The Attachment Page 5
‘Yes, go ahead and amputate by all means,’ my mother said, fixing the bearer of this news with a formidable stare. ‘But remember if you do, I’ll take this hospital down BRICK BY BRICK.’
The hospital found an alternative solution. I was playing rugby again twelve months later. My piano playing days were behind me!
Let me tell you a curious story about that school.
We were talking about coincidence and the Irish priest McEncroe being responsible for bringing my great-grandparents out from Donegal. That’s not the only curious twist in this story. The first priest to be formally appointed to minister in Sydney Town, and who would build the first St Mary’s Cathedral, arrived from County Cork in 1820. He was John Joseph Therry, a bit of a firebrand. Not a man who was entirely comfortable with authority, as several of the early bishops would happily attest—particularly those who were English-born. Therry was a strong personality and entirely Irish. When he died, as a result of being held in great honour by the convicts of the time (and being the beneficiary of many of their wills), Therry was a wealthy man. Much of his estate was left to fund the arrival of the Irish Jesuits to Australia.
Now, one of the coincidences that arise from this story is that part of the Therry bequest made possible the purchase of the vast estate upon which the said Riverview College stands today. Therry left one condition—that local boys without the wherewithal to meet the fees would be given free tuition. My brother and I would be two such grateful boys, thanks in part to the charming pleas of our mother. (I did describe her as ambitious, remember.)
Following the twists in the path of history is wondrous at times. 175 years after Archpriest John Therry was installed as parish priest of St Mary’s Cathedral, I would find myself in exactly the same role (by then, the title Dean was used), administering the Cathedral and being responsible for his great story.
To my amazement, while I was working there, I discovered that the graves of the two Irish priests, John McEncroe and John Therry, lie side by side in the Cathedral’s beautiful crypt—one brought my refugee family to Sydney; the other made possible an education for my brother and me. Someone once said, the telling of stories is necessary if for no other reason than if the story dies we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here. The longer I live the more certain I become of the truth of that insight.
No more Irish questions please.
Tony O’Doherty
A postscript.
Sometimes I wonder whether the friendship that has caught us both—a most unlikely friendship I must confess—might find an echo in a far off Irish village somewhere in the wild, windy hills of old Donegal. Or am I allowing that uncontrollable imagination of mine too much slack? But the Shanachie and the Priest has a ring to it, don’t you think? Where can we find some compliant copper and we might set up a village?
Dear Tony,
We shall call our village McBlarney!
One day you must take me to the crypt of the Cathedral and tell me the stories. I recall it from a fleeting visit a long time ago—mostly that floor with the Celtic symbols that decorate it. It is one of those sacred secret places. Cities are full of them, aren’t they? And to think it holds such an enormous part of your history—very big shoes for you to try to fill, I imagine. Perhaps you wandered down to chat to them on the days when the going got tough as Dean. Did it get tough?
NO! Don’t answer that! Pack your sunscreen.
Oh, but this conversational garden path is fun . . .
Thank you for telling me about macushla. I feel such an idiot. All I can say in my feeble defence is that some part of me knew its meaning from the way she said it, and so I never asked. Ning always made us feel we were her darlings when we were little, and in my first year at uni I moved into her sleep-out for a time. I would creep in late and try to open the verandah door without making a sound, but it always creaked. She would call out ‘There you are!’, and I immediately felt safe. She never railed about the time or what I had been doing, and I, wretched youth, never amended my ways and came home earlier.
Do people still have sleep-outs? They are probably called something far more glamorous now.
I meant to say—feel no guilt at the multiple-book bedside table confession. It’s the only way to read. Rather like the way a good conversation flows between friends.
And while we’re changing subjects . . .
The radio is on as I write, announcing another piece of policy to chill the blood. I’ve been so angry about the public dialogue around asylum seekers lately; constantly put in mind of a line from The Duchess of Malfi. The playwright, John Webster, writing way back in 1612, says: ‘a parliament is like a common fountain, whence should flow pure silver drops in general.’ We’re all aching for some pure silver from our own parliament, aren’t we?
Hmmm. These are not thoughts for you to pack into your suitcase. No excess baggage for pilgrims.
Buen camino. Buon viaggio. Bonnes vacances. In all lingos, may you have a wonderful time. Fly high and safe, happy and healthy.
Ailsa
PS I forgot. (Sorry—no conversation ever finishes with me, does it?)
I have taken the bold step of creating a mailbox in my email program specifically for you. This is a big commitment, but not taken lightly. I feel hopeful of many years of insights and shared chat.
Travel well. I’ll miss you.
DEAR READER ,
Despite being crazy-busy with promoting my book and the thrill of The Duchess of Malfi opening at the Sydney Opera House, I missed my daily hit of Doherty when Tony went overseas. The rhythm of our letters had become a delicious punctuation to my days—though it had sped up to a mad polka by the time I opened that mailbox. I could never have guessed, even with my high hopes, how crucial our correspondence was to become for me.
Back then, I was busily working on an article or two, and a monologue for me to perform. There was plenty on my plate, you’d think, but I remember one chilly afternoon, when I was wondering where my pen-pal was, deciding to try to find a definition of ‘shanachie’. There were a few, so I cobbled together the best of them. Then, out of curiosity, I looked up ‘priest’. I was delighted with my findings, and I thought you might enjoy them too.
