The Dinner Party In Dublin
A Thank You Letter in Poetic Prose
THE DINNER PARTY IN DUBLIN (Dun Laoghaire)
With HUGO and MARY ROSE
‘Hell is to drift, and Heaven is to steer’… poignant words of George Bernard Shaw, and who are we to argue with the sage?
It was any day like any other, not a bother in the world, steering my way from my mother’s, thinking we have the wheels of freedom at any age.
Mammy had steered her way across the road and tumbled the car; God help her, not too much Heaven there, but she survived to tell the tale, and now after two weeks of work and nursing I was driving to Dublin through the Pale, from North to South.
There was a dinner party to attend. I had stopped in Enniskillen to find antiques to go, aware of keeping time on my side and no time to browse. Lamps for the new house in Killiney came to mind and little cushions in faded green with a covering of delicate net barely to be seen. Perfect for a gift, I thought, matching cushions could never go wrong for one will go with the other no matter where they are thrown.
I am roused from my reverie of remembrance as I recall this by a phone-call from a friend just now.
“Guess where I am going?” It is the voice of my dear friend Gabhan. “Somewhere Russian?” I ask. He’s mad about everything Russian, the opera, the ballet, the arts, at the moment. And has learnt the language in a month or so. Every call is dotted with phrases of Russian for practice to test if he is right or not, as if I would know!
“I’m meeting a man in London today whose father was Rasputin’s best friend. “Gosh, how old is he?” says I. “Ninety-eight, a hundred if a day,“ says he. Then in the usual shocking Gabhan way: “He was interfered with… by Rasputin.”
My mind flies into overdrive, wanting to know more.
“Yes,” says Gabhan, “He’s telling me all about it today.” And in the usual Gabhan way: “Talk to you later, darling.” Snap! And the line is dead. If he calls back by the end of the day, I’ll add it to my prose poem in some special way.
Green is the colour of victory, they say, and I arrive at the green door, having met with Phelim on the way.
Hugo and Mary Rose are friends of Phelim’s, a friend of ours.
‘Wet Paint’, and I wonder what colour it was yesterday. Dodging through the door, we are warmly greeted by the hosts Hugo and Mary Rose.
Mary Rose takes the armful of cushions with glee. “Thank you, thank you,” says she, her happy face all smiling at me. “You know, it’s something I never think of getting for myself.” And I know what she means. Immediately she plops them on empty waiting chairs, and they seem to go well.
“Come in, mind the wet paint, “says Hugo, his genuine heart in his soft pale eyes. And I think of the green door and green being the colour of victory. His second book, “The Sailor in the Wardrobe” is wooing the nation, and his first; “The Speckled People” had no less acclaim. And I think to myself that anyone with an ‘H’ in their name seems to fall easily and deservedly into the realm of fame.
“How is your mother?” asks Mary Rose.
“She’s much better, thank you, I’m kilt with work,” says I, “with the stream of visitors, sandwiches and scones coming out of my ears, but I suppose it makes a change, Mam doing everything for all those years, not that I didn’t want to help, but she’d never hear tell of it.”
“It’s amazing what they see when they’re not on the go.”
“Aw, I need to bring in some coal, it’s a pity I can’t.”
“Sure that coal shed needs ridding out.”
“Mam, you haven’t rid out the coal shed in years.”
“Don’t worry, Mam. Have no fear, I’ll do it after I’ve made the tea.”
“I have to put out the bins.”
“Don’t worry your head, Mam, I’ll do it, between Thelma and me, we have ten arms, don’t you see?”
“The shed needs a new door.”
“Worry no more, Mam, Raymond is fixing it up as we speak. Worry no more.”
Mary Rose laughed and agreed and related her story of Canada and her own mother hinting at washing the carpet when she was there. “I have to hire that machine,“ she’d say in her own sweet way, “but I’m sick and I’m sore.” And Mary Rose would trip over herself to do it, having just flown the Atlantic and more.
