A Farewell to Norman Houston

Craigyhill, Larne, where Norman was raised. Photograph by Brian McCullough.

What will happen if he ever stops? 

I thought about this in May 2015 as I meandered around Georgetown with my cousin. The sun was glorious, the cherry blossoms in bloom and we paused to photograph the wreaths made from bulbous hydrangea on the cottage doors. Neither of us could picture Norman retiring, but he’d been talking about it since our arrival in Washington D.C.

Norman’s home in Georgetown served the public of Northern Ireland in the same way that Norman did. It was a meeting place where friends, family and dignitaries were treated alike. There was wine in the evening, and, on the Friday night, a visit to his favourite restaurant. He gave his time but never switched off. An email would ping at 10pm — politicians stranded at the airport -- and off he’d go in a taxi to sort it all out.

I first met Norman Houston in 1999 when I was an intern on the Washington Ireland Programme. The induction week was packed with activities as 30 students made their way around the White House, Capitol Hill and various other monuments of Washington D.C. A visit to the British Embassy came early on in the programme, and as the interns stood up and presented their competencies — horse riding, chello, sailing, law student of the year, student union president of this, junior party member of that — I froze and blurted out in a big Larne accent, “I’m Angeline and I’m from Larne.” Next up came the spokesmen from the panel, civil servants with distinguished careers in diplomacy, and among them Norman, who said, “I’m Norman and I’m also from Larne.” 

Soon, I discovered that Norman’s favourite word was “posh.” His assumption that I was “awfully posh” by association with such talented students was immediately dispelled. And so we weaved our web of connections, not least the lovely auntie Helen, his second mum and a friend of my mum’s. Norman proudly stated that he was raised in a prefabricated house in Craigyhill —an area affectionately known as Tin Town — but the working class gentility in him was  clear. He often told me that his Auntie Adelaide, who I got to know well on the school run, was a natural when he brought her to events in America, that she was bound to have been an aristocrat in a previous life. I think the same might be said for Norman.  

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