There’s a whole fucking generation washed with this trauma from the moment they were born, by a fault of geography, a misstep that colours our whole lives … how can we ever mend ourselves? Men get fixed first. Or they are allowed not to be fixed. To make mistakes. Women mend. Support. Accept. Men tell us all the stories about ourselves. Even the good ones. Especially the bad ones. Create tight circles of need.
What is it like to step outside all of that? To escape?
In 1982, Nuala Malin struggles to stay connected, to her husband, to motherhood, to the smallness of her life in the belly of a place that is built on hate and stagnation. Her daughter Sam and baby son PJ keep her tethered to this life she doesn’t want. She finds unexpected refuge with a seventeen-year-old boy, but this relationship is only temporary, a sticking plaster on a festering wound. It cannot last and when her chance to leave comes, Nuala takes it.
In 1994, Sam Malin plans escape. She longs for a life outside her dysfunctional family, far away from rural Northern Ireland and all its troubles, free from her quiet brooding father Patsy, who never talks about her mother, Nuala; a woman Sam barely knew, who abandoned them twelve years ago. She finds solace in music, drugs and her best friend Becca, but most of all in an illicit relationship with a jagged, magnetic older man.
She is drawn to him, and he to her, in a way she can’t yet comprehend.
Sam is more like her mother than she knows.