The priest strutted around the room and he got more agitated as every second passed.
‘This is all very sudden – who is this man you are going to marry?’ he eventually asked.
I filled him in on Ian’s background, explaining that he was a widower who had lost his wife in recent times.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘before we progress with this, I’d like to meet him.’
At this stage I accepted that the church had its own rules and regulations and that, perhaps, the priest was looking after my best interests.
So, after that conversation, I informed Ian that the priest would like to meet with him, and he said he was happy to do that on his next visit.
That encounter between the priest and Ian did not go well.
The priest, it transpired, was totally opposed to the marriage. Two of the reasons he put forward were: we barely knew each other, and it was too soon after Ian’s bereavement.
‘Why should Ian have to go through it alone?’ I argued.
I was very upset and I implored the priest to allow us to marry in the church.
‘There is no impediment: the man is a widower, I’m a single woman, and he is willing to convert to Catholicism,’ I insisted.
‘He doesn’t have to convert, I just don’t think it’s right,’ the priest responded.
I thought, well, who are you to be making that decision for me!
This was also a red rag to a bull for Ian, who then had a heated argument with the priest, with both losing their temper.
‘I wouldn’t take you into our church,’ the priest said at one point.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be in there now,’ Ian shot back.
I took Ian by the arm and we both marched out.
I was left shaken by the experience and the priest’s attitude, which had taken me completely by surprise.
My brother Brian was working in a priory in the Dublin suburb of Templeogue at the time. I went to see Brian and told him what had happened.
‘I have every right to be married in my own church, don’t I Brian?’ I added, still quite emotional.
Brian agreed with me. He said he would discuss it with the hierarchy in the priory.
Sure enough, Brian came back to me with the news that they could find no reason why the marriage should not be allowed in the church.
I was very disillusioned with the Church, or rather the individual priest who was blocking my wedding. Luckily, I was about to go to America to do one of my workshops, so I knew that getting out of Ireland for a short time would be good for my head.
I was due to travel to the States on my own, but then Ian offered to go with me, saying we could get married in a ceremony while we were over there. As we talked it over, Ian suggested that we should go on to Kansas, where his friends, Paul and Ruth Meyn, would help us make all the arrangements.
I thought that was an absolutely wonderful idea.
And the cloud lifted.
Paul and Ruth welcomed me into their home in Bonner Springs, a sleepy city in Kansas, and I fell in love with the couple straight away. Even though I was a newcomer to Ian’s life, particularly so soon after the passing of Iris, they embraced me and treated me like an old friend.
They introduced us to a local church. It wasn’t a Catholic religion, but what was important to us was the fact that we were going to have a ceremony where our marriage would be blessed in front of people we both loved and respected, those who could make the trip down for this special moment in our lives.
The fact that the wedding was in America meant that lots of my friends from the Irish dancing world in the US were in a position to travel to Kansas. Peter Smith, my dear, dear friend who has since passed away, flew in from New Jersey to give me away. When I asked him weeks beforehand to do me that honour he leapt with joy as he instantly accepted. On the day of my wedding the smile on Peter’s face was like the cat who got the cream.
Laverne Showalter came in from Chicago with her husband Patrick and their daughter Julie, who was my bridesmaid.
Other American friends who joined us included Patsy McLoughlin and Fidelma Davis from New Jersey; Mary McGing; Ann Richens; and Helen Gannon, who runs Comhaltas in St Louis, was there with her husband P.J.
There were also lots of American friends from Ian’s life, people he had grown close to during his visits to Paul and Ruth.
The ceremony on the day was a very simple, gorgeous affair, with little children playing the harp. My friend Orfhlaith Ní Bhriain was over on tour in America and she sang at the ceremony, which was just magical because Orfhlaith sings like an angel.
As I stood facing Ian, looking into his eyes while he asked me to be his wife, I had never been more certain about any decision I had made in my life.
I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my days with this man.
Afterwards, we had a very traditional Irish party. There was singing and dancing as the beer and wine flowed, with lots of laughter and great banter filling the air. It would have been lovely to have had my family there to complete the otherwise perfect day, but I knew that we would celebrate with them when we returned to Dublin.
While I was out of the country marrying my Prince Charming, my brother Brian had been pursuing my case through the fathers in the priory where he worked. They wrote to the Archbishop of Dublin asking for an explanation as to why I had been refused my wedding in the Kinsealy parish. The response that came back was positive. The Archbishop confirmed that there was no reason to prevent me from proceeding with my wedding in the Catholic Church.
Even though the moment had been spoiled by the row with my local priest over the matter, I was thrilled when we eventually had our Catholic wedding ceremony in a Dublin church with all my family around me, and lots more friends. Ian and I took our vows again, this time in a little church at Dublin Airport. Neither of us had wanted to return to Kinsealy, the scene of all the unnecessary fuss and, indeed, heartache.
Having waited until I was a middle-aged woman before the right man came along and swept me off my feet, I then married Ian for the second time.
To be sure, to be sure, you could say.
