The History of the Ginger Man: An Autobiography

by J. P. Donleavy

  “Don’t molest that little man.”

  Then, with a single blow of his fist, smashed Behan in the face. And then the man went and calmly sat down again while Behan, covered in blood, was thrown out on the pavement. To be ministered to by a just-arrived Gainor, who returned inside the restaurant and promptly demanded to know who had visited pain upon his pal Behan. And that he would challenge such person to a duel. But the man in question, thinking there was a better and quicker solution, got up to hit Gainor. And according to witnesses at the time, your man instead found himself flying at the end of a fist over John Ryan’s bar.

  As it was Gebler who witnessed this event in full, and hearing this story told by him, it was reassuring to know that whatever happened in the rest of the world to any of us, nothing had changed in Ireland. And Behan once confiding to me,

  “Mike, in this fucking predictably unpredictable country, where Protestant devout declare that they know their redeemer liveth, I’ve taken many a push, shove and punch, not to mention bullets sent at me. But I’ll tell you one thing that I wouldn’t tell any of me so-called own. It’s only the likes of you and Gainor that I’d trust with my life and, what’s more important, trust with any of the secrets of my soul.”

  Ernest Gebler, who grew up with Behan in their North Dublin slums, always warmly recalled watching this cherubic small boy Behan, with his characteristic bravado, take his bare-arsed dangerous dives from high places into the flotsam and jetsam of the Royal Canal. Bumping into dead cats and dogs as he would surface like a walrus, from the muddy depths, shouting his witty curses on all sides. And now Gebler was on his way to see me, having read what he thought were my terribly depressing letters from the New World. Few were ever to know the humane warmth of this dear man whose dour expression and hard shell tempered by stubbornness and his unbelievable struggle to become a writer made his external demeanor such to frighten folk from his vicinity. But held within him was a reservoir of sympathy and feeling that in the bitter begrudging climate of Ireland, and particularly Dublin, traditionally hostile to its writers, had to be kept well hidden from those who would do him harm. And who were at this very moment, as I waited for him on the Isle of Man, planning to do just that.

  And so, as the weather warmed in the subtropical environs of the island, and my mother-in-law away, doors were opened to the terraces to let the breezes blow through these comfortable rooms where Valerie and I were to have our first visitor who could be thought of as a friend. And we awaited Ernie eagerly, who, deserted by his former beautiful glamorous American lady, one had now learned had a new chatelaine in his life at Lake Park. She was called by the simple name of Edna and had the distinguished surname of O’Brien. Numerously occurring in County Clare, some of these folk were descendants of Brian Ború, High King of Ireland, and warriors all. And let me tell you, we were about to confront in not that many hours hence, a contingent of them, that would make the battle of Clontarf seem like a picnic for a Protestant church choir.

  We motored to the south of the island to meet Ernie and Edna at the small homespun airport of Ronaldsway. There were smiles and warm handshakes aplenty. But there was with this air of delight, one also sensed, immense relief evident in Ernie and Edna in their safe arrival. Which they soon explained was the result of drama which had recently unfolded in Ireland. Lake Park had been under siege by Edna’s relatives, who, thinking Ernie had dishonorable intentions in sweeping this young attractive girl off her feet, had commandeered friends and allies to take the guilty culprit to task. A situation in Ireland, where, with the people so devout, relatives could be soon put behind every bush and shrub and could set the entire nation against you. But now here they safely were, taking a breather on this small, neutral volcanic outcropping in the middle of the Irish Sea. A subtropical oasis free for the most part of crime and where no particular stigma attached to carnal knowledge. And where wenching, gambling and illegitimacy were quietly tolerated if not accepted and even encouraged. And on this pleasantly balmy day, it was a glorious trip up over the mountain road back to the north of the island. After much laughter, dining and wining, and brandy and coffee on a terrace overlooking the sea and chatting till midnight, we all retired happily to bed. Next day Ernie asked for a copy of the manuscript and went to sit on the front lawn in a deck chair under a palm tree, where he read the novel upon which, up in a bedroom, I was still working my few hours of every day. And Ernie, after a pleasant morning and afternoon and again dining as the calm wind blew through the house, finally pronounced, “Mike, this manuscript of yours is that of a real writer and aside from a few fanciful gyrations of an overstimulated mind from which much wants to explode, and does, it’s fantastic. And I’m impressed enough to tell you here and now that I’m prepared to financially support you completely until it’s finished and the book finds a publisher, no matter how long that takes.”

