Shibby Magee by Carrie Kabak published January 28th and is described as ‘a character-driven Irish tragicomedy threaded with wit, heartbreak, and bittersweet redemption‘. Today Carrie is sharing an extract with us, so I do hope you enjoy!
Purchase Link ~ Shibby Magee
[ About Shibby Magee ]
Echoing the tones of the TV series Fleabag, Shibby Magee is wry and wickedly irreverent, while reflecting the sharp, dark dynamics of The Banshees of Inisherin. For readers of Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan, Trespasses by Louise Kennedy, and Donal Ryan’s The Queen of Dirt Island, Shibby Magee offers a warmer but no less incisive portrait of a woman shaped by childhood abandonment and social prejudice, following her across two defining life stages as she struggles toward dignity, love, and self-possession.
When their mother, Vera Coffey, disappears after announcing she’s a Traveller/Mincéir, Shibby and her twin sister, Dorah, are abandoned to a settled family already cracking at the seams. Under the iron rule of their viciously prejudiced grandmother, the two girls grow up on opposite tracks: Dorah, arrogant and bold; Shibby, bruised and quietly resilient.
As Shibby stumbles into adulthood, she’s drawn to men who either abuse or dump her. She finds fleeting stability in the fast-paced chaos of a restaurant kitchen—but a question gnaws at her: is her future in the rooted life of the settled or on the open road to God only knows where? With the fierce support of a chosen few—Alice Duffy, housekeeper turned surrogate mother; Moochie de Barra, an affectionate stand-in for an emotionally absent father; and Kitty Dooley, a Traveller whose loyalty never wavers—Shibby begins to uncover hard truths about identity, family, and what she desperately needs to find where she truly belongs.
Full of texture and lyrical rhythm, Shibby Magee traces how the rupture of early abandonment echoes from childhood into midlife, revealing what endures, what shifts, and how patterns repeat until they are finally broken.
[Extract]
Mullacalooney Horse Fair
The milling crowd in front of us suddenly split in two. Hats flying, beer slopping, coins spilling from pockets.
“Fág an bealach!” came a holler. “Clear the way!”
A boy riding bareback appeared. Legs like a pair of tongs as his kicking pony was led down the divide.
And so it went on. This display. This odd parade. One whinnying horse after another, ridden, struck, whipped, and snapped along at lunatic speeds—their iron shoes striking up sparks.
“We’ll keep moving,” said Moochie.
We squeezed past the heels of a fidgety row of foals, horses, hinnies, donkeys, and mules tethered to fences, railings, lampposts, and telegraph poles. And them rocking their heads, and taking as many backwards and forwards steps as their short ropes would allow.
My Wellingtons squeaked and pinched my toes, and surely to God, Moochie’d inspected over a hundred horses by now.
“I’m looking for a horse that can handle both the saddle and the cart,” he said. “A horse with a good cargo of bones.” He named the Irish Draught and the Connemara, the Irish Hunter and the Kerry Bog. Long-tailed steeds, docktailed steeds, miniature horses of every degree and breed.
Then—“Now that’s what we came for,” said Moochie. “A lovely Irish Cob.”
A good-looking skewbald if ever he’d seen one.
A horse that stood alone, on a stretch of grass.
The rest of the field jam-packed with trucks, trailers, tents, and barrel-top wagons.
“Let’s go see!” cried Benny. His face flushed, his fingers shaking, his cigarette dropping ash—as if he were ready to burst with excitement.
Some of the Travellers gave us a quizzical look as we passed by. Others glowered with suspicion. Clean faces, mucky faces, smiling faces, scowling faces—and my heart thumping all the while, should Mammy’s face be amongst them.
But it wasn’t.
The Irish Cobb. A mare with five dun patches, a curly mustache, feathered feet, and a flowing mane. And wasn’t she gorgeous altogether.
“She’s dandy,” said Benny. “Top-notch.”
“Come on,” Moochie called out. “Follow me, now.”
We met up with two fellas sitting at the back of an open truck.
One with ravines for wrinkles, the other with blond-streaked hair.
The older one introduced himself as Dickory Dock, a clock and Rolex specialist. Dock for short.
