Introduction

It is 1958, and as Laika, the Sputnik dog, is launched into space, Golly Murray, the Cullymore barber's wife, finds herself oddly obsessing about the canine cosmonaut. Meanwhile, Fonsey "Teddy" O'Neill is returning, like the prodigal son, from overseas, with Brylcreem in his hair and a Cuban-heeled swagger to his step, having experienced his coming-of-age in Skegness, England. Father Augustus Hand is working on a bold new theatrical production for Easter, which he, for one, knows will put Cullymore on the map. And, as the Manchester United football team prepares to take off from Munich airport, James A. Reilly sits in his hovel by the lake outside town, with his pet fox and his father's gun, feeling the weight of an insidious and inscrutable presence pressing down upon him.

As these imperiled characters wrestle with their identities, mysteriously powerful narrator plucks, gently, at the strings of their fates, and watches the twitching response. This novel is a devil's-eye view of a lost era, a sojourn to the dark side of our past, one we may not have come back from. With echoes of Peyton Place and Fellini's Amarcord, and with a sinister narrator at its heart, this is at once a story of a small town?with its secrets, fears, friendships, and betrayals?and a sweeping, theatrical extravagance from one of the finest writers of his generation.

Editorial Review

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Excerpt

1

Who says a policeman’s life is not a happy one?

Certainly not PC Jimmy Upton of Margate who had just scooped £252,984 on a Littlewoods first dividend payout.

– O isn’t he the lucky beggar! gasped Happy Carroll, replacing the folded pools coupon in his pocket, as an ear¬splitting scream left him sitting there dumbstruck. It had come from the café directly across the street.

– Jesus, Mary and Joseph! cried Patsy the barber – already halfway out the door.

Nobody ever got to know what exactly happened that day

– the owner Mrs Ellen Markey certainly wasn’t known for hysterics. But it wasn’t very long before rumours began to circulate. With a significant number of individuals profess¬ing themselves convinced that the devil had somehow been involved, citing the dramatic appearance of the priest on the scene as strong evidence to this effect. There had also been talk of a sighting of some kind – in the vicinity of the lake.

– However, in my opinion there’s no need to worry, suggested Happy Carroll, for even if it does turn out that His Nibs influenced things in some way, Father Hand won’t be long softening the saucy rogue’s cough.

Most people tended to concur with this assessment – concluding that, as always, Father Hand was there when you needed him.

The parish priest was a big, blustering fellow with a shock of silver hair and an enormous set of dandruff-dappled shoul¬ders, who now, at this very moment, was on his way back home – in spite of his success with Mrs Markey, regrettably finding himself turning irritable once more. No matter how he tried he just could not seem to rid himself of the thoughts which had been plaguing him obstinately since early morn¬ing. Why did he have to go and read the stupid paper, he asked himself. For if he hadn’t then he would never have come across the photo of Patrick Peyton. A man he loathed profoundly and there really is no other way of putting it.

– Father Patrick Peyton, he hissed, stumbling awkwardly over a stone as he added bitterly:

– The hateful lickspittle, that useless good-for-nothing!

He was aware, of course, that as a clergyman he ought never to swear – either in public or private. But now he had gone and done it again – succumbed to those base, unworthy urges. Grinding his teeth as he climbed the presbytery stairs, closing his fist as he struck the newspaper yet another resolute blow.

– Very well then – damn it to hell, I swore! he growled, but if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll best that infuriatingly smug Mayo toady!

Beneath the sober black-and-white image of Father Peyton, the caption proclaimed proudly: irish priest is friend to the stars.

* * *

Father Patrick Peyton, originally from the West of Ireland, had in recent times been forging a reputation in the world of show business – in both Hollywood and the United States of America generally. This displeased Father Hand immensely. Which was why he was endeavouring again to suppress profanities – and with no great deal of success, it has to be admitted. Gradually becoming aware that Mrs Una Miniter, his housekeeper of many years, was standing directly on the landing behind him – and making no secret of her displeasure. Father Hand was mortified. For he was extremely fond of Una Miniter, and would not wittingly have done anything to upset her.