  These were astonishing and unequivocal words to hear spoken by another writer and, after America, much appreciated ones. High hopes were suddenly beginning to again emerge in life. But much living drama was soon to intervene over that of the literary. Hours of the day were spent with Edna, whose sense of humor could be played upon until she could no longer sit or stand up with laughter. And she in turn embellished and painted amusing word pictures of the circumstances in which she and Ernie had found themselves and which were soon to be unamusingly added to. It was about to be discovered that Edna, beautiful, sweepingly charming and curvaceous as well, did not have relatives who could even remotely be described in such glowing terms. Her lilting, colorful use of the English language belied an original, for whom the Irish expression “charm the birds down off the trees” might have been invented. And of course she was the perfect foil for my elaborate exaggerations, as well as an eager listener to my counsel.

  “Mike, you have laid the ghost to rest for me of all my nightmares at Lake Park, haunted as I’ve been by the previous inmates there. And your mental and moral advice is sticking to me like flypaper.”

  Edna, as well as having to tolerate the lurking auras of previous ladies at Lake Park, had also been more than a little intimidated by Ernest’s much older friends, some of whom were bullying and envious of this flower of Irish maidenhood. And all of whom had already been hardened in the bitter and boiling bile of Dublin’s literary and artistic circles. Which anyone would be forgiven for thinking were hardly much more than a gang of layabouts with sheets of blank paper in their typewriters and looking for handouts. Ernie, being nearly the single exception to these unachieved, was the target for their somewhat resentful jealousies. And they wasted no time to describe Edna as having just daintily stepped out from behind the respectability of the aspidistra in order to foster her ambitions with Gebler, a much older and an already internationally acknowledged successful author. But in Dublin, that was certain cause to get you branded as being less than mediocre. And gave instant license to both those who knew you and those who didn’t know you, to insult, berate and malign the bejesus out of you until you were thoroughly reduced back down to where you started from and where everyone fervently believed you belonged and should stay. And, by God, let the lady in your close proximity go in tatters with you.

  Ernie, I knew, had suffered a long bout of loneliness before this young Irish dream had stepped into his life. Normally abstemious, he solitarily and curmudgeonly had been for months drinking quantities of whiskey and wasting away each day. For he’d been much and deeply smitten by the loss of his previous lady. Which once was revealed in an unguarded moment when someone said something critical of her in his company. Not only did the remark bring tears to Ernie’s eyes but caused a fist to be sent to the jaw of the speaker, who found himself suddenly sitting a few yards away on his arse. And I’m sure there were more than a few moments in Ernest’s life which were equally agonizingly sad. And especially the saga of Sally Travers, the loveliest of all of Ireland’s ladies. But he never let it be known to anyone how deeply he’d loved this young woman Lea from Hollywood who fled
his sylvan domain back to America.

  But now Ernie was more than content with this new, tall, willowy, attractive lady, full of drollness when not full of tears. And she had already broken away from the Irish way of life prescribed by her respectable Irish farming family from the west. And genteel from a convent education, she had recently emerged from behind a chemist shop counter, where she had worked in Dublin engagingly dispensing soaps, perfumes and emetics and was overnight coping with her new grander role as the companion of an acclaimed author with whom she was presently staying without the blessing of marriage as a long-term guest in his manor house. And there was more innocence than native cunning in her behavior as she now arrived with Gebler at the Anchorage, Port-e-Vullin. This splendid sprawling stone house of my mother-in-law’s perched on a rock outcropping, and its gardens nearly sat on the waves. We took tea on the lawn under the subtropical palm trees. But the atmosphere of this idyllic visit slowly began to change when suddenly out of the blue a Manx detective arrived inquiring in general about the weather, which was agreeably bright, balmy and sunny. And then asking if my mother-in-law took in paying guests. I became suitably surprised if not aghast at this question, and the detective retreated and for the moment I thought no more about this strange intrusion.

