My mum dangles the question like a golden carrot: ‘You’ll never guess who’s died’

“You’ll never guess who’s died.”

This is the teaser that fills every lull in my calls home to my Irish mother.

Since moving to London, I’ve phoned her at least once a week, sometimes more. It’s important for me to hear what’s happening on my island from a local, and to protect my D4 accent from becoming full-blown Anglican. It’s a ritual I cherish and, even if there’s no “news” to report, I know I’ll hang up feeling better.

But, recently, I’ve noticed a recurring theme in our calls: death.

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We could be discussing anything – the US election, black ice, Patrick Kielty – and somehow, we always end up playing a morbid round of Guess Who.

My mum dangles the question like a golden carrot, and I almost always answer incorrectly. When she finally tells me, I often don’t even know the person. Sometimes, it transpires that my mother doesn’t either. But she knows of them, and in Ireland, where everyone is distantly related anyway, that’s more than enough.

If the person hasn’t died yet, but is terminally unwell, the verb still takes centre stage: “Seán is dying. Mary could die. Breda will die.” What follows is a detailed obituary (a drafted one if they’re still alive), highlighting everything from their birthplace to their last public sighting.

After a few months of this pattern, I started to worry Ireland had a far higher mortality rate than its European counterparts. A frantic search of Google reassured me that, no, it doesn’t. In fact, ironically, people in Ireland have the longest life expectancy in the EU.

What the country does have, however, is a high bereavement rate.

Our societal infrastructure is built to support, and even encourage, the grieving process. We treat funerals like jubilees, giving an extraordinary send-off to even the most ordinary of people. We publicly honour the dead on rip.ie, making internet stars out of folks who’d never even used social media. We host month’s mind masses with gorgeous stationery, ensuring the person’s legacy lasts long after they’ve been buried or cremated.

Initially, these conversations with my Irish mammy felt insensitive. I couldn’t help but think my British friends would see them as tactless (a crime akin to treason in the UK), or that I was obsessed with people dying. If I ever answered the call in public, I found myself lowering the volume, for fear of others overhearing.

But I’ve come to realise that these phone conversations are just another patch in the tapestry of Ireland’s rich grief culture. Like all the other traditions, they simply serve to commemorate the person. We have our wakes and we have our WhatsApp calls. After centuries of our burial rituals being oppressed, we know that the subject of death shouldn’t be confined to a stuffy funeral parlour. It can be aired between talking about EastEnders and political scandals, and, contrary to what our British counterparts might think, it isn’t disrespectful to do so.

So next time I cringe at my mother’s Guess Who games, I’ll take a second to stop myself. A natter about your fourth cousin’s death at the Tube station on a Tuesday is nothing to be ashamed of.

Turn the volume up, I say, and let the tradition live long and loud.

Emma Dooney is from Stillorgan, Co Dublin. She returned to London after the pandemic in May 2022, having done an MA in International Journalism at City, University of London in 2019. She is now a luxury travel reporter at TTG Media, the travel trade magazine. Before this, she worked for the Daily Mirror and Woman & Home.
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