Farewell to Fidelma Cook: our new columnist Hugh MacDonald

I AM of the generation that was always told to know its place but rarely stayed in it. There is presumption and perhaps impertinence in that. My life has been marked – and sometimes blessed – by being in places I had no right to be in and doing jobs that seemed – and more than occasionally were – above my capacity and attributes.

This trait can be illustrated by several examples. I was once asked to do the eulogy for a great journalistic friend and found myself following Hugh McIlvanney behind the lectern in the manner of a karaoke enthusiast being placed top of the bill when Frank Sinatra was at the Sands.

This circumstance had an encore. I was honoured to do Hugh’s eulogy at St Bride’s Church in Fleet Street. There were two readings that preceded my words: one by Gary Lineker, the other by the actor Tom Courtenay.

As I sprinted to the purvey down a London lane, I overtook what sounded like a squadron of owls as there was mass chorusing of “who? who? who?” as bemused mourners pondered the identity of the main speaker.

This feeling of personal impertinence raises its plooked phizzog as I step into the space formerly occupied by Fidelma Cook, the queen of the Herald Mag and the mistress of all she surveyed.

I have laboured for 50 years as a journalist and there have been certain columnists who have been loved rather than merely respected. The late Ian Bell fell into that category, though he knew he had detractors, too. There were others but Fidelma seemed an outlier. She was held in such esteem that this newspaper reprinted her columns posthumously and they were much read and still much loved.

It is cause for reflection, both journalistically and personally. What made them the essential accompaniment to readers’ weekends?

Journalistically, they were exquisite. Cleanly and briskly written, every one had a fluency and a point, whether subtle or brutally honest. Sometimes both.

Personally, they did something that journalists crave but only occasionally achieve. It is this: they made a connection. This is a wondrous talent. Her words appearing on a piece of a paper were crafted to produce emotion, recognition, empathy and understanding in another human being, in another time zone, with another set of circumstances. That’s a powerful piece of mojo.

Yet Fidelma did this as a matter of routine. The brilliance was never dimmed by repetition.

This is the act I have to follow. Sinatra at the Sands, indeed.

But the task is made easier by the obvious recognition that my voice is different, my circumstances easier, at least for the moment.

So what do I have to say? It is the most awkward of questions for any journalist. When pressed by the editor on what this column would be about, I replied: “About 900 words.”

This facetiousness cannot disguise the perplexing reality. This week’s witterings are by way of introduction – a kind of speed dating with the merciful compensation of not having to meet me. The weeks to come may be an unpleasant shock to some readers but will be a surprise to me, too.

The purpose will be to share something of my life and thoughts to a wider humanity. It will set out to prompt recollection or reflection. It will attempt to avoid an invitation to a rammy, though in modern times this seems an aim condemned to failure.

Recent events have shown that we live in a culture that promotes division. Politics seem binary, the side effect of a pandemic is extraordinary division, there is a clamour for individualism as long as everyone adheres to a specific notion of what individualism is.

The world must have arguments. They can, after all, lead us forward. But the world must not be one, big argument. There has to be space to think, to remember and even laugh.

One of Fidelma’s greatest gifts in this slot was to present the reader with a stark reminder of what life was and what death is. It was the most unlikely recipe for an entertaining Saturday read but she pulled it off with her customary bravura.

The broken pipes, the mischievous and wayward dog, the frustrations of dealing with an unfamiliar culture were the sparks that ignited something more profound that eventually consumed a part of a Saturday for many of us.

But her triumph for many readers was her ability to become a friend, albeit one many had never met, but one whom everyone mourned.

The lesson is obvious. We can choose to empathise. We can decide to care about someone far away, that we never had a conversation with, that was so different in so many ways. We can recognise that we share a humanity.

The concept of “we are all in this together” has been held up to ridicule by the self-serving antics of many of those who were designated to serve us.

But there can be a sharing. This seems trite, perhaps it is. However, it is true. We are bobbing along in a lifeboat and not sure of much, only certain of one communal fate.

This creates an understandable tension. But it can be leavened by love, compassion and chocolate. And there can even be the odd laugh.

Fidelma’s greatest lesson may have been that when life becomes serious, it has to be met with steely resilience and a wee chuckle.