  Ah, but then not that long after, other folk had surreptitiously come in two more laden cars. Which parked above the house on the road and were out of sight but full to the brim with pure Irishmen. Plus a bishop from somewhere. To me, at first it looked like the unexpected arrival of friends and a version of an impromptu family reunion. And when Ernie got up to meet and talk with them and with the detective acting as equerry, I decided to leave my guests with their guests and repaired back up to my study, whose window faced out upon the sea and where I was writing my revisions of The Ginger Man. Ah, but the visitors had requested of Ernie that because of the private, confidential nature of their call, he accompany them outside the precincts of the Anchorage. I had not been long upstairs when suddenly I heard screams from Valerie.

  “Mike, come quick, come quick, they’re beating up Ernie.”

  Leaping from my desk, I tore myself away from the serenity of my sea views, papers flying as I went jumping down the stairs three at a time. I took off my jacket and a heavy sweater. Swinging around the bollard of the bannister at the bottom of these softly mint green–carpeted steps. Rolling up my sleeves as I ran through a hall. Depositing my watch on the Mouse Man–made dining room table as I sailed across that room. I was able to see one of the mice this furniture maker carved on each of his pieces. I now could hear the young lady Edna sobbing somewhere. And I increased speed out through the kitchen, already throwing shadowboxing blows to warm up my arms. Past the laundry room and scullery, I raced along a conservatory passageway full of peaceful plants and out a door which led across paving and up steps to the front gate which was a doorway in a tall stone wall. This entrance opened out onto a slipway which went down alongside the house, past which it sloped into the sea. I could already hear the Irish-accented, raised voices and shouts and the Gaelic reference to testicles: “That’s it, lads, give him one in the goolies.”

  And now I could see as I emerged onto this bit of roadway, Ernie at the bottom, cornered and caught between the high garden wall at his back and a railing fencing him from the sea waves. He was clearly battling for his life as six or so folk rained blows and kicks upon him, with a seventh acting as a lookout up the slipway. And, by God, who saw me coming. I had no idea that the tongues had been wagging across Ireland and that avenging legions had been mustered over the association of Edna and Ernie. And there is nothing quite like the contretemps that can be created in the old sod from such situations. Or the alacrity with which those who abhorred such could be banded into an army of farmers and rugby players to end such relationships. Now, Ernie as a writer would have been an unknown quantity as a fighter, but I knew he was as strong as an ox and could snap his sinewy steel muscles like a whiplash. And I could already see that he was giving his seven antagonists one awful surprise. To which was added news that I was now coming roaring on the scene. I did at least know that if people back in Dublin had doubts as to whether I could write or paint, the one thing no one seemingly disputed was my being able to give a decent account of myself in an affray. And as I sallied forth, appearing on the slipway, a cry of warning was shouted by the lookout.

  “It’s him. It’s Donleavy, he’s coming.”

  “You bet your bloody Irish fucking arses I am, and this fighting amphibian is going to kick the living, bigoted shit out of every single fucking one of you.”

  In America one said little or nothing before a fight, but somehow dealing with these vigilante Irish bullies invited a vigorous announcement of one’s unmitigatedly vicious intentions. Of course I must have said “bigoted” at the time. Especially as it at least would deflect some of the acrimonious attention being paid to the poor, woefully outnumbered Ernest Gebler. And I knew by the expression “It’s him” that my violent reputation had preceded me. But even as I approached the battle, Ernest had already himself flattened two of the seven prone on the slipway and had just sent with an uppercut a third hurtling skyward, head arching first and feet last over the rusted railing and into the rough sea that was battering the slipway wall. And as I reached the brawl, I was able, in an authentically Irish manner, to level one more with a grossly unsportsmanlike blow just to the rear of his right ear while this victim’s back was turned. Then as two of them set upon me at once, it was positively delicious to land hooks, bolos and uppercuts into this pack of persecutors. With one of the four remaining putting up his imploring hands to scream.