* * *
Marriage may have come late in my life, but my goodness it was worth the wait. Ian was the most wonderful man. Caring, considerate, selfless and strong, he was totally devoted to me from the moment we began our life together.
I was still teaching Irish dancing in Dublin schools, as well as running my own dance school, when we got married.
Ian, who was fifteen years older than me, decided to take early retirement and he encouraged me to continue with my Irish dancing work. We spent our time flitting between my home in Kinsealy and his house in the lovely olde worlde English village of Prudhoe, Northumberland, about six miles outside Newcastle.
Even though he was English with no knowledge of the Irish dancing scene up to that point, Ian embraced it straight away. He was a very intelligent, open-minded man and eagerly soaked up the culture.
And, my God, he had the patience of a saint!
There was one particular day when I was judging competitions from early morning until late at night. Ian sat through it all, occasionally supplying me with cups of tea. It didn’t bother him how long he had to sit there on one of the most uncomfortable chairs in the world. There wasn’t a single word of complaint from Ian. He was just totally devoted.
Ian came to all the big events with me, and he’d always say to me, ‘If I can be of any help in any way I’m happy to do it.’
On one such occasion, Ian did get a job doing a long shift on the door, taking care of the administration, sending people in the right direction, and answering a million questions from the dance groups that came through. When I took over, Ian then sat with me. He was a perfect gentleman and made me so happy.
However, my joy turned to devastation when the then treasurer of the Irish dancing Coimisiún called me aside late into the event and said that another member had complained about Ian being there and wanted hi
m removed.
‘Why does he have a problem with Ian being here?’ I asked, suddenly feeling queasy and shaky with shock.
‘It’s because he was a soldier in the British army,’ came the reply.
For a second I could barely catch my breath as the words sunk in and cut me to the bone. Never for a moment had I thought that Ian’s early career in the army would have been an issue in any part of my life, but particularly Irish dancing. The person who made the complaint was from the North of Ireland. But Ian had never served there. He’d been in Malta and in army bases around England and Germany. And anyway, he wasn’t at all political.
Ian absolutely loved Ireland, the people, the culture and now he was even as passionate about Irish dancing as I was myself. I was so hurt and disgusted to hear that someone on the Coimisiún didn’t want Ian to be involved with us. This was in the early nineties and I couldn’t believe that such a bias still existed.
‘Okay, I don’t want Ian to know anything about this because he would be so hurt,’ I said after eventually composing myself.
Instead, I removed myself from my duties at the event and we left. My only consolation is that Ian was none the wiser as to why I finished earlier than expected.
Thankfully, it never happened again.
* * *
As sugary as it sounds, we were both blissfully happy in our marriage. Ian enjoyed living with me in Kinsealy, and I loved the regular visits to his cosy house in Prudhoe. However, after the initial novelty of going back and forth between Ireland and England, we both agreed that it was unnecessary hassle running two homes. I then decided that it was time for me to move on and finally make a complete break with Dublin. We put the Kinsealy house on the market and it sold within a short period.
When I was clearing out my home in Kinsealy, two friends, Terry and Philip, offered their services with the packing and removal of furniture and other belongings that I planned to take with me to England.
While sifting through all the bits and pieces, Philip came across the old bridal doll that I had been given as a present by my sister-in-law Lena in England when I was a child. It was the doll that had belonged to my niece Joan, and it had been my pride and joy for years and years. By this stage it was black with dirt, so I said to Philip without a second thought: ‘Throw it in the skip.’
Six months later, Philip came to visit me with a big smile on his face. Then he produced the doll from a bag, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Philip had taken her to the dolls’ hospital in Dublin, and had her restored to her full glory. What a lovely thing to do! I was absolutely thrilled and, for the life of me, I couldn’t believe the decision I had taken that day in Dublin to discard such a childhood treasure.
I’ll put it down to the stress of moving.
After making my decision to move to the UK, I closed down The Marie Duffy School. Six months later several of my dancers from the school, as well as many I had worked with in Inis Ealga, were chosen by Michael Flatley at an open audition for the Riverdance spectacular in the 1994 Eurovision Song Contest.
* * *
The American country-rock band The Eagles have a song called ‘Hotel California’, which contains the line: ‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.’ Irish dancing was a bit like that for me.
When I moved over to England I didn’t have any ambition or plan to continue doing Irish dancing classes. But I had done workshops there with The Barbara Slator School in the past, and shortly after I arrived Barbara got in contact and invited me to work with her in the classes. I liked Barbara and we had become friends, so I took her up on the offer. The partnership worked out very well, as two years later Barbara’s dancers got their highest world placings in céilí and figure choreography.
Then one morning I woke up and decided that Irish dancing was taking up a lot of my time again. I had moved over to be with Ian, so I decided to leave Barbara’s school and retire from the scene. But, as before, you can never hang up your shoes in Irish dancing.
Danny Doherty, another good friend who runs a very successful school in the English midlands, then contacted me.
‘Will you come down to the midlands and give me a bit of a hand?’ Danny asked.
