A noble band of women

I WISH to pay tribute today to a noble band of Irishwomen who, to the best of my knowledge, have never been recognised or thanked before this for their huge contribution to Irish culture and, above all, for the width and depth of the real and subtle kind of love which they show towards their husbands, fathers, and sons. These women are special. I observed one of them in action in Clare last night and was reminded of their worth.

They are more common in rural Ireland than in the towns and cities of the nation but they can be seen in action everywhere. I’ve seen them working away too in niches of the Diaspora in Europe and in the United States. They are as numerous as ever they were during my lifetime. They are as silent and semi-invisible as ever they were.

I’m quite certain there are many who don’t even know they exist at all. Their nuanced skills and mode of practice is such that only for occasional slight muscle movements around the mouth they are almost impossible to spot for all but an experienced professional observer, like myself. And I freely admit to having failed to see a few of them myself down the years until they suddenly displayed their golden value by whispering just one or two words.

Those whispers are special too. They can only be heard by the man sitting next to them. They are delivered exactly when they are needed. Often they contain just one or two words. These words are triggers for continuing action by the husband or father.

They might be “Ye boys..” or “On a bright...” or “When the battle...” or “Dear old Ireland...” or something similar, usually along a patriotic or tragic frequency. Those words prevent a minor trauma for the menfolk involved, clearly energise them for the next five minutes at least and add immensely to the cultural occasion. These women, I say again, do not seek any credit for themselves, indeed they shun it, but they are the best of our best wives and mothers. I salute them all.

If you observe them closely when in action you will note they hunch forward slightly. They may rock slightly backwards and forwards. They will invariably try to conceal their mouths by turning their faces towards their menfolk.

Their hands will be passive on their laps. They betray no strain. They are relaxed but, by Heavens, they are working for the family all the while.

Unless their whisper is necessary, they will remain totally silent. They are intently listening all the time. Their concentration is total. They are lovers in action in their own way. They are beautiful.

I am referring, of course, to those mighty wives and mothers of Ireland who, though they never sing a ballad themselves in a pub singsong, have learned every word of every verse of all the ballads their menfolk sing.

They are always poised as prompters and reminders if Johnny or Paddy lose the run of themselves in mid-song and forget the first line of the next verse. You know them well and I know them well.

We also know that Paddy, especially after a pint or two, and because of age, can sometimes go astray on his lines after the eighth verse of maybe 15. Some of the great old ballads have a multitude of verses. Any break or hesitation destroys the flow of a story which often begins with a ramble out of a May morning early and ends in a September graveyard. Or the emigrant boat. These noble women ensure that those breakdowns just don’t happen to their menfolk. It is a source of family pride.

Next time you are enjoying a pub singsong anywhere in the country, the music and the balladry and the craic, enhance your pleasure by enjoying not just the ballads but also watching the silently moving mouth of the woman who never forgets the words.

And raise your glass too towards her when the song is over.

She has been performing as well.