Anthony McIntyre ⚱ shares memories of a cherished friend who died in September.

Máire Robinson
When the phone rang early on the closing day of September, and I saw my friend Máire’s caller ID come up, I answered right away. Often when we missed calls it might take weeks to hook up again after a string of deposited voice mails. She tended to ring in the mornings, describing herself as a little Mary Sunshine at the start of the day. How she managed I have no idea. She and her partner Ronan did French style dining around 9 before retiring for the evening around an hour after midnight. I would not have arose like the shining sun any morning after such a late night before. 

I pressed the receive button and greeted my friend, expecting to hear a cheery Hi Tony: it was how she had always addressed me. The voice that answered me was male. Máire had just passed away in hospital, was the news her beloved Ronan conveyed to me. I felt my heart drop into the pit of my stomach. I immediately went upstairs and told my wife in subdued tones that my good friend had died. My wife had often sat in the living room laughing as myself and Máire bantered on the phone. She knew I felt her passing.

Máire did have health problems and was particularly chesty which I kept telling her to be extra careful about in the Covid climate that had descended like fog in front of us, blacking out our future intentions with the smog of uncertainty.

There were times when she would end the call prematurely because her cough or wheeziness made it too uncomfortable to continue. Once after I had rang her in May and couldn’t reach her she sent me a message “Sure, I'd have enjoyed the chat 'cos today was my first 50% cough-free day!”

A few years ago we hooked up for a drink in a pub just of O’Connell Street, which she picked. It was whiskey for me and I think she drank wine. Although there were occasions when fed up with Dublin drizzle she expressed a preference for a heavily doctored Irish coffee. In the warmth of the bar, we chatted about how we first met - I had come across her quest for a pen pal in a religious magazine back in the 1980s. Then she was Máire Fogarty from Greystones. Myself and my cellmate Pepe Rooney used to laugh at the contents of the St Martin de Porres magazine, particularly due to the expressions of gratitude from those who felt St Martin had got them a parking space or something ahead of the next guy because of their prayers.  Still, I continued browsing it and ended up responding anyway. Whatever way she phrased her request, it merited a response. I didn’t sense a religious maniac was about to assail me with biblical tracts and scripture squawking. I was not disappointed.

We agreed to revisit the bar but schedules clashed and then Covid struck. She wrote “I can't wait for a little soirée as soon as they let cosy bars open.” Prior to that, I had often suggested that she come up to Drogheda as she always expressed a wish to meet my wife and family. But she was constrained. In May she wrote that “a chilled Sauvignon Blanc would be delish if only I weren't on a heavy duty dose of steroids and antibiotics!"

In July tragedy struck in the form of her nephew Michael, son of her sister Geraldine, losing his life at 45, confiding in me a few weeks after it that she still couldn’t make sense of what had happened in her life over the previous weeks. No one was to know than that it would only get worse.

Maire was super intelligent, well-read and so cultured in her accent. In later years I was reminded of Dolours Price when I would hear her speak. When she was writing - what an exquisite hand writer - and visiting me in Long Kesh, because I was in no need of books as the jail was awash with them, she would always send in bookmarks. Like the memes she would shower upon me in recent times, there was always a point to her bookmarks. They contained some phrase or image that had meaning. They were never selected by chance.

Literature was one of her loves. I had sought in vain to coax her to do A Booker’s Dozen for TPQ, but she invariably declined. I had asked her in February, and she said it was emotionally a difficult time of the year for her. Later she said her contribution would not be up to standard. That was her underselling herself. When I proposed that she try her hand at book reviews she facetiously suggested proof reading as she got “really hacked off when I find errors in expensively produced tomes.”

The following month I offered a mea culpa in case I was putting her under too much pressure to write. The one thing to be drawn from her response was that her odyssey through illness was not plain sailing:

Ah you don't stress me.. in fact, there's nothing I'd like better than to have a good 'oul natter with you. Sadly, you wouldn't get much sense out of me because every sentence would be interspersed with bouts. of my hacking cough! I can't concentrate on anything because my brain is not getting enough oxygen so I feel sluggish and can't even concentrate on something as minimally taxing as a soap opera!

She did send me some of the book images used in A Booker’s Dozen. Quite a few of the memes featuring on the satirical A Morning Thought and A Sweet Dream slots on my Facebook page also came from her, leading me to comment "some brilliant memes Máire - the Evangelical Christian one is top drawer." Today’s A Morning Thought on Facebook came courtesy of Máire.

