A business-as-usual facade could not hide the sense of sadness at Leinster House, writes MIRIAM LORD
SMILING, BRIAN Lenihan bounds over for a word. He apologises. “I don’t know what more I can say, but fire ahead.”
This is just terrible. “Jesus Brian, I don’t know what to say.”
The Minister for Finance has cancer. He starts chemotherapy on Thursday. His is a very important job and his is a very public illness.
Around Leinster House, people were inordinately focused on doing their job. Everyone was so businesslike, but too obviously so. Even the banter sounded strained. All in a day’s work and all that – except they knew it wasn’t.
There was Lenihan, facing up to difficult and very personal questions about his health and ability to carry out his duties. His advisers remaining as resolutely upbeat as their boss. The journalists asked what they needed to ask, but many were feeling really uncomfortable.
“I’ll be totally focused on doing my job,” was the Minister’s message, as in newsrooms around the city reporters were dialling the nearest friendly oncologist to take soundings on whether that message could be relied upon.
Leinster House is a small place. The cut and thrust of politics is reported. People fall out. People make up. Reputations are burnished or dismantled. Headlines come and go. That’s business. But on a personal level, Brian Lenihan is a popular politician. Which is why yesterday afternoon, as everyone went about the necessary task of covering a story of undoubted national importance, the tone of sadness could not be dissipated. There was a surreal air to the proceedings.
It was a tough day for Lenihan. He got his diagnosis in Christmas week. It was made public, without his approval, on St Stephen’s Day. On his second day back at work (he was back at his desk on New Year’s Eve), he spoke publicly about his medical condition.
The dogs in the street have been talking about it for a week now. Yesterday, in a series of interviews and press briefings, he confronted the reality, sounding upbeat and confident.
First, he spoke at length to RTÉ's Seán O'Rourke for the One O'Clock News. Immediately afterwards, the Livelineswitchboard went into meltdown as listeners rushed to commend him on his openness and bravery.
The interview took place in the conference room of the Department of Finance, under the gaze of his 24 predecessors whose photographs line the walls. Afterwards, Lenihan said he was glad O’Rourke didn’t shirk the hard questions about his illness.
“I didn’t want him to hold back.”
He had to sound confident and competent. Soon afterwards, he met the political correspondents. But it was a meeting that many more wanted to attend, so before he went into the inter sanctum of the pol corrs’ room, he did a question and answer session.
How did you hear the news? How did it feel at the time? Was it a shock? How do you feel now? Are you up to working? Have you thought about the effects of chemotherapy?
Lenihan answered with a sense of calm and a lightness of delivery which knocked many off balance. He went from talking about a blockage at the entrance of his pancreas to discussing the budgetary estimates. He made little jokes at this own expense and everyone laughed a little bit too hard. It was unsettling stuff in its ordinariness. And God, but it seems like everyone is an expert on the pancreas now.
“Long term, how do you think this might affect your political future?” he was asked by one of the pol corrs.
“I haven’t really thought long term in that sense. I mean, I’m very focused on the long term in the department and the economy, and I’m thinking that way.”
Then he paused and mused: “But I’m not really . . . I think ambitions somewhat fade when you’re in a position like this and you focus on survival yourself and doing your job right.”
Then he made a little quip about people who get so caught up in thinking about the next promotion they “make a bit of a balls of the job they’re in, but I’m not going to give you any examples of that!”
Again laughter.
There was much talk about the economy, naturally. “The position is stabilising in economic terms,” said the Minister.
But really, the story wasn’t about the economy, despite the dutiful performances all round.
A pattern emerged after the first couple of briefings. Lenihan’s lines, even the humorous ones, didn’t change much as the day wore on. He knew what he was going to say. More detailed questions about the precise nature of his condition were skilfully deflected.
He won’t be giving further bulletins about his conditions. There is now other work to do.
And so, he beetled over to The Irish Times, loitering at the edge of the pack. "Fire away!" says Lenihan. But we can't. What to say, apart from the obvious?
So he says he had a wonderful Christmas at home with his family and he’s rearing to go. “Ah, don’t be worrying now,” he soothes, saying he’d love to come out with an interesting new angle for us, “but there’s only so many angles you can take on a pancreas!”
Finally, he leaves the subdued media behind and heads back to Leinster House. His opposite number, Fine Gael’s Richard Bruton, approaches down the corridor. Lenihan reminds him to keep up the tough opposition. “Aggressive intervention!” he says to Bruton, who laughs and nods and keeps moving so fast he nearly mows down a stray hack.
The Minister is now doing the comforting. “Is the bar open? C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink.”
There is nobody else in the bar. Lenihan orders a green tea and tells the barman to order in plenty of it. He leans back on the stool. He looks very tired. He read a lot of interesting books over Christmas, and he’s read a lot about cancer. This one, he vows, is not going to beat him if he can help it. People have been wonderful. He had to clear 500 messages from his phone on St Stephen’s Day. Holy relics have been arriving in the post. A butcher in Cabra sent spiced beef.
His two advisers arrive as he talks about all the people he’s only found out now have cancer. And he was amazed how many people thought he smoked. “Never smoked in my life.”
The Minister gently ribs one of the advisers, saying he was in tears on the phone to him on Christmas Eve. “No need for that sort of carry on!”
No, everybody is upbeat now. We still don’t know what to say to him. The Minister is yawning, clearly drained. There’s a junior Minister wanting to speak to him on the phone. Lenihan says he can wait. He can do those sort of things now. Then he drains his teacup and sighs. “God, I’m glad that’s over.”
