After she had died I looked around the room and decided that the wall inside the bed could do with a lick of paint. I went out to the back porch for a tin of white paint and a brush. Balancing myself on the edge of the bed I leaned in over Aunty Mary and painted the wall above her. As I leaned across her, I could almost hear her say, “Alice, I always said that you had a trína chéile house!”
That night we had a surprise visit from a priest friend of ours who was home from Africa, and the following day he said Aunty Mary’s funeral mass. Because he had not known her, he assumed that she had been a dear, gentle old lady who had accepted with resignation the frailties of old age. As he waxed eloquent about her many virtues I sensed that all around me her relatives, including Mick, were listening in amazement, wondering if they were at the wrong funeral. Even in death she could spring a surprise.
* Mixed-up, confused
A LITTLE BIT OF WRITING
ALWAYS LIKED THE bit of writing,” the old man told me. His eyes were so full of laughter that it overflowed and ran down his face, curling his mouth into a smile of mischievous innocence.
“Kept me out of harm’s way,” he continued, chuckling deep down in his angular frame. “Herself liked it, too,” he added, and for a fleeting moment a shadow crossed his face. “She died at thirty-eight and there was only myself and the five little girls. Great little girls they were, all under nine years of age, but we managed together. Every night when we had the lessons done, we did the bit of writing and they enjoyed it. I worked on the road with the county council and the girls were good at the schooling and got good jobs. Went to Dublin, the five of them, to the Civil Service and teaching. And do you know something: we often write to each other in verse because we all like the little bit of writing.”
It was the opening night of Listowel Writers’ Week and I was chatting to a craggy countryman in the ballroom of the Listowel Arms Hotel. This kindly-faced man from the Kerry hills stretched out his long legs and relaxed amidst the cheese and wine and pulsating music of the band that had couples young, middle-aged and ageless writhing to its rhythm.
Earlier that evening a friend and I had driven into the sun-soaked town, where a scattering of cars were parked in front of the hotel and a dog dozed outside the door. Yellow rambling roses draped around the windows gave the hotel the restful elegance of a country mansion. Our comfortable bedroom was on the first floor, looking out over the town square which was guarded by two steeples. My friend and companion for the week was a lady who believed in “bring it in case you’d want it”, and by the time we had finally installed ourselves, we were in need of refreshments. We were joined in the bar by a Listowel man who was also attending Writers’ Week, and he welcomed us to his town and wished us a pleasant stay.
Afterwards we walked up the town in search of a screw-in bulb for the light over one of the beds. It had blown just as I had pressed the switch, but rather than request a replacement at the now busy reception desk, we decided to use it as an excuse to take a walk around and get to know the town. Many of the shops were still open, and we spent a pleasant hour chatting to the friendly shop people. A screw-in bulb eluded us, however, but its importance diminished as the conversation developed.
Arriving back at the hotel, we made our way to the packed ballroom where Writers’ Week was officially opened. The attendance was assured that they could be high brow, low brow, or no brow: Listowel catered for them all. An elegantly attired ladies’ choir took us to musical heights, and Dan Keane, with his soft Kerry brogue, chaired the occasion with droll wit. At the door coming in we had been furnished with two tickets, one for bread and one for wine, but there the religious connotations severed as the crowd danced happily into the small hours.
The following morning I made my way to the boys’ school which housed my choice of workshop. The interchange of ideas between all the participants made me realise that the workshop was a real mixed bag of people. There were some Americans and English, and the Irish people present were mainly from the North of Ireland and Dublin. The Americans were exuberant and had no inhibitions about reading their own works. The English spoke in BBC accents, and I could see that they took this whole workshop business very seriously. I was beginning to think that maybe I had bitten off more than I could digest when a light-hearted Dublin man read a very funny short story he had written, and the whole room rang with laughter.
Some people there had published work and were anxious to polish their techniques, others were keen to be published, others just enjoyed writing – if they got published that was an extra bonus – and some were there for the fun. A large man who sat beside me scarcely opened his mouth for the first few days, which made me extremely nervous; when I attempted conversation, he peered out over his rimless spectacles at me as if I were talking nonsense – a possibility I did not entirely rule out. It had got to the stage where I was afraid to open my mouth, because when I am nervous I babble. One day, because he had no choice, he read a short story he had written. It was sad, sensitive and beautiful. When he had finished reading, some of the people in the workshop had tears in their eyes. His story merited a round of applause and he was dreadfully embarrassed. I was amazed that such a grumpy, arrogant man, as I had thought him to be, could have written such a story, and I couldn’t resist telling him so.
“But,” he protested, “I’m not arrogant, just terrified. I was so nervous coming to this workshop that I decided to keep a low profile.”
“You certainly succeeded,” I told him. “I was scared stiff to open my mouth to you after my first few attempts.”
