SATIRE: A Postcard From Ireland
By Teigh-Anne Toast
Last month I flew to Chaoimh Town in Ireland to visit my brothers, Siegfried and Rodolpho. I haven’t seen them for some years. With an undeclared toothbrush in my kaftan and wearing 45 pairs of bloomers, I cunningly evaded the luggage restrictions of Air Éireann. Ha ha! In great excitement, I manoeuvred my well-padded rump onto the plane, and set off for the home of my ancestors. And a few ghosts as well.
Siegfried was waiting for me at the airport with vittles and refreshments. We took the Shamrock Charabanc from downtown Chaoimh to the family homestead at Garvanstownabbey. We spent the journey catching up with our news and chomping on sherbet lemons. Siegfried regaled me with his favourite anecdote from an Irish radio show: on a famous phone-in quiz, the presenter had tried giving one of the contestants a helping hand. The question asked for the name of a legendary Formula One commentator. By way of a clue, the host suggested, “it’s something you put in your mouth”. The caller shot back with “Dickie Davis!”, having failed to make the mental leap from ‘Murray Mint’ to ‘Murray Walker.’ We chuckled all the way home.
Being on the road again in Ireland, I couldn’t help recalling days long ago when I used to hitchhike along this patch, going to and from art school. Back then, hitching was considered an acceptable mode of transport for the young. I generally felt safe, although I did encounter the occasional oddball. One fellow picked me up and drove silently towards my home town. Halfway there, in the shadow of the mountains, he suddenly started waxing about his local convent school. “Those girls have a green uniform”, he said. “…. Errr… yeah…?” I replied with creeping dread. The driver went on, “…and I often wondered about those girls… do you think would they be wearin’ green knickers and a green bra to match the uniform…?” I was stunned and said little until I could spring from the car at my destination.
The obsession with teen lingerie was familiar. Going with a friend to find student digs in Chaoimh Town, one landlord proudly showed us a retractable washing line strung from the tiny kitchen over a dank yard. He told us it would be perfect for hanging out our “smalls”. And in case we hadn’t caught his drift, he said “… heh heh heh…yer panties…” The place we rented in the end had a shower in the kitchen. The owner of that hellhole suffered a different kind of fixation. He let himself into the flat every day and took exception to our “dorty, nudey pictures!” They were harmless life drawings but he ripped them off the walls in a frenzy. Anyway, as much as all this was alarming and intrusive, these guys were amateurs compared with the real perverts of that time in Ireland. Those clerical perverts who hid their crimes in plain sight. We hardly knew how fortunate we were.
Back on the bus, a passenger was attempting a phone call. “WHAT? I can’t hear you… the bus is fuckin’ shakin’” was the gist of it. Every few minutes, the conversation repeated. “No, no, I can’t hear you… the bus is fuckin’ shakin’… WHAT? I can’t hear you!” This continued until he gave up. Because it wasn’t the bus that was shaking.
And that’s the thing about Ireland; the contradictions and riddles of it. It’s funny when it’s sad. It’s strange and familiar. It’s home and it’s not home. As the great poet said, there’s ‘a terrible beauty’. And a lot of underwear. When I flew back towards St Leonards, a rainbow hung over the Emerald Isle. And I was already missing my dear brothers and longing to return.
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