The History of the Ginger Man: An Autobiography

by J. P. Donleavy

  “Mike, I do hope your mother-in-law has a sense of humor and won’t be outraged by the marauding tribes of Clare on their mission to protect young virgins and who in the process have desecrated her respectable doorway.”

  I now made a series of threatening phone calls to the local police that my gracious and considerably prominent and influential mother-in-law’s lovely villa had been besmirched by a bunch of Irish ruffians. And that one of my guests, an internationally acclaimed author, had been viciously set upon and that unless the Manx constabulary had them off the island this day I would play my own form of besmirching pop with the entire police force. I was always amazed at how I could so convincingly bullshit in this manner. But of course, the young lady Edna was not only charming but also innocent of the culpability being alleged by the ostensibly well-meaning vigilantes out to save her good name and to prevent her from being led astray by a carnal-minded best-selling writer and to put her back on the previous good path laid down for all well-bred Irish country girls. In any event, Gebler was, for all his sometimes dour qualities, one of that rare breed, a consummate gentleman. And fully deserving of the battle fought to save him from the unjust punishment intended by Edna’s would-be protectors. But these Irish in revenge never give up, or at least not until you marry the girl. Which Gebler finally did as his second wife. And alas, another talented Irish writer came into being and to ultimate world acclaim. Years later it did make me remember how, before the latter lady achieved her recognition, she had been made to suffer obtuse ridicule at the hands of some of Gebler’s contemporaries, pretenders to artistic sophistication, who, ready to pounce, lurked resentfully in the bitter world of Irish letters. And to whom I once announced,

  “You are making fun of a young lady who will one day be the literary queen of England.”

  Of course, the young lady could well take care of herself and certainly needed no help from me, but I was full of such bizarrely grandiose predictions and never wasted an opportunity when I felt they could be expressed, and perhaps only for a second thinking that any of them could ever come true. In any event, as Gebler was already a literary king, it was easy enough to throw titles about. Especially as I already had in my earlier Dublin days, pretentiously as possible, readily assumed them myself. But one never knew for absolute sure who all these volunteer vigilantes were who landed out of the blue on the Isle of Man, for as participants in the most famed Irish literary fisticuffs of all time, they weren’t exactly ready to admit being routed by a pair of scribblers of the written word. But they did represent a faction and a mode of action frequently resorted to in Ireland to stamp out any carnal impurity that might be thought afoot and publicly affecting the morals of the female citizenry of that land. And one knew such contingent could be gathered in a thrice by merely a whisper in an ear in any pub, especially if the perpetrator of such alleged debauchery had a foreign-sounding name. And so had I come, in my little interim away from the old sod, into contact with Ireland and the Irish again. And would you believe it:

  America

  Was beginning to suddenly seem

  Like the land of

  The free

  And home of the brave

  Once more

  33

  COMING BACK from her Jungian sojourn to Zurich and a quick visit to an Indian ashram, my mother-in-law returned. Broad-mindedly good-natured as she was, she seemed not to be too much aggrieved at the imbroglio enacted in the confines of her idyllic villa. Except that one could sense a trace of alarm as she became aware of the resulting spread of the story like wildfire across the island which alleged concupiscence and mayhem had raged through the Anchorage. But in the course of the subsequent days, she was more concerned with Valerie’s and my situation of having to find somewhere to live, and not too keen regarding money Valerie could receive under her father’s will. Understandable enough considering her three other children and now numerous grandchildren in whom she took much interest and even delight, and did want to see the best done for each.

