love by roddy doyle

the i paper 23 october 2020

It is not clear at the outset of Roddy Doyle’s latest novel, Love, what kind of love he is aiming to explore – though the opening to this dialogue-heavy novel, in which two men meet in a Dublin pub, certainly zips along promisingly. Davy has returned from England to Dublin, where Joe still lives, to visit his elderly father. Davy is aware of self-consciously trying to blend in during this visit: “‘Shite’, ‘grand’, ‘Jaysis’ – I packed the words with my toothbrush when I was coming to Dublin for a few days.” Doyle, as ever, has much to offer about masculinity, love and family. That said, 327 pages is quite long for a novel where the main action is two men going for a drink, and one’s enthusiasm flags towards the end. The sheer relentlessness of listening to two men talk becomes wearing.

It also isn’t always clear which of them is speaking – which might be a fatal flaw in a novel that revolves around a single extended conversation, but Doyle has just about enough élan to pull it off.

The uncertain nature of the pair’s relationship, their lack of intimacy and their competitiveness – none of which has stopped them from staying in touch throughout their adult lives – is never fully explained.

It is hard to know whether Doyle is simply making a wider point about male friendship or if there is something particular in the dynamic between Joe and Davy which means that this one evening of drinks very nearly sees them falling out horribly more than once.

Doyle is unafraid to say quite dangerous things about romantic love – both men seem to find their wives most exciting when in mid-argument with them. There is something uncomfortable about both women being firecrackers, one of them seemingly unhinged enough to introduce herself to her future father-in-law while wearing only a jumper that is short enough for the older man to see her pubic hair.

She describes herself as: “An orphan with a house and a shop and a vagina”, which, she says, also makes her “the catch with the snatch”.

Joe, her husband, repeats: “Madness was the destiny of all women, she said, so it was best to claim it before it claimed you.”

It doesn’t help that along with every other character in the book, aside from Joe and Davy, neither of these women has a real voice. Doyle shows how subversive and unreliable memory can be as the men argue about their past, which also makes one doubtful as to how accurate their interpretations of their marriages are. There is nonetheless something urgent and compelling about whatever it is each must disclose to the other.

There is disagreement over which of them was infatuated with Jessica, a woman they met in their youth, with whom Joe is now living. She is an enigmatic, almost entirely voiceless character – defined more by her hair than anything she says. Joe’s mystical pronouncements about having felt that he has always been with her become somewhat maddening – and not just to Davy.

Interestingly, he can also articulate the joys of a long marriage, “And knowing exactly where to put your hand, how far you have to lean across, so that it lands exactly on your wife’s hip when you’re both in bed and falling asleep.”

Doyle is also on solid ground with the love fathers feel for their children and – ultimately – the love that two men with an ambivalent friendship can show to each other.

This review first appeared in the i paper