Page 17 of The Elements
A general election is taking place, and a politician visits to address the voters he hasn’t laid eyes on in almost five years.
His appearance offers a timely interruption to the repetitious nature of our lives, so most of us gather in the church to hear him speak, where the sense of excitement is completely out of proportion to the identity of our visitor.
I showed up under the impression that we were to be addressed by a young woman standing for one of the five Galway West seats for the first time, but, when the doors are closed and the welcoming party ascends the altar steps, I’m horrified to see that she has been replaced by a more senior member of her party, a fellow named Jack Sharkey, the current minister for tourism, culture, arts, the gaeltacht, sport, and media.
I’ve known Jack for many years, since long before his elevation to the cabinet.
In fact, it was while he was a humble TD in a previous administration that he, along with Gareth Wilson, pushed for Brendan to be created director of the National Swimming Federation.
Many human dominoes toppled after my husband’s disgrace, but somehow Jack has remained standing.
Ifechi may have loaned his church to accommodate the speech, but naturally he cannot be seen to have any involvement in party politics, so he is perhaps the only islander to be absent, and his place is taken by Larry Mulshay, proprietor of the old pub and the unofficial mayor of the island.
Leaning too close to the microphone, Larry welcomes us before announcing that the young woman we had been expecting was unable to make it, but we should be honored that Mr. Sharkey has come instead.
I can tell this is a lie. Jack probably heard about this evening and, knowing the constituency to be finely balanced, decided that the votes of four hundred people could make the difference between election and unemployment, so used his influence to keep his colleague on the mainland.
Either that, or he tipped her into the water on the ferry over.
We are also informed that, while we’re all entitled to our own political viewpoints, Larry is certain that we will listen to Mr. Sharkey—Jack—politely and be respectful in our questions afterward.
It is as if we are children gathered in an assembly hall, being instructed by the head teacher that any transgression will land us in trouble. I half expect him to remove a cane from his sleeve and patrol the pews, watchful for any gum-chewing or illicit texting.
I am in the sixth row, two places removed from the aisle, and I sink down in my seat, hoping that Jack will not catch my eye.
I’m not certain that he would recognize me, but it’s not impossible.
Over the years, we’ve been in each other’s company on perhaps half a dozen occasions, and he was the subject of multiple inquiries from the media during Brendan’s trial, so no doubt observed it closely, lest he be dragged before an Oireachtas committee to explain his early support for my husband.
Still, my current appearance is far removed from the glamorous wife he might remember, if he remembers me at all, so my newfound invisibility to the male gaze is an asset.
He takes to the microphone now in a more professional manner and thanks us all for coming.
He tells a few politician-mocking jokes that sound as if they’ve been trotted out multiple times over the years.
He’s from Galway himself, of course, Oughterard, and speaks of his abiding love for these islands and for this island in particular.
His voice cracks when he recounts stories of summer holidays he spent here as a boy with his sainted parents, now gone to their eternal reward, then looks down at the floor as if he’s not sure that he can go on, but then, somehow, like Beckett, he goes on.
He talks of agriculture. He talks of emigration.
He talks of civil war politics. He talks of NATO.
He talks of the Gardaí. He talks of hospital beds.
He talks of the elite up there in Dublin.
He talks of farmers. He talks of bricklayers.
He talks of class sizes. He talks of carbon emissions.
He talks of the British prime minister. He talks of Brexit.
He talks of the pandemic. He talks of his father, who represented this constituency before him.
He talks of a close friend who is black.
He talks of a niece who is embracing a male identity.
He talks of young people and of why they are our greatest natural resource.
He talks of solar power. He talks of the GAA.
He talks of Bono and Sinéad O’Connor. He talks of fishing quotas.
He talks, in English, of his love for the Irish language.
He talks, in Irish, of his love for Manchester United.
He talks of his admiration for women. He talks of the EU.
He talks of Emmanuel Macron. He talks of his cabinet colleagues.