  And wanting to see the best done for Valerie and young Philip, I was also my usual good-natured, broad-minded self. At least up to the point when required to act as administrant of canapés and drinks at her eagerly attended cocktail parties frequented by the elite of the island. Among whom were the returned colonists deserting Africa and India, who now, without their previous numerous servants, stood about over their gins and tonics generally trying to find chinks in my continued incredibly impenetrable armor of utter and unfailing politeness. But Mrs. Heron having let it be known she wasn’t going to support my ego, I soon let it be known that I was not to be used as an excuse for depriving her daughter of a modest inheritance. These entirely civil back-and-forth sentiments were discussed over tea and once over after-dinner brandy when, as the embers of the drawing room fire were beginning to fade, it suddenly developed into honesty night. As I was reminded that I did not get my book published in America and then I in turn rudely inquired of my mother-in-law as to how it felt with so many people waiting for her to die. This unforgivably matter-of-fact remark of mine did not go down well. But again, my mother-in-law could be equally matter-of-fact. “Mike, I do assure you I will not let the thought make the rest of my life any less pleasant. And surely it’s not the worst thing in the world of your having to think of getting a job.”

  Of course it was the very worst thing. Heinous in fact. Indeed utterly unthinkable. And now with my impatience with nonbelievers in The Ginger Man heightened, I was quick to respond to even the vaguest suggestion that I might be an indolent, sponging parasite. And salt was surely going to get rubbed into the wounds of these exchanging remarks, which I was the first to administer, but which, of course, were said in my usual polite manner, and again one had to admit that she took them better than well, not only inviting me to have another pale old brandy but making a smiling response.

  “Well, Mike, I assure you that I shall take as much pleasure in your success as you will and, in fact, will regard my archives, which include many remarks about and many pictures of you, with renewed interest.”

  It was characteristic of this very attractive and mostly bravely understanding lady that she was fully prepared to take her bombastic son-in-law in stride. Assured as she was that her own four children were as talented as they were handsome. Ah, but my angst was not lessening over my predicament of where to go and what to do. I made a brief trip to Ireland, a mere half an hour away by airplane, and saw Ernie and Edna at Lake Park. They seemed to have survived their ordeal but were still living under a threat of siege. Ernie revealing that while they were away under attack on the Isle of Man, they had been invaded at Lake Park as well. Both clergy and police keeping Ernie’s staff closeted in rooms to be cross-examined for several hours. Edna, although holding out, was still on tenterhooks and concerned, as Ernie, with his face of gloom and guns loaded, would wonder what was going to happen next. But would at least be able as a crack shot to knock notches off any approaching unfriendly ears, with Edna advising him,

  “They’ll be for the time being, especially with Mike here, withdrawn into their burrows with only their little horns sticking out to gore us. Then, their nerve restored, they’ll come crawling out to crouch behind every stray stone and shrub to ambush us. And, Mike, they have me every minute I hear the dog bark running upstairs to see if I can see out the window any of them coming like the cunning caterpillars they are, creeping this way.”

  Returning to Dublin, I saw Tony McInerney. He’d decamped from the Catacombs, where he was to be the very last to hold sway over those dungeons, albeit upgraded by him, which had for so long been the refuge of the damned and those supremely elegant of intellect and especially those eager of further and better carnal knowledge. However, these chambers were now being occupied in a dignified family way, the former “host,” so referred to endearingly, and having made a disparaging remark about a visitor and having his throat promptly reduced that night to the diameter of a shoelace by the gent this otherwise extremely p
leasantly entertaining man, as a result of this violent happening, thought it safer to abandon these famed premises for all time. But then shortly afterward, Tony, with his increased brood, moved to a suburban large house. And, ah, but who should soon call just back from America but that would-be eternal tourist, Gainor Stephen Crist, who, in taking up brief residence as a guest, did by his behavior get himself barred from this McInerney mansion and Tony’s hospitality for all time.

  Of course these disbarments had a way of being temporarily lifted in order that they could rigidly and permanently be reimposed again. And I could imagine the kind of behavior and the goings-on that Gainor might have been involved in upon his return from the New World. He seemed now to have formulated further and more distant destinations to seek his fortune in such as Nigeria and Tanganyika. However, meanwhile he was reawakening old acquaintanceships upon making a prolonged pub pilgrimage through the ancient settlement of Dublin. But as I now walked alone through the streets of this city, I realized that a poignantly memorable era was fully and finally over. That any celebratory life that one might now anticipate to be lived might never again be lived as it had been in the romantic past. That the struggle now was just to survive with uppermost in all minds not to make the fate of young children growing up too grim. And with Ernie and Edna’s recent life reminding me of the bitter narrowmindedness and bigotry, and such free-minded oases as the Catacombs gone, somehow I did not relish the thought of setting up again in what seemed Ireland’s intransigent intolerance.

