Addiction can latch onto any aspect of life, it seems. Gillies Macbain, now deceased, whom I had the privilege of meeting, was not exempt from this phenomenon. It happened during a fragile phase of his life, and the object of his addiction was the very newspaper you’re reading now.
This dependency might have had roots in a related obsession – composing letters to the editor, something he frequently indulged in during the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Postcards were his medium of choice to increase his odds of catching the editor’s attention. However, this hobby became overly demanding in the long run, and he had no choice but to try and break free from it.
By the time I crossed paths with Macbain, he was in the middle of battling his addiction. Despite this, upon discovering my profession, he seemed quite content to invite me for tea in the residential sector of his castle.
I had an epiphany then. If his connection to the newspaper was truly an addiction (as he defined it), my presence was akin to teasing a recovering alcoholic with a glass of whiskey.
Nonetheless, I had no cause for concern. Even though I received a postcard later, in which he suggested a humorous topic for me to write about – with an (unfortunately) misplaced news clipping attached – I am doubtful that he ever fully succumbed to his past addiction.
Macbain passed away on the 16th of March, an event that I was oblivious to until I stumbled upon his obituary in the London Times this week. Identified as an ‘enigmatic pantryboy, butler, dairy farmer, nipple greaser, author, unlikely friend of Mick Jagger and ‘the last footman in Ireland’’.
For the readers who might be tempted to look up the term ‘nipple greasing’, and possibly arrive at less than savory results, let me clarify that Macbain used it in the context of garages and engineering workshops; a technique involving grease guns.
“The Last Footman”, an eloquently penned memoir published by Lilliput Press in 2019, recounts the life journey of Macbain, a Scottish native who relocated to Dublin in 1964 when he was just 20 years old. Facing financial difficulties, he had to pawn his father’s cufflinks as an immediate solution. His career unfolded during the Irish big house’s declining era, where he found his true calling.
Interestingly enough, he later became the owner of a slightly dilapidated Georgian mansion situated in South Monaghan, my birthplace. I was already familiar with Macbain’s name, even before our encounter in the kitchen at Cranagh.
In her assessment of ‘The Last Footman’, Orna Mulcahy summarises the concluding stages of Macbain’s episode with the Monaghan house:
The mansion was sold to an unreliable individual who presumptuously moved in before finalising the deal and had the audacity to replace the original floor coverings. Macbain was deeply hurt by the new carpets and he allegedly set the house on fire as a response.
Although I am uncertain about this event myself, it is a fact that my former neighbour, a local garda, found it necessary to travel to Tipperary to raise questions with Macbain about the incident.
Macbain had a sceptical attitude towards using simple facts to describe life stories, suggesting a more spiritual approach:
He proposed that the brain’s storytelling feature is primitive, instinctual and uniquely innate. We confront and navigate daily incidents with immediacy and spontaneity. Our minds, while we rest during the night, are in constant activity. Like a bank that shatters for the day at four pm or a diner shutting its doors at the stroke of twelve, behind-the-scenes tidying and organising continue.
We, as individuals, are fundamentally a compilation of what we recall, what we have discovered, attributes moulded by our relatives, our schooling, our encounters, our triumphs, our infatuations, and our losses.”
In my belief, it’s only apt to relay a peculiar incident, or was it really one? This was conveyed by individuals who were present at MacBain’s wake. It’s been recounted to me more than once that attendees experienced a peculiar atmospheric phenomenon, incorporating an unidentified sound – could be whispers or a drone – after which an inexplicable gust hovered through the space.
In a lighter vein, someone made a crack about the departed having ‘the last chuckle on us’, which, according to my understanding of MacBain’s humour, appears highly plausible. However, turning back to simple grounds of truth verification, I touched base with the undertaker this week for his viewpoint. He confirmed to me there was no detection of anything out of the ordinary.
Each day we perish when we fall asleep. As we regain awareness, we are reborn. The memories that shape us are polished and enhanced from the raw encounters that overwhelmed us during our hours of wakefulness. This is crucial. Dreaming is a natural mental function and mandatory, an endeavour to shape experiences into a cohesive tale of our identity. Autobiography, in essence, is a conscious manifestation of this inherent mental function.