“That constant stream of visitors when they’re sick, it’s lovely to have neighbours that care, and at the beginning of the week, it is all home-made bread, fresh oven-baked cakes, and sandwiches with the crusts neatly cut away, served on the best home-ware, but by the end it is store-bought sliced pan, stuffed with Kraft cheese, tomatoes and salad cream, and maybe, against my wishes, a thin slice of ham.”
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you, Mary Rose, about the brutal murder of a second cousin on Valentine’s night. Not that we knew him that well, but the news gave everyone a dreadful fright.”
Hugo and Mary Rose looked aghast, but relaxed when they saw I was taking it in stride. Inside, I felt sorry for the poor man of course, but dwelling on it all would make it much worse.
“My mother lamented the fact that she couldn’t go to the funeral. We’d all read about it in the Impartial Reporter.”
Says I, “Mam, you’ve just got out of hospital, and we hardly ever saw him. You can’t possibly go.”
She shook her head in a deeply grim sigh. “I knew his mother, God rest her soul, and it’s not every day we have a brutal murder in the family, you know!”
At Hugo and Mary Rose’s, my friend Phelim and I were the first there, thinking we would be late but time is relaxed in Ireland and so the converse took a turn until others arrived. There were strange and unusual riots in Dublin that day, an Orange parade in the middle of town, and I thought to myself, what clown would organize that? Hugo was anxious to see it at nine, and I thought of the murderous North, the marches and hate and what twist of fate would bring it here at this time?
“Just louts making their excuse to loot, if you ask me, the ones apposing them, I mean. There are ones that genuinely don’t want them there, but the others have too much bad time to spare.” And I tended to agree. There was no rhyme or reason to take it to crime.
Mary Rose poured out champagne and some excellent wine and I wet my lips in a toast a very wee bit and had some water but I’m not a drinker although I used to love very fine wine. However, her local olives from the house in Spain were to die for, so succulent and firm, the tastiest ever I can honestly confirm.
Paddy, a friend of Phelim’s too, arrived in her delicate gentle sway of dress and sat down beside me, I’m glad to say. I heard she had made the salad earlier that day and thought what a dependable and beautiful friend she is to help in that way. She is everyone’s sister, everyone’s cousin and everyone’s friend. She can be lover and mother and teacher and fine writer too and you can tell she will be loved long past her time in the world and way past its end.
Tom, the Professor of Sociology arrived, a tall fierce stance of intelligent man with a handsome face and a very firm hand. “Pleased to meet you,“ says I. My mother always said I could trust a good handshake, and he sported a smile that matched his eyes. You could tell he had substance and was a man with no lies.
He was with his son Arran, a fellow of good-looking youth, with a warm disposition, full of love, fun and truth. You could tell he was enamoured with the grace of Jenny on his arm, and at first, I thought them siblings, so alike were their charms. The sweetness and beauty of Jenny, with porcelain face, was enough to give anyone a decent heart-race.
Eileen came in and shrugged off her coat in a sophisticated way, a tall, graceful woman with an engaging smile and great American hair. There was something about her that attracted the eye, a certain look, and a secret wild flair. She reminded me of a play called My Sister Eileen. I wondered where her roots were, if her grandmother was from Cork, or New York, and if she just came to Ireland for fun. She didn’t look the type to be on the run. I could see her riding horses in Virginia or rounding up Texan steer. She may have had her heart in Philadelphia or settled on an estate right here. She had fingers to dance on a piano or to paint pictures of turbulent seas. I could see her sketching the wilderness or preparing for elegant teas. Equally at home doing both, she could certainly command high fees. She has that look that if she is a writer, one will buy her book, or if she is an artist, one will purchase her canvas.
Colm arrived, or rather bounced in, and I feared for his coat and the wet paint on the door. He flew in and took command, his voice rooted to the floor. He came at the last, but he could never be late once past the door.
