Just Mary

by Mary O'Rourke

  And so I was able to settle in to the routine of political life again. Yes, of course, I felt diminished not to be within the Dáil at that time, but after all, I reminded myself, the Seanad is called ‘the Upper Chamber’, and I resolved that I would use my five years there productively, and that I would make something of the position, as I had done in every other posting with which I had been honoured in my political career. It was never my intention to stay on in the Seanad, but I did intend to use it as a stepping stone back into the Dáil. Of course, I was no stranger to that beautiful chamber with its magnificently carved ceiling; early on in my public life at the beginning of the 1980s, I had spent two six-month periods in the Seanad, and had relished it then as a discussion forum and debating chamber, where I was able to get used to speaking, standing up and contributing to political debate. Lo and behold, now in 2002, I was about to embark on a most productive phase in my working life. Little did I think it at the start, but this would turn out to be the case.

  Very early on, I had a huge stroke of luck, when it was confirmed that Eamonn McCormack had been approached to take up the role as PA to the Leader of the Seanad, and that he had happily accepted. A young civil servant, Eamonn had worked with me when I was Minister of State for Labour Affairs. Then, when I became Minister for Public Enterprise, he came back to work in my private office in the Department as my personal assistant, still in his civil service status. I had quickly come to rely more and more on him: it was not just that he was a meticulous civil servant and administrator, but he was also a very valued confidante. Now, as my PA in the Seanad, Eamonn would occupy the adjacent office to mine. As soon as he too had undertaken his tutorial at the hands of Deirdre and Jody, he and I settled in harmoniously enough. We were lucky that, after some skirmishing with different staff, Lisa Foran, who had also been in the Transport section of the Department of Public Enterprise, agreed to move over as Eamonn’s assistant. So there were the three of us, all workers and all determined to do the best we could during our time in the Seanad.

  When I became a Senator in 2002, I was very much aware that down through the years there had been numerous reports on possible ways of reforming the Seanad, as well as a constant refrain from many quarters to the effect of, ‘Is it really needed anyway?’ Accordingly, one of my first initiatives as leader was to set up a debate on reform in the House and then to form a sub-committee which would review the workings of the Seanad and look in to how they could be revised and improved. This sub-committee was headed up by myself and included Brian Hayes as Opposition leader in the Seanad, Joe O’Toole as head of the Independents, John Dardis as leader of the Progressive Democrats, and Brendan Ryan as leader of the Labour Party. Peter Finnegan was appointed as Secretary to our group, and we set to work straight away.

  We put extensive advertisements in the daily papers both North and South of the border, seeking submissions from anyone who wanted to contribute to the ideas for the reform of the Seanad. We duly set ourselves up then for a week in the Seanad Chamber to hear those submissions orally. It was a terrific exercise, and the people and groups who came to us were full of good ideas. Interestingly, not one individual or group put forward the proposal of the abolition of the Seanad. It was recognised generally by many as a useful chamber, not just for debating purposes but as a safeguard for legislation and a very useful tool in the whole democratic process.

  There were many enjoyable aspects to my new role as a Senator and to my working life in the Seanad during those five years, but one of the things I remember mostly fondly is that it was a period when I had the opportunity to grow much closer to my nephew, Brian Lenihan: our already strong bond as aunt and nephew would deepen and intensify into a friendship between colleagues and comrades-in-arms, so to speak. Brian Jnr and his brother Conor had in fact been serving alongside me in the Dáil since the late 1990s — Brian since 1996 and Conor since 1997 — and I always enjoyed the company of my two nephews, although our paths did not necessarily cross very frequently in the work environment in the early years. I always found Conor to be a good and lively companion (and to this day, I enjoy keeping in touch with him on a regular basis, generally by e-mail, since his working life is now based full-time in Russia).

