The Ould Granny

The ‘ould Granny’ she was. Only she wasn’t really that old, and she wasn’t much of a Granny either. She was a native of Ennis who had been shuttled over to near-Wicklow, a veritable world away, to be a sort-of-housekeeper for a house full of what seemed to be Protestants, and one of them English at that. Her foolish daughter had married her second English Protestant. Now, to marry one was careless….

And now her bossy granddaughter had brought one in tow as well, just for good measure. A tall, gawky whelk of a man-boy mooning about like a gowl and drinking all the whiskey.

The ould Granny approached the stair like it was Mount Everest; she made such a meal of it with her supposed infirmity. Everyone knew it was an act, they’d all seen her briskness and flight of foot when she was maybe late for the Angelus and thought no-one was about, but still she persisted with her invalid performance.

The young Scot – the gawky one – had said to his girlfriend in bed one night (another mortal sin).

“I saw your Granny fair burlin’ up the high street this morning” – weak of character, he’d picked up the Erse turn of speech in no time – “I thought her back was buggered with arthritis. Or does it come and go?”

“Comes and goes when it suits her” she replied tersely.

One night as he was clambering through some woods in an attempt to escape a couple of Guardai who were chasing, she appeared at the back gate of the house – he was closer than he thought, and she’d spotted him from her bedroom window – she beckoned  ‘hurry, quick’ and he rushed to safety. She’d proved herself spritely but he said nothing as she’d done him this kindness. She never asked me why he was being pursued (selling insurance door-to-door with no license, some vigilant Neighbourhood Watch type had alerted the law) and he never mentioned her apparent vigour.

This gave them a friendly collusion. But now – was he on her side against the rest of them?

Another night he’d answered the phone and it was the Taoiseach’s office on the line.

“Hello, this is Garret Fitzgerald’s office. Can I speak to a Mr Gary Kidd, please?”

“I’m afraid he’s not at home at the moment. Can I get him to call you back?”

This wasn’t any lie. Mr Gary Kidd hadn’t been home for days and we suspected he was away being his alter-ego, Steve. Gary Kidd was the English Protestant in the pack: the one that had married Shelagh, my girlfriend Marie’s mother. The one who was a crook. What Steve got up to, no-one quite knew.

The Shannon is the longest river in Ireland – the British Isles for that matter – but the Liffey is the prettiest. Often the Scots gowl and his girl would gaze at it from The Ha’penny Bridge. It was best on a dark night with all the lights sparkling. They’d amble along Grafton Street, gratuity to busker singing ubiquitous Thin Lizzy songs (surely no-one should ever sing ‘Whiskey In The Jar’ ever again on pain of a right good knee-capping) and over Stephen’s Green to fling good money away in the fountain. Oscar Wilde had once farted so eloquently here as a child that there was a plaque commemorating the guff. Perhaps Brendan Behan had once had one too many and marauded in this vicinity shouting ‘hold your hour and have another’ with JP Donleavy in his wake writing it all down.

One night they’d gone to see Tom Waits at The Abbey and had found a stone in a bag which for ages they thought was a bit of dope they could smoke when they got home (another thousand Hail Mary’s). Oh how they laughed when they discovered its true mineral identity.

Another day to the waterfall at Powerscourt, the Silver Sands in Wicklow; from Bray Head looking down upon the Pale and the Irish Sea.

She bid farewell to him on the platform of O’Connell station. He was the one near to tears. The ould Granny had given him a book as a parting gift: ‘Goodbye Soldier’ by Spike Milligan. He never set eyes on the auld bugger again.