In the end, it's pretty ruthless. Mary and Martin will be gone on Thursday morning and the Higginses will move in on Friday, writes MIRIAM LORD
IT’S A long way from Clare to here, he must have thought, as he walked along the Francini corridor towards the State reception room.
A life’s journey for Michael D.
President-elect Higgins looked a little overwhelmed when he arrived at Áras an Uachtaráin yesterday to view the place he will call home for the next seven years.
It is always a slightly awkward occasion when the new owners come around to survey their house before the sitting tenants have moved out.
Michael D and his wife Sabina waited at the edge of the corridor for their hosts to appear. A small group of photographers and reporters watched them from behind a velvet rope.
Nobody said a word.
The atmosphere was hushed and a tad tense.
Then a door opened and the woman of the house came bustling from a side room with a cheery, “Good morning to you all!”
She wore an elegant crimson suit, but nobody would have been surprised had Mary McAleese emerged wiping floury hands on a floral apron. We imagined a Victoria sponge cooling on a wire rack in readiness for the visitors.
Everyone relaxed.
If you’re an Irish President, come into the parlour. There’s a welcome there for you . . .
President Mary McAleese and her husband Martin, who move out of the old mansion next Thursday after 14 years in residence, welcomed the Higgins family with open arms.
“Thank you. We so appreciate this,” said the president-elect, as the President incumbent gestured to the rest of the Higgins clan to come in.
“Fáilte isteach,” cried Mary, clucking them into place for the official photo.
But Her Excellency – old hand that she is – was ever mindful of the occasion. While she effortlessly put the incoming first family at their ease, the one thing she might have been expected to say, but didn’t, was: “Don’t stand on ceremony.”
Because ceremony is what they are all about in the Áras.
So Mary and Martin marshalled Michael D and Sabina and their four adult children for posterity, chatting away as if the cameras and notebooks weren’t there.
Then, to our left, a serious-looking man in a dark suit who had been watching from the sidelines, nodded towards the presidential party. On his signal, Mary and Martin turned to leave and the Higgins family followed their cue.
Still, not a peep from the media, some of whom had no compunction about roaring the most awful impertinences at presidential candidates a couple of weeks earlier.
We know the drill in the Áras.
But Michael D, bless, was clearly nonplussed. He had already shot a few quizzical glances at the mute press paragons when standing in strained silence on the corridor.
With the rest well on their way to the Council of State Room, he hung back for a moment, turned and attempted to say something to the hacks.
You could see he was mad to talk.
But all he managed to say was “Good morning!” accompanied by a happy wave.
One emboldened soul called out to him. How was he feeling?
“Great,” gurgled the president- elect, as he was swept up and out with the rest of the party before he could hear the follow-up questions.
And that was it.
He’ll be a martyr to the protocol.
In the room beyond, we could see bottles of champagne and jugs of orange juice and a tray of crystal glasses.
They sat down to lunch: tomato tarte tatin with prosciutto; seared fillet of black sole on a bed of celeriac purée with basil cream sauce and parisienne potatoes in a straw basket; and lemon soufflé with shortcrust biscuits and fresh raspberries.
Then the President and president-elect retired for a brief meeting in the private study.
While they discussed the job, the secretary general to the President, Adrian O’Neill, took the family on a tour of the building. Afterwards, Rosaleen McBride, the head of household, brought everyone over to the private living quarters – the Wesht Wing.
What was it like there yesterday morning, before the guests arrived? Was Her Excellency rushing around plumping up cushions and straightening pictures?
“Martin, I won’t tell you again. Get those socks off the radiator. They’ll be here in a minute.”
We rather hope so.
At Home with the McAleeses. Soon to be At Home with the Higginses.
In the end, it’s pretty ruthless. Mary and Martin will be gone by Thursday morning, with their bibelots and whatnots in the boot of the car. (The OPW owns the furniture.)
Michael D and Sabina will move straight in after Friday’s inauguration at Dublin Castle.
The first pups have already been chosen. Soon, the Áras will resound to the romping of paws – the president-elect and his wife love Bernese mountain dogs and have successfully bred them in years past.
Lovely big slobbery lumps they are too. The sofas will be ruined.