THERE can be few prospects more dismal than a book about an alcoholic Irishman and his extended family - unless, perhaps, the book in question is set among Irish-Americans in New York. With a heavy heart - and firmly gritted teeth - this reviewer began to turn the pages of Charming Billy; and then Alice McDermott began to work her small miracle. True, the eponymous Billy is worse than your worst nightmare, drinking himself to slobbery oblivion at every turn. The still centre of this turning world is not Billy, however, but a modest little summer house on Long Island, inherited from the narrator's uncaring grandmother via her wealthy second husband (Jewish not Irish). Acquired by accident, neglected, taken for granted, the house in Charming Billy serves both as a metaphor for family life and a sanctuary for those who survive it. This small-scale, down-home material is transformed by McDermott's immaculate, subtle prose into something approaching ballet - formal, patterned, packing a visual, visceral punch - but whether it's a dance of life or a dance of death, well now, isn't that always the question?
