Twelve Ladies A' Reading

In the summer of 2012, Bridget invited ten of her neighbours and me to lunch at her house.  Lunch kicked off at 1pm and all I remember next is falling in the door back home again sometime after 11pm.  In those missing ten hours the book club was born.

We meet once a month and take turns hosting. The first time I did it, I panicked. I bought a selection of cheese, grapes and crackers; threw them on the table leaving Bridget to open the packets.    The second time, I took the day off work, baked three desserts, cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled and hoped the kids wouldn’t come home. 

Then there are those among us who are natural hosts.  A bowl of browned chicken legs sat on Grace's coffee table.  Bridget took one and nearly fainted, “These are gorgeous!” she said and turning to me on the couch, “Try one, Ger.”  I whispered back, “I don’t eat limbs.”  Bridget picked one up and handed it to me, “Try it!”  It was delicious.  While the others clamoured for the recipe, I finished the bowl.  Her crushed Oreo cookie, mint cream layer cake cut into cubes was a work of art and should’ve been in an art gallery.  We ate it anyway. 

Denise hosts every Christmas. As you enter her gingerbread house nestled in a sleepy hollow on the edge of Douglas village, you are greeted by the scent of cinnamon and sugar from the mulled wine simmering on the stove.   Her English sheepdog asleep on the rug in front of a blazing fire, the fat tree in the corner covered in candy canes, lit candles on every surface and a sit-down three course dinner for all the hungry ladies.   

As the wine flows and the noise levels rise, husbands make themselves scarce.  When Bridget hosted, her husband who has to get up early in the morning for work, went to bed with ear protection.   

The benefit of a book club is that sometimes you get to read something you would ordinarily shy away from.   An Evil Cradling, by Brian Keenan is that book for me.  The true story of the incredible friendship between Brian and John McCarthy while held as hostages in Beirut for over four years is told with raw honesty and compassion.  Their unusual decision to use humour to defy their captors is inspirational as it not only ensured their survival but that they did so with their sanity and humanity intact.     One incident in particular haunts me; Brian got a severe bout of food poisoning which lasted for almost two weeks.  Without complaint and with gentle compassion, John cleaned up after him and tended to his needs like a mother to her new born baby. 

Twelve is a perfect number: any more than that and it becomes a brawl.  Half of us are from other parts of Ireland and so with our differing professions, personalities, and backgrounds, the discussions are invigorating but respectful.  I am always surprised by how 12 people can read the same thing and yet come out with wildly varying viewpoints.

I see our book club (Anne, Bridget, Dara, Denise, Dolores, Grace, Helen, Kathleen, Pauline, Terri and Vera), as a microcosm of women in Irish society today: a little bit noisy, a little bit tipsy, passionate, well-fed, plenty to say for ourselves, and, of course, well read.