Hard Truths
Thomas J. Rice
The telegram came in the late afternoon on a rainy Tuesday in late April, 1958.
Jimmy Dunphy had been delivering the mail to this remote farmhouse in the Wicklow Mountains for over 30 years, but he still felt a tingle of excitement each time that distinctive little green envelope showed up in his bundle. Hogan’s of Rathdargan was the last stop on his route, and he always looked forward to a relaxed chat with Kitty Hogan, full-figured woman of the house. Sometimes—if she was in a good mood—she’d invite him in for a cup of tea and a scone to fuel the long, uphill bike ride home to his cottage on the other side of Sugarloaf Mountain.
Telegram presentation was one of Jimmy’s specialties, one he’d polished to a performance art. Unlike regular mail, telegrams meant something was up —and Jimmy loved to watch the faces of people in the grip of suspense. Today he was bitterly disappointed to see that only young Myles, not his mother, was there to share the moment. Was he going to have to waste a performance on this fourteen-year-old upstart? This younger generation had no appreciation of true dramatic talent; most had never even heard of O’Casey, Behan or Bernie (aka, “George Bernard”) Shaw, born just over the mountain in Carlow. Too busy trapsing to American cowboy pictures and dance halls. Then, again, how were they ever going to learn if their elders didn’t show them?
Peering through the rain under his shiny postman’s cap and black parka, Jimmy grinned and stepped boldly on to the stage—his own Abbey Theatre. First, he held the prized envelope high for inspection—like a trophy ready for presentation. Rolling it over several times in his arthritic hands, puffing vainly on his unlit pipe, he held the telegram aloft one last time before the final moment of exchange.
Myles Hogan didn’t hear the postman’s whistle right away. He had his hands full dosing an ailing calf from a plastic bottle in the cowshed. But the brace of border collies sounded the alarm, nearly flattening him in their raucous scramble for the cowshed door. Myles liked Jimmy Dunphy and usually welcomed his theatrics, but not today. There was too much work to do, he was soaking wet and in no mood to humor the old man.
Finally, with great reluctance, Jimmy surrendered the telegram into Myles’s impatient hand. Stung by the rude reception, he turned wearily to face the hilly, wet meadow he’d trudged though to reach the farmhouse. No tea. No scones. Not even a glimpse of Kitty Hogan’s brunette curls.
Turning abruptly to leave, noticing Jimmy’s hang-dog expression, Myles felt a pang of regret and tossed off a quick apology: “Thanks Mr. Dunphy. Sorry to be in such hurry. Hungry calves, ya know…”
Jimmy seized the opening like a drowning man.
“Maybe I should wait till yer Mammie has a chance to read it. Ya never know…She might want to send word back….”
It was a clumsy attempt at ferreting out what was in the telegram; Myles knew how the gossip mill worked and had no intention of feeding it.
“No thanks, Mr. Dunphy. Mammie’s busy right now, but I’ll let her know your offer.”
Jimmy was not so easily put off, especially by a young upstart getting too big for his breeches. “Maybe we should let the Mammie decide. Ya never know…”
“That’s alright, Mr. Dunphy. Thanks anyway.” With that, Myles met the old man’s eyes with an unsmiling dismissal, turned and raced down the steps, stumbling over the tangle of border collies stacked up below him, before righting himself and sprinting for the kitchen, where his mother was baking bread over the turf-fired open hearth.
“Mammie, Mammie, it’s a telegram!” he yelled as he barged into the dimly lit kitchen, borders charging in tow. Kitty Hogan looked up from a deep reverie. She was cranking the handle of the bellows which fed the glowing fire. Over it, a covered iron skillet rested. She started, as if coming awake, brushed a wayward curl from her forehead and nervously wiped her hands in her faded, striped-blue apron. A shadow of dread crossed her lined, though beautiful, face.
In Kitty’s 44 years, telegrams meant only one thing: bad news. The last one had been two years before, announcing that her beloved Aunt Mary—a second mother to her—had died in New York. The one before that, in October of ’55, had summoned her to Dublin where Maura, her youngest daughter, had been run over at a crosswalk near O’Connell Street Bridge. She’d died two days later at the St Vincent’s Hospital, without regaining consciousness. Maura was a bright, good-natured girl, just 18—the last of the five sisters at Temple Hill Nursing School—all on meager scholarships. She’d only been in the city a week.
Meeting his mother’s hazel eyes, Myles handed her the telegram with trembling fingers. Kitty hesitated before reaching for it, took a deep breath and walked to the dresser at the back of the kitchen. Hours seemed to pass before she eventually opened the drawer, pulled out a paring knife and slit the green envelope in one swift flick. Even the borders sensed the tension and sat on their haunches, as at feeding time, their gazes riveted on Kitty’s every move. She stepped toward the light of the front window, took another deep breath and plucked out the folded, official note, which she read silently to herself, several times; then, finally, aloud:
“Coming home Friday (May 1). 6pm bus to Enniskerry. Jack.”
Tears streamed down Kitty’s pale cheeks, dripping on her apron. She swatted them away as a smile erased the shadow, spreading from her lips to her streaming eyes, then to her whole body. She let out a scream of pure ecstasy. “Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Jack is coming home. Your father is coming home. Oh, My God! Oh, My God! I knew he would come someday. I knew God would answer my prayers…I just knew it…”
She whirled about the concrete floor in a wild dance of joy Myles had never seen before, almost knocking him over as she swung her arms wide. Inspired by her exuberance, the borders started to bark, joining the circular dance. Suddenly, Kitty pulled up, self-conscious and blushing, almost childlike. She smoothed the faded apron, brushed back the curls from her forehead and regained her normal, no-nonsense comportment.
“Now listen, Myles, we have a ton of work to do to get ready. We have only two days, mind you. We’ll have to paint the road gate, clip the hedges and cut all those thistles in the Cow Field. Oh, and Myles, you’ll have to go up to Billy Roach and get a haircut. What would your father say if he saw you looking like that? He’d think I was raising a teddy boy…” She rattled on in this vein, extending the list in her assertive fashion, but Myles had already tuned her out and was walking toward the cowshed to finish his feeding chores.
(to be continued next Friday)