Ah but we all know Ireland to which we flee back home and from which we flee away again. Anciently old and always generous. And is now more than awake in the world. The last pretty park left on the edge of Europe that may not, alas, too soon, remain to be. Yet for the moment at least, west across the Bog of Allen to Mullingar to Tuam and beyond, it glows with every Christmas sign of festivity. Town streets alight in every gorgeously bright hue. Cars parked bumper to bumper. Each one shinier and newer and better than the next. And less than you’d expect of rudeness and fist shaking at the traffic lights. And more of the animated voices in the pubs and bars. A nation in its present whirlpool of moral dilemmas is nearly a country without a government. And why not. With the elbows close together in the pubs and then temporarily full with plenty of chiefs from plenty of clans, what could be better political management than that. To suit the place gone silly insane. Not only to keep up with the Kellys the Murphys and the O’Briens, but also with the Dutch and the Japanese.
And it was not that long ago, upon an early morn before this Christmas, that I was high up at a window overlooking St Stephen’s Green watching a lone seagull fly by. The mist was beginning to clear over the Wicklow mountains. The rising sun turning them as purple as I remembered them from long ago. Descending from my eyrie to take an early morning stroll, I hear the sound of a siren. And see motor cycle Garda racing through the street and they scream by escorting some VIPs in their big black car. And who are they in there. Who leaves your standard, homemade man face agape standing outside on the wet cold pavement watching them go by. I enquire who’s gone by. In case it could be an example of that most recent phenomenon that has, about time, materialized in the civilized world, and has been long known to the native Irish. That of being a member in good standing of Celebrities Anonymous. Whose code is, as we know, to earnestly plead, give me obscurity or give me death. And my informer answers.
‘Ah it’s only him, the British Prime Minister come to find out from us what he should do about Britain. Aren’t we already telling the rest of them eegits what to do about Europe.’
Such do I find my sophisticated Christmas in Ireland now. Instead of your empty Grafton Street, the walkway is a throbbing hive of energy alive. Buskers shout, poets declaim and music bursts forth from everywhere. There’s even a strange someone to say hello to us. And save us from obscure loneliness and a celebrity anonymous death. I think back and back to them long bygone days when the chancers and cads were rife and the poets and painters were few and far between. When Kavanagh, Behan and cronies and John Ryan walked here where only their ghosts go by now. Christmas then was a church bell silence settled over the city. When you nearly could hear the distant cry in the Catacombs.
‘Give the woman in the bed more porter.’
And if you had no bed, no woman, no porter, you walked the grey granite pavements, with the spook of despair hovering over your head. And asking not for new sorrows. Nor to be forgiven all your sins. Hearing the click of your heel driving you onwards towards some cheer towards which you hoped you travelled. Intending to find there whatever it was you thought your life was missing. And it could be little children. And the comfort you might like to give them for their body and soul. And meanwhile be there no fist in your gob. Nor vulgar nor vicious words for you to hear.
And if Christmas
Not be merry
Have a happy New Year
1992
Remembrance of a Pain Past
Having just rescued a weak lamb’s life as night comes, out here in the early springtime midland bogs of Ireland, I contemplate my autobiography and sketch the notes which make up these words. And meanwhile I have forgotten the salt for my tray as I dine alone this evening in my workroom where, scanning the TV with my remote control, I sit in a wicker chair which once adorned my eyrie flat in ‘Tax Dodgers’ Towers’ in London’s Tyburnia many a year ago. Then I had merely to reach through a serving hatch to the kitchen to lay my hand on the salt, but now, with helping hands away over a weekend, I must up and travel a chilly one hundred and seventy yards’ round trip to and from the kitchen. While meditating on the infernal inconvenience of it all, I encourage myself that walking this distance more than a few times a day at least keeps one fighting fit. And, alas, in a much desired condition as one meditates upon one’s present work in desperate progress.
I suppose it is possible that the opportunity for the single most stupendous act of self aggrandizement of one’s lifetime as an author comes in the writing of one’s autobiography. Which possibly embarrassing act I am in the midst of persisting in, and attempting to decide how to go about it. Does one after all the appallingly mean and treacherous and betraying things that have been perpetrated upon one now take up the cudgel and, pointing an accusing finger, batter back, allowing oneself to stoop to heaping ridicule and contempt upon the guilty which just falls short of being actionable. And letting these turncoats who disparaged have it all back paid with compound interest. Licking one’s chops while drawing up the ever lengthening list as to whom shall be made tremble in their tracks. Alas, the vast uncharted quicksands of the literary world are such that there are not that many authors who survive long enough to do any of this. And, too, as true authors they would be constrained by the code of the writer which insists that you do no man evil or harm because he trusts while your ear listens to his tale. But then, bowing to this invitation to revenge and having disposed of these past begrudgingly resentful folk, does one then point to oneself as above reproach as having been consistently kind, loyal, beneficent and humane. In short how does one manage to tell the truth, show up the dirty bastards and yet stop from looking and sounding like the saint one can’t help becoming.