A big smile lit up his face and from then on we enjoyed the workshop and each other’s company. As the workshop unfolded with the days, it became apparent that it was sometimes the most retiring in the group who were the talented ones. But the variety of people present made me realise that the urge to write spans all barriers, and as we relaxed and came to know each other better, we got great enjoyment out of our week together.
Apart from the workshops, the days in Listowel offered a variety of readings, book launches, talks and drama. The happenings were spread all around the town, in the library, the hall, St John’s church, the school and the pubs. In order to attend every function it would have been necessary to have winged feet. I was intrigued by one elderly nun who could have been clocking eighty and who was present at every event. We christened her the flying nun.
Our minds were stirred by a talk in the library on the poets of North Kerry, while in St John’s church Sam McAughtry gave an unchurchlike and very amusing talk. He read from his works and opened our minds to the ordinary lives of the Protestant community in Northern Ireland and the humour that enables people to live together despite the continuing violence.
In the hotel ballroom Bob Kingdom took us on a mental journey to Wales and brought alive the beauty and cutting wit of Dylan Thomas. We were almost afraid to clear our throats lest we miss a gem-laden line. A mother with a gurgling baby in arms waving a plastic rattle had drifted in but felt compelled to bow out. Dylan Thomas shared centre stage with no one.
So packed was the schedule that there was hardly time to eat. People from the different workshops mixed and chatted in the hotel and in the pubs, where impromptu concerts and poetry readings developed. Mid-week a literary pub crawl led by a bodhrán player did the rounds, each pub staging a literary event, but towards the end of the night the literary vision of all concerned had become a little blurred. We did not see bed until the small hours of the morning, as people gathered in groups to discuss the different events and sometimes impromptu readings and long discussions followed. One American couple told me that they came to Listowel for Writers’ Week every year. They did not join any workshop and they did not write; they just enjoyed being there for that week.
One night we were in a pub full of locals who had no interest in Writers’ Week. One lad told me that he felt that it had no relevance to him, so a lively discussion on Irish attitudes evolved which the whole pub got stuck i
nto. I asked him if he thought that he was “a hurler on the ditch”; to which he replied, “No, a footballer; you’re in Kerry now, you know.” He sat on his high stool and sang “The Old Bog Road” in a beautiful tenor voice and with such feeling that an old man beside me, who had come from England for Writers’ Week, wiped a tear from his eye. When someone else sang a lively number, the same lad tapped out the rhythm on the counter with a long ice-tongs.
The pretty barmaid reached out, saying, “Give me that.”
“That’s a dangerous weapon,” he cautioned, waving it over her head.
“It’s not the only dangerous weapon you have,” she told him sharply, gripping the tongs firmly and taking it off him. She was young, confident and pleasant, and served the entire pub with great assurance, deftly managing a bedraggled drunk whom she soothed with the right word whenever he was getting out of hand. At closing time the lad off the high stool collected the drunk and took him home.
It had been an enjoyable night during which poetry was read, songs sung, and debate, conversation and arguments ranged from writing and country lore to love making and the curse of emigration, from which many present had suffered.
A historic tour of North Kerry displayed many aspects of Kerry life, including its tolerance. Our bus driver parked in the middle of a crossroads and passing motorists – or, rather, motorists unable to pass – took it all in their stride with no sign of impatience. Not one blaring horn broke the silence of that beautiful countryside.
The highlight of the tour was the unveiling of a plaque on the home of Maurice Walsh, which was performed with dignity, eloquence and the colour of Kerry wit. The only hitch, ironically enough, was provided by a small, dark man with a greasy cap who took up his position beside the plaque, where he contrasted vividly with the whitewashed gable end of the cottage. He felt the need to give a running commentary on proceedings and, because of his somewhat unusual appearance and choice of words, was in danger of turning the whole proceedings into a one-man comic act. However, he proved no problem to his resourceful friends, because while Dan Keane engaged him in conversation, the powerful figure of Sean McCarthy stood in front of him and obliterated the little man from our view. There was no hassle; he was one of their own and belonged there, so they did nothing to upset him. A Kerry solution to a Kerry problem.
Over the door was a giant key depicting The Key Above the Door, a book which must have found its way into almost every home in Ireland. The key was crafted by local man Michael Barry who every Christmas helps to bring out the Ballydonoghue parish magazine. Writing flows through the veins of Kerry, and maybe Brendan Kennelly wrote the truth when he had Maloney say that it was in the Listowel water supply. From the area around Maurice Walsh’s home came the ancestors of John B. Keane, Brendan Kennelly and Sean McCarthy. There must have been something special in that stretch of countryside.
There, in a little roadside thatched pub with an open turf fire and black crane, we had drinks and sandwiches. On a small, deep-set side window, a soundless television had its American soap opera obliterated when set dancers took to the floor and live music filled the pub. One woman who had previously played the bodhrán with gusto now hopped off the floor, the rhythm of the music controlling every movement of her body. When asked if it was a hard floor to dance on, she answered with flushed face and sparkling eyes, “It fights against you, but that’s good, and the music intoxicates me.”