Shanachie
An anglicisation of the Irish word seanchaî. A traditional Irish storyteller, or bearer of the old lore.
Priest
1. An ordained minister of religion, especially of the Catholic, Orthodox or Anglican church, authorised to perform certain rites and administer certain sacraments.
2. A mallet used to kill fish when angling.
And the moral?
Fishing with priests may be something best avoided by fair-haired shanachies!
Ailsa
Ailsa,
The five-week silence is broken. The pilgrim returns from sensational days exploring Africa—Tanzania, Serengeti, Ngorogoro, Zanzibar and J’burg. My main purpose for going there was to visit Gemma Sisia, a country girl from the NSW town of Guyra, who set out to found a remarkable school in Arusha, Tanzania. In ten years it has grown from three students to 1650, twelve hundred of them boarders—entirely free of fees, three campuses. Their motto—‘Fighting poverty through education’.
Richard, her husband, a Masai, is father of their four children—the last born a week ago. Our parish has involved itself in a sort of partnership to support Gemma’s school for about seven years now. I thought I knew a great deal about it, but the impact of being there for ten days was astonishing. Each of the 1650 students, often malnourished, is given a substantial meal every day. A million meals a year! Gemma believes hungry children can’t learn. She is a woman touched with genius, with a vision that should be bottled.
My last two days were spent in Johannesburg, really just a convenient port to exit from, but it turned into a powerful 48 hours. I found a tour guide—although this hardly describes the six-foot-six Zulu, fierce and passionate about post-Apartheid South Africa, who took four of us through Soweto, the Apar
theid Museum, the houses of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu, the fascinating High Court and a dozen other significant places. My Zulu guide was not to be messed with—felt a little wary about asking dumb uninformed questions, but of course, that didn’t stop me bombarding him. The day left my mind reeling. I came away with the conviction that South Africa was a great country, much troubled of course, but exploding with creativity and energy. Leaves me with the sense, coming back, that here in Oz we are dawdling and quite unconscious of what is happening at this critical moment of the history of our planet. Now the bad news. I had tickets for your Duchess last night and came down with a heavy cold and had to give them away. Damn. The lucky recipients telephoned me this morning raving about it. You seem to see this 17th-century play raising questions we are still struggling with today. I always find that sort of historical perspective fascinating—sometimes can see the connection in old texts, sometimes it passes me by. What was it for you with the Duchess?
I noticed on your blog that you went to the Byron Bay Writers Festival. How was it?
Happy days.
Tony
Dear Tony,
Hooray! You are home.
Thanks for the tales. I’ve always been ambivalent about travelling in Africa—partly the history of Apartheid, but also an idea that the landscape might somehow feel too like Australia, when I crave otherness. I do see how stupid that assumption is, and how uninformed. To even speak of ‘Africa’ as one destination is so ignorant.
How is it being home? I imagine the head cold would be the least of the transitions you’d be making. Please don’t worry about the Duchess. In the scheme of things—and hopefully in the scheme of our friendship—very small. It went well. Reviews were terrific. John Bell was a generous collaborator, and people discovered the glories of Webster’s original language and imagination, which was a great pleasure for me.
T.S. Eliot wrote that Webster saw ‘the skull beneath the skin’. Perhaps that’s what sustained my interest. Also, of course, the Duchess herself is one of the most compelling characters in literature. Her stoicism, grace and capacity for forgiveness in the face of her own death are heartbreaking. More than anything, though, it’s Webster’s moral questions that draw me—not to mention the power and invention of his language and metaphors.
But why did I love it enough to devote years to it?
Who can say why love strikes? I find something new in the text every time I meet it—not unlike friendships that sneak up and surprise us. Enriching us. I’m lucky to have a few of those.
The Byron Bay Writers Festival was overwhelmingly positive. Intriguing people trying to give of their best, nuanced views, a few of my heroes, and all in the open air under golden coastal light. One of my panels was called It’s Not Easy Being Good—a lively dialogue between four women about ethics and choices. I think you’d have enjoyed the conversation.
Coming home from the Festival left me appalled at the dearth of respect in our public discourse. Current affairs seems to mean shouting, posturing and grandstanding. Reading the opinion pages, I rarely find commentators who endeavour to understand the positions of the people they are rebutting. So much point-scoring, so little listening. I don’t know how public figures continue in this environment, but it must be bruising. At Byron, whether by programming or luck, people were able to be the biggest versions of themselves. From what I observed, that meant that all opinions, whether in rabid agreement or disagreement, could then be heard. Perhaps people of the book are more open to hear opposing sides of a debate, but I don’t think that’s it. We are all capable of it, all the time. And it doesn’t have to look like political correctness, or shutting down of discourse. It might just look like respect. Oh dear. Here endeth the sermon, Monsignor! Excuse me being so sanctimonious. If you could see me arguing politics with my family, you’d roar with laughter. Don’t do as I do, do as I say. Please . . . Great to have you back in Oz. Send me more travel stories when you’ve unpacked. I love them even more than a slide night with bowls of Twisties and lashings of lemonade.