She sent a meme once with the caption every child needs a librarian in their life. Her appreciation of the value of reading was perhaps best encapsulated in a photo she sent me which she described as "a wonderful sight."
 
Child reading a book - "a wonderful sight".
We discussed winding down: I told her I liked to walk for seven miles along the Boyne with the dog, She asked me not to laugh when telling me that as exercise she was going to start strolling to church again as it was a great place to mediate and practice mindfulness. I told her I wouldn't laugh but did anyway, just to wind her up.

She loved Sinn Fein. We used to have quite the discussion over that: she was ecstatic over the party’s performance in last year’s general election and retained high hopes that it would change society, that Mary Lou had to be better than the men who had long monopolised the position of Taoiseach. I insisted that the more they strove to become like all the rest of the political establishment parties, the less they would change anything. Unfortunately, she did not survive to see what the outcome of the rubber hitting the road shall be.

She had an interest in international politics, supporting the Palestinians in their fight against Israeli terror, and displaying an animus towards Trump and Johnson. She had a Left perspective, holding both Paul Murphy and Richard Boyd Barrett in high esteem, even if she felt the chances of the type of government favoured by them were non-existent. I think she was of the view that if nothing else it would be worth the candle to see Fine Gael and Fianna Fail told where to go if Sinn Fein got into office. For me, the rise of Sinn Fein meant the big two beasts of Tweedledee and Tweedledum would be joined on the establishment safari jeep by Tweedleduh in which they could all head off into the sunset of their retirement on fat pensions, having captured the big game trophy ministerial seats. She disagreed but did not discount the possibility given the litany of broken promises. She was no blind faith woman and found a piece by former blanketman Dixie Elliot a valuable insight. Dixie had lambasted the screamers of the bot brigade for their response to the release of the Bobby Sands comm in which the volunteer who led the 1981 hunger strike expressed a preference, never honoured, for his funeral arrangements.

Sweet, caring, sensitive Máire who sent me endless cat memes, despite all her health problems, had every right to purr with contentment at the happiness she induced in others.  

A Meme Chosen by Maire Robinson

 ⏩ Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre.

Máire Robinson

Anthony McIntyre ⚱ shares memories of a cherished friend who died in September.

Máire Robinson
When the phone rang early on the closing day of September, and I saw my friend Máire’s caller ID come up, I answered right away. Often when we missed calls it might take weeks to hook up again after a string of deposited voice mails. She tended to ring in the mornings, describing herself as a little Mary Sunshine at the start of the day. How she managed I have no idea. She and her partner Ronan did French style dining around 9 before retiring for the evening around an hour after midnight. I would not have arose like the shining sun any morning after such a late night before. 

I pressed the receive button and greeted my friend, expecting to hear a cheery Hi Tony: it was how she had always addressed me. The voice that answered me was male. Máire had just passed away in hospital, was the news her beloved Ronan conveyed to me. I felt my heart drop into the pit of my stomach. I immediately went upstairs and told my wife in subdued tones that my good friend had died. My wife had often sat in the living room laughing as myself and Máire bantered on the phone. She knew I felt her passing.

Máire did have health problems and was particularly chesty which I kept telling her to be extra careful about in the Covid climate that had descended like fog in front of us, blacking out our future intentions with the smog of uncertainty.

There were times when she would end the call prematurely because her cough or wheeziness made it too uncomfortable to continue. Once after I had rang her in May and couldn’t reach her she sent me a message “Sure, I'd have enjoyed the chat 'cos today was my first 50% cough-free day!”

A few years ago we hooked up for a drink in a pub just of O’Connell Street, which she picked. It was whiskey for me and I think she drank wine. Although there were occasions when fed up with Dublin drizzle she expressed a preference for a heavily doctored Irish coffee. In the warmth of the bar, we chatted about how we first met - I had come across her quest for a pen pal in a religious magazine back in the 1980s. Then she was Máire Fogarty from Greystones. Myself and my cellmate Pepe Rooney used to laugh at the contents of the St Martin de Porres magazine, particularly due to the expressions of gratitude from those who felt St Martin had got them a parking space or something ahead of the next guy because of their prayers.  Still, I continued browsing it and ended up responding anyway. Whatever way she phrased her request, it merited a response. I didn’t sense a religious maniac was about to assail me with biblical tracts and scripture squawking. I was not disappointed.

We agreed to revisit the bar but schedules clashed and then Covid struck. She wrote “I can't wait for a little soirée as soon as they let cosy bars open.” Prior to that, I had often suggested that she come up to Drogheda as she always expressed a wish to meet my wife and family. But she was constrained. In May she wrote that “a chilled Sauvignon Blanc would be delish if only I weren't on a heavy duty dose of steroids and antibiotics!"