  Brian Jnr had been appointed Minister of State for Children by Bertie Ahern in 2002, of which he had made a great success. It was a period when there was money available for the setting up of crèches, children’s playgrounds and many other valuable facilities, and Brian played a key part in ensuring that the full potential of these resources was realised. Although as Minister of State for Children he was at the time not a member of Cabinet as such, he was entitled to participate in Cabinet meetings, and there he contributed greatly to the agenda at all times. So in that sense he was effectively a full Minister.

  It was during this time that Brian’s office in Leinster House was next door to mine, as Leader of the Seanad. It wasn’t long before he developed a routine of popping his head around the door most mornings to say hello — ‘Well, how is the Senator today and how is the Seanad, and how is the Leader of the Seanad?’ he would say to Eamonn McCormack, Lisa and myself. If there was time, he would come in, close the door and we would have some very interesting conversations. I became very close to Brian during this period. In a way, it reminded me of the time so, so many years ago when, as a young boy, he had come to his Aunt Mary to learn Latin.

  I will just explain a little further here. My brother Brian Lenihan Snr and his wife Ann moved to Dublin with their young family in the early 1970s: Brian had decided that it would be the right place to make a go of re-forging his political career. As a result, Brian Jnr, who was then aged 12, was enrolled at the Jesuit College at Belvedere, in order to begin his secondary education there. However, his mother Ann was a little concerned when she learned that the boys who would be going into Belvedere Secondary from Belvedere Preparatory School had all had a good grounding in French, Latin and Greek at primary level, whereas young Brian had had no such instruction. There was nothing that could be done at that late stage about Greek, but Ann enlisted my help for the Latin and Grandma Lenihan’s help for the French.

  So that 12-year-old boy would come on his bicycle once a week to me in my home in Arcadia, Athlone. As I write, I can still clearly see his lovely round face, big, earnest eyes and remember his impish sense of humour. We both enjoyed those lessons so much. Brian would do whatever homework I gave him and a bit more besides if he could. He was always wanting to forge further and further ahead in Longmans’ Latin Course, whereas I was taking the more cautious, teacher’s approach of doing things bit by bit. Anyway, we would do the hour together and then young Brian would get on his bike and take off, with his homework for the next time. Likewise he would go to his Grandma Lenihan, and I know she found him to be the same as I did: bright and interesting and imaginative — although she would have preferred him to be taking the fresh air rather than be inside learning French! So we both packed him off full of knowledge, and when he went into his first year in Belvedere, he found that he was more than equal to the boys who had come through the Prep School.

  For me, that pupil/teacher, nephew/aunt bond which had been forged so strongly then was to be forged again even more strongly during those years when our offices were door-to-door in Leinster House. And that is doubtless why, when Brian’s death would come, it had such a devastating impact on me, since not only had I lost a dear nephew, but a very close colleague and friend as well.

  As time went on, my own experience of the workings and daily processes of the Seanad would bear out many of the conclusions we had reached in that early review of its purpose and its contribution to Irish public life. I found that, as Senators, we could often participate very actively in the process of legislation making. A proposed Bill relating to any new piece of legislation can be brought either firstly to the Dáil and from there to the Seanad, or vice versa, i.e., it can go to the Seanad initially and then wend its way to the Dáil. I was always on the lookout to secu
re some of the particularly significant Bills for ourselves if possible, and with the excellent assistance of Eamonn McCormack, would keep in constant contact with the offices of the various Ministers, in order to ascertain whether something would come to the Seanad first — we would sometimes even demand that this should be the case. Michael McDowell was Minister for Justice during this period, and he brought many of his Bills to the Seanad first, where he always got a good hearing. Many of these then went on to the Dáil, having been improved in the Seanad debates.

  In many senses, I discovered, the Seanad was a forum far more conducive to the collaborative and considered debate which lies at the heart of an effective legislative process. It was a much more intimate chamber than the Dáil, and this in itself made reasoned and careful deliberation far more possible. For me, the Seanad continues to be an invaluable environment for good Ministers to engage in useful debate and range and wide in their second stage in the forming of a new piece of legislation. I have no doubt that the five years which I spent there as Leader was time well spent.