  Trinity College too was showing its first signs of change as native Irish influence became greater within its once exclusively Anglo-Irish walls, where once Catholics feared to tread. And now through these familiar streets, I walked in bereft loneliness, one’s spirit crushed further as raindrops fell upon one’s back and head. But there were still erupting out of pub doorways and coming around corners the odd face that one recognized. And even some mainstays, such as the tall former heavyweight boxing champion Jack Doyle, the gorgeous Gael, back from London. Who would with assured noteworthiness always nod to me as he passed and always appeared as if walking upon a stage. Taking afternoon tea in the better cinema cafes. And always with a young lady in tow. To whom he would bow in seating her and, with an accent to match, display his elaborate internationally acquired social graces. These were the Dublin actors at large and long known to their audiences. Ready to flaunt a bogus title or make an entrance, or having caused an expected embarrassment, make a dramatic exit. But first, if there were any sign of it, be poised to take a bow to any applause.

  It was such eccentric constancy that threaded together this city’s random life. And it needed only the briefest of encounters to make one feel that the old Dublin one knew was still there with its antique fixtures of its citizenry intact. And as I walked down Grafton Street to its intersection with Suffolk, there was still the Jewish gentleman of these environs happily in action. Who, as rush hour approached, was still stepping out into the thoroughfare to direct traffic and courteously allow pedestrians to cross. Of course he was damn good at stopping motorcars, bicycles, barrows or drays, and was always left to do so by the Garda Siochana. His assistance being highly appreciated as might not be the case in any other city in the world. And being from a highly regarded and prosperous family he was better dressed and frequently wore a cutaway coat and striped trousers and was never without his rose or carnation in his buttonhole. But just past this point of Grafton Street, some other ancient delights were still intact, such as Jammet’s restaurant. Its back entrance hidden down a narrow alley. And into which upon so many an undergraduate evening one popped to take a draft stout or two and a dish of oysters. Tucked away in the tiled sanctum of the Gentlemen Only bar. And where once, as I drank there, a chap entered who, seeing me, declared as he paused on the raised entrance step, “That beard, sir, that you are wearing is bogus.”

  Such a remark of course in the Dublin of that day instantly called for a challenge to a duel and the death of one of us. But the chap, upon quickly hearing who I violently was, was escorted out of sight as I laughed at his quite charming Anglo-Irish bravery, even as temporary as it turned out to be. And here I was again back in this tiled, cozy sanctum, but at the same time, feeling somehow driven away. Simply by the Old World I had known there now grown silent. Of the adventure of the roaring voices and the clowns. The chat and the ghosts. That could endure through the night, and at times go on for days. And these same ghosts still chatting to whom I now listened once more. But not even this familiar and pleasant place and the sound of its phantoms seemed able to convince me to return to settle back on this isle and continue to fight in defiance of obscurity and death.

  A photograph taken by Murray Sayle in my aviator-looking mode, which Sayle felt would add a sense of adventure to my image.

  Ah, but meanwhile, back at the Anchorage Nora Heron had relented and agreed to hand over Valerie’s modest inheritance, which she had promised of her own volition before we went to America. She’d already been through a similar problem with her other son-in-law, married to the eldest of her beautiful daughters. And daughters, both of whom had been hopefully destined by their parents to marry the sons of the aristocracy of the great Yorkshire mill-owning families and who had been desperately pursued by these same young gentlemen. But it was to be otherwise than according to plan. Along came her first son-in-law, who, during the war was a traditionally dashing handsome British marine corps major, and was known by the simple one-barrelled name of John Ross. Christmas holiday winter evenings in the sumptuous lounge of the house in Ilkley, Yorkshire, aflow with potted meat, ales, cheeses, vintage port, we convened and played parlor games together with our beautiful spouses such as one on the Ouija board. Guided by our fingers to spell out mediumistic messages, which I think more than occasionally I may have dared force to read.

