Constituents pull no punches but Fianna Fáil’s Frank Fahey insists he will not bow out without a fight
IS THIS Frank Fahey’s last stand? Certainly, the veteran Fianna Fáil man makes no secret that he is in for the fight of his life in the tussle for the fifth and final seat in Galway West and the message on the doorsteps is not always promising.
“You’ve had your day, Frank.”
“Well, you won’t be getting it, Frank. I may as well tell you straight up.”
“Unfortunately, the support is not in this house, Frank. The support had to emigrate. My two boys, David and Ronan.”
Tonight, the sky over Salthill is the colour of a blue flame and the hilly suburb of Knocknacarra is in frigid February evening mode: streets empty; children’s bikes forgotten on front lawns; soap operas flickering in living rooms.
Despite the odds, Fahey is in good spirits. When we meet, he decides he needs his cap and skips back across to his car to fetch it, placing it in his pocket. He has knocked on these doors many times before and everyone knows him by his first name. “Frank” could appear on the ballot paper for Galway West and most voters would know the name and face.
It is an odd tradition, the Irish political habit of banging on doors in the early evening, crashing into domestic rites of homework, of dinners and washing up. And when you come bearing the much-maligned Fianna Fáil logo, the task becomes even tougher.
Fahey’s message has been persistent in this campaign: that 29 years after first being elected for Dáil Éireann, he preferred to stand on his record rather than slink away. And when people light up their porch and see his face, they are friendly enough, but often they are beyond persuasion.
“Ah, I couldn’t, Frank. I really couldn’t. The country’s in an awful mess. Isn’t it?”
“What about your leaders, Frank. From Haughey to Bertie . . . ye made awful choices with your leaders.”
And Frank listens to these protests patiently, tilting his chin like a priest hearing confession and nodding sympathetically. And people want to talk. Even those who vow that they cannot vote for him, not in the hues of Fianna Fáil, want to tell him things.
Fahey tells them things back. He tells one student who is working part-time to make ends meet of his own UCG days driving vans for Connacht Laundry at half-six in the morning.
His father died suddenly when he was 20: times were tight. He describes his father – still, you sense, a looming presence in his life – as “a reluctant county councillor” whose seat he took after that sudden death.
So began a turbulent political career. The high point was his appointment as minister for the marine 10 years ago.
His role in the Corrib Gas project was criticised by campaigners opposed to the pipeline and on several occasions he has been called to defend his personal property portfolio. In 2006 he failed in his attempt to have then Green Party leader Trevor Sargent disciplined for referring to Fahey as a “dodgy builder” in a Dáil broadside which culminated in his call on taoiseach Bertie Ahern to sack the Galway man.
Fahey came through those controversies to retain his seat in 2007 but a meeting last month in Ballybrit – home of the mythical Fianna Fáil tent – gave him a chance to gauge the public mood in his constituency in the last days of government: he was heckled and booed by a section of the crowd. Now, like all Soldiers of Destiny, he is scrapping for every vote.
Tony, a veteran of these canvass walkabouts, explains that they asked Fahey to run rather than simply quit. His canvass team had met earlier in the sparkling lobby of a nearby hotel, dividing out election literature and kidding John, their strategist, about the snazzy clip-on lamp on his electoral register. Was this, then, the secret of the mythological party electoral machine? A superior form of lighting?
Whatever their chances, they are in upbeat mood and Fahey clearly has the energy for one more fight. He listens, he cajoles, he asks for their sympathy. Mistakes were made, he says when people ask about Fianna Fáil’s policies.
“But I will stand over the fact that since July ’08, we have taken the hard decisions.” A few doors later, he tells a man: “We had Bank of Ireland recapitalised at 4 per cent and then the Greek thing happened.”
To a Leaving Cert student, he says, “We got ye that new school there”.
“Pity ye didn’t give us new teachers with it,” the teenager shoots back and Fahey laughs.
“Well, I’d be honoured to have your first vote,” he tells a girl whose name is on the register for the first time.
“You might get it if I knew how to fill the paper in,” she quips.
And signs are he will get his share of first preferences too. Several people vow that there is no other politician for them. Fahey topped the poll in 1997 with over 9,000 votes having lost his seat in the previous election.
He is old school: knows the streets and he has the patter and, as he reminds people, the experience. Fahey has charm: people warm to him. Who has been pushing the bypass for years, he asks? Who pushed for that playground up the road?
“I know. I know, Frank. You did a lot. But I don’t know.”
He and Tony make a polished double act, always persuading, always listening – if not a first, then maybe number two. Everything counts. It is after nine in the evening when they call on their last house and meet Mike, who is – was – a builder who once employed a team of 30 people but hasn’t really worked for two years. He is despondent about his prospects and yet is going to vote Fianna Fáil again.
“Better the devil you know,” he laughs and then falls serious. “I just feel they created this situation: let them get us out of it.” He says he gave so much money down the years in tax and wages and has nothing now.
He is polite and his voice sounds anxious. “If I was younger,” he says, “I’d be gone like a bullet.”
Frank nods sombrely at this and wishes Mike well. He is hurrying off to a meeting and is, as ever, pushing it fine.
Every night, he will be out knocking on doors. He will keep knocking on doors until there are none left to knock, chatting with his people about matters ranging from the state of their rose bushes to the Greek thing.
“If I don’t get in, then at least I am going to be able to hold my head up,” Fahey says, walking swiftly towards his car.
But he isn’t counting himself out.