I’m sorry, he said, fumbling for his hat, making his way back across the landing in a state of complete confusion – before finding himself in the street once more. Tentatively extending his large red hand – for the purpose of inspecting some raindrops. At which point he heard his name being called – quite loudly. As he turned to look across the street, descrying there, in his tea cosy hat, none other than the bedraggled figure of James A. Reilly, who was in the process of hurling a torrent of abuse in his direction.

Yes, there he is, ladies and gentlemen, the parish priest of Cullymore – I hope you know that you’re a bastard, Father Hand.

The consensus in the town was that it was a pity about James Aloysius Reilly – and all such unfortunate delusionals, indeed – religious or otherwise.

2

Laika the dog hadn’t been long in space when Golly Murray decided to go up the town. As she donned her headscarf, she found herself thinking about James A. Reilly and the speech he had made outside the church gates the previous Sunday.

– Isn’t space fierce big when you think about it, all the same? he had said.

With his scruffy navy-blue belted gabardine raincoat, not to mention his shapeless old woolly hat, there was little dividing James Reilly and the average scarecrow, the house-wife found herself thinking bemusedly.

– A right-looking sketch and no mistake! she smiled.

Before seeking out a small pencil to note some items on her shopping list. Tugging her scarf underneath her chin she professed herself pleased with how presentable she looked. For a fleeting moment she thought that she’d forgotten her fur-backed gloves. But then she remembered: they were in her handbag.

The handbag Patsy had given her for a present. Unlike Golly, her husband was a Catholic. But, being so fond of him, she had gone ahead and married him anyway.

Seven years before, in 1950. She checked on her shop book one more time. For although she might be married

to a Catholic she had not abandoned her thrifty Protestant ways, making sure to clear her bill without fail every Friday. Then out she went and gently closed the door.

Now as she proceeded along the street, Mrs Patsy Murray, the barber’s wife, continued to repeat in sing-song fashion the various items which she intended to purchase in a vari¬ety of retail establishments.

– I have a postal order to get and chicken-noodle soup. And a jar, of course, of Fruitfi eld marmalade – anything except Robinson’s, that’s for sure! And when that’s all done it’ll be off to the butcher’s to buy ribbed steak. And maybe some eggs – yes, I think half a dozen. For Boniface, that little rascal of mine – there is nothing he likes better than his guggy egg ! So I’ll have to make sure not to forget those.

– Thank you, Barney, she heard herself say.

Barney Corr was the name of her favourite victualler. A long-standing friend of the family’s was Barney, belong¬ing as he did to that august band of brothers – the great old Cullymore gang, as they called themselves. Which was a little family in itself, or at least that was how they thought of it, with its number including a great many of her husband’s dearest friends – among them Jude O’Hara the schoolteacher, Happy Carroll the carpenter and Conleth Foley the artist. Not forget¬ting Dagwood Slowey, dedicated racer of champion pigeons, and snooker-hall manager for many a long year.

Emerging from Corr’s, quite unexpectedly she encountered Blossom Foster.

– Golly! What do you make of all this talk about space? enquired Blossom, quite animatedly.

Golly’s immediate response was that she didn’t really have any hard or fast views on the subject. But by now her interlocutor had already moved on and was enquiring as to what Golly’s opinion might be of Italy. Golly replied by explaining that, regrettably, she’d never been.

– O have you not? That’s interesting. My husband and I are going there.

– Are you really? How nice, replied Golly.

Then Blossom said that she had to be on her way – that she still had a number of outstanding purchases to make.

Goodbye then, said Golly, I’ll probably see you at church on Sunday.

Of course, dear! Blossom called back, steadying her hat against a sudden gust of wind.

