J.P. Donleavy: An Author and His Image

by J. P. Donleavy

  To pass time I count the little rainbow circles of moisture on the road. And I find I am walking next to a woman in black of a beauteous face who is from New Jersey and now lives in Ireland. Then next to her comes a man in Connemara tweed, his head of long hair is truly soaked in the rain. He shows not a sign of tiredness nor discomfort, but chuckles as I turn to look back and report that there are following now more cars and a distinctly diminished number of pedestrians. We shake hands as he introduces himself as John Hurt. And we walk yet another mile past a field where Denny galloped and trained his horses. Relief now as the church steeple rears finally still another mile away. But one knew the ginger haired old friend of Denny’s close behind would walk thus ten miles further behind Denny’s coffin. The knowledge gives one a strange hope of light to have in all one’s own dark dooms where courage must live if life is not to die.

  All around the church, the lanes are packed with parked cars. Inside along with his coffin are Denny’s saddle and bridle. I do not recite the prayers or sing. For John Hurt is in the pew next to me and the splendid resonance of this actor’s voice would be sad to miss when declaimed so near. ‘Crimond’ and ‘O Danny Boy’ are sung. And the service ends with the rousing hymn ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’.

  As the last sounds of song die away, I am reminded of being back in Corries House when asking one of Denny’s old friends, Julian Lloyd, how did all this so suddenly happen. And he said that one night severe pain came upon Denny and he asked Julian to take him to the hospital. Where he lay waiting on his back to be attended, and Julian placing a blanket upon him to keep him warm, saw his cowboy boots sticking up and out. And Julian asked him wouldn’t he be more comfortable with his boots off. And Denny, still so far from death as anyone knew, smiled and said.

  ‘No. I’d like to die with my boots on.’

  1995

  The Funeral of the General

  A day ago I was looking out across the green rolling hills of Tipperary and remembering my very first ever seeing the terra firma of Ireland. I was waiting to fly on to Dublin in a smaller aircraft and I walked out of the reception buildings which were but a few neat wooden structures at Shannon. I stepped out into the clear sweet air and walked down a winding country lane to come upon two utterly white swans stately proceeding on a shimmering black pool of water. And having arrived out of the sky from the mayhem of a great but potentially violent city like New York this was a stunning and unforgettable scene of tranquillity. And confirmed as I was soon to learn that the worst crime you could commit in Ireland was to have someone slip on a butter ball you dropped on the floor that you were trying to put on a spice bun served up in a Bewley’s Oriental Café.

  And there was another attraction I more slowly learned of. I did not think it then but think it now, that although there are, in their pain of life, a few people who welcome death, most of us don’t want to die but if such time should come, there are few other places of the modern world on earth which can be found where it is a better place to breathe your last than Ireland. Where the dignity of death is preserved and even venerated and will bring mourners from every corner of the local land and even from far afield as time and distance allow. And one does not need to be of any notoriety, and where indeed to be even obscure and unknown, you can be sure as a corpse that more than someone will shed a tear and thought for your untimely departure.

  On this just past August Sunday I arrive up in Dublin. Sorrows descend upon one’s small world as the mist of sadness of other times and of other visits to past funerals settles about one. But life and business are everywhere in the city as a laden tourist bus pulls up in front of the Shelbourne. Germans are at the reception desk in this hotel which one has attended for what must be at least the hundredth time. But I just sign as another anonymous name. And although one senses an estrangement as they now say in hotels ‘no problem’ as one asks for what one wants, Ireland is still Ireland.

  I am here to perceive the obsequies of this conspicuous man called ‘The General’ and I suddenly realize that I am not capable of intruding upon another’s sorrow no matter how conspicuous they might have been. And for the same reason did not attend the funeral of Brendan Behan, a friend who was my own guide to the doings of the Dublin’s underworld and the dangers of the Animal Gang and Gardiner Street. But in those cart horse days crime seemed only to amount to a stolen landlord’s toilet bowl tied with a ribbon like a baby and wheeled in a pram to the pawn. But there were pick axe handles and your fists. However, now we have bigger and more valuable items to steal and faster ways to die.

