I went to a friend from college’s mother’s funeral in Cork last Thursday. I was humming and hawing a bit but in the end I went. I only had internal meetings on Thursday so easier to take the day off and I benefited from the universal social assumption in Ireland that a certain amount of funeral attendance is essential. I said I was going, everyone sympathised and that was that.
I met another friend for lunch the day before and laid out my thinking for him and he said, “You spend your life agonising about whether to go to funerals.” It is, I fear, entirely true.
I headed down on Thursday morning and became filled with fear that after all that, the train might be late and I would miss the mass. No such tragedy occurred. Though there was a mild difficulty with my train ticket which appeared to indicate that I had not paid for it. I had. But while trying to resolve this difficulty the train inspector asked whether I was entitled to free travel. The earliest age at which this is available is 66. Bitter.
I arrived in – I brought my bike on the train and, of course, it was lashing in Cork (it always rains in Cork). I arrived early to the mass which was good as it gave me a chance to dry out a bit.
My friend spoke about her mother before mass began and did an amazing job; funny and moving and it gave a real sense of what her mother was like. There was a single male singer and he was very good (the deceased was 96 and a bit and so traditional numbers were largely the order of the day – “Abide with me” what’s not to like?). Funerals usually happen within 3-4 days of death so, as someone once observed to me, it’s like organising a wedding in a week. I did wonder where my friend had got the singer. At communion we had “Panis Angelicus” which is a firm favourite of a mutual friend of mine and the daughter of the deceased. In fact, he sang it at my wedding. Light began to dawn and on my way back down from communion, I spotted him in the organ loft.
After mass there was a certain amount of milling about outside. A woman I hadn’t seen since we were in college together was giving out about cycle lanes saying no one used them so I informed her tartly that I had used them to get here. The cycling activist never sleeps. Most of the people who had come down from Dublin were heading back but I was staying in Cork overnight and my singing friend was around for the afternoon. Having done our duty we decided not to go to the cemetery and the meal afterwards but to go into town for lunch ourselves.
More than 30 years ago we worked together on the South Mall in Cork – he was my boss – and, nostalgically, we went to the Quay co-op a vegetarian restaurant we had frequented in those far off days. It was 2.30 and I felt it would serve us. I was right about that. The premises are unchanged though now it has a new name.
I regret to say that the food was quite dreadful. I am not sure whether it was always dreadful and I have grown more discerning or whether it has become dreadful. It was nevertheless a nice spot to be in on a rainy Thursday and they let us stay as long as we liked which was all afternoon. We talked about our lives; how much we miss our dead mothers (it was appropriate); and his plans for an eclipse party in Spain in August next year (will I die from the heat or should I go?)
An old friend of mine says that, for her, Cork is full of ghosts. I know what she means. I haven’t lived in Cork since the early 90s and almost all of my parents’ generation are dead and gone; the buildings are changed; the world has moved on and I am somehow still part of the past. It’s always bitter-sweet to go home.
I stayed with my brother and we went out for a very nice dinner together (Orso, if you find yourself looking for somewhere) which made up for the terrible lunch. Then we called into my sister who had been unable to join us for dinner due to an, in my view, unwarranted dedication to Pilates. She made us desert and brought down the last of the family silver to divvy up. I have decided that on the divvying she should have first choice as she cleared out the parents’ house and was closely involved in caring for them when they got ill; my brother should have second choice as he also cared for my parents; and I should be last as I did least up in my fastness in Dublin. She had already picked her stuff. My brother picked out a number of things that I was happy to let him have (silver ashtray with a Waterford cut crystal inset anyone? yet another of great uncle Tommy’s golf trophies from Douglas golf club – I already somehow have two from an earlier distribution, he was clearly a demon on the fairways in the 1920s) but I was sorry to see the enormous solid silver tray which great uncle Jack got when he retired head off to my brother. On the other hand, it weighed a ton so, really, what was I going to use it for; I would have collapsed under the weight if I actually tried to put anything on it. Somewhat against my better judgement I took an Edwardian octagonal sugar caster; matching salt and pepper shakers; a mustard pot; a milk jug and sugar bowl; and a canteen of cutlery – fish knives and forks. I drew the line at two further canteens of cutlery (I already have over half a dozen which must be more than many small museums for God’s sake) as did my brother, so my sister will have to dispose of them as she thinks fit.
The next day I spent the morning disporting myself alone in Cork and I had a lovely, lovely time. I went to the Nano Nagle centre for breakfast. Great spot. I felt a distinct regret that I hadn’t taken us there for lunch the previous day but, on the other hand, they would have thrown us out at 4 whereas I think we could have stayed in the Quay Co-op all night had we so wished.
The Crawford art gallery is sadly, closed for renovations (until 2029 possibly?) so instead of art, I chose commerce and went to the shops which was satisfactory in its own way.
I went into the Market to buy dinner. It’s got much more upmarket since I used to go there with my mother in the 70s and 80s but “Superfruit” where she always got her fruit and vegetables remains determinedly downmarket and absolutely unchanged. I bought some green beans there and very nice they were too. I decided to go to Ashley O’Neill – my mother’s butcher – but his spot has been taken over by the butcher from next door. Mr. Next Door got my business and raised an eyebrow at the mention of Ashley O’Neill; clearly gone some time. My mother’s fishmonger must be gone 25 years and more but somehow when he shut down we ended up with a slab of marble from his stall; a sharp knife with M&E Sheehan written on it; and what I believe is called a receipt spike with the company name on the bottom. I ended up with the receipt spike something I have no use for. I keep it, inexplicably, on the dressing table. I guess it might be useful in the event of burglar attack? Even Mr. Sheehan’s replacement seems to be gone and his stand in the Market is empty. Sic transit.
I had loads of time to my train so I queued up for lunch in the Farmgate cafe upstairs in the Market chatting to a nice party of Americans waiting patiently for a table (five is just an awkward number). I got seated well before them and ordered at my leisure and read my book. All was right with the world.
Then, I looked at my watch and somehow it was 2.55. And my train was leaving at 3.25. I flew back to my brother’s house making a new land speed record of just over 5 minutes. I didn’t even know that was possible. I picked up my stuff which was not as packed as it might have been and flew to the train station. 15 minutes. Another record. I arrived sweating profusely and five minutes before departure. The train was full to the gills and, of course, the reservation system had broken down but what cared I, I was on. All in all, a successful trip and a triumphant bicycle ride to the finish.