The younger, who claimed his name was Clint Eastwood, sported a shiny sheriff’s badge.
“But ye can call me Povey,” he said, a dead, flattened-out fag dangling from his mouth as he grinned.
Then, rocking a finger in my direction—”I know that girl!” he cried.
I shook my head.
“Now, how would you know her?” Moochie wanted to know.
Povey shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”
Flicking a look over at Benny, he asked, “D’ya have a light in yer pocket there, Mister Tweedle Dee?”
Leaning into the blue flame of Benny’s Ronson, that Povey took his time with the first drag, and then blew out a curl of smoke real slow.
“I suppose ye’re interested in me horse, then,” he finally said. “Named after me dear ould mam, Maudie-Mae.”At the sight of Dock and Povey, Maudie-Mae swished her tail, flattened her ears, and started dancing sideways.
“Whoa, there,” said Moochie, patting the mare’s neck. “Is she a driving horse?” he asked.
“She is,” said Dock. “Only six years old, and already great on the roads.”
“And she loves kids,” said Povey, snatching another glance over at me. “Ye’ll find her no danger to kids.”
I stroked Maudie-Mae’s velvet nose and inhaled her sweet, malty scent.
Oats. Molasses. Sawdust.
“How much?” asked Benny.
“Three hundred punts,” said Povey.
We’ll take a walk,” said Moochie, “and we might see ya later… or not.”
“A long churning makes bad butter,” said Povey. “Best ye make yer minds up now.”
Otherwise, he added, he’s ready to keep the mare for himself.
“Two hundred punts,” said Moochie.
“Two-fifty,” said Povey, “and ye’re robbing me at that.”“Deal!” said Moochie.
The price was sealed with a spit and a hard slap of the hands. Then Povey gave Benny a few punts change from his back pocket—for good luck, like.
As Benny and Moochie led Maudie-Mae away, I felt a prickling sense of being watched.
When I turned, Povey was scratching his head and squinching up his eyes.
“Jesus, it’s killing me!” he shouted over at Dock. “Where the feck have I seen that kid before?”
Then he ran his tongue over his lip and grinned.
Only to slap hard at his thigh, as if he’d remembered.
When nothing about him rang a bell for me at all.
What people are saying:
“Carrie Kabak follows the indelible, indefatigable Shibby Magee during two crucial years in her life, one in girlhood and then another at midlife womanhood, as she struggles against prejudice, cruelty, and abandonment in her search to find her true place in an increasingly confounding world, be it in a bustling restaurant or on the road as an Irish Traveller—in an extraordinary, wily community I’d never heard of before and was delighted to encounter. Warm, wise, with dashes of wit, Kabak’s novel is just magnificent.” —Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Pictures of You, With or Without You, and Days of Wonder
“In this captivating and insightful novel, Carrie Kabak introduces the unforgettable Shibby Magee, who navigates adulthood in search of love and stability while grappling with the enduring shadows of childhood abandonment. Filled with multi-dimensional characters and evocative imagery, this is a heartfelt and poignant story that lingers long after the final page.” —Holly Kennedy, Edgar Award Nominee and Giller Prize Longlisted author of The Sideways Life of Denny Voss
[ Bio ]
Published by Penguin Random House, Carrie Kabak’s novel Cover the Butter was an Independent Booksellers’ Pick, won an AudioFile Magazine Award, and was nominated for a Quill Award. Her essays appear in For Keeps and He Said What? (Seal Press), Exit Laughing (North Atlantic Books), Faith (Simon & Schuster), and Dumped (She Writes). Carrie’s latest novel, Shibby Magee, was recently released. Look out for upcoming titles Every Mole and Freckle and Mali Morgan’s Summer.
Carrie is a regular online visitor to Victoria Zackheim’s UCLA Personal Essay course (Extension Writers’ Program), where she discusses the art of essay writing.
Alongside her writing, Carrie works as a book cover artist for major publishers, following many years as a production designer at Hallmark Cards. Both an Irish and British citizen, she now lives in Missouri with her chef husband. They share five sons, five grandchildren, two labradors, two cockatiels, and four tanks of freshwater fish.
