During the first lockdown last year, a Monaghan friend asked me to contribute to a package of reading material she was putting together for local "cocooners". So I chose a few suitable columns and sent them on, doubtful they would be read. And I was astonished and gratified when, months later, they resulted in a letter from a long-lost schoolmate, Lawrence Keenan.
I hadn’t heard from Lawrence for nearly 40 years. Whenever I thought of him, I wondered was he still alive. Now, suddenly, here he was again, albeit writing from a nursing home.
It was a charmingly eccentric letter, begun on one of those free-post cards, both sides, then escalating on to a sheet of paper, and finished off with postscripts around the edges. And I was so delighted to hear from him that I wrote back by return post, promising a visit as soon as possible.
Lawrence was from over near the Monaghan/Armagh border, on the road to Crossmaglen. He attended primary school there and only for secondary did he travel the 10km in to the Patrician Brothers in Carrickmacross.
Light Entertainment - An Irish voice from the Charge of the Light Brigade
Jail Journeyman – On Behan’s lighthouse, the glory of French supermarkets, and confidence-building Christian names
Musical Mystery Tour - Landfried (contd), and the origins of The Ould Triangle
Ring Cycle – Frank McNally on Brendan Behan and the Fáinne wearers
I never found out what his family circumstances were, exactly. But he was someone you instinctively felt needed minding. And insofar as the chaos of a boys’ school allowed, minded he generally was.
He stood out in first year partly because he was taller than most of us – and he should have been, as I only found out this summer, he was the oldest in class, at 14 (I was 11). But height aside, he was also conspicuous for a big red face, accentuated cruelly by the classic “bowl” haircut. That would pass for fashion now but looked like an affliction then.
The other extraordinary thing was that he had been fitted for school with a three-piece suit – a family heirloom, probably. And he was still wearing it five years later, when he left. He had outgrown it by then, but not as much as he should have. Having started out tall, he seemed to have shrunk.
Two small but telling vignettes from those years. One day, a brother idly asked everyone in class to state our father’s name and occupation. When it was Lawrence’s turn, we noticed that the father’s surname was different from his. An awkward moment followed. His face turned even redder than usual. Then, too late, the brother moved on.
On another occasion, in English class, we were asked to write about “the place you would most like to be”. I wittered on about a beach in the sun – a fraud, because I had never been on a beach in the sun then and have had no interest in sunbathing since. But it was the sort of thing you thought you should enjoy. Whereas Lawrence wrote about cutting timber with his father. Listening to him read it, I could smell the sawdust. And it taught me a lesson about writing. Unlike the rest of us, he was telling the truth.
In general, he struggled at school. I know because he reminded me last July when I visited him. He still regretted doing the academic stream. Woodwork and metalwork might have “set me up”, he thought. As it was, whenever he had an essay to write, he’d be up “half the night”.
While I moved to Dublin after the Leaving, Lawrence went back to Border country and we lost touch. I know now that when his mother died, he had some kind of breakdown. There was poitín involved and neighbours were worried. So one day, a garda dropped in for a chat.
After that, Lawrence spent 20 years in St Davnet’s psychiatric hospital (“the Garage”, as Patrick McCabe called it), but in his own little house, free to come and go. It seems to have been a happy time, despite everything. Only after a fall two years ago was it decided he needed nursing care.
His several letters during the past year were a scattergun collection of school reminisces, fragments of remembered poetry, personal philosophy, and warnings to be careful in Dublin. I doubt he had ever been to the city and I thought about bringing him on a day trip sometime.
I was supposed to visit again in September and wrote beforehand to ask if there were any books he would like. Alas, Covid got to him before I did. By the time I found out, it was too late even to attend his funeral.
In the years since school, he had become known universally as “Larry”. There was some comfort in reading all the tributes on RIP.ie, from people who knew him in his Larry period and had fond memories.
One expression came up a lot and is true. He was a “gentle soul”.