Reviewing the Reviewers

I get the Irish Times on Saturdays mainly for the book reviews, and to read Keith Duggan in the Sport section. The quality of the book reviewing has waned in recent years – since the demanding and acerbic Eileen Battersby died and John Banville stopped being a regular contributor. The overall impression of its reviews is blandness and a desire not to rock the boat. It needs a Michael Hofmann figure to come in occasionally to slaughter a holy cow. A job he did recently for the TLS in his review of Colm Toibin’s The Magician (https://www.the-tls.co.uk/articles/the-magician-colm-toibin-book-review-michael-hofmann/). However, there were a number of decent reviews in yesterday’s edition. Desmond Traynor does a sympathetic job on Rob Doyle’s Autobibliography - a book that encourages reading across the centuries, beyond the conventional, and occasionally into the dissolute depths. And Sean Hewitt writes a knowledgeable piece on the peerless Derek Mahon – a poet who should perhaps outrank Seamus Heaney but lacked the latter’s amiability and engagement with his public. Roddy Doyle celebrates The Lyrics: 1956 to the Present by Paul McCartney (edited by Paul Muldoon) in his own direct and highly-readable voice. Sadly Niamh Donnelly’s review of Brian Cox’s autobiography (Putting the Rabbit in the Hat) lets the side down. It is a rather prissy affair with the likeable and talented Cox being chided for being white, male and for daring to refer to a female actor as an “actress”. Not so much a review as an examination for wokeness that the septuagenarian Cox failed miserably. 

A Farewell to My Old Doubles Partner

Last Monday I attended the funeral in Carrigaline of my old tennis-playing friend, and regular doubles partner, Robin Gill. He was my next-door neighbor during my secondary school years when I lived in the Campfield in Cork. There were eight tennis courts across the road from our houses and we made good use of them. We played in all the junior tennis tournaments around Munster and even on one occasion graced the courts of the exclusive Fitzwilliam club in Dublin. Robin had a very good forehand and I had an equally accomplished backhand so we complemented each other nicely - unless of course our opponents started hitting the ball down the middle. We won a number of tournaments and were a fixture on the CBC tennis team that won the Munster Schools championship five out of my last six years in secondary school. The year we didn’t win we were disqualified for playing our team in the wrong order against Glenstal. (Our worst player ended up playing their best - their Alastair Conan against our Mick O’Neill if I remember correctly.)

Outside the tennis courts we were never the closest. He had a tight-knit family scene, sailing at weekends and spending quality time with his parents whereas I was inclined towards dubious companions and dissolute behavior far from my family’s eyes. We had the occasional physical fights and as we grew older he developed the nasty habit of making moves on girls I had initially met and nurtured. He was blonde and good-looking in a Lord Alfred Douglas way, whereas I was going more for the greaser look as popularized by Elvis. After school he got into HR and ended up managing a pharmaceutical company in Ringaskiddy, just outside Cork. I tended towards the Arts and a highly erratic career path that took me around the world. So we lost touch.

Time healed our teenage antipathy and when we met accidentally or at class reunions over the years we always got along well. I do remember however been invited over to his house one evening while I was in Cork and assuming it was for dinner (it was 7 pm) I brought along a bottle of wine. Alas, no dinner materialized as apparently they had eaten earlier and the bottle of wine proved a source of embarrassment all round. I last met him about seven years ago at a major class reunion. He was immaculately dressed in a smart tweed suit complete with waist-coat, tasteful shirt and tie, and a fine pair of brogues. However, he had contracted a virulent cancer of the oral cavity and a substantial portion of his tongue had been removed (he had been a habitual pipe smoker.). This badly affected his speech and made conversing very difficult. I felt it was brave of him to turn up at all and admired his courage in persisting with his social life despite his difficulty.

Despite his later misfortunes, Robin had apparently lived a full and active life in Carrigaline and was very involved with the local Catholic Church and with community activities. His abiding love of public speaking was only moderately curtailed by his recent handicap. It was somewhat of a surprise to hear he had remained a devout Catholic - alone amongst my friends from that time.

He was always a keen music buff. I remember his very enlightened father buying him a copy of the Beatle’s Rubber Soul for his birthday in the Sixties. He departed from the church to the stirring sound of the Chieftains.

Congratulations if You Got into the RHA Annual Exhibition 2021

It’s good to see some transparency from the RHA about how difficult it is to get work accepted for its Annual Exhibition. In an email from director Pat Murphy to the RHA’s mailing list he informs us of the following:

 

1.     A total of 3,900+ (a tad vague that plus) works were submitted as electronic images.

2.     Of these, 720 were brought in for physical viewing and final selection.

3.     Less than half of these, 323, were selected for the exhibition.

 

This tells us that you have about one chance in twelve of being selected. Not great odds for all those hopeful punters. Members of course don’t go through the selection process so the total number of works in the exhibition will be closer to 500.

