HEN I was growing in up in Belfast there was very little talk of Tyrone. There was very little talk of anywhere – Belfast was, and is, like all big cities, egocentric – but as I got older and met Fionnuala, and people heard I was moving to the country, they would smile ruefully: “Tyrone? God help you. Law unto themselves.”
One of my more dramatic friends slapped his thigh and drawled, “You’re not from ‘round here, boy.”
This was way off the mark, of course. Yes, there is a hallion battalion – indeed some of Fionnuala’s relations fall into this bracket – but once you learn to avoid/humour them, the people are grand. Straight and purposeful, fun and sweet.
And there is an arty side to them. They are mad about drama and there are plays and musicals and festivals on all the time.
This was brought home one evening when the doorbell rang and a woman I kinda recognised was standing there, towering over me.
“Fabien. Avril Beggs. I’m with the Bluepond Players.”
“Hiya,” I said. “Come in.”
I remembered now who she was and my hackles went up. Fionnuala had fleetingly mentioned that Avril wanted me to audition for a play and I had made clear that not only was I not interested, it was stratospherically out of my comfort zone.
“Now, it’s a Donegal accent but it won’t take too much time, if you’re successful. It’s only a minor role after all...” Avril was adroit. “But as Olivier said, there’s no such thing as a small part, just a small actor.”
I found myself, yet again, being brow-beaten into something I had no desire to do. She pounded around the room, square shoulders and big eyes, and slapped the table with gusto. Frightened the children who were peeking round the door.
“It’s Friel’s masterpiece. Delicate, funny and brutal.” She held one hand aloft and projected in an absurd voice: “You wait, says she, ‘till the rosary’s over and the kettle’s on!”
There is an arty side to people in Tyrone. They are mad about drama and there are plays and musicals and festivals on all the time
I had no idea what she was on about but the end result was that I was to audition for the role of Ned in Philadelphia, Here I Come! She left the two pages to be learnt and said not to worry about the accent. Yet.
“Well, sure that’s exciting, Fabien.” Fionnuala was getting Dermot’s jammies on and avoiding my glare. “The Bluepond are a notch above.”
“I have no intention of doing this, Fionnuala. I resent the fact that you volunteered me for this nonsense.”
“Fabien, I only told Avril that it was fine to call round. I honestly don’t care what you do.”
I felt confused. My anger was misplaced. I should have told Avril that it wasn’t my cup of tea, instead of squirming timidly. But she exuded so much power it was like she hypnotised me.
I decided to read the play. I had a folk memory of it but it actually took my breath away as I hurtled through the pages. Heart-breaking and hilarious, the work of a master. Olivier was right: all these parts, big or small, were big.
And the story resonated with me. Gar was being reared by his father because his mother died when he was young. My father died when I was 15 and my mum reared us. Alone and afraid, brave and strict, and sad. Dad had dropped like a stone at work in the pub he owned with my uncle. In the prime of his death. I remember the priest at his funeral saying to mum that she would be all right; that the human mind was capable of anything.
I was shaking by the time I got to the end, as Gar watched the housekeeper on his last night in Ireland. “Watch her carefully, every movement, every gesture, every little peculiarity: keep the camera whirring; for this is a film you’ll run over and over again…”
I climbed into bed later, after a torrent of tears, and snuggled in beside my wife. “What’s wrong?” she said sleepily. “Not a thing.” I answered. “I’m going to audition for Philadelphia, by the way.”
“Good. Hopefully you’ll be able to do the accent.”