  Chapter 15

  A CHRISTMAS VISIT TO ABBEVILLE

  On one occasion during my second year in the Seanad, Senator Terry Leyden, whom I have already referred to as a great friend and supporter, came to me with the suggestion that he and I should go to visit Charlie Haughey at his home in Abbeville — by way of a social call, really, in the run-up to Christmas. It was December 2003 and we were already in the last few days before the Dáil and Seanad would be breaking up and everyone dispersing for Christmas. Terry and I had been members of the Shadow frontbench together from 1982 to 1987, which Charlie had headed up as Taoiseach-in-waiting. Those years had been a bonding experience for us, as had the rest of our time under Haughey’s leadership.

  Initially I wasn’t so sure about this plan to visit our former leader, but Terry was quite insistent, saying that he would make all the arrangements and that he would drive, and so on. He rang Seán Haughey, Charlie’s son, and ran the idea past him. At this stage, it was a well-known fact that Charlie’s health had begun to deteriorate and that he was mostly housebound. Having consulted with his parents, however, Seán quickly got back to Terry, saying that both his father and his mother would be delighted to see us. And so a date was set for 16 December.

  At about five o’clock on the evening in question, Terry and I duly set off from Dublin. I remember well that it was a very dark and bleak winter’s night. When we arrived at Abbeville, Charlie Haughey was waiting for us, with the door to his home open. We went up the stone steps and inside, there was Maureen, also waiting. I had long liked and respected Maureen Haughey for the unassuming way she conducted her public life and the fine job she made of rearing her four children. She never partook in political debate in a public forum and was more than happy not to be in the spotlight.

  They showed us into their living room. I had brought a bottle of nice champagne, which had actually been given to me as a gift, and which I could not see myself using. Terry had brought flowers for Maureen, which she promptly arranged in a pretty vase. At the back of the living room, Charlie had a small dispense bar — nothing lavish or ostentatious, but it certainly served its purpose well. He had two bottles of white wine already chilled for us, and once he had served us each a glass, and Maureen too, we all sat down to talk and chat, and sip, and talk again. Early on in the evening, Charlie refused Terry more than one glass, saying to him, ‘You’re the driver and you cannot take any more.’ But he, Maureen and I continued to drink the delicious white wine, and we all talked vivaciously and spiritedly of the various events of the moment.

  Charlie was as keen and witty and entertaining as he always had been and, as our conversation ranged far and wide, touching on many personalities, political and otherwise, he dispensed the type of acerbic comment that only he could, with regard to some of these individuals. At one point, for example, we were talking about Bertie Ahern, who had recently, when referring to the cabals of people who were against him, made the gaffe of calling them the ‘kebabs’. I said that I thought sometimes Bertie came out with that kind of malapropism for effect, just so that he would be perceived to be not particularly articulate. Charlie thought about this for a few minutes, however, before he said, ‘No, Bertie wouldn’t be smart enough to say something like that for effect.’

  We discussed many things and Terry and I very quickly became aware that Charlie was fully up to speed with all that was happening in the Dáil and indeed in the Seanad. At one point, he complained that when he watched the Oireachtas report at night on TV, he couldn’t hear what the Cathaoirleach of the Seanad was saying, telling us that we had better tell the man in question to speak up. This greatly amused me and Terry, because we each had voted personally for Rory Kiely to be our Cathaoirleach. But we both chose not to share this fact with Charlie, fearing he would castigate us for it. Old habits die hard indeed!

  So the conversation flowed freely, as did the white wine, except in Terry’s regard — and I could see him getting more miserable, since he was forbidden from imbibing any more. We stayed until around nine o’clock, and then we got up to go and both Charlie and Maureen came to the door with us. We exchanged kisses and good wishes and then away we went, back to Dublin, and Charlie and Maureen went back into their home together.

