What’s the story Johnny McGory? Will I begin it. That’s all that’s in it. Bet Emily Hourican could find the middle of that story for Mr McGory. She did for me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a natural story teller and love nothing better than to take a trip down memory lane. Over dinner, in the company of a nice glass of wine and friends. As the wine flows, so do the stories. Or in the car, on a long journey, just passing the time.
Funny, sad, outrageous stories. I have them all. No shortage. Yes, we all have our stories. They are what shape us. The chapters of our life. Filed away in no particular order. I’ve got a big voice and a strong memory bank too. But my patience level for sitting down and writing those stories down, is low. Verbal fluency, yes. Written fluency, no.
So when people suggested that this old broken-down horse dealer, chancer turned charity champion, capture his stories into a book, I’d shrug and say, yes that’s something I must do in that Must Do file, along with tidying the garden shed. It would never happen.
So when Debbie Deegan told me how she'd given birth to her first book From Russia With Love with the help of that wonderful ghost writer, author midwife, Emily Hourican, I got Emily's number and gave her a call the very next day. I wanted to know if there was a book in me, and if Emily had the ability to deliver it.
Debbie was one thing and I was quite another. Emily soon realised that ghosting Debbie’s book was a picnic compared to mine. But for some reason she was interested enough to defrost my memory compartment. To stick with me.
She reeled me in by developing a quite sociable, easy, breezy schedule, because everything has to be cut down into bite-size chunks for me. We didn’t do the strict timetable, and it kind of just evolved. Emily got to know the road to Balitore very well and the two of us would sit around my kitchen table for three-hour sessions, drinking copious amounts of coffee. Sometimes she’d pop into the office in Johnstown. I’d talk and she’d write. A simple formula that seemed to work. Even though my stories were patchy in places, and the time sequence was something we’d have to get back to at the end, Emily had the perseverance to get the job done. And always in such a charming, but razor-sharp manner.
Most of my family were none too interested in my book. Thinking it would fizzle out and probably end up in the garden shed eventually.
But my daughter Lily, who was curious about the process involving her old man, unfortunately found my Eton reports. And my eldest son Pirate, who has photographic memory, filled in a host of missing incidents. Detail begot more detail and as I read the old Eton reports and the letters and files meticulously kept by my mother, more memories were unlocked. The brain works in mysterious ways, and one prompt can unlock a whole new sequence of memories.
Indeed, my mother Pippa at 95 wrote most of Chapter 2 which lent so much to the integrity and the foundation of the book. No bother to her.
All praise to Emily for making it so readable. What a lovely ghost she is. Nothing spooky whatsoever. She captured the stories, added the detail and weaved it all together with a little ghost magic, and some practical help from my subcommittee of fact checkers.
But Emily wasn’t one bit happy with me when, after she thought we’d reached The End, Charlie Murless in a chance meeting with Emily said he assumed I’d told her about my connection with the Shergar kidnapping. Whoops. Back to the kitchen table or should I say drawing table again.
Any other nice surprises for me, Jonathan?
It’s a bit like assembling a family album that resides in your head, and painting those pictures through words. Although we found a few old pictures too, thanks to my mother and my two wives, each of whom I devoted a chapter to for all their hard work in assembling the book and keeping me together over the years.
It is a bittersweet story. A glittering nightmare. Full of highs, lows and in-betweens. Some nights I would be beyond exhausted after spilling the story and reliving the nightmare of losing three precious sons, John, Jack and Sam, with Emily. But I’ve got a big, beautiful family that relies on me to keep going and that I do. By recalling my three sons, I’m acknowledging them, paying tribute to them and honouring their memory. But there are lots of funny bits to tell too. And I didn’t hold back and Emily weaved it all in beautifully.
There was no way I could fit everyone in, though. I’m 73 years old, for heaven’s sake. There just isn’t room. My brother-in-law still hasn’t forgiven me for the omission of his name, have you Adrian Nicol? And I still respect you no end.
But the best feedback I’ve had was regarding a 78-year-old man, recovering in hospital from a big surgery post-cancer... and I know how that feels too. Maybe it was my recollection of the funny side of cancer that made him laugh so much that the nurses had to confiscate the book in case he burst his stitches laughing. I hope so.
Jack & Jill: the Story of Jonathan Irwin (Mercier, €16.99)
http://www.mercierpress.ie/irish-books/jack-jill/