A
Ailsa,
I worry about your diet. How on earth did you walk across Spain on such fare? I can never resist the invitation to tell a story, though this one isn’t from this trip. It is, however, out of Africa—and something tells me it will appeal to your sensibilities. I have often used it at weddings and anniversary celebrations . . .
In a small tribe on the west coast of Africa there is a lovely tradition.
When a woman is to give birth, the other women of the village take her out into the wilderness and together they pray, meditate and listen intently until they detect the song of the unborn child.
This small, unsophisticated and remote tribe holds the belief that the genius of every soul is in its vibration, which expresses its own unique identity. Indeed, each soul has its own song. We all have our own song.
When the women hear the song of the unborn child they sing it out loud, then return to the village and teach it to everyone else. When the child is born, the entire village gathers and sings the child’s song. The first sound that the newborn child experiences is its own song.
Later, when the child goes to school, the village gathers and sings the child’s song. When the child passes through the special rites of initiation to adulthood, the village gathers to sing the song. Their celebration of marriage has the man singing the woman’s song and the woman replying with the song of the man. It is then that they are married. When the person comes to death, the village gathers again to sing the song.
This tribe has a unique appreciation of human friendship, and of those enduring questions: Why do we gravitate to one person rather than another? Why does a person capture our heart or mind?
Their answer—we are irresistibly drawn to those people whose song we hear. Friendship and love have much to do with recognising the particular song within the mystery of the other person. We hear their music.
Tony
Dear Tony,
Something told you it would appeal to me? What on earth could that have been? It is beautiful. And exactly how I experience friendship. Maybe a better way of describing my sense of ‘knowing’ someone. Hearing their song. I hope that I can listen well to yours, my new friend. My old friend. My unlikely friend. Thank you so much. Now, I have some news. It’s my turn to travel. Next Tuesday I’m heading to Perth to see my dad and siblings, before flying to Ubud, where Peter and I will celebrate 25 years of marriage with ten days of listening to chooks, frogs and tuk-tuks. I will do some daily yoga practice, walk in the rice fields, sip juices and try to quiet this over-stimulated brain. We come home on the 30th August, and things are a little quieter then, I think, so I’m hoping to make some headway on the novel. Welcome home, wanderer. The days are better, knowing you are just up the road a ways.
Ailsa
PS Now that you’re back, let me hit you with the big question that has been nipping at my heels while you’ve been away. Vocation. The calling to be a priest. How? Where? When did you know?
Ailsa,
Congratulations and blessings for your 25th. I really believe that in the right environment you can slow the racing mind. Hope Ubud turns out to be the place and August the time. Last night I broached my dinner party question—‘Can we carry the sins of others?’—led in by the travel story of my now-favourite author. What a zinger. It has led to some of the best conversations. Not without heat, of course. But a wonderful alternative to how many Olympic golds we’ve won/lost/misplaced etc. What’s the story of you writing a novel? You slipped that into the conversation a bit sneakily. Is there no limit to this pilgrim’s creativity? Wonderful news. Your ability to climb that mountain—insight, writing skills, passion for life—is, in this little brown dog’s opinion, without question.
Thinking about you celebrating 25 years with Peter in Bali reminds me that next year I’ll be celebrating 50 years since I became a priest. Your question—snuck in as a postscript I note—has been asked of me a thousand times.
You might find it a bit eccentric but I’ve probably given a thousand different answers. Mild exaggeration, but only mild.
Anyway, let me throw my mind back over those years. It was 1955—four years before you were born! I was about 22 and had been working in the corporate world for six years. Interesting enough, I guess, but I felt no real passion for it. The belief that there was ‘something else’ going on within me was like an itch that I couldn’t scratch. I seemed to be living in a half-baked secular world that struggled to name its own spiritual longing. Something kept nagging at me, quietly and persistently, but it was not too difficult to ignore as long as I worked hard and played even harder.
One Sunday morning at Mass—I must admit a little ‘tired and emotional’ from a late Saturday night—I heard the story of a young man I had known at school who had joined a religious order, the Jesuits, and was now working with a nomadic group in India. He adopted their lifestyle, going barefoot, sharing their subsistence diet, sleeping rough, following their ancient rituals. His story fired me. It was like pouring petrol on to the nagging spark that I had successfully, up to then, kept protected. His story released a suppressed urge, a deep longing in me, that I felt had to be worked out one way or another. He had gambled his whole life on working for others.
To engage with the complex situations of people’s lives—believing that the story of the Gospel threw its own unique light on those complexities—sounded far closer to what I wanted to do with this life of mine. I felt the compulsion to take that same bet.
The question asked a thousand times: what about celibacy? I know it might sound quite bizarre, almost eccentric in this sex-obsessed culture of ours, but the choice of a celibate life was not the game-changer that one would imagine.
Oddly, my final decision to go to the seminary, made a couple of months later, was almost taken in haste. I approached my local parish priest and eight weeks later started my studies. Lots of my most important decisions have been quite spontaneous. Taking this step was a good example. Acting instinctively often seems to work for me.