‘Oh Danny, I’m seriously giving up,’ I told him.
‘Well, have a think about it, no pressure,’ he said.
I talked it over with Ian, who, as ever, said he was happy to go along with whatever suited me. The classes weren’t going to be a full week, so I agreed to give it a trial.
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave!
The classes started on a Thursday evening, then into Friday and Saturday, and I would return home on the Sunday.
Ian and I travelled to Coventry by car every week and stayed over at Danny’s house. Ian was a fantastic driver, but we had some hairy moments on those journeys. Thanks to his skill behind the wheel, Ian saved us both from being killed on one occasion when we met a lorry on our side of the road and almost ended up in a head-on crash. Ian avoided the collision and certain death by swerving on to the other side. Fortunately, there was nothing coming from that direction at the time. We were both left shaken by the experience, but thanked our lucky stars that it obviously wasn’t our time.
* * *
Shortly after the stunning success of the seven-minute Riverdance interval act in the 1994 Eurovision Song Contest, producer Moya Doherty decided to weave it out into a major stage show, with Michael Flatley creating and choreographing the dances for the storyline.
Riverdance, the show, opened at The Point in Dublin on 5 February 1995, and ran for five weeks before moving on to The Apollo in Hammersmith, London, in May of that year.
Some of my dancers who were involved in the Eurovision performance that night had been telling me all about the show. It was very exciting stuff, and I suggested to Ian that we should book tickets for The Apollo.
‘I really have to go see this,’ I said.
Ian was just as enthusiastic.
We had Kelly Breen, an Irish dancer from Melbourne, Australia, staying with us at the time. So I booked for the three of us to go and see a preview show, and we took the train down from Newcastle. When we arrived, I decided to get a few cards to wish the dancers I’d worked with good luck on their big night. They included Frieda Gray, a gorgeous girl from Ballymun in Dublin who was one of my early world champions, as were her two sisters, Muiread and Maria. It was unusual to have three members of the same family winning many World Championships. The Conlon family from Clontarf in Dublin also achieved this feat and four of them were All-Ireland champions.
My dancers in the show also included Tracey Taaffe, sisters Niamh and Aoibheann O’Brien, and Niamh and Sinead O’ Connor.
And, of course, I knew all of the dancers on the famous Riverdance line from the Eurovision.
I got my cards and headed off down to The Apollo to drop them off at the stage door. I didn’t want to go in and meet the dancers in person because I knew it was a busy time for them.
As I strolled down a lane at the side of The Apollo, I spotted a man and a woman in the distance. I wasn’t taking much notice of them as they drew nearer. But as they stepped smartly past me, I realised that the male was Michael Flatley.
I turned around and Michael was swivelling at the same time.
‘Marie Duffy!’ he declared.
‘How are you Michael!’ I said, as he wrapped me in his arms and gave me a big hug.
I’ll never forget his words as he then introduced me to Moya Doherty.
‘This is Marie Duffy, the best dance teacher in the world, and the best dancers we have in there on the line are hers.’
As we talked, I explained to Michael that I was just dropping in some good luck cards to my dancers. Michael insisted on sending for dance captain Frieda Gray, who arrived out full of joy and excitement, and accompanied by several other dancers known to me.
They were jumping up and down with glee and asking if I was going to th
e show that evening.
‘Yes, yes, of course I’m going to be there to watch you,’ I smiled.
Then, before I left, Michael said: ‘Now, be sure and come back afterwards and have a glass of wine with us.’
‘Yes, of course I will,’ I said, although my intention was to slip away with Ian and Kelly after the performance.
As we were leaving the theatre in high spirits after the fabulous show that night, Frieda nabbed me. She had come out straight away to get me.
‘You’ve got to come and have a glass of wine with us, Michael insists,’ she said.
Well, there was no escape then, so we went in and mingled with everyone.
Frieda was the dance captain, and she took me aside and asked: ‘How was it Marie? Can you give me a few tips?’
‘I didn’t come here to criticise, I came here to enjoy the show, and you were all fantastic,’ I replied.
Frieda wasn’t giving up. ‘Marie, come on, you could be helping me with some ideas,’ she insisted.
‘Frieda, I don’t need to, everything is fabulous.’
I wasn’t telling a lie. The show was really impressive.
Frieda, however, continued to press me for a detailed critique. And eventually I relented. I talked through the performance in general with no big criticisms, but I did make some suggestions about where it could be tweaked here and there. So Frieda seemed quite happy with that.
Next, I saw Michael Flatley coming my way with a huge smile on his face.
‘Well, Marie, what did you think?’ he asked.
‘It was fabulous, Michael,’ I told him.
We clinked our wine glasses, chatted for a short time, and then he went off to mingle.
Michael was on top of the world that night.
But just a short time later that world would come tumbling down.
The Kid from Chicago
I had heard about Michael Flatley long before I ever set eyes on him. Even as a youngster, he was causing a stir, creating a legendary status.
Lady of the Dance Page 9