When Golly returned home, she stood for a moment in the quiet of the kitchen. Behind the wavering coloured strips that led into her husband’s barber’s shop, she could hear the muffl ed drone of voices – and the familiar and steady hum of Patsy’s electric shaver. For no particular reason she found herself thinking about the subject of space again. Or more specifi cally, Laika the Russian dog. Who right at that particular moment was drifting some¬where in the galaxy’s spectacular immensity. How huge it did indeed seem, she thought – with a little shiver. What must it be like for Laika, up there all alone?

She had seen his picture in the Daily Express. A poor

unfortunate mongrel harshly plucked off the streets of Moscow, and left abandoned there inside his fishbowl helmet, looking hopelessly lost behind the letters CCCP.

Then the sound of laughter rose faintly in the shop, the thin plastic strips of the partition shimmering anew before settling, at last.

As Golly Murray released a small peal of anguish, hot tears leaping sharply to her eyes.

3

At five past three one Saturday afternoon in the middle of January James A. Reilly kicked a collie in the face. But nobody paid the slightest attention. Why should they? It was just the kind of behaviour they expected from him, releas¬ing his frustrations by ill-treating dumb and defenceless, quite innocent animals. For its part, the poor unfortunate canine had just scuttled off, whimpering – as though aware in its heart that it warranted no better.

However, it must be said that James A. Reilly hadn’t always been the object of such trenchant and all-pervasive public derision. In a former life, indeed, had been one of the most respected teachers in Rathwilliam College. Where he had been employed as a teacher of Latin and English – was something of an authority on Horace the Roman poet, in fact.

Coincidentally, Father Hand had also worked there – in the post of Senior Dean of Discipline. For this reason the parish priest harboured a special loathing for James A. Reilly – perceiving him to have brought disgrace upon his revered Alma Mater. It was a fact which was indisputable – he had. When, one morning right in the middle of Junior 3 Latin class, he had apparently undergone some kind of

episode and manhandled a student by the name of Jerome Brolly – brazenly kissing the boy on the lips, in fact.

– God, how I love you, Dorothy McGuire! by all accounts, he had whimpered.

Th e affair became the talk of the country, as well as being the subject of an investigative tribunal after which Satan’s henchman, as one woman had christened him, found himself summarily dismissed in disgrace.

Life in Rathwilliam College had been demanding in those days. It was wartime. Sugarless tea and black bread were the order of the day. The highlight of the school week was the half-day on Wednesday, with a special news¬paper-reading session in the common room on Friday evenings. The bombing raids which were proceeding in London and other provincial towns in England seemed far away. Days crawled past with a crushing tedium. So the Reilly incident provided something of a respite for the excited students. What had taken place, they consid¬ered, was truly beyond belief, when compared with the normal procession of unremarkable events in the college. This was how it happened.

Master James Reilly had just left his Latin book down on the table. The text in question was Horace’s Odes. Th e teacher had been intensely considering its contents for some time. Before his manner had begun to manifest what might be described as an exceedingly agitated and alarming aspect. Already his countenance had grown quite pale. In response, hardly surprisingly, various little

pockets of nervous laughter had begun to form around the classroom – but dissipated almost as dramatically. For the boys had become unsettled too. But it was only when their custodian began to tremble violently – the whiteness of his knuckles was plain for all to see – that all attempts at levity were suspended. Their teacher’s fore¬head was moist and seamed with anxiety. There was a rational and explicable reason for this, however – and it is highly likely that if, in an effort to distract himself from the inevitability of his mother’s impending death, James

A. Reilly had not visited the cinema the previous evening

events that day might have proceeded somewhat differ¬ently. In his fraught and exceedingly emotional state that night, he had willingly surrendered himself to the events which unfolded in the fi lm The Spiral Staircase, in which a beautiful deaf-mute, played by Dorothy McGuire, is terrifyingly preyed on by a loathsome, psychotic killer. Dorothy, as an actress, was generally regarded as a model of sincerity, bringing dignity to all the roles she inhabited, possessing a passive quiet beauty, with a soothing qual¬ity to her open-faced looks. She had literally taken the teacher’s breath away. Whenever she appeared onscreen, as seen through the predator’s eyes, her luscious mouth was hidden by a small, hovering, vaporous cloud.

