Postcards from the Edge

In Dublin’s fair city, beloved statues are spared, writes Mary Kenny

Pulling down statues became quite a fashion in Britain this summer, but the Irish have been doing it for decades.

William of Orange, in central Dublin, was blown up in 1929. An unprepossessing Queen Victoria was removed from the foreground of the Dáil in 1948 (and despatched to Australia).

Lord Nelson atop his column in O’connell Street was dynamited in 1966 by the IRA, Doric column and all. In an interesting reversal, there’s recently been some discussion about removing a Dublin statue of IRA rebel Séan Russell, who died in 1940 aboard a Nazi U-boat, having been in collaborative talks with Ribbentrop in Berlin.

There is just one royal statue left in the Republic of Ireland – a discreet monument to Prince Albert, enfolded in rich foliage behind railings at Merrion Square. From time to time a Sinn Fein politician suggests its abolition, but there doesn’t seem much enthusiasm for de-plinthing Albert.

Dublin’s most popular statue is of the legendary fishmonger Molly Malone, with boobs falling out of her bronze bodice. The sculptor, Jeanne Rynhart, who died in June, aged 74, was an accomplished artist; and tourists like to touch Molly Malone’s cleavage for luck.

Molly’s statue may be a little vulgar, but it’s absolutely safe from attack by anyone who might see her as a symbol of white privilege.

I’m a fan of the spirited Lady Colin Campbell, the 70-year-old royal biographer, known to her friends as Georgie. Her latest book about Meghan and Harry unsurprisingly claims the Duchess of Sussex never did feel inclined to settle down with the ‘Firm’.

Georgie’s previous book was possibly more intriguing. People of Colour and the Royals explored the quirky history of royal and aristocratic associations with people of colour since 1313. It’s suggested that Philippa of Hainault, Edward III’S consort, and Charlotte, George III’S wife, may have had some black heritage. Gainsborough painted former slave Ignatius Sancho who was fostered by the 2nd Duke of Montagu. There’s a famous painting in Kenwood House of Lady Elizabeth Murray and her black first cousin, Dido Elizabeth Belle.

The Russian nobility adopted former slaves. Pushkin – ancestor of the late Duchess of Abercorn – was partly black. The Queen’s cousin James Lascelles, Ferdinand von Habsburg, Prince Maximilian of Lichtenstein and the new Marquess of Bath all married black women.

Georgie, who lives at Castle Goring, Sussex, is herself a white Jamaican and feels a strong affinity with people of colour. It’s well known that at birth she was identified as a male – she’s written a very readable autobiography, A Life Worth Living. I much admire her decision to adopt two little boys from a Russian orphanage in 1993; she raised them both successfully. She had intended to adopt only one child but seeing the other, forlorn, she took both. Bravo!

When I was 19, I spent some time as companion to a worldly-wise Frenchwoman.

She explained to me that the kiss was a sign of social equals – it didn’t necessarily signal that you liked the person. ‘The wife should kiss the mistress, but only if she is of the same social standing.’

After that, I thought the social kiss very sophisticated and Continental.

The kissing habit spread to Britain, often encouraged by television: complete strangers in a TV studio performed effusive kisses and hugs. A guest on a chat show was greeted with showbiz kisses and, even on programmes with quite serious content, presenters often kissed participants they were encountering for the first time.

In our little town of Deal in Kent, twinned with Saint-omer in the Pas-deCalais, visits back and forth across the Channel were accompanied by double kisses all round.

At one point I consulted Drusilla Beyfus, modern etiquette expert, on whether to bestow one kiss or two on friends and companions. ‘Two in London; one in the country,’ was her ruling.

I liked the stylish air-kiss practised among the ladies who lunch – ‘Mwah! mwah!’ But, if I’m honest, I must confess there were times when the kissing habit became a little overwhelming. And sometimes embarrassing: whom to kiss and whom not to kiss?

Well, the kissing had to stop in March, and now we are all having to revert to more stilted traditional British ways of greeting, with smiles, nods, perhaps the occasional handshake – or the Hindu namaste gesture, holding both hands together and bowing the head (Prince Charles does it nicely). This latter looks respectful but may take some practice – and may feel a little artificial unless it catches on.

Perhaps it will be something of a relief not to have to do the kissing-and-hugging routine in our ‘new normal’. A genuine kiss is a welcome token of affection, yet it’s relaxing not to feel that going through the ritual is compulsory. It’s strangely reassuring to return to more reserved manners.