Now then. As sad as it may be it helps when a whole lot of the old meanies who did the dirty are safely dead and only their nearest and dearest heirs are left to squirm in rage. But then the humane gentleman does not take too much advantage of the departed dead’s inability to defend and fight back, even as incumbent upon him as the principle is of truth, dispassion and dueness and making these sneaky and conniving folk of the past look as horrible and disloyal as they actually were. And of course having your lawyers double duly check that they are truly deceased and not still cunningly lurking alive and planning in an action for damages to use one’s assets as their ancient age pension.
But now in my own innocent case, my autobiography has no trouble centring upon the first novel I wrote called The Ginger Man and from which much of my humble recognition stems. And never was there a book like it to give its poor author tribulation. Coming heaped from every quarter and erupting across many a continent. The beginning of the writing of this work was for me at the crucially terrible age of twenty-four, my last ditch stand against fast oncoming oblivion. My insignificant fist clenched shaking against the big wide world of art as I began writing it in Ireland and continued in New York, Connecticut, Boston, the Isle of Man and finally hanging on by my fingertips down a drab street in London’s Fulham. Where, let me tell you, the then middle and upper class in those days absolutely feared in utter dread to tread. Until overnight, almost magically Fulham became fashionable when an eligible royal bachelor was reported in a newspaper dining al fresco in the back garden nearly adjoining mine. But before this happened years were spent in social banishment down this working class street, counting the sardines we could afford to eat, and estimating the risk of buying a weekly bottle of beer we couldn’t afford to drink and having rabbit for Christmas dinner. Until astonishingly, almost at the last moment of my survival, I was rescued and literally clutched from the irretractable jaws of extinction, by the Guardian for which I presently write.
My final deliverance came about through a brilliant young and sympathetic editor, John Roselli, who chose to publish some short pieces of mine and who made sure that not a word or comma was trifled with. And whose name now will go to constitute my own little personal hall of fame etched in my autobiography. It was the appearance of a piece called ‘I Fail
ed’ from the M S of The Ginger Man. It not only brought the attention of literary agents but eventually led to publication of the novel, already turned down by dozens of publishers. Meanwhile the MS had been sent to Paris. It was not the piece ‘I Failed’ so much as the newspaper in which it was published which created immediate interest for Maurice Girodias, founder of The Olympia Press. For his father, Jack Kahane, owner of the Obelisk Press, and the first publisher of Henry Miller, was born in Manchester and had long instilled in his young son a deep reverence for the Manchester Guardian as the paper was then called. And the MS took on a literary significance for Girodias it might not have otherwise had. But it was from this unsung origin in Paris that the battle saga of litigation over The Ginger Man novel began that crossed nations and lasted till the protagonists were growing old and grey. And as one obituary of Maurice Girodias put it, at the sound of my name he would reach up and tear at what was left of his thinning hair. And if at a restaurant, Girodias, known to be a great gourmet, would jump up from his seat and run out into the street screaming and leaving his meal behind. So this publishing event in Paris of The Ginger Man, which should have been one of considerable relief and joy to a young writer, turned into twenty two years of litigious woe. And resulted in the author becoming much misrepresented as a ruthless monster instead of the reasonably decent chap he is.
But one’s reputation over the years varies according to what country one is in and what nationality is trying to do the dirty. An American lady journalist who asked why J.P.D. was not included at an exhibition of Irish publishers in New York was promptly told that I was regarded as a black mark against Irish publishing. But in Ireland I must forgive if not forget the Irish doing me down. Their now sympathetic tax laws having made up for all the past mistreatment and opprobrium historically heaped on her writers. But along the boulevards and in the boardrooms of Hollywood are still whispered the unflattering words, ‘Don’t touch him with a barge pole.’ For he’s the sort who wants to have approval over films made of his books and demands artistic and creative control. Nobody said I was dishonest or even rude but accused me of the unforgivable act of driving of hard bargains. So now, in view of recalling all these opinions and on second thoughts, why shouldn’t I in my memoirs, as well as settling old scores, glorify and promote a little and let myself go ahead and sound a bit like a saint.
Meanwhile I’ve just discovered instead of the salt from the kitchen I’ve fetched the pepper and so must perambulate on my distant journey to the cooking room again. Ah but before I go let me tell you that if you ever wonder why authors are so racked with humility and are invariably humane, just remember that their most precious stock in trade is the pain they suffer in their ignominy. And the dispirit they feel from the unkindness their openheartedness earns. But to keep one’s words readable, it is necessary to lambast a few deserving bastards. And provided a brave publisher sticks his neck out with mine you’ll soon hear of these further and better particulars when I do just that.
1991
The Funeral of Denny Cordell
Under the cold stars of a frosty night, dawn arriving chill across the Irish midlands, as one sets off to the funeral of Denny Cordell, of whom one has never heard said a discouraging word.