 

It’s also a nice windfall for the RHA as at €20 a submission it stands to make nearly €80K even before the money starts flowing in from sales. However, given how poorly our government supports the arts you can hardly quibble. It’s a well-run organization which contributes mightily to the Irish art scene and deserves all the support we can afford it. The exhibition opens on Monday 27th September - get your arse in there.

Death in Clonoulty

My first cousin, Philip Maher, died aged 80 last Friday. Diana and I attended his funeral in Clonoulty on Sunday. I rarely met Philip over the years so have two memories only of him. One was of a quiet, unassuming teenager with a passion for horse and dogs who I met briefly in Cashel back in the late Fifties. And the other was as a very frail, elderly man sitting in his living-room near Clonoulty last November. Of his life in between I knew very little – we rarely encountered that branch of the family as his father (my mother’s brother) died prematurely and the family disappeared into rural Tipperary and a couple of them later emigrated to the USA. We lived in Cork and later Dublin. I knew he had never married and latterly lived with his sister - that’s about it. As I parked the car near the church in Clonoulty, I saw that the area around the church was crowded. Coming towards me marching down the main (and only) street was a phalanx of young men carrying the coffin. They were wearing the distinctive green jerseys of the Clonoulty-Rossmore hurling team. This small parish team had outdone itself by winning the county championship a few years ago and was the club of the legendary Declan Ryan who had distinguished himself in the Tipp jersey – winning three All-Ireland medals and later managing the county team. The street through which they passed was lined with spectators – I suspect the whole village was out and many more from surrounding areas. (Probably as many as were at the Sinn Fein funeral that generated all that fuss earlier in the year.)  A great turnout was the common view. 

Inside the church there were about 100 people, spatially distanced and wearing masks. My mother's family are from this part of the world and the church in Clonoulty contains a sacred family relic in the form of a handsome sanctuary lamp (see image). It had been donated to the church in memory of my grandfather Nicholas Maher who drowned aged 39 in Tramore in 1919 - leaving a young family. On and earlier visit to the church my gimlet-eyed brother had espied an inscription etched in the bottom of the lamp:  "To the memory of Nicholas Maher esq. Ballymore House from his loving children June 1925". There it hung, a poignant reminder of an old family tragedy. The funeral ceremony was very traditional in format but was accompanied by some glorious singing from the choir. There were readings from the altar, the handing over of gifts, and Holy Communion. Everyone in the church went up to receive the latter, including all the fine young men in their hurling jerseys. 

The highlight of the service was a lengthy eulogy by Thomas Ryan – father of the great Declan and current owner of Ballymore House wherein my mother’s family used to dwell. He clearly knew Philip very well and was very fond of him – he occasionally fought back tears as he spoke. The content of his eulogy was a revelation for me and I’m sure my sisters who were in attendance. This modest, unconsidered cousin of mine had led a very rich, productive, colourful and above all interesting life. His sporting prowess embraced hurling, long-distance running, horse riding, greyhound owning and training, and, dare we say it, coursing. Ryan made specific mention of Philip being an excellent “ground hurler” – a lost art I fear. In later years at the hurling club he performed various roles including that of masseuse where he favoured a concoction of olive oil and poteen. At tense moments during a match he was known apparently to take a swig of this elexir. Notwithstanding all this sporting activity, Philip was a busy and well-respected carpenter and wood-worker. The quality of his work in this area can be attested to by the fact that his two principal employers over the years were Vincent O’Brien and subsequently Aidan O’Brien. Two men who were perfectionists and demanded perfection from those around them. Aidan O’Brien was extremely kind with practical support for Philip and his family when his health failed.

After the funeral mass the party moved on to the Maher family plot in the beautiful old graveyard at Ardmayle. There was a decade of the rosary, another shorter eulogy from a Clonoulty-Rossmore worthy and then a glorious, extended version of the Tipp hurling anthem Sliabh an mBan. It was sung very professionally by a trio of young men, with guitar and some curious flute like-instrument. There was a very large crowd at the graveyard, but it was a well-scattered crowd with little knots of people rather than any mass. Usually in my experience the crowd disperses quickly after the internment but not on this occasion. The clear sky and the beautiful location (a ruined Norman castle across the road) encouraged lingering. We stayed for about 90 minutes identifying old relations and chatting to all and sundry. As we talked to Philip’s sisters Maura and Helen close to the open grave a bunch of the young hurlers were energetically filling it in – clods of earth flew around us as we spoke. Overall it was a very fine conclusion to a well-lived life. The most striking feature of the event was the solidarity of the parish around Philip and the family. It was a wonder to behold for this city dweller.
 

