Karl MacDermott was born in Galway. He has written extensively for radio including the series’ ‘Gone But Forgotten’ and ‘Here’s Johnny’ on RTE Radio 1 and ‘The Mahaffys’ on BBC Radio 4. He has also written for television including a comedy drama for RTE Two, ‘Straight to Video’, and over the years has contributed many articles to the Irish Times. His novel ‘The Creative Lower Being’ was published in 2007. He is currently writer-in-residence in his home in Dublin.

 

‘Ireland’s Favourite Failure’

By Karl MacDermott

This is a chapter from my recently completed second novel ‘Ireland’s Favourite Failure’. The novel set in Galway concerns the adventures of hapless every man Lar Gibbons, a man suffering from both a sense of loss and loss of sense. The book is framed as a series of thirty articles about Lar between 2003 and 2010  from a fictional Galway literary magazine called ‘The Corrib Swan Quarterly’. 

7. Lar meets a yank in a bar (Issue 7, Date of Publication July 2004)

Lar Gibbons was not keen on striking up conversations with strangers in bars. But on this particular night he was going to do just that. What had caused this change of personality? Murder most foul! Each time somebody was murdered, and it was reported on the television news, the victim seemed to be ‘a quiet person who kept to themselves’. Statistically, Lar thought, just once there would have been an ebullient, gregarious, chatty murder victim, in all those years -but no- in a lifetime of watching news on the television, a murder victim was always ‘a quiet person who kept to themselves’. This had caused Lar some anxiety for he too was a ‘quiet person who kept to himself’. And given the ever-increasing crime rate he seemed an obvious candidate for a random homicide. Therefore he had decided to change. To avoid being murdered he would force himself to talk to people and become more friendly with his fellow man.

