runs a cover quotation from the New York Times. And that may be the problem. The novel, overtly realistic, operates on the level of miracle. Tragedies occur, dark secrets underpin the plot, but nobody seems deeply affected (perhaps that understatement technique is overused).
For all its accomplishment, the novel has a storybook tone to it. The characters are mostly beautiful, and terribly well-behaved. Kenya, the wise and lovely child, declares to herself, in connection with her running: "Nobody who was very very nice would ever work this hard to take something they wanted for themselves." But she is very very nice, and so is everyone else in the book. They don't shout, swear, go to the loo. They hardly even drink (for which we should be grateful, given their ethnic background). In general, they behave like people who have recently taken one of those workplace courses enjoining you to respect your colleagues, in case one of them will sue the organisation for bullying.
Many nice people exist in the real world, and one should surround oneself with them (especially at work). But fiction is more like home. It works better if the characters can let their guard down from time to time, and raise their voices. And in this novel, which you could safely give your 90-year-old granny or 10-year-old daughter, nobody does that. Impressive as it is in many ways, the safe and sweet tone the author has adopted to tell her story prevents Run fulfilling its own true potential.
Éilís Ní Dhuibhne's latest novel, Fox Swallow Scarecrow, will be published by Blackstaff Press next month
Run By Ann Patchett Bloomsbury, 295p. £10.95