Paddy told me this was Colm, famed writer, and journalist supreme and sublime, and I reminded Phelim that Colm was acquainted one time with a friend of mine, and I was happy he knew my great mate Andy from CSI. I could tell, without any bother, the turn of phrase that had rubbed off from one to the other, a flexion of voice or a dent in a line. A great column of man with an extra eye in his brain, this witty man could dissect you without loss of wind or gaining of pain.
We merrily chatted away the minutes, and Mary Rose checked pots and pans; her table already set way before time.
Hugo jumped up apologetically to switch on the television dead on nine. Seeing the looting of shops and the burning of cars, I was glad I had missed it all on the way in. Thank goodness I had stopped for the cushions in Enniskillen, enough to delay me from the worst of the affray.
I wondered if I should mention my descent from the Souper, once thought a disgrace to the race, or the Protestant grandfather of mine who was sexton of the church and a devoted Orangeman to boot. I remembered the orange sash with its riveting badges, full of Masonic pentagrams and menacing sigils all in a line. I minded fat Harry with bloodied and bandaged hands beating the Lambeg that shivered my bones from my knees to my head, and the Colonel with one leg who walked with a crutch and swung the great staff, flinging it up in the air, twirling and spinning it with such expertise, leading the silver band on the march to the field, where the preachers laid down the law of the land. We knew he had lost his leg in the war, shot off somewhere in France, and I pondered if it was anywhere near where Captain Lendrum had buried his silver, never to have it reappear. They said shell shock had made him forget where he’d buried the silver and heirloom tea set.
And yet, here was I, descended from O’Murchadagh, and Sean the last blind bard, with Boucher’s blond Marie Louise in my blood, that model of his who was Louis the thirteenth’s (or was it the fourteenth’s?) tease. My uncle said he was the one who didn’t wash. Now streaked with the Loyalist Orange, and fearing upsetting the Dublin crowd, maybe it was best to keep mum, best to not be too loud. And sure, wasn’t that the story of my life, living the lie during all of the strife?
The table was set for a treat, laden with food fit for a King or a Chief. Sitting on one end, flanked by Hugo and Arran, I was mesmerized by the amount and size of the spread. There was a steaming vegetarian bean stew and different styles of rice that I knew were probably made especially with me in mind, and then Paddy’s feta cheese salad to entice. It all looked so nice. There were two types of fish, salmon and haddock, and vegetables galore, titbits and special sweet cakes in between to raise the spirits high, and when we thought we were full, Mary Rose would bring out some more. Desserts to melt in the mouth and make the heart sigh along with the converse of intellects astute with the latest, the extreme and the unusual, the fire of the minds pulsing with fervent desire to know all that was wise, all that was unjust to put right and all that was creative to give us a rise. We discussed books and politics, folk charms and the law, films and stage, spirituality, and talent in the raw. Adrenaline poured through the blathering tongues and Mary Rose hinted for the hidden talent to perform. I lamented the fact that I had memory to retain neither poetry nor song; my skill lying only on the outpouring of words through the quill. I refrained from the stage, but the lovely soft-eyed Hugo fetched his guitar, and nobly began ‘You’ve Got a Lot of Nerve’, giving us his velvet version of Bob Dylan’s satire. I clapped with glee, loving the sentiment and enjoying the liberating aspect of expression set free. I was launched into the backdrop of hippies and days when we followed flowers and peace and colourful ways.
Then Tom, wrestling wittily with the term Associate Professor, making us laugh at the audacity of ludicrous titles, sang a song, one of his wife Aileen’s favourites, Aileen who had sadly passed on, ‘Only Love’ by the McGarrigles, and something in his eyes and the catch in his throat made me sway with his past grief and nostalgia. I didn’t need to know more, the love for his wife was evident for all to hear, whether or not they had an ear for music at the core.
