Great place for an imaginary argument, the chipper

An African man being harassed in a queue by a garda? Thank heaven it’s only fiction

I WAS HAVING a cup of tea with the musician Finbar Coady, in his beautiful little home on Patrick Street, last week. He was talking about the wife, because she’s away in Lithuania, with her mother, and he misses her terribly.

“It’s only a house,” he said, “when she’s away. It’s not a home.” I said, “Where are you playing tonight?” “I’m in the Grand Central on O’Connell Street,” he said, “and then D’Arcy McGees, in Templeogue, tomorrow night. But on Sunday I’ll be going to the airport to welcome the Princess home.”

There was a bunch of flowers in a bucket, beside the back door.

“Those are for herself,” he said.

Then, to pass the time, I told him a little story.

Once upon a time a soldier was queuing in a chip shop when a drunk man started harassing an African man about his place in the queue.

The soldier intervened and said, “Leave that man alone.” But the drunk said, “You don’t know who you’re talking to,” and he drew out a Garda identity badge.

So the soldier drew out a military identity badge. And there was a stand-off until the woman behind the counter threw them all out: the garda, the soldier and the African.

The argument continued outside, and eventually a squad car arrived. The soldier was told to go home and mind his own business, the drunk garda who was causing the trouble went back in and got his chips, and the garda in the squad car told the African he’d be better to go down the street and get his chips somewhere else. Which he did, to the delight of the original garda, who flung a chip at him as he went, just to taunt him.

“Of course that’s only fiction,” I said. “It would never really happen; certainly not in Mullingar.” We both laughed.

Then he made me peppermint tea, because I don’t like the ordinary stuff, and I sat beneath his two guitars that hang on the wall above the sofa. On the table in front of me was a box of movies by the Coen brothers, and on a shelf in the corner a candle flickered before a statue of a Buddha, flanked by the Virgin Mary on one side and the Sacred Heart on the other.

“Are you doing anything special for the summer?” I asked.

He said, “We’re going to Skibbereen for a few nights at the end of July, but for most of the time I’ll be here, with herself, cos I’m on the road too much with the work, and there’s no place like home.” He offered to loan me the Coen brothers movies, which I accepted, and headed off down the street.

At the other end of Dominick Street I met the pharmacist, a lovely girl of a woman, though she has lots of grown-up children.

So I put the same question to her. “What are you doing for the summer?” I asked.

“I’m staying in Mullingar,” she said, “but my daughter is gone to the Alhambra, to learn Spanish, and I miss her terribly. And my 24-year-old is just gone to Australia. So the house is empty.”

I said, “It’s a funny old world: for a man the house is empty if the woman isn’t there, and for a woman it’s empty if the children aren’t there. And sure we can’t all sit looking at each other the whole life long; children have to part, and say farewell, and get on with their lives.”

“Too true,” she said.

I said, “You have to let them go.”

She agreed. “Sure didn’t I go to Australia myself for a year, when I graduated, and never thought twice about who I was leaving behind? I was on Bondi Beach that Christmas, having a whale of a time, but did I ask myself was my mother lonely? Not at all!”

“Well, have a lovely summer anyway,” I said, “and I hope they keep in touch on the Skype.” Then I went farther down towards Austin Friars Street, wondering how many women on the street, behind their smiling faces, might be grieving mothers, with empty houses, because their children have gone away, for the summer, or perhaps forever.

And then I saw an African man across from Xtra-vision, with a suitcase by his side, waiting for the bus to Dublin. I wondered was he going on his holidays, or going home, or perhaps just getting out of Mullingar.