He talks of RTé bias. He talks of Ulysses , and The Commitments , and Normal People , and of how Irish writers have given so much to the world.
He talks of Michael D. He talks of the Eurovision Song Contest. He talks of the rise of populism across Europe.
He talks of Ukraine. He talks of his hernia operation.
And just when I think he will talk forever, that we will all grow old and die here, that our bodies will decompose and slowly turn to dust while he continues to talk and talk and talk, he stops, and his audience delivers a loud round of applause, as if to say that, whatever he might have planned next, he can forget it, because we consider this the end of his talk.
He appears to accept this and takes his place on a high stool that I recognize from the old pub and sips a glass of water while a roving mic is brought around the audience. Anxiously, we await the brave soul who might accept it first.
When a question comes, it is from the mother of an autistic son who asks when more resources will be provided for boys like her Tomás.
His teacher, she says, is a wonderful man but he simply cannot cope with her son’s special needs.
It’s not his fault; he doesn’t have the training.
What can be done, she wants to know? And when will it be done?
Jack asks the appropriate questions in reply, pretending to care, before saying that this is a question for his good friend, the minister for education, and that if she gives her details to his assistant later, he will make sure that someone from that department is in touch soon.
Before the woman can speak again, the microphone is ripped from her hands and given to an elderly man who I have seen sinking pint after pint of Guinness in the new pub and who wants to know how Jack voted in the Equal Rights Marriage Referendum of 2015.
“Sure that was years ago now, wasn’t it?” says Jack, laughing a little, and an uncomfortable frisson passes through the room. “I can barely remember what I had for my dinner last night.” Whatever it was, I think, he went back for seconds.
The man insists on an answer. He says that he grew up in a Catholic country, but politicians have turned it into Sodom and Gomorrah, and that John Charles McQuaid would turn in his grave if he saw what a den of iniquity this once holy land has turned into.
Fellas kissing fellas, he says. And girls kissing girls.
In public! On the street! Without an ounce of shame!
And half of them don’t even know if they’re a fella or a girl!
Was it for this that the men of 1916 fought and died, he blathers on, and I take a moment to examine my nails and notice they need cutting.
Jack hears him out but takes his time to formulate a reply.
“I voted no,” he tells us eventually. “At the time, I considered marriage to be a sacred institution between a man and woman. And while I am proud to have voted with my conscience, I’m not convinced that I would vote the same way again, although perhaps I would.
Or maybe not. Yes, men are now free to marry men, and women are free to marry women, but the world does not seem to have fallen off its axis since the legislation was passed.
The fact is, we need to move with the times while recognizing that, sometimes, the old ways are best.”
In his search for an answer that will satisfy no one and everyone in equal parts, I have to concede that Jack has succeeded admirably. He is a politician down to his fingernails.
A third question emerges, this one an obvious plant from a supporter.
The man wants to know: If Jack is minister for tourism, culture, arts, the gaeltacht, sport, and media, then what in God’s name does he do on the seventh day?
The audience laughs appreciatively, pleased to have moved on to a less contentious topic, and Jack tells us that even the good Lord rested on Sunday and that surely no one, not even his political opponents, would begrudge him a day off.
More questions follow, some anodyne, some pugnacious, until finally a young woman who serves behind the counter in Con Dwyer’s newsagent’s rises to her feet and takes the microphone, holding it ner vously but defiantly in her hands, like a contestant on a television singing competition.
“My name is Lucy Wood,” she says, “and I’ll be a first-time voter in this election.”
There’s a predictable round of applause for this, and Lucy blushes a little, but, I notice, she does not smile. She does, however, wear a determined expression on her face.
“Many people in this country know what it is to face sexual abuse,” she begins.
From behind me, a man mutters, “Ah, for God’s sake.”
“I’ve faced it myself,” she continues into the disapproving silence. “So I want to ask you a question in relation to your support of Brendan Carvin. You appointed him as director of the National Swimming Federation in 2004, isn’t that right?”