  And suddenly now again I think of my old pal Gainor Stephen Crist, that Ginger Man whose ghost or actually himself I saw walking alive through Dublin not that long ago and who, when he first came to Ireland in the days when your biggest ignominy was not having the price of a pint, had once stood in a field somewhere in the north of Ireland where loyalists were practising their marching and beating their lambeg drums and he said of this fury passing by in front of him, ‘Mike these people mean it.’ And we knew, too, among other friends released from prison for their political crimes and their more menacing work that they had no uncertainty in their convictions either and that they meant it, too.

  And as one goes south to Rathmines Road across the Grand Canal one passes on a side street ‘The Bretzel’‚ the Jewish baker. And then further on is the Rathmines YMCA built in 1911, a sounding place to which Brendan Behan in making an edict would direct begrudgers in banishment. Grey clouds edged with a faint brightness and move across the heavens from the south east. Fronted by great stone pillars, this imposing church’s massive dome is surmounted by a golden cross, announcing to all its architectural significance with its golden letters proclaiming its name. A lightning conductor from the statue on its roof pointing at whatever God we hope is, in his goodness, up and out there looking down mercifully from his galaxy. Parked in the church forecourt a shiny black hearse awaits, its roof covered in flowers. A thickening line of inquisitive onlookers gather to watch from across the street. Limousines waiting nearby. A group of Press and Garda conferring on the pavement. While an endless stream of traffic moves along the road.

  The first realization of who this man is comes from the Garda cars of various blue hues stationed everywhere and the white helmets on police stationed everywhere else. In all directions far beyond the church go reporters with their mobile phones and photographers with their cameras. And as the attention intensifies it is hard to distinguish the converging from the diverging. The activity in the street and the crowd seems to reach crescendo as the coffin comes out of the church and is placed in the hearse. The bowler hatted funeral director, an accomplished master in the disposal of the dead, steps out into the road, raises his hand and shows the way. The cortège leaves carrying sombre faces. And shortly the pavements are deserted, with not a soul left at the church.

  The action now is at the entrance under old pine trees at the Mount Jerome cemetery gates. And just as at a Hollywood première the crowds are amassed once more. The hearse and limousines slowly enter. Again one feels not to further intrude but inspects and finds in the streets surrounding this ancient graveyard angry motorists wondering what’s happened to find themselves caught up in a traffic jam. And also with an astonishing efficiency out here too the Guards are cruising the adjacent surrounding thoroughfares checking all that could be suspicious.

  On this very day they shout truce hopes across the land. But watching the Garda do their duty it makes one wonder how any criminal they want to catch could ever hope to get away. Perhaps some are permitted to in order to keep the force on its most efficient tiptoes, and deliberately they do not catch them all. And then I am amazed how easy it is to pick out from the respectable general public these members of the underworld. This strange brotherhood who just as strangely could be a charming friend when you needed a charming friend. And who may even have perhaps come to admire the splendour of this funeral and the small fortune in flowers.

  And
now another ghost and perhaps a Dublin legend will hover over the rooftops and streets. Or will be felt lurking in the darker shadows of the pubs where one once thought there never could exist an arch criminal in such an intimate place as Dublin. But now as I leave this city and stopping down a respectable tree lined street as I go westward a group of young kids not more than three foot high are peeking into front gardens as they run along the road, looking and regarding doors and windows for criminal opportunities. And it’s my last scene of the metropolis before passing out to speed through the green fields of the midlands. And I realize that an arch criminal could exist. And can nearly feel the chastening effect of murder when such a threat is silenced forever lying under the flowers.