Lar entered P.J’s, his local pub in lower Salthill. He loved the unchanging decor. 1970’s tatty – like himself. He spotted a free stool next to a sighing, middle-aged man who was nursing a whiskey. He would have usually stood at the bar in circumstances like this or sat elsewhere, but new- friendly- frightened- of- being murdered-in-his-flat-because- he-liked- to- keep- to- himself Lar decided he would sit next to the man. The man looked vaguely familiar. But didn’t look Irish. A tourist. Not German though. Or French. The over-sized white trainers gave American Frank McGinty away. As Lar approached, Frank moved a silver object and placed it on the counter. It looked like an urn. Lar caught the barman’s attention.
“Pint.”
The barman placed the pint in front of Lar and Frank ordered another whiskey.
Lar stared at the urn. Frank spoke.
“My M-aw’s cremains are in it. Her cremated remains. She was Irish. Peoples’ name was Ma-hone-y. From Ardrahan. Just down the road.”
“Oh. The returning yank scattering the ashes huh? Cheers. ”
Lar took a gulp. Frank looked away.
“Buddy, I wish it was that easy. She was an Irish republican. All her life. Uncompromising. Extreme. Her name was Nora. You could say she put the Nora in Noraid.”
It was a line Frank had used many times before. And still enjoyed. Lar, having only half-heard, was confused.
“What?”
“Remember Noraid? They used to send money to ….”
“Oh yeh.”
Frank continued.
“You’re not one yourself are you, buddy? A republican? I mean I don’t want to discredit your beliefs….”
“No. No. I mean…not really. I mean if we got the six counties back it would be great like, but not through force, that’s mad really in this day and age.”
Lar decided not to be brutally honest with Frank by adding …to tell you the truth, I couldn’t give a flying fig. I detest this country with an almost deranged vehemence. The Brits could have all 32 counties as far as I’m concerned. End of story.
Frank became reflective.
“She passed eleven months ago. And she stipulated in her will that she wanted her ashes to be brought home to Ire-land, and get this, to be scattered in all 32 counties.”
The next whiskey arrived. Lar registered surprise.
“What? How big was she?”
“Big-boned. A farm girl. But not that big. I mean the cancer shrivelled her a lot at the end. And now I’m worried. I mean there was about 2,500 grams in this urn. 32 counties? That’s about 78 grams per county. I have to be very careful with my scooping. And she wants me to scatter an extra big scoop outside Stormont Castle. Up in the North of Ire-land. Just to, in her words, ‘show those goddamn Unionist bastard black proddy cunts.’
Lar sniggered into his pint.
“How much have you left?”
“Well, I don’t know. And I’m running behind schedule. And I wouldn’t want to run out of the stuff before the wish was fulfilled. Especially if I only got round to scattering in 26 counties. She’d never forgive me for that, buddy. She’d start spinning in that urn.”
He looked over mournfully at the silver flask on the counter and began downing another whiskey.
“She was a devout Catholic, but she insisted on being cremated rather than going into the ground, because, she felt one thing was more important than eternal salvation – Irish Freedom. And she thought that by scattering her ashes in the 32 counties, she would in death, in her own way, unify the country. Want another drink?”
“Yeh. Thanks.”
“Barman! What’s the story around here? Do you get a free one after four drinks like in the States?”
Lar laughed.
“Here? No way.”
Frank drummed his fingers on a beer-mat and moved his head towards Lar.
“The thing is, with her first anniversary coming up I finally had to come over here. I gave myself a month to do all 32 counties because I’ve got to be back Stateside by the first. I’ve been here ten days. I’ve only done Limerick, Cork, Clare and Galway. So many things have gone wrong. Crashed my rental car. Busted my elbow. Picked up a lip infection on the Blarney Stone, could be herpes, what do I know.”
Frank upturned his inner lip and faced Lar. Lar grimaced.
“Doesn’t look great.”
“Spilled some of the ash on the carpet of my B&B outside Doolin. It’s not really ash by the way, it’s light grey dried bone fragments.”
“Thanks for that technical detail.”
“..and now I’ve picked up this god awful cold with the weather. I’ve been stuck here in Galway for the last two days. Maybe I’ll just dump this stuff somewhere, fuggid, and get a flight outta Shannon in the morning.”
“You can’t do that – she’s your mother.”
Lar’s next pint arrived.
“Well what am I going to do, buddy? I need transport. A guide. Someone who knows the country. I got a list here. She wrote down some specific scattering places in her will. Places of famous IRA ambushes or uprisings. Or something.”
Frank rooted in his jeans. A neatly folded list emerged. Frank unfolded it.
“Sheemore, Leitrim. Where’s that? I got to go to Scramogue, Co. Roscommon. An ambush there in 1921. How the fug do I get there? Or Vinegar Hill? What the fug is Vinegar Hill?”
“The 1798 thing. It’s in Wexford. Near Enniscorthy.”
Frank’s mood lightened.
“You know these places? Hey, have you got transport? I’ll pay. I’ve got lots of dough. It’s not a problem.”
Lar sighed and shook his head. But suddenly Laurence appeared and took control. Laurence, Lar’s alter ego. He was can-do Lar. Win-win Lar. Work hard, play hard Lar. Open for Business Lar. Laurence started making plans. Examining options.This would make a great book. Thirty- Two Ways of Saying Goodbye. Or a documentary. He scrutinised Frank for a moment.
“Were you ever in a movie or a band, you look sort of familiar.”
Frank blushed. Nodded slightly.
“Yeh. I was in a band in the early 1980’s. The Sinister Mannequins. Boulder Colorado’s answer to Talking Heads. We had a few albums out.”
 
This was brilliant. Of course, The Sinister Mannequins. He knew the yank looked familiar. Lar could see it all unfold now. But first he had to urinate. He excused himself and entered the gents. It would be on the telly. Irish-American rock musician returns to the homeland. The auld sod. To re-connect with his forefathers past. To re-discover his Irish identity. To scatter the ashes of his mother. In 32 places. And cry loads of tears at each scattering. To re-unite the two parts of this country. And to heal that rift between himself and his mother. And in doing so, achieve a certain calm acceptance of the past while looking with optimism towards the future. Television schedulers love this. And the viewers too. Especially the tears. Call it Mother Ireland. And the yank is a celebrity. However minor. And celebrity tears mean more. Even minor ones. They always add forty per-cent to the audience figures. He’d have to organise transport. Find a cameraman. Convince the yank to be in Mother Ireland which would help kick start a new career for himself. Yes, a new career. He could see it already. Lar Gibbons -award-winning documentary maker!
Lar bolted out of the gents. He looked around.
“Where’s the yank?”
The barman looked up.
“Arey, he went off.”
Lar slumped on the stool and ordered another pint.