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“This is my most personal novel yet”: Donal Ryan on Strange Flowers

Written in a fog of grief following the unexpected death of his father, the Irish novelist's new book is a brilliant exploration of the bonds and secrets that make up family life. 

Donal Ryan
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The opening line of Strange Flowers, Donal Ryan’s sixth book, takes some beating:

All the light left Paddy Gladney’s eyes when his daughter disappeared; all the gladness went from his heart.

The rest of the opening chapter continues in this tone of shock and bewilderment: Paddy and his wife Kit, who live and work on a farm they don’t own in County Tipperary, are reeling from the sudden disappearance of their teenage daughter Moll, last seen on a bus to Dublin. They have no idea where she is fleeing, or why – a mystery the book holds to its chest until its final pages.

But what feels like the first grip of a dark thriller blossoms, in a tangled and unexpected way, into something very different. Moll does return, some years later, without much of an explanation but with a family of her own. In the years she was presumed dead, she has met and married the doting Alexander, who arrives from London soon afterwards with their baby son Joshua. Alexander’s arrival causes ripples in the Gladneys' 1970s rural community in more ways than one: he is Black.

This is the story of how an unconventional family grows together

Rather than a story of family feuds, Strange Flowers is about how this unconventional family grows together as Paddy, Kit and the wider community take Alexander firmly into their hearts.

“I know these people and this place well,” Ryan, 44, tells me over Zoom, with a strong lockdown beard visible.

“I knew how North Tipperary would have looked in the 70s and 80s, how people spoke and how they thought. And I’m pretty sure I know how Alexander would have been welcomed in that community – the welcome would have been really warm.”

Not that Alexander’s experience is without prejudice. He encounters racism – “people saying terribly inappropriate things, without realising they were being inappropriate” as Ryan puts it – and has to work hard to assimilate, including joining the local hurling team. As with Farouk, the Syrian refugee who was a principal character in his last novel, 2018’s From a Low and Quiet Sea, Ryan uses the perspective of an outsider to explore his homeland with fresh eyes. 

But despite this storyline – which Ryan says was partly inspired by his horror at the unfolding Windrush scandal – the tension in Strange Flowers never arises from the places you most expect. It is Moll’s distant and secretive nature, and the Gladneys' ambiguous relationship with a wealthy neighbouring family who owns their land, which provide the novel's greatest intrigue.

"Writing this book was an oblique confrontation with grief.”

Ryan is often described as a rare novelist who delights fans of literary and commercial fiction in equal measure. While that’s a distinction that has always existed more in the mind of critics than readers, there is something wonderfully balanced about his novels, which have twice been longlisted for the Booker Prize and yet read as easily and beautifully as the best popular fiction. 

Strange Flowers, like Ryan’s previous work, is made up of short chapters and weighs in at a fairly lean 220 pages overall. (“God, it’s hard to justify writing a very long book,” he tells me. “You have to be nearly the best writer in the whole world to ask a reader to give you that much of their time and energy.”) And yet it never feels that way, because Ryan’s writing is so lyrical and expansive, full of rich ruminations and the kind of arresting, effortless nature writing that can only come from someone with a true affinity for the countryside. Somehow the story spans three generations of a family in the time it would take a lesser writer to clear their throat.

It is also, Ryan says, his most personal book yet.

“I wrote the first draft a few months after my father passed away,” he says. “He died pretty suddenly and unexpectedly, so I was in kind of a fog of grief. I guess writing it was an oblique confrontation with that.”

Paddy, who acts as the emotional centre of the Gladney family and the novel, is a huge character – stolid but compassionate, hardworking but mischievous. He is, Ryan says, a composite of his own father and other figures he looked up to as a child. 

“When I was a kid, I had no idea what ‘working class’ meant,” he says. “I thought my Dad was the boss of this farm he worked on, the guy who told people when to plant their crops and cut their hay, because he had such an air of authority about him.

“Then one Saturday I saw the lady of the house give him a wad of cash, and thought: hold on a second, why is she giving him money? And it crashed on top of me, this fact that he worked for them.

“It didn’t diminish him at all in my eyes,” Ryan says, but it was his first awakening to the power dynamics of class and land ownership which often form a backdrop to his novels.

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