  1994

  PART 6

  Castles and Mansions, Conduct and Etiquette

  An Open Letter to Those of the Nobility Befuddled by Clutter

  Your respectful Lordship,

  We sincerely hope you will excuse the diabolical liberty as we take this pleasure in addressing you by personal letter. As high class old established rag and bone merchants, we have instigated this practice for special clients whom we know (By Informed Sources) are members of standing in the peerage and are in great need to hurry in their clearance of rubbish. (In clearing out fast some of our assistants avail themselves of roller skates should a client so require.) If your problem is, above all others, CASH, this is our strict speciality in the utmost confidence.

  We have found in our long experience that a client desperate for ready currency often has in his possession, unknown to him, soiled and begrimed oil paintings which to the unpractised eye seem like the work of an old master. We would wish that this was so. But in our experience there are few old masters about these days hidden in attics and recesses and it is such paintings, very old and encased in ancient varnish of the early Dutch school, that we would like to take off our clients’ hands at NO COST TO THE CLIENT.

  Our employees are experts who recognize junk in a flash, and are specially trained and experienced in wading through the bric à brae, the endless tunnels of mansions and down the deepest recesses of the wine of castle cellars to remove the dusty stacks of old Sauternes, claret and spirits past their prime. They are also experienced in blowing open dingy musty safes or making quiet entrance into cupboards where the bulky, out of date surgical or scientific instruments including space consuming heirlooms most frequently are to be found. And even though the latter are often fake, as is more and more the custom these days, we will rid you of this embarrassment without absolutely any charge to you.

  We know you will not be surprised to hear that we have come upon your situation by a picture of your commodious premises up for sale in the press and our supervisor is of the opinion that you will be in great need to have discreetly taken off your hands (without the wide publicity shed on your plight by public auction) unwanted tapestries, old coins and medals, disused basins, bath tubs, ancient Chinese pottery (be the latter Woolworth, Sung, Ming or the recent Hornchurch), copper of all descriptions, jelly moulds and the like. We further know that historical curios and silverware can be a burden to their owners due to the widespread burglaries taking place and these we clear out with absolutely the best competitive price paid IN CASH on the spot.

  Unfortunately from the picture of your once lovely premises, we see there is very little garden statuary remaining but the spout in your garden fountain must be of a durable metal, brass perhaps, and since these are out of fashion now, we would be glad to remove this and any lead piping to which it may be attached under the lawn. We are sure that you are possessed of many boxrooms packed with the bygones of yesterday which when removed will psychologically give you the impetus to bring your life up to the modern style. We note also you have a farm. We would be pleased to remove any old cows or horses not wanted. Or other livestock thought to be eating more than their keep.

  Rag Bone & Metals Ltd

  Visits by Appointment Only

  PS We all are informed that you have a grand piano. We wish to point out that although this may have been of the highest quality when purchased the heavy treatment given instruments by today’s virtuosos will have knocked the best out of it but we are still prepared to cart this space taker away for very small remuneration indeed. On smaller musical instruments we pay the highest prices.

  PPS A special rate (this week only) is being paid for any saucy old photographs or reels of film.

  1978

  Ghosts and Dolls in Donegal

  Before you throw up your hands in horror at the rain, chill and gloomy brooding skies let me tell you of a few tiny joys here. The biggest being that of curiosity finally satisfied. As it was once for me over a niggling mystery which grew slowly over the years. Living as I do a little less than half way across Ireland, and resulting in people on their way to the west frequently stopping off with their friends at my house. When I would, as a matter of courtesy, enquire of folk as to where they were headed and I would invariably hear the answer.

  ‘To Henry’s.’

  ‘Who on earth is Henry.’

  Up till this moment all I knew about Henry’s was that it seemed a destination to which only the very grandest of grand people were invited and to which no one declined to go. And upon the occasion of finally asking, after many years of listening, as to the identity of this name mentioned frequently, the first socially registered gentleman to whom my momentous question was addressed rocked back on his heels, wide eyed in awe, throwing up his hands in the air and laughing incredulously.