And Arran, his son leapt to his feet, an expert on computer design with a flair for animation, eager to show off his pirouette and wild imagination, a little twirl from ballet, and we watched him elegantly spin round, anxious that the wine would not make him fall down. Mary Rose tried the same and Tom his father rose to the challenge, but it was touch and go if they could all spin from faster and fast to slower than slow. I was caught between gross anxiety and prayer that they would each get back safely to the sanctity of a chair.
Eileen looked like a poem would traipse off her tongue to send warm purring words through our veins as a hug and I wondered if her voice would rise to soprano highs or would she drone her rap like Yeats in the snug, but she was unwilling to divulge of her secret talents and begged for others to bring more to the floor.
Mary Rose then gently eased into song with the rich rolling German of Marlene Dietrich’s Falling In Love Again, and I was immediately taken to Berlin and Munich, Hamburg and the War, Cabaret with black corsets, top-hats and gold chains, distressed lovers in hot grips of passion and hearts’ fear of parting, yellow lamplight, yellow hair, dark lashes and floral silk dresses.
Jenny closed her film-star eyes and sang Starry Starry Night and I was caught in a love song of now but it seemed a long time ago, the adoration in the face of Arran evident for all to know. Her voice was so pure and perfect in tone, her pitch just right for the night. I thought of Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights, for she has that age-old purity of the romantic dream. It must be heard and it has to be seen.
And I wondered how Phelim had escaped his party piece, neither dance nor song, not even a line from his beloved Joyce, and I wished he had brought his bodhran along. Many a night and many a day we had heard him practice and play in the USA. Or what of Paddy for that matter? I am sure she can sing or hum a ditty or two or tell a surprise story to light up the eyes. I could listen to her stories for hours, I am sure, words painting pictures of wonder to assuage a visual hunger. Or what about myself? I can spin a good yarn, but I promised a poem in the future and maybe this one will not do any harm.
Then Colm availed himself of song rather than chat, and in deep dulcet tones sang a Catalan song of who knows what, perhaps unrequited love and despair. I can tell he has travelled a lot and been everywhere, no wool to be pulled over his eyes, a lover of fun, a seeker of truth and no time for lies. Not knowing the words of the song, but having no care, I was just lost in the depth of the tones of the tenor.
What rigorous lungs to inspire us, not quite the depth of a Lambeg drum to instil trembling and fear, but near enough right. And I’m trying to remember if Colm sang at the beginning or end of it all. I know Mary Rose coaxed him on his toes to sing for his supper in Spanish that night.
I have now vowed to learn at least one party-piece for the future to add to the atmosphere of sonorous delight.
Mary Rose has a media project or two on the go, and knowing her part it will be imbued with much light and might. She has the infinite spirit of knowing and going like the clappers on whatever she wants. I watched her at work at the dinner party, a little suggestion here and a little dig there and before we knew it, there was a concert in progress and everyone giving of their best with flair.
Hugo is off and running some more, a new book on the go, digging deep in his roots and watching them grow. He will traipse the amethyst laden hills of Achill and swan through Galway, balancing thought, word, and action in a feasible way. I look forward to his next book, in fact, I look forward to the works of them all. None of them are adrift and they’re all doing the steering and soon they’ll dock again, and we’ll all find our way to Dublin Bay.
For a time there, I thought I had given up the pen, but Dun Laoghaire has the promise of taking away the chill from that unforgiving heart of the frozen quill. I can’t wait to get my feet under our own front door and invite you all in for another rapport. Next time, please come over for dinner or tea, and prepare to agree when I do a stint like ‘Mary Rose’ that you will perform your best for Robin and me.
Ah… the phone is ringing, now who could that be?
“Gabhan!”
“Oh dear, and I’ve finished the poem. No room for Rasputin. What a terrible tease. Hugo and Mary Rose, I’ll be calling you soon! Gabhan’s on the phone and it is now three days later. Hugs and Love, a big THANK YOU, and excuse me please!
Dwina**** March/April 2006.