I first met him many years ago in one of the smaller sitting rooms of Glin Castle while we were both guests of Madam and the Knight of Glin. But I had heard of him long before as a greyhound owner and mostly described through the complaints of a friend who had rented him his stud farm to house his dogs. Then he later produced the music for a piece I authored and narrated about Ireland ‘In All Her Sins and Graces’. And the more I listened to this music the less I became impressed by myself interfering with my spoken words. And so as all news does when it spells the end of one still so relatively young, his death now seems a strange betrayal to the future of all who knew him.
But this is Ireland. Where one comes to hate the truth that distorts the lie. You don’t die here either. For the lips of those who remain keep saying your name and telling your tall tales. And Denny Cordell was one of those rare who came from afar to this island and stayed. And uncomplaining as he always seemed to me, he sometimes must have suffered its discontent. However, from all I could see, he enjoyed to play an Irish role still played, pleasantly shooting, racing, hunting and fishing in this westernmost parkland of Europe. And knowing too that should you need the spice of discord at anytime to stimulate, you need not go far. The inhabitants will always see both sides of an argument so long as it can result in a fight.
Not able to sleep when contemplating so early a morning departure, and at the same time having to see a bull, his good work done, and whose ton bulk had now to be loaded into a lorry to be taken to the meat factory, I worried over him pawing sods into the sky as he would do if approached nearer than two hundred yards. But now I was gone out of sight and the bull out of mind as I motored south from Mullingar under the glowering grey skies, randomly passing across the Irish countryside and viewing the battle for survival of all these suburban homes so stuck out of place with their ‘pitch and putt’ and ‘bed and breakfast’ signs, and more recently posted, those plaques warning of Community Alert Areas and thieves beware. The heart can seize up with loneliness along these lonely winding roads. But you’re kept alert trying to read the cast iron road signs torn in half. This an ancient amusement practised by some locals as a testimony to their feats of strength. And this is always better than encountering a sign you can read which points the wrong way. But this always done with the best intention so the visiting tourist will not miss the best sights.
I go round and round the roundabouts. Looking for any sign naming a town I’ve heard of which marks the way. And taking one wrong one, found myself travelling the countryside in a big circle, which took me back tracking on roads I’d just been on. Ah, but now being able to nicely miss the deeper potholes one didn’t miss before. I arrive half way there at Port Laoise, where behind great grey stone walls political prisoners are kept. But who knows now in this land where peace has recently struck out of the blue that such walls might not be needed to be as high any more. Further south finally the hills rise and beyond the valleys dip and the town of Carlow comes. But I can’t seem to find my destination of Bagenalstown for it is named Muine Bheag on my map. Stopping to get directions at last I find my way through mile after mile of winding narrow lanes and suddenly the gates of Corries House are there.
But back in Bagenalstown I’d already passed the small neat funeral home where Denny reposed wearing in his coffin his country and western outfit, and holding a vinyl of Duke Ellington, one of his favourite singers as a boy. He’s wearing, too, his cowboy boots, footwear when I noticed such first I thought strangely out of character.
I was warned by two locals that I’d have no trouble finding the rest of the way to Corries House. As the vehicles would be parked for miles around over the countryside. And finally there it is, the modest mansion Corries House sitting in its small paradise tucked sweetly in these hills. As one enters the gates and down the drive around the stud railed field, spears of daffodil leaves are pressing up from the ground. And true it is, his attending friends are legion. From every corner of Ireland and the globe, crowded in the hall and standing about in the sitting rooms. His dear, slenderly beautiful lady, Marina Guinness, her face pale but eyes still sparkling blue. Rock stars in their leather rock gear. Music managers and executives in gents’ natty suiting. The racing fraternity in their tweeds and cavalry twill. The grooms and jockeys. The Anglo Irish, handsomely represented in the elegance of his dark clothes by David Thomas Pascoe Grenfell as he holds a glass of red wine, in the front hall.
And I stare at an open door into the nearby room. Candles burn on the chimney piece and there on the dining table is placed the long polished gleaming length with its golden handles of Denny Cordell’s coffin. On top lies neatly folded his racing colours, his silks of green and orange. Beneath the table a splendid array of pretty flowers, richly fresh and ful
l of the colour of life. Beyond through another door the kitchen, the table brimming with sandwiches, soup and cakes. And from all the other kitchen surfaces many glasses are lifted into which many beverages flow. The generosity that is Ireland. And amid the animated chatter it’s hard to feel sorrow nor does one hear a sad word.
Denny’s handsome young sons and friends carry the coffin out of Corries House and up the rising drive to the front gates where an exquisite horse drawn hearse waits. The flower covered coffin placed within and outlined by cut glass windows. I stand watching in the drizzling rain with one of his oldest friends whose crinkly ginger hair is slowly getting wet as his gentle voice talks touchingly of this man they go now to bury, and behind whom one is to walk to the church and cemetery. And about this and the distance, there is the lie told that distorts the truth as the word goes whispered about that it is only a mile and a half. Off we go. As suspicions grow as the first two miles and then three go by.