  ‘My God. O my God. You mean to tell me you don’t know Henry. Good heavens, we must fix that. Absolutely must.’

  And this is why these words about Honora, Araminta and Amabel must start with Henry. Indeed it was not that many weeks later, when my socially registered friend did fix it for this present socially unworthy midland bog trotter, and I did, as I do now, set out upon these westward dark wet deserted roads that go curving and winding across this land bounded by hedge and wall. Up and down through the brown scraggly wastes and between the small farmers’ fields of Cavan towards a distant Donegal. The lonely cottages and haysheds and nothing but isolation across the tiny hills to the horizon. Except suddenly in the middle of nowhere an arrow points down a muddy rutted track with a sign saying BOUTIQUE. Someone’s defiant effort in these forlorn climes to keep alive a rose tinted dream.

  Across rural Ireland everything is an adventure. If the quarter inch thick cast iron road signs are not torn in half by the stronger natives, or are not pointing in the wrong direction, then they read, as you get closer to where you’re going, that you are in fact slightly farther away. A tourist innovation in road travel which is designed to give the visitor a pleasant feel of relief when he finally gets there. And let me tell you. On this particular chill Sunday that I travel, with the roads icy black, I was sure glad to get there. As already upside down in the ditches were the previous Saturday night’s crop of cars. And in the morning’s sunshine, suddenly passing was a cemetery on a hillside, where the male mourners were each with a shovel and sleeves rolled up, heaping the sods with gleeful expertise down upon their dear departed. Who no doubt had recently come round a sharp bend and, with the Irishman’s disregard for what lies ahead in this temporal world, promptly motored into a tree.

  But if in Ireland you manage to miss a roadside hazard, you rarely avoid political strife. And I soon cross at a customs check point, bumping over a security hump into the North. At a stop sign, a disembodied hand sticks itself out of a slit in a fortified gun emplacement to beckon me onwards. Through Tyrone and the Sperrin mountains and along the Mourne River. The chimney smoke hovering over the frequently bombed town of Strabane, and a lone soldier, rifle at the ready, patrols through a side street. And in spite of the British soldiers being smilingly polite, one is anxious to recross the border again back into the somehow softer and friendlier countryside of Eire. But ushered on without question, one is also mildly miffed. As it speaks little for one’s dangerou
s appearance. It may have been I smelled much too fragrant. For with the sudden bumps over the security humps, the top had come off a large plastic bottle of hand cream and flooded my ancient attaché case and filled the car with sickly sweet fumes.

  You won’t believe it and of course it’s not true, but Ireland has become fashionable to visit these days. And this lie said enough might eventually defy the truth, and some of you obsessed with curiosity may find yourselves dumped dumbfounded on these shores. And if you are, you will discover there are still some very charming people lurking out in these bereft forlorn windswept climes. For I was now soon to discover that I was on my way to visit not two, but three of Henry’s dearest and oldest friends, of whom the ladies Honora Myles and Araminta Swiney were among the last of that redoubtable breed, the Anglo Irish, who once held their squirearchical sway across this emerald isle.

  Going west in Ireland, it is as if you are heading towards the edge of the earth. A haunting precipitous place from where you might fall into eternity. And as I approached Letterkenny, wisps of Atlantic cloud were in the sky, and the grey blue tints of night were descending, and I could already feel this apparition in my bones of lemmings heading for oblivion. Stopping at the first traffic light a cow nearby was staring at me, its head out through the fence. As if to point me towards a long narrow busily thriving street down the middle of the town. Boasting not only a chiropodist but a ‘Literary Institute’, the latter proclaimed on a grey dignified Victorian edifice in large ceramic relief. But as the rain plummeted down along this dark and cold avenue, there was not a single poet or novelist to be seen. But this is the nearest metropolis to which Henry, Honora, Araminta or Amabel might come for a quiet cup of coffee and change of scene.