The Matchmaker of Kenmare

ALSO BY FRANK DELANEY

FICTION

Venetia Kelly’s Traveling Show
Shannon
Tipperary
Ireland

NONFICTION

Simple Courage

The word
neutral
, from
neuter
, originally meant “neither masculine nor feminine.” Time and its upheavals created a new and political meaning:
neutral
meant staying out of a war.

In 1939, Ireland, a small island with a diminutive military capacity, declared itself neutral between Britain and Germany. The Irish felt in danger from both sides—with good reason. Winston Churchill wanted to shelter his warships in Irish ports (some feared he would do so by force), thereby inviting German bombing; Adolf Hitler was known to view Ireland as a possible base from which to attack England.

The arguments raged inside and outside the country and continued for many years after the war ended. How could a defenseless island make a difference one way or another in such a huge military theater and thus invite ruin? The opposing point of view insisted that there can be no such thing in life as a neutral position; faced with uncalled-for aggression, everyone must take sides.

This debate echoes a smaller, more intimate, and much older conundrum, closer to the origin of the word: Can a man and a woman ever be “neutral” toward each other? Can they achieve a deep friendship that remains platonic, or will one or the other want to move it along to a livelier or more committed state?

Naturally, these issues have never been resolved, globally or personally. Nor are they likely to—which is to the benefit of drama and story-telling, because the word
neutrality
has many shades. For example, official papers, released long after 1945, show that Ireland did, in fact, exploit the war politically and contributed many actions to the Allied cause. As to affairs of the heart, who would ever dare to define where friendship should end and passion begin?

The Matchmaker of Kenmare taught me much of what I know.

“If a giraffe isn’t weaned right,” she said once, “you’ll have to provide twenty gallons of fresh milk for it every day.”

Another morning she told me, “If you’re going out in the rain, always butter your boots. It makes them waterproof.”

She knew a terrific card trick, but she refused to teach it to me. “Big hands are for power,” she said, “not trickery.”

At our very first meeting she asked, “How can you tell whether an egg is fresh?”

If it doesn’t bounce when you drop it?
In those days, I had a sardonic inner voice, my only defense mechanism.

She said, “Put it in a pan of cold water with salt, and if the egg rises to the surface it’s bad.”

You must have seen a lot of bad eggs
, said my secret voice. I think I was afraid of her then.

She went on, “If you’re hard-boiling an egg, a pinch of salt in the water will stop it cracking.”

A pinch of salt, indeed
.

“If you ever want to catch a bird,” she said, “just sprinkle salt on its tail.”

How useful. You just have to get close enough
.

“Not too much salt,” she added.

Does it depend on the size of the bird?

Could she hear what I was thinking? “But don’t do it,” she said, “with an ostrich. Ostriches hate salt.”

Hoping to sound tactful, I asked, “Are there ostriches here in Kerry?”

“Ah, use your imagination,” she said. “They’re around here all right. But you have to know where to look for them.”