  “Don’t hit me, I’m an old man and haven’t climbed Croagh Patrick yet, and I’ve a Friday left to make of the nine first Fridays.”

  There could be little or no dubitation here that we were dealing with a bunch of devout Catholics. And there were more yelps and squeals of discomfort as the religious-referring gent, who admittedly wasn’t in the springtime of his prime, was, once let alone, then trying his damnedest to gouge Gebler’s eyes out. It is entirely possible that this incensed person may have been Edna’s father. But now I had no hesitation in hauling him away by the scruff of the neck, turning him around and bopping him a light one on the jaw and then turning him around again unleashing an almighty boot up his backside, to send him pitching forward on his face to be then followed by yet another kick as he got to his knees to scuttle away up the slipway, to escape while mumbling.

  “Oh God, have mercy upon the hateful libertine infidel and the heinous pagan.”

  There was no doubt that Gebler and I were both the pagan and infidel being referred to. And this seemed the signal for the three gents who remained facing the two of us, and clearly the rugby players of the contingent, who could now be enjoined in what could reasonably be termed a fair fight, to promptly, speedily depart. One having to proceed hopping on one shoeless foot, for Gebler had a firm hold of the other leg. It was at this moment that I spied two more figures who were all this time lurking behind a wall in reserve but who now thought the better of leaping into the breach as their cohorts limped, hobbled and crawled as fast as they could back up the slipway to their cars. The rear now being taken up by the chap Gebler had socked flying into the drink, who, with water pouring out of his shoes and with copious amounts of seaweed hanging down around his ears, now resembled a female impersonator transvestite. And the poor sodden bastard, as he scrambled backward away, had now the incredible nerve to shake his fist at us.

  “We’ll get ye yet, you filthy fornicator.”

  Clearly, the intention of these unannounced visitors had been to beat Gebler to within an inch of, if not entirely extinguish, his life. And in the present rout of this gang of Irish retreating up the slipway, and me still outraged by such bullying behavior, I had no hesitation in landing further kicks here and there on the various backsides as they fled. While at the same time shouting dire warnings as to what would happen to them if any
of their lot were to be found still on the island after sundown. On the road at the top of the slipway and in this unseasonably warm afternoon sunshine, the first peaceful buzz of the bees was to be heard in the honeysuckle. And the bishop from somewhere stood with a crucifix and rosary blessing himself and giving the last rites to Edna’s father, who had collapsed to his knees with what was thought to be a heart attack. The bishop now declaring, I thought, most unfairly and inappropriately,

  “It’s the likes of the violent pair of you down there who have brought disgrace upon a decent family and an innocent young girl.”

  As the culprits of the attack crept back into their cars and disappeared in a cloud of exhaust up the road and over the headland and Gebler finished thanking me for saving his life, I counted six incisor and three bicuspid teeth on the slipway and quickly ran my tongue searchingly back and forth in my mouth. Happily, neither I nor Gebler was missing any, and indeed I seemed not to have suffered a scratch. Under our own power, we made our way back again through the garden door in the wall and locked the latch. And Ernie, who did receive cuts and bruises, was a genius with home remedies and bathed and bandaged his injuries while comforting his pretty Edna, who, sobbing before, was fortunately now, as I gave ringside descriptions of the infighting, able to see the amusing side of the imbroglio and was holding her stomach, falling off her chair laughing, which equally had the rest of us doing the same as she added her own embellishments with her lilting brogue, melodiously coining poignant phrases and making observations in her inimitable Irish way.