In July tragedy struck in the form of her nephew Michael, son of her sister Geraldine, losing his life at 45, confiding in me a few weeks after it that she still couldn’t make sense of what had happened in her life over the previous weeks. No one was to know than that it would only get worse.

Maire was super intelligent, well-read and so cultured in her accent. In later years I was reminded of Dolours Price when I would hear her speak. When she was writing - what an exquisite hand writer - and visiting me in Long Kesh, because I was in no need of books as the jail was awash with them, she would always send in bookmarks. Like the memes she would shower upon me in recent times, there was always a point to her bookmarks. They contained some phrase or image that had meaning. They were never selected by chance.

Literature was one of her loves. I had sought in vain to coax her to do A Booker’s Dozen for TPQ, but she invariably declined. I had asked her in February, and she said it was emotionally a difficult time of the year for her. Later she said her contribution would not be up to standard. That was her underselling herself. When I proposed that she try her hand at book reviews she facetiously suggested proof reading as she got “really hacked off when I find errors in expensively produced tomes.”

The following month I offered a mea culpa in case I was putting her under too much pressure to write. The one thing to be drawn from her response was that her odyssey through illness was not plain sailing:

Ah you don't stress me.. in fact, there's nothing I'd like better than to have a good 'oul natter with you. Sadly, you wouldn't get much sense out of me because every sentence would be interspersed with bouts. of my hacking cough! I can't concentrate on anything because my brain is not getting enough oxygen so I feel sluggish and can't even concentrate on something as minimally taxing as a soap opera!

She did send me some of the book images used in A Booker’s Dozen. Quite a few of the memes featuring on the satirical A Morning Thought and A Sweet Dream slots on my Facebook page also came from her, leading me to comment "some brilliant memes Máire - the Evangelical Christian one is top drawer." Today’s A Morning Thought on Facebook came courtesy of Máire.

She sent a meme once with the caption every child needs a librarian in their life. Her appreciation of the value of reading was perhaps best encapsulated in a photo she sent me which she described as "a wonderful sight."
 
Child reading a book - "a wonderful sight".
We discussed winding down: I told her I liked to walk for seven miles along the Boyne with the dog, She asked me not to laugh when telling me that as exercise she was going to start strolling to church again as it was a great place to mediate and practice mindfulness. I told her I wouldn't laugh but did anyway, just to wind her up.

She loved Sinn Fein. We used to have quite the discussion over that: she was ecstatic over the party’s performance in last year’s general election and retained high hopes that it would change society, that Mary Lou had to be better than the men who had long monopolised the position of Taoiseach. I insisted that the more they strove to become like all the rest of the political establishment parties, the less they would change anything. Unfortunately, she did not survive to see what the outcome of the rubber hitting the road shall be.

She had an interest in international politics, supporting the Palestinians in their fight against Israeli terror, and displaying an animus towards Trump and Johnson. She had a Left perspective, holding both Paul Murphy and Richard Boyd Barrett in high esteem, even if she felt the chances of the type of government favoured by them were non-existent. I think she was of the view that if nothing else it would be worth the candle to see Fine Gael and Fianna Fail told where to go if Sinn Fein got into office. For me, the rise of Sinn Fein meant the big two beasts of Tweedledee and Tweedledum would be joined on the establishment safari jeep by Tweedleduh in which they could all head off into the sunset of their retirement on fat pensions, having captured the big game trophy ministerial seats. She disagreed but did not discount the possibility given the litany of broken promises. She was no blind faith woman and found a piece by former blanketman Dixie Elliot a valuable insight. Dixie had lambasted the screamers of the bot brigade for their response to the release of the Bobby Sands comm in which the volunteer who led the 1981 hunger strike expressed a preference, never honoured, for his funeral arrangements.

Sweet, caring, sensitive Máire who sent me endless cat memes, despite all her health problems, had every right to purr with contentment at the happiness she induced in others.  

A Meme Chosen by Maire Robinson

 ⏩ Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre.

2 comments:

  1. Sorry for your loss Anthony she sounded like a really nice lady.

    "For me, the rise of Sinn Fein meant the big two beasts of Tweedledee and Tweedledum would be joined on the establishment safari jeep by Tweedleduh in which they could all head off into the sunset of their retirement on fat pensions, having captured the big game trophy ministerial seats"

    This made me laugh though, very accurate.

    ReplyDelete
  2. How sad and stupid it would be, to limit friendship to those we agree with.

    ReplyDelete