Dorothy McGuire, I really must see your lovely lips! the Latin master found himself crying tearfully as he stood in the middle of the Junior 3 classroom, before gripping the astonished student tightly by both arms – passionately crushing his lips to his, in front of the whole class.

In the one hundred and fifty years of its existence, nothing comparable to it had ever occurred in Rathwilliam College.

At the subsequent tribunal, in a less than impressive attempt at mitigation, the teacher had audaciously claimed that something had made him do it – that an inexplicable foreign influence had subordinated his will.

– Left to my own devices, I promise you, I never would have dreamed of doing such a thing. It would have been entirely abhorrent to my nature. There was something else in the room that day – mastering my desires. I know you won’t believe me, but it’s true. I couldn’t see what it was, but I could feel it – standing there. Watching me. I could hear it breathing – keeping perfect time with my own.

For many years afterwards, he would steadfastly hold to this version of events.

– Whether it was Nobodaddy or not, I cannot say. All I know is – whoever it was – they entered my mind through a gap in my defences, and consequently ruined me. For no other reason, perhaps, than that of their own amusement.

– What a headcase, laughed the barman in the Yankee Clipper Bar, as Patsy Murray ordered another whisky. James Reilly was alone at the end of the bar, relating the same old tired and familiar story.

– Th e Fetch, he whispered, maybe it was him. Have you heard of him, he tracks you like a shadow. Maybe it could have been him. And not Nobodaddy.

Nobodaddy? Who the fuck’s that, asked the barman, tossing his head back as he emitted a loud guffaw. But James

Reilly wasn’t laughing. His face was chalk white.

He’s the father without a body, at least according to William Blake.

William Blake, asked Happy Carroll, does he drink down in Billy McNeill’s?

As the barman once again erupted uproariously, but eliciting no reaction from the stony-faced loony James A. Reilly.

4

Cullymore was a border town with an equal number of Protestants and Catholics, numbering two thousand in total. It had always been a source of pride for the community that, by and large – unlike so many other places – somehow everyone got along together. Which made it all the more regrettable that the ongoing feud between James Reilly and their parish priest showed no sign of subsiding. In fact, if anything, it appeared to be getting worse.

One ordinary and otherwise quite unremarkable evening, Father Hand was bending down in front of the fire and getting himself ready to rake some coals when he was seized by an uncomfortable sensation – that someone was stand¬ing at the window, gazing in. Discarding the tongs sharply, he hastily made his way across the room. Only to discover, despairingly, that it was a most familiar countenance that was pressing its flattened features against the glass. No sound was heard to pass James Reilly’s lips. Not unjustifiably, the clergyman found himself deeply aggrieved – and was on the verge of erupting violently, in fact, with all manner of obscenities crowding to his mind.

But when he opened his mouth with the intention of releasing them, to his surprise, he saw to his amazement

that there was no one there. Maybe he had imagined it, he began to think. But still remained puzzled. He craned his neck – no, there was nothing. Just young Jenny Cartwright in her bottle-green blazer, swinging her bag, making her way home from school.

Such incidents, regrettably, had become commonplace over the years. Indeed, not long after the flattened-countenance incident, the disgraced teacher had flung the massive oaken doors of the church wide open and burst in roaring like the lunatic that he was, shouting and threatening to assault Father Hand – right there and then in the middle of morn¬ing Mass. On another occasion he had brought a billy goat into Benediction, and rounded aggressively on the parish priest when challenged.

– I thought Our Saviour was supposed to love animals, you stupid bollocks! And anyway it wasn’t me who kissed Jerome Brolly. He made me do it – whoever he is, the Stranger ! O so you don’t believe me? But you just wait. You just wait till he decides to turn his sights on you. Maybe we should wait till he opts to come for you, or some of the other shitehawks in this town. We’ll see how smart you are then, Father Fuck.