Sean McCarthy shook the rafters with his rendering of “Rattle up the pots and the old tin cans” and his hilarious stories filled the day with laughter. Dan Keane traced the genealogy of every family home along the route back almost to Adam. That man had such a capacity for tracing family trees that Americans looking for their roots should run bus tours to him.
The literary giants of Listowel knit Writers’ Week together and a small and dedicated team do trojan work. Gabriel Fitzmaurice, Chairman of Writers’ Week, seemed to be everywhere; with bundles of papers hanging out of his pockets, he laced all the events together. Then late one night he gave a poetry reading upstairs in a back room of the Listowel Arms. His rich voice took us on a journey to many places, but we wound up looking into dark brown bog-holes and exploring the beauty of a child’s mind. He spends his days with children and the child in him has never died.
The genial Bryan MacMahon walked the streets of Listowel during Writers’ Week like a host at a large party. He welcomed newcomers and introduced them to locals, and while it was understandable that he knew everybody in Listowel he also seemed to know everybody who had come there for the week as well. The Writers’ Week was his brainchild and now that his child had become a mature adult he was enjoying the fruits of his labours. He then told me about the night he had come home from Dublin when Listowel had won the All-Ireland Drama competition. He had danced in delight around his mother’s kitchen and she had advised, “Bryan, walk easy when your jug is full.” He laughed now as he recalled her advice and then he took us into a little tea-room where we had tea and buns.
Who but John B. would silence the crowd and sing “The Banks of My Own Lovely Lee” to welcome us to his pub? He sat on a high stool outside the counter and regulated a continual concert, insisting that each artist was awarded respectful silence. If his requests did not penetrate to those minds intent on other business, his sons imparted his instructions to them and his charming wife Mary supervised behind the counter. Like a king on a throne, John B. was monarch of all he surveyed. On a stool beside him sat a small brown man like a wren on top of a holly bush. From his elevated position we were at eye level.
“Have you a chirp in you?” he demanded.
It took me a few seconds to interpret his enquiry as to my singing ability, which for the sake of the common good has to be confined to the privacy of home. Soon a girl with a beautiful, clear lilt brought absolute silence. The following morning at mass the same voice filled the church with its beauty. She definitely had more than “a chirp” in her. She was the dawn chorus.
At breakfast that morning we were joined by two native Irish speakers from Dingle, one of whom I had met previously. As my Irish was not too fluent they were forced into English, which did not come easy to one of them. His friend remarked jokingly, “This fellow is half illiterate: he has only one language.”
To which the other man declared, “At least I’m only illiterate in one language. You’re illiterate in two.”
He went on to tell me about an old parish priest who had been in Dingle when he was young.
“He would always doze off in the confession box, but if you mentioned girls or sins of the flesh, he would straighten up and cock his ear and ask for every detail. The only sexual experience that man ever had was in through his ear.”
He continued earnestly, “Priests should get married, I think. Do you know something: it is my belief that God did not give us any spare parts.”
It was a most entertaining breakfast, laced as it was with Dingle theology.
As we left the hotel we met Eamon Keane. Having listened to his wonderful voice on radio over the years, he was somebody for whom I had the greatest admiration. His dark brooding eyes in his thin ascetic face gave him the appearance of a medieval monk. He told me that he was meeting an old friend for lunch; they had gone to school together and been childhood sweethearts but had not met for over thirty years.
“What will she think of me now?” he mused gently.
“I think that she will fall in love with you all over again,” I told him, and looking at his dark, handsome, sensitive face, I felt that it would not be too difficult for any woman.
As we left Listowel I remembered the advice his mother had given to Bryan MacMahon and felt that after our week there all our jugs were a little fuller.
HIDDEN POET
You live behind
The mirror of a
Carefree, laughing boy.
But you are an
Old old woman
Whose sensitive eyes
Have seen too much,
Whose vulnerable heart
Has bled too much.
You hide it
Behind your mirror,
Which once cracked,
Revealing for a moment,
The sad soul of
A poet.
GENTLE JESUS
THEY DECIDED ON impulse to come to our village. One day as David had driven through it, he had thought that it would be a nice place to live. His job did not tie them to any particular location, and within a week they had moved into a little house up the street from my own. David was a good-looking, easy-going Kerryman, with a quicksilver mind, who enjoyed fishing and reading, but Rachel was the one who drew all eyes in her direction. Her father was from the west of Ireland, her mother from France, and she was beautiful. David called her his Botticelli woman; she was voluptuous and well endowed, and folds of brown curling hair cascaded down around her shoulders. But it was her face that really held your attention; it was oval shaped with dark brown eyes and her skin was tawny with golden freckles. She was the most relaxed easy-going person I ever met and her rich, husky voice flowed over you like soothing cream. I always felt on meeting her that she had time for everything and that she never bothered with the word hurry – it was not in her vocabulary. They were a wonderful couple and it was obvious that they were at peace with each other and with the world.
Country Days Page 8