Irish Riddles
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: The past struggle for independence is easily forgotten in modern Eire.
_____________________________________________________________________
Brian was disappointed with Dublin. On this, his first visit to the city, he had expected to see more that commemorated the momentous events of Easter 1916. What little he had seen was muted and understated – and sometimes even tacky.
When Brian was a boy, his Irish mother had regaled him with tales of the Easter Rising and of the scholars and poets and clerks who led it, courageous men like Pearse and Plunkett and Connolly (an Edinburgh man like himself) who took on the full might of the British Army when they marched to Dublin’s General Post Office and proclaimed Ireland free from British rule. It was they who had given birth to Yeats’ terrible beauty. It was their actions that had set Eire on the path to independence.
So where, Brian wondered, were all the monuments and statues and plaques in honour of those brave men and their deeds? There should have been more, much more. He couldn’t understand it.
The day before, Brian and his wife, Abi, had received a partial explanation for the absence of memorials from the taxi driver who took them to see Kilmainham Gaol, where the leaders of the rebellion had been incarcerated and many of them later executed.
“Éamon de Valera,” the driver almost spat out the name. “Yes, you can blame de Valera. Our noble past President. He wanted the whole business of the Easter Rising played down. He wanted people to forget about it. It was probably his guilty conscience. You have to remember he was one of the leaders, but he got off scot-free, while all the others were lined up in front of a firing squad on the other side of that wall over there. As far as I’m concerned, de Valera held our country back for many, many years. The Long Fella has an awful lot to answer for.”
Brian’s mother had also detested de Valera, so he could understand the taxi driver’s feelings. But this was 1990, for Christ’s sake. De Valera had been dead for fifteen years. And still there were few monuments. Brian wasn’t just disappointed with Dublin; he was perplexed by its people.
This morning, though, his disappointment was lessened somewhat when he and Abi entered Heuston railway station. They discovered that the magnificent Victorian edifice had been renamed in the 1960’s in memory of Seán Heuston, one of the key figures of the Easter Rising, who had been shot in Kilmainham Gaol, aged only twenty-five. Here at last, thought Brian, was a true monument to a true hero; a monument made of stone and steel that would last forever.
Abi walked up to one of the ticket office windows. Brian stood behind her, holding her rucksack.
“Two returns to Galway, please,” she said to the woman at the window. They had decided to leave Dublin for a few days and explore the rest of the country, starting with the west coast and Galway Bay.
Brian could make out the woman’s faint, sweet lilt coming from behind the security glass. “Are youse comin’ or goin’?” she asked.
Abi looked puzzled. “It’s two return tickets,” she stressed. “To Galway.”
“Yes, but are youse comin’ or goin’?” the woman repeated.
Brian could remember conversations like this with his mother. “Stand back, hen. I speak the lingo,” he said to Abi, nudging her to the side and leaning into the window.
“We’re goin’, then we’re comin’,” he explained to the woman.
“Ah,” she smiled, selected two tickets from a drawer and slid them through the slot under the glass.
While Brian stood back, looking pleased with himself, Abi paid for the tickets and thanked the woman.
“You Irish are very strange people,” she said to Brian as they walked in the direction of the platform.
“Unfathomable, hen,” Brian agreed. “Unfathomable.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: The past struggle for independence is easily forgotten in modern Eire.
_____________________________________________________________________
Brian was disappointed with Dublin. On this, his first visit to the city, he had expected to see more that commemorated the momentous events of Easter 1916. What little he had seen was muted and understated – and sometimes even tacky.
When Brian was a boy, his Irish mother had regaled him with tales of the Easter Rising and of the scholars and poets and clerks who led it, courageous men like Pearse and Plunkett and Connolly (an Edinburgh man like himself) who took on the full might of the British Army when they marched to Dublin’s General Post Office and proclaimed Ireland free from British rule. It was they who had given birth to Yeats’ terrible beauty. It was their actions that had set Eire on the path to independence.
So where, Brian wondered, were all the monuments and statues and plaques in honour of those brave men and their deeds? There should have been more, much more. He couldn’t understand it.
The day before, Brian and his wife, Abi, had received a partial explanation for the absence of memorials from the taxi driver who took them to see Kilmainham Gaol, where the leaders of the rebellion had been incarcerated and many of them later executed.
“Éamon de Valera,” the driver almost spat out the name. “Yes, you can blame de Valera. Our noble past President. He wanted the whole business of the Easter Rising played down. He wanted people to forget about it. It was probably his guilty conscience. You have to remember he was one of the leaders, but he got off scot-free, while all the others were lined up in front of a firing squad on the other side of that wall over there. As far as I’m concerned, de Valera held our country back for many, many years. The Long Fella has an awful lot to answer for.”
Brian’s mother had also detested de Valera, so he could understand the taxi driver’s feelings. But this was 1990, for Christ’s sake. De Valera had been dead for fifteen years. And still there were few monuments. Brian wasn’t just disappointed with Dublin; he was perplexed by its people.
This morning, though, his disappointment was lessened somewhat when he and Abi entered Heuston railway station. They discovered that the magnificent Victorian edifice had been renamed in the 1960’s in memory of Seán Heuston, one of the key figures of the Easter Rising, who had been shot in Kilmainham Gaol, aged only twenty-five. Here at last, thought Brian, was a true monument to a true hero; a monument made of stone and steel that would last forever.
Abi walked up to one of the ticket office windows. Brian stood behind her, holding her rucksack.
“Two returns to Galway, please,” she said to the woman at the window. They had decided to leave Dublin for a few days and explore the rest of the country, starting with the west coast and Galway Bay.
Brian could make out the woman’s faint, sweet lilt coming from behind the security glass. “Are youse comin’ or goin’?” she asked.
Abi looked puzzled. “It’s two return tickets,” she stressed. “To Galway.”
“Yes, but are youse comin’ or goin’?” the woman repeated.
Brian could remember conversations like this with his mother. “Stand back, hen. I speak the lingo,” he said to Abi, nudging her to the side and leaning into the window.
“We’re goin’, then we’re comin’,” he explained to the woman.
“Ah,” she smiled, selected two tickets from a drawer and slid them through the slot under the glass.
While Brian stood back, looking pleased with himself, Abi paid for the tickets and thanked the woman.
“You Irish are very strange people,” she said to Brian as they walked in the direction of the platform.
“Unfathomable, hen,” Brian agreed. “Unfathomable.”
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.