It was inevitable that eventually James A. Reilly should find himself prohibited from entry into the church or daring even to approach any part of its grounds. However, he soon made it clear that no illegal edict had even the slightest hope of succeeding.

The waters of the baptismal font were contaminated the following week – and it soon became public knowledge that James A. Reilly had shamelessly urinated in them.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, turned up that same evening in the presbytery garden, paralytic drunk – with a flinty-eyed fox squatting defiantly on his shoulder.

– Beneath that Stray Sod Sky you will all live and die, he snarled, and I ought to know, for now it’s all clear – he told me last night. I have been chosen to be his messenger.

As he chuckled and grinned inanely, feeding a handful of nuts to the fox.

5

I mean, honest to God – did you ever in all your life see as funny a character as Francis the Talking Mule – he was the most hilarious character on the telly by far.

But Patsy Murray the barber wasn’t really interested in what Francis the Talking Mule was doing. At least not right now, being much too busy leafing through his paper.

– Boo! his wife squealed suddenly, leaping out of nowhere as the barber placed his hand instinctively on his heart.

– Jesus Christ almighty, Golly – you put the fear of God in me, so you did!

But the giddy abandon of his wife’s girlish laughter began to amuse and excite him then, as it so often did, when she swung her bag gaily, tossing back her lovely blonde curls. She had just been shopping in Enniskillen, she informed him.

– Would you like a sandwich? she asked. I was just going to wet a fresh pot of tea.

– There’s nothing I’d like better, her husband replied, for as you can see there’s damn all stirring in the shop at the moment.

Some Protestant ladies would have objected to the word damn. But such public stances on morality would not have

been in Golly Murray’s nature. Certainly she would have considered herself a committed Protestant but perhaps the most defining thing about her was that she had always loved a good laugh.

It was one of the reasons that her husband had been attracted to her. They had met at a dance in the Masonic Hall ten years before, in 1948.

And now, as Francis the Talking Mule gave way to the news, Patsy entertained a vivid recollection of that special and long-treasured night. His wife had been wearing a dress with forget-me-nots all over it, cinched in at the waist with a thin white belt. He remembered nearly collapsing when he realised that she had actually consented to dance with him. The reason for this was that she was generally regarded as one of the finest-looking girls in the town.

Is there much stir about Balla these times? he had asked her, holding her hand gently as they waltzed and he looked away.

Och sure you know Balla, she had replied, there never be’s much stir around there, about anything.

Her home place of Balla was a village just five miles away, across the border. Th e Tony Farmer Orchestra had been playing that night. The song they had ended with had been called Goodbye Lover. But it hadn’t been goodbye for Golly Phairs and Patsy Murray. Who, in spite of certain murmurs of disapproval, from that night on had begun to keep company with his lovely Protestant girlfriend, as he thought of her.

One night she had allowed him to touch her tit – or breast as he preferred to think of it, at least whenever he was thinking of his Geraldine.

The emotions she had released in the wake of her agree¬ment to dance with him, overwhelming though they had been, would soon be as nothing to those he experienced while unbuttoning her white blouse and cupping her soft flesh in a darkened alley not far from the hall.

That had been in June 1949, a year before they made the decision to publicly seal their union in marriage. Mixed marriages at the time were extremely rare – vigorously discouraged by both traditions.

– Marrying one of them, Blossom Foster had declared coldly, is of no advantage to anyone and she ought to have known that.

– You know, Protestants have it in them sometimes to be very hard, Patsy Murray heard his wife murmur when they found themselves lying in bed one night, so quietly cruel that it can be difficult to accept.

Eventually she and Blossom became reacquainted. But Golly was never to forget what had happened between them, what had been said about her and her husband.

– When you’re in love with someone, Patsy had told her one night after the pictures, you’re prepared to do almost anything for them. Golly hugged his arm warmly and told him she thought it was the loveliest thing she had ever heard.

