WordSmith: English accents and Irish hearts
Over Christmas I was reading the musings of a London based writer called Kate Kerrigan. Her words resonated with me as she writes evocatively of travelling from England to spend childhood summers in Ireland; swapping city streets for sweeping countryside, and long adventurous days spent with Irish cousins. She describes folk like us as, “English accents, Irish hearts.” She’s currently touring the UK with her show ‘Am I Irish yet?’
My brother and his long standing partner married in November last year. The newlyweds arrived for New Years; and with Kerrigan’s words on my mind I rather randomly asked my brother, “Do you see yourself as Irish or English?” He didn’t hesitate, “Deep down, Irish.”
I don’t know why his answer surprised me, because we’re both Irish to the core. I suppose it’s because I perceive my brother as a quintessential Mancunian, entrenched in all things Northern English. Yes, we share our childhood experience of summer holidays exploring Cavan’s hill and vale. Yet, when I turned 11, Cavan became my home-life; while my brother’s life-home became England.
Many of you will have fond memories of your cousins arriving home from England for the Summer, with their funny accents and weird words. I recall the confusion on my granny’s face when my brother ran in after a long day in the fields and asked, “I’m starving, can I have a butty?”
I’ve written widely about my transition from England to Ireland. But selfishly, I’ve never considered my brother’s side of our story.
Until now. I recall the months in the run up to our departure for Cavan, my mother teaching the brother how to use the washing machine and to iron his clothes (to this day he remains fastidious with his clothes care, whereas I’m not).
The brother was one year into his mechanics’ apprenticeship when we upped sticks and returned to Ireland (he was given the option to come with us, but opted to stay in England). At sixteen, he was still a child; saying goodbye to your immediate family unit at such a young and formative age must have been a fearful time.
Yet he flourished, personally and professionally. Last summer my brother’s best friend visited Cavan. The story of how they met is classic English accent, Irish heart.
Here goes – my brother was a full year into his apprenticeship when Gary, the new boy arrived at the firm. The bro began to pull rank over Gary, “You’re new, go and make us all a brew,” he asserted. Gary refused, but not before tempers flared between the bro and him. Tension rose; until eventually it was decided their grievance would be sorted out teen-man to teen-man, outside, after work.
The end of work claxon rang out, the fighters pulled up their sleeves and prepared for bare-knuckle combat. A Manchester pavement became Madison Square Gardens and the bout began. Now, unbeknownst to my brother, the young Gary was a decorated boxer, an ABA Champion who trained at Salford Lads Club. Thus, the bro suffered a few early right-hooks that shook him. But, he fought back valiantly, landing a few humdingers himself. However, the brother’s blood was the first to be spilt as claret from his split lip splattered the pavement – but on they fought.
Amidst their bout both of them became aware of people gathering and beginning to bay. And that’s when they paused, distracted by a familiar sight. As a bus approached the fighters stopped, and announced in tandem, “It’s the number 15,” both instinctively unfurling their fists to hail the bus. The bro looked at Gary and asked, “Do you get the number 15?” Gary replied, “Yeah, do you?” They patted each other on the shoulder with Gary shouting, “Come on mate, let’s get home.”
The newly-made mates sat next to each other on the bus: battered, bruised and bloodied. And as they bantered they discovered they shared a connection that created a firm-kinship in the former fighters, “Are your Mam and Dad Irish?” asked Gary?
The bro nodded, “Yeah, are yours as well?” My brother wiped his lip as Gary affirme d, “Yeah, they’re from Mayo!”
And on that day the teenage foes became forever friends. A lifelong friendship that continues to flourish; a bond sealed-tight by their English accents and Irish hearts.