Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara rings me. Which is a rare enough occurrence. On the four, maybe five, occasions it’s happened, it’s been to ask me to retrieve the Go Bag that he insists on storing in our attic and to drive him to Dublin Airport.
So I answer the phone and then without waiting for him to say a word, I go, “I’ll see you at the usual spot on Richmond Road. How will I know you?” because he’s usually wearing some kind of disguise.
He’s like, “I’m not ringing about me. I’m ringing about your old man.”
I’m there, “The old man? What about him?”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
He goes, “In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him like this before.”
“What is he, hammered?”
“No, he’s – I can’t even believe that I’m saying the word – depressed.”
I’m like, “Depressed?” because – yeah, no – like the dude said, I don’t think I’ve ever known my old man to be even down in the dumps?
I’m there, “Where are you?”
And Hennessy goes, “The Horseshoe Bor.”
I’m like, “Are you absolutely sure he’s not just pissed?”
And he’s there, “Just get here, will you? I don’t know what to say to the man to get him to snap out of it.”
So I point the cor in the direction of the Shelly and then off I set, wondering – probably like the rest of you – what the fock this is all about.
I was there for the opening night – with m’learned friend and long-suffering golf portner over there
When I get there, I spot the old man straight away, slumped at the bor, two hands to his forehead and a lorge cognac sitting in front of him, untouched. Hennessy is standing a few feet away, looking like a kid whose favourite toy is broken and he’s waiting around for a grown-up to fix it for him. Seriously, 50 years of friendship and I honestly don’t think they’ve ever had a meaningful conversation.
I walk over to the old man and I decide to take the softly-softly approach with him.
I’m there, “You better have a good reason for dragging me away from my children!”
I don’t mean it, of course. I love being away from my children.
He goes, “Ah, there you are, Kicker!” and he says it in a really, I don’t know, sad voice?
I’m there, “Don’t give me, ‘Ah, there you are, Kicker!’ What’s going on? How long has that triple cognac been sitting there?”
“All evening.”
“Jesus, it’s worse than I thought.”
“I was there for the opening night – with m’learned friend and long-suffering golf portner over there.”
“The opening night of what?”
“Of Shanahan’s, Kicker. Of Shanahan’s on the Green.”
“Is that what this is about? Shanahan’s closing?”
“I had a New York strip sirloin. And you know, if I close my eyes, I can still feel the thing melting on my tongue. I said it to John. I said, ‘John, this is what Dublin has been simply crying out for!’ as the waiting staff were helping me into my taxi outside. Well, we became instant friends, as you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“We went there as a family – do you remember, Ross? – the day after you won the famous Leinster Schools Senior Cup.”
I go, “I was hungover to fock,” pulling up a stool beside him.
Now I can see a clear path forward! I know what is to be the final act in the life of Chorles O’Carroll-Kelly!
He’s there, “I had the bone-in rib-eye that day. Rare. Plate was like a crime scene. A bloody well mountain of their world-famous onion rings and a bottle of Chateau Léoville Barton. That was the night John let me have a go of the late, great John F Kennedy’s rocking chair.”
“He didn’t let you have a go of it,” I remind him. “You just sat on the thing – and broke it, if I remember correctly.”
“The chap was very understanding.”
“Yeah, no, he put it behind glass after that as well.”
[ ‘A threesome?’ Sorcha goes. ‘Why would you think I’d be into having a threesome?’Opens in new window ]
“The actual chair he sat in and contemplated what to do as the bold Fidel Castro brought the world to the brink of nuclear destruction. Wonderful, wonderful times.”
“Whatever.”
“And I remember when I was in prison that time – for, well, something I didn’t do – ”
“Yeah, tell the truth before the Mahon tribunal.”
“– I remember lying in my cell on the very first night and saying to the chap in the bunk underneath mine that the first thing I was going to do upon my release was book a table for one in Shanahan’s on the Green and order a fillet mignon with peppercorn sauce and a bottle of their finest Domaine Ponsot Gevrey-Chambertin. That thought got me through my sentence, Ross.”
“Not seeing your family, no?”
“I was released on licence at half-past-five and I was seated in 119 St Stephen’s Green at 7pm.”
“Dude, you have to stop looking back like this. You need to look forward.”
“I’m too old to look forward.”
“No, you’re not. Remember what you said to me when Kiely’s closed down that time and I was wetting the bed for about a month afterwards.”
“What did I say?”
“Something that Fr Fehily used to say. Sometimes, good things come to an end so that better things can come to a beginning.”
He suddenly perks up – I swear to fock, it’s pretty much instant.
He goes, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Ross?”
I’m there, “Er, probably not. What do you think I’m saying, just as a matter of interest?”
He spins around on his stool and he goes, “Hennessy, I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting!”
Hennessy’s face lights up – his favourite toy is suddenly fixed again.
He’s like, “Drink that cognac, Charlie – just so that I know it’s you!”
“Oh, I’ll bloody well drink it!” the old man goes. “And 10 more like it!”
I’m there, “Okay, maybe keep your voice down?”
The old man goes, “Ross here has inspired me, Old Scout – and not for the first time either! He knew the very words that I needed to hear! And now I can see a clear path forward! I know what is to be the final act in the life of Chorles O’Carroll-Kelly!”
I’m like, “I honestly don’t know what I even said.”
The old man goes, “Let us get out our metaphorical chequebooks, Hennessy! We are going to buy Shanahan’s!”