  THIS GAME IS FULL OF SHIT

  Such an antic somehow reminding me of my earliest inspiration, the Katzenjammer Kids, a color strip in the Sunday newspapers in New York, over which my brother and I would delight at their misdemeanors, for which they would, in the last frame, end up being soundly spanked and seen bawling their heads off for their misbehavior. Which I, now grown up, seemed to playfully exhibit on any seemingly serious spiritual occasion. And especially to amuse my fellow brother-in-law John Ross, who had been the son of small coal merchants in a not very large town in a not very prominent southern county. And indeed thought not to be the most socially suitable prospect for the eldest beautiful daughter of my mother-and father-in-law. But Ross not only looked like a field marshal, but comported himself as such. And as his own many children arrived, and as I did one day once inquire as to how he was faring, he announced prophetic words.

  “Poverty has me by the ears, but my balls still swing free.”

  And so at last thinking that I had the modest wherewithal to pay for somewhere to live, Nora Heron asked me when I was going to do something about it. And I, in my battle-station-ready-for-action manner, instantly said that I would be aboard a Manx steamer sailing for the mainland the following morning. Ah, but there were to be suggested covenants in Nora’s overtones. That I was not to stick her beautiful daughter and grandson in another Irish pigsty or slum like the West End of Boston. But I was to buy something socially acceptable. However, with such limited funds, this I knew was not going to be easy. But I made a start. Visiting old friends I knew in Kent, Randall and Teresa Hillis. And in my first outing to look, I found the most idyllic and stunning cottage with its small garden in the town of Tenterden. The owner, a pleasantly pukka ex–service type who one sometimes found surprisingly existing in England, of a modest and unpriggish behavior and to whom one did not have to ceremoniously establish one’s social credentials. With a young growing family getting too large for their little house, he was anxious to sell, and, indeed, with an abode so attractive, had no shortage of buyers. Much disposed toward me, he instructed the estate agent that even if it were a matter of one or two hundred pounds, I w
as to get preference over any other potential purchaser.

  Ah, but this was not to be. Nora suddenly without warning reduced the amount of money available. And back in London, Gainor Stephen Crist was standing outside the telephone kiosk where I heard this news, in what was a spot and area which was as a result to come to play a future intimate role in one’s life. But a stone’s throw from the converging borders of West Kensington, Kensington and Fulham, it was a location near the junction of Lillie and North End roads. The red kiosk nearly arising from its foundations as I raged with flailing fist and stormed out announcing my war cry. Gainor reporting the incident to Desmond MacNamara.

  “Mac, let me assure you of one thing. In Mike’s difficulties with his mother-in-law, the gloves are off.”

  And the gloves were. And to hell with all snobberies. With money suddenly halved, instantly, if not hysterically, I abandoned all thoughts of the bijou socially acceptable country residence such as my mother-in-law had been qualifying. There could no longer be any entertaining the idea of settling in the Kent countryside, where the cricket-playing folk, as I viewed houses, referred to me as Commander because of my beard. And where, with a long face one night, after a long day’s house hunting and alone at a respectable hotel bar in the idyllic town of Tenterden, a nearby drinking dentist inquired of my crestfallen demeanor. Buying each other pints of ale till closing time, we then went loudly voicing mock jocular world-weary opinions together down the main street, parting as great lifelong friends, who, as it turned out, would never see each other again. But it was back to the big smoke, London. To find somewhere suitable to my straitened circumstances, if not my family’s comfort and solace within this massive conurbation through which the river Thames wends its way. And where I would now begin the search for somewhere to live, bound to be socially unacceptable and which also had to be dirt cheap.