* * *

Then, another time, Patsy Murray found himself being awakened – at fi rst he thought he had imagined what he had heard. His wife had been moaning bitterly in her sleep.

– If only she could be disfi gured – maybe in a road accident, then we’d see who’s the great Blossom Foster.

And he thought to himself how he never wanted to hear the like again. What had made his wife say such a thing, he wondered. It was as if a stranger was lying there, whispering.

However, all of that was quite forgotten now, or seemed to be – as Golly stood in front of him brandishing a plate of sandwiches on a cloth, toying with one of the buttons on her housecoat.

– You know that I love you, don’t you, Patsy? he heard her saying. I was wondering would you mind awfully if I sat down on your knee?

This was a most unusual development, for as a rule Golly was anything but demonstrative. But her husband found himself gamely patting his thighs, delighting now in the smooth softness of his spouse’s warm buttocks. Th en she looked at her sandwich and repeated that she loved him. He loved her too, the barber told her – and not just a little, but a lot. It was at this point that Golly put down her sandwich, placing both of her hands on his shoulders, gazing directly into his face. She said that it did her heart good to hear that.

I could listen to you saying things like that all day.

I’m glad, he replied.

– It’s what us girls want, I really think, in the end. We just want to know.

– Know? he replied – choking a little.

– I was reading in Woman’s Way that there are some husbands who love their wives so much that there is abso¬lutely nothing they will not do for them. Anything in the world that they ask, they’ll do it. That’s what it says.

The announcer on the telly said that the news would be back tomorrow at the later time of 5.15.

Patsy Murray was somewhat taken aback – realising that his wife had grown cold all over. Not only that but, in fact, was trembling a little. There was definitely sweat all along her back. Or perspiration as he liked to think of it when it was her.

You know, she continued, turning a blonde corkscrew curl around her index finger, when we got married and I agreed that if we had any children. When I agreed that they’d be brought up as Catholics – in your religion?

Yes, of course, I remember that well. How could I forget? It was a hard time.

Indeed it was – it was a very difficult decision to have to make. I mean I could see the way they all looked at me in the street. My own kind.

I know that, Golly. I know how hard it must have been for you. I really do understand.

I know I shouldn’t even be bothered with them – but it’s hard even yet. I overheard them saying the most terrible things.

I want you to believe me that I really do appreciate it what you did – and always will. Her hands rested demurely in her lap. Like little birds, he found himself thinking. As she jerked again, fiercely rigid and pale in his embrace.

– I’m glad, she said, because then I know what it means.

– What does it mean then? he said, giving her a little smile, as he lifted one of the little birds in his hand.

Outside, a car backfired suddenly – and this time it was the barber’s turn to jump.

– That it’ll be just like the men in the magazine. Woman’sWay.

– Woman’s Way? stammered Patsy, with some beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead.

– The men who agreed to do anything for their loved ones. For their women, their wives – that they love more than anything.

Of course, dear, I see. Now I understand.

I want you to do something, Patsy – just for me.

I’ll do anything you want, all you have to do is ask.

As, rising from his lap, his wife turned her back and stood staring through the window – at the needles of rain which were now attacking the glass.

Would you do it, Patsy – interfere, with the brakes of her car?

Such was the nature of the thoughts that were proceeding through Golly’s mind. But she never got a chance to give voice to them for just at that moment Happy Carroll the carpenter came waltzing in – with a hopelessly optimistic grin on his face, as always.

Effi ng bucking nag with three crooked legs! he complained, I thought I was away with it today at Newmarket!

Ah sure, there you are, isn’t it always the way, never seen a poor bookie yet! chirped Patsy, plucking out his scissors and elevating the padded black chair. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the Publisher:

1. Discuss the relationship between Catholics and Protestants in Cullymore. How are interfaith couples treated in this small town? When do tensions flare up between these two religious groups?

2. Consider the rivalry between Father Hand and Father Patrick Peyton, who is famous for his star-studded “Rosary Crusade” in America (31). Why does Father Hand feel such rage for Father Peyton? Does Father Peyton seem to share Father Hand’s hostility? Why or why not?

