ON THE CANVASS:Fianna Fáil's leader plays it safe but is met in most cases by good wishes and warmth
HE’S GROOMED, say the photographers, taller than most, nice sallow skin, fit, wears a suit well.
So, that’s all good, surely?
Well, you just have to resign yourself to not getting great pictures out of him. In short, there is no bling, babble or baby-kissing to be had from Micheál Martin. He may stop to comment benignly on a dog but there’s not a chance in hell that he’ll be caught chatting up the mutt, still less giving him a cuddle or a dance.
When a shy little girl presents him with a bunch of tulips, he offers a careful small hug while respecting her space. There is no cringe-making pretence of a connection. When he pitches up on a Naas industrial estate at noon, it’s in the passenger seat (not the back) of a silver, 09 Cork-registered Audi A6.
It’s a self-effacing little group that assembles outside Dawn Farm Foods. No slick, liveried battle bus or entourage roar in after him. Just outgoing TD and candidate Michael Fitzpatrick, easing himself carefully out of a car, his neck – “leaning a bit now” – in a collar brace, a hand almost “useless”, but with positivity and the will to win intact despite a motor neurone diagnosis a year ago.
And Áine Brady, the other outgoing TD and candidate, in pearls and brave heels, making no pretence that the doorstep reception is other than “mixed”.
In the factory boardroom, to which he is escorted by Dawn chief executive Larry Murrin, and where there is tea and coconut creams, Martin makes a gracious, positive speech before young, smiling faces, calling them “the story of the future of the country”.
Among the youthful workers is a senior citizen, introduced by site manager Ciarán Murray, as “my mum”. Mum – Maureen Murray – is here to talk to him about her anti-abortion stance; she will pray for guardian angels to guide him and for God to give him the gift of tongues. “They’re probably the kindest words you’ll hear all day,” offers an optimistic sort.
Not true. Margharita Solon, the dynamic chairwoman of Nás na Ríogh Housing Association – a sheltered housing project driven by the ideas of young people of a place they themselves would want to live in – is delighted to bring him on a frenetic tour of the old Mercy convent building, benefiting from nearly €7.5 million in funding from Brady’s Department of Health.
Barbara Hennessy in the health food shop on Main Street also remains a fount of goodwill, though clearly upended by the media invasion. “Do you need ginseng?” she says, trying to sound normal.
“No,” he says, “I have that.”
“Fish oil for the brains – how’s the brain working?”
Pause. (This could get awkward, we’re hoping).
“No, it’s working okay for the moment,” he says, asking what else she has.
“Everything. We have things we can’t even mention,” says Barbara – oh dear – adding hastily, “I’m sure you don’t need them anyway.”
“I’ll strangle you,” she hisses to her brother, who led us all into her shop in the first place.
But the years in Foreign Affairs were not for naught. Diplomatically, he spots some uncomplicated chocolate: “I can’t pass chocolate. It’s my one addiction.”
“Can I give you this for a present?” asks Barbara, with a sideways glance at us.
“No, no, you can NOT,” he says, forking out a nice, green note.
Back out on the street, in a 10-minute walk to the Naas Court Hotel, those 14 years of cryogenic storage on Mars are also paying off. The aura of choirboy innocence and gravitas seems to double as a kind of missile defence shield. Surprised smiles and handshakes come with a refrain of good wishes: “God bless you”, “lovely to meet you”, “my
husband went to the same school as you”, “good luck to you boy” (from a Mardyke man).
There were few dissenters. Julie Holmes, who runs a creche called Tender Years – “the cheapest in the country” – asked about childcare tax relief for parents. A well-spoken man managed to talk calmly about “politicians’ excessive expenses – three times the average wage on expenses, without a salary”, before adding that he’s “on the breadline. I don’t know if in two weeks I’ll have a roof over my head for my three young children.” We move on. Nothing new here, folks.
Phil Ryan, an elegant Limerick woman with immaculate Irish greets him lyrically with “Mo cheol thú”. She also tells him she has come specially from Limerick to see him. Which isn’t true, is it, Phil? “But I would, I would,” she protests later. “I love him. He says nothing superfluous. He is honest, heartfelt and full of integrity.” Yes, she knows all about the 14 years in cryogenic storage. She’s also pretty even-handed, professing great admiration for Michael Noonan, Richard Bruton and Leo Varadkar.
“But if you’re rooted in a party, in the politics of a party, knowing everything, if you try to follow the serious part of yourself for the good of your country – look, you still couldn’t move your hand over [from Fianna Fáil on the ballot paper]. That’s it. I can’t help it.”
Mórtas cine, she calls it. Pride in your tribe. If FF strategists need a muse and motto this week, here they are: Phil Ryan and mórtas cine.