Schullduggery – Revisited

 

 

Strolling through Schull a few weeks ago I was surprised to see Ian Bailey driving past in a small Toyota – wearing that bizarre headgear he’s adopted with the furry ear flaps. (It seems more suitable for winters in Siberia than summers in Schull.) I had read recently that he was disqualified from driving and so was amazed that he should flout the law so brazenly. However, on enquiry I discover that he’s appealing the disqualification and so can drive freely until this comes to court. It’s hardly surprising that he’s appealing his conviction considering his frequent contention that he can run rings around our Gardai. 

 

We have been immersed in the whole Bailey debacle for the past few months and one hesitates to be seen as contributing to his relentless self-promotion. We know that he’s beaten his partner viciously and that he’s a bad poet. This year so far there have been documentaries on Netflix and Sky Atlantic, and Nick Foster’s book – a detailed analysis of the case (Murder at Roaringwater Bay). While Netflix points to his guilt, Sky adopts a more tolerant approach and paints Bailey as a bohemian outsider who’s been saddled with a crime without there being conclusive evidence. The Sky version is blighted by Jim Sheridan’s guff and an overwrought script (“the hills cry out for justice”). It sidelines Sophie at the expense of Bailey and Sheridan himself. The primary significance of Sheridan’s production is that lingers over the photographic evidence of Bailey’s assault on his wife. This confirms the view that Bailey is a very violent man where alcohol is involved and where the target of his ire is a diminutive woman. Nick Foster’s book baldly states his guilt although the new evidence he comes up with seems slightly tenuous. It hinges on Bailey lying about meeting the victim and lends undue emphasis to his references to the goddess Kali – a minor obsession of Sophie’s. Nevertheless, a good working hypothesis and the book is a calm and lucid assembly of the facts of the case. He doesn’t share Sheridan’s naïve acceptance of the testimony of Marie Farrell – a woman for whom Mary McCarthy’s famous quip about Lillian Hellman (“every word she says is a lie including “and” and “the”) seems apposite. 

 

My family have five houses in Schull (we’re a large family) so I have spent a lot of time there over the past 25 years. It still took me a long time to actually locate Sophie’s house as none of my family or the people I socialized with knew where it was. You need very specific directions to find it. It’s a bigger and more imposing two-story building than the regular reference to “cottage” suggests. Just beyond the gate on the lane up to the house there’s a simple Celtic cross with Sophie etched on the base. Bailey’s erstwhile home is not as close as I had believed. It’s a good 40 minute walk away and it too is difficult to find without specific directions – in a car it’s 10 minutes at the most.

 

The evidence that Bailey murdered Sophie is purely circumstantial. Yet there seems enough of it to convince any jury that he’s the culprit:

 

·       The lack of a conclusive alibi (Jules was asleep) – and he  changed his story a few times

·       The scratches on his hands where none had been the night before

·       The cut on his head

·       The burning of items of clothing

·       The black coat soaking in the tub

·       The history of extreme violence towards women

·       The drunken, maudlin confession: “I did it. I went too far.”

·       The unconvincing assertion that they’d never met or spoken to Sophie

·       The constant, and continuing to this day, attempts to deflect attention towards a French source 

I don’t include Marie Farrell’s sighting of Bailey near the crime scene that night. She has changed her evidence so often that it’s better to discount anything she says. Considering she admits to being near the crime scene with a man on the night in question I find it amazing that she has got away without  having to name who he was. At the very least he should be interviewed to confirm her evidence. She now of course asserts that he’s dead. Local rumour suggests it was a member of the Gardai. And one thing that comes across in all the media about the crime is the sheer incompetence of the Gardai. The sight of one of their number (Dwyer) smugly recounting anecdotes and opinions about the crime (on Netflix) as if he’s a blameless bystander is hard to stomach.

 

The great mystery is why Bailey, guilty or not, would stick around in a place where at least half his neighbours refer to him as “the murderer”. He’s certainly not popular. I was sitting in Newman’s pub in Schull a couple of years ago and there was a meeting of a local poetry group. About a dozen women sat around taking turns to recite their work. Bailey sat on the fringes of the group without seeming to interact with any of them. When his turn came around he recited his doggerel to general indifference. Those in the pub outside the poetry circle ignored the proceedings. I’d have run off to Spain or perhaps Thailand if I were him.

 

A recurring theme across all the interviews is Bailey’s attempt to point the finger towards France – a hit man sent by her husband or a scorned lover. All concerned had cast-iron alibis and there was no trace of another French visitor in the area. A stranger would have stood out at that time of the year. Besides, a planned hit would hardly have relied on finding a convenient breeze block. It seems a ruse to deflect attention. 

 While it’s no reason to find someone guilty, there has never been a reasonable alternative scenario put froward in these three recent detailed examinations of the case. This is a situation where perhaps the application of Occam’s Razor should apply.