I don’t expect to be a conscious participant at my own wake when the time comes. But in the meantime, I had what felt like a sneak preview of that event while attending a book launch in my honour last week.
First there was the sense of life flashing before me. Okay, that was mainly the book: a memoir of sorts entitled Not Making Hay – The Life and Deadlines of a ‘Diary’ Farmer.
But then, just before the launch, my iPhone’s random old photos selector picked one from a decade ago of a black cat: namely Pete Briquette, a Tipperary bog orphan I rescued as a kitten, who disappeared four years to the day later.
Here he was, suddenly, staring at me again. It was unclear whether he was wishing me good luck in the traditional black-cat way, or in the Hiberno-English one, where “good luck” can also mean “goodbye”.
After that, passing the old Irish Times offices on Fleet Street, I had the weird sensation of walking towards the light. The light here was from inside Books Upstairs, on D’Olier Street, just opposite, where the launch was happening. But this is where the feeling of a wake became overwhelming.
Even though I was only slightly late (I’ve been the late Frank McNally for decades), the place was already full, and full of smiling, familiar faces from every chapter of my life. They included family, neighbours, friends, old school pals, colleagues past and present – even a couple of prolific Irish Times letters writers I’d come to know over the years.
Like most Irish wakes, this too was a cheerful affair. And as usual, everyone was obliged to say nice things about the departed, or in this case me, including variations of that ultimate compliment to a corpse: that I was “looking well”.
Naturally, this being Ireland, there were politicians there too. Guest speaker was Heather Humphreys, a family friend and fellow Monaghan tribesperson, who had clearly read the whole book – above and beyond the call of duty for a busy presidential candidate – and so also reviewed the events of my life, including a few I’d forgotten mentioning.
There may even have been ghosts present, as I was reminded by the attendance of some of my maternal cousins. Readers may recall a recent column (Diary Sept 13th) that described browsing through a skip full of books in Drumcondra, part of a huge library being cleared out of a house there.
I didn’t know the family involved, and in my column didn’t identify the house, or even the road, which looks like many other roads in the area.
But one of said cousins somehow recognised it from the picture as being next door to where her mother was born. And as I’ve since learned, the house of the books was where two of my maternal uncles, long dead now, had “digs” back in the 1950s, one of them meeting his future wife – the neighbour – there.
A key difference between a book launch and a wake, it must be said, is that the honouree at a wake doesn’t have to make a speech. Whereas I did, of course. And among the things I told mourners, further explaining the choice of guest speaker, was that my first ever Irishman’s Diary, from away back in the summer of 1993, was about Heather’s home village of Drum.
An unusual place, then and now, it used to have four different Protestant churches – including Ian Paisley’s foreign mission – and one pub.
The pub, as I informed readers in 1993, kept “very Protestant opening hours; about two a week, to be exact, both of them Saturday night”. Despite which, I had made a fact-finding visit and interviewed customers as they drank hand-poured whiskey and bottled beer (there was no draught), dispensed over the makeshift counter.
[ Frank McNally: My life as a civil servant in 1980s DublinOpens in new window ]
The pub has long closed, alas. The churches are all still in business. And although the area’s Orange tradition has been the focus of minor controversy in the presidential campaign, I for one am proud that it exists peacefully in the county where I grew up. Drum is very much part of my Ireland.
Unlike other kinds of launch, book launches do not usually involve smashing a bottle of champagne to ensure good luck to the outbound vessel. Mine, however, did have a version of this custom.
Before sitting down to sign copies, I had to pose for pictures, including one with my (now grown-up) children. We had arms around each other, as you do. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed that one of my sons’ arms had a glass of wine at the end of it.
Then the photographer suggested I hold a copy of the memoir. And in reaching for one, a little too vigorously thanks to adrenalin, I managed to punch the glass clean into the air above us, from where it descended to smash on the floor and sprinkle everything in between with Cabernet Sauvignon. However unintended, I hope this brings good luck to the book, and all who sail in her.