3. What was the impact of the “Reilly incident” at Rathwilliam College (9)? How does James Reilly explain his unusual behavior toward his student Jerome Brolly? How does the town treat Reilly after the scandal? What was Father Hand’s connection to the incident, and how does he feel about Reilly and Brolly now?

4. Discuss the character Golly Murray, whose mental state changes drastically over the course of the novel. What are Golly’s concerns at the beginning of the novel? How does her sanity erode as her relationships with her husband, her son, and Blossom Foster progress? Why does the narrator take a special liking to Golly and what effect does he have on her?

5. Many characters in The Stray Sod Country seem to be acting differently from usual over the course of the novel. Which characters do we get to know best by their out-of-character behavior? How do you picture them behaving to each other without the sinister influence of the narrator?

6. The novel’s narrator, an “inscrutable chronicler,” makes his first appearance in chapter 14 (73). Why do you think the narrator stays hidden for the first few chapters of the novel? What influence does the narrator have on the townspeople’s lives? Who is most affected by this “nobodaddy” or “Fetch,” and who is spared his meddling?

7. On the ferry ride back home after a year and a half in London, Fonsey O’Neill changes his name to “Teddy.” What does this name change mean to Teddy as he makes his triumphant return to his hometown? How does Teddy hope to start fresh in Cullymore and how are his hopes dashed when he arrives in town?

8. Discuss the rivalry between Golly Murray and Blossom Foster. Is Blossom purposely cruel, as Golly imagines, or is she just a small-town gossip? Does Blossom seem aware of her impact on Golly’s state of mind? Why or why not?

9. Laika, the Sputnik dog orbiting in space, has a strange hold upon Golly Murray. Why is Golly fascinated by this isolated dog? How does Golly, too, feel isolated in her hometown?

10. In 1958, Cullymore seems to be on the verge of giving up some of “that old hearsay and superstition” about diabolical influences on their town (154). Which characters seem to be under the spell of superstition and which try to embrace modern ideas and influences?

11. The Stray Sod Country is a folk story that can “explain why something you knew well could suddenly turn around and completely confound you” (224). How does this feeling of loneliness and unfamiliarity take hold in Cullymore? What, if anything, helps combat these foreboding feelings?

12. What attitudes do the townspeople of Cullymore have toward other countries? How do the main characters feel about swinging London, Roman holidays, American celebrity, and Russian space exploration?

13. In 1975, after some of the Cullymore gang has died, the town organizes a “Faithful Departed Exhibition” to honor their memories (273). What view of the town does the exhibition provide? How do the townspeople remember “those long-departed Tenebrae days” of 1958 (281)? Is Cullymore truly “the opposite of Stray Sod Country” (274)? Or do feelings of alienation and strangeness still persist in Cullymore in the 1970s and beyond?

14. Discuss the events of the 1958 Easter mass, when the Cullymore gang performs Tenebrae. What happens during that ill-fated mass? Did Tenebrae help Cullymore “attain the status of legend,” as Father Hand intended (41)? Why or why not? Was Tenebrae “a near-degrading laughable farce” or “nothing short of a miraculous event” (328) in hindsight?

15. Discuss the fate of James A. Reilly, who suffers an otherworldly vision of Jerome Brolly—as well as a very real beating by the butcher Barney Corr—during the Tenebrae performance. How does Reilly feel when he finally apologizes to Jerome Brolly? Why does Reilly commit suicide two months after the Easter incident? Why does Happy Carroll take over Reilly’s role in the town, occupying the hovel by the lake and becoming the next “little bit of harmless local colour” in Cullymore (330)?

16. The Stray Sod Country ends in 2009, with Golly Murray looking out her window. How is Cullymore a different place forty years after the Tenebrae performance? How does Golly find her way to “our own unassailable Stray Sod home” at the end of the novel (339)?

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