  I thought Charlie appeared to be in good health — he was certainly in good form — but Terry thought he looked tired and he may have been right for, by that time, the shadow of ill health already lay on him. I remember Terry saying to me as we travelled back, ‘Well, I’m sure we’re the subject of mild gossip now between Charlie and Maureen’, to which I replied, ‘I don’t think he’d bother!’ In any case, both of us were very glad that we had made the visit, and it was the last time I would see Charlie Haughey until after his death in June 2006, when I went again to Kinsealy to see him laid out.

  Now, this visit may not seem of such great significance, but for me somehow it was. It seemed to represent a sort of closing of the chapter of Charlie Haughey and my involvement with the man I had known and worked under, and who had had such an influence on my early political life, in appointing me firstly Shadow Minister for Education and then Minister for Education. From those actions on his part, so much of my later political life would flow.

  That December visit to Charlie and Maureen’s home, the cosy scene and the ambience of Christmas, also evoked in me many memories of the loved ones and friends no longer in my life — Enda, Brian Lenihan Snr, and so on. It seemed to me that many ghosts came out of the shadows that night and nodded approvingly, before fading away again, as we talked and remembered — many ghosts whose lives too had been so strongly influenced by Charlie Haughey. I am glad I got a chance to see him again when he was coherent, his mind and his talk intelligent, for it was only a few years later that cancer would take a hold on him. He had the good fortune to die at home, surrounded by his very devoted children and his ever-loving wife. Really, when it comes to the end, there is not much else one can hope for, but to pass away surrounded by dear ones who can reassure you with their love and care. And thus it was for Charlie Haughey.

  Chapter 16

  BENCHMARKING AND BEYOND

  My years as Leader of the Seanad were busy and, I liked to think, productive in many ways. As I have said, I was determined to work hard and make the most of this honour and opportunity. Being out of the immediate spotlight, and away from the overwhelming demands which go with full participation in the Dáil, allowed me more distance and time to reflect on some of the developments and trends in Irish society related directly to the governance of the country — and to anticipate where these might take us.

  One such trend which preoccupied me greatly as the years passed was how we moved from the emergence of the Programme for National Recovery between the government and the trade unions in the late 1980s, to a situation in the mid-2000s and beyond where, with the introduction of benchmarking, what had started out as a social contract between representatives of workers and re
presentatives of government, was to become like a full government system in itself.

  I have talked in an earlier chapter at some length about how in 1987 and 1988, the social partners and the government came together to hammer a way out of the extremely difficult financial situation, and how this gave rise to the Programme for National Recovery and other related social contracts. Every few years thereafter, there was a renewal of these programmes, each with their various titles. From 1991 to 1994, there was the Programme for Economic and Social Progress (PESP); from 1994 to 1996, the Programme for Competitiveness and Work (PCW); from 1997 to 2000, the Programme for Prosperity and Fairness (PPF). As the programmes developed, they became more varied and allowed for the inclusion of other interest groups, such as the voluntary sector, the disadvantaged sector, and so on. I was a firm proponent of these programmes and enthused over them a great deal. And yet, I also found myself thinking on many occasions that they were usurping the role of Cabinet, the role of the Dáil and the role of the government itself.

  Those of us in various positions in government were being reduced to rubber-stamping these programmes, just as the wider trade union working membership was reduced to rubber-stamping, just as the employers’ representative bodies such as IBEC were similarly reduced to rubber-stamping. Were we, in effect, sidestepping democracy and thwarting the opportunity for what should have been very full Dáil debates on many issues of key importance? It was undeniable that, during the periods when the country needed to be sorted out financially and socially, these programmes had fulfilled a very important and meaningful purpose and made a wonderful contribution. IBEC representing industry, ICTU representing workers, the many other sectors and skeins of life which made up different legs of the various programmes: all of these were a vital part of the texture of Irish life right throughout the nineties and into the new millennium. As the years passed, however, by the time we were mid-way through Bertie Ahern’s second term as Taoiseach — around 2004 or 2005 — the whole texture of these programmes became ridiculous, as benchmarking was introduced and began to assume an importance which was completely disproportionate. This was the period when private sector workers were deemed, in terms of remuneration, to have swept ahead of those in the public service and other trade union members generally.