This was the moment he’d dreaded for two years, ever since he’d quit Enniskerry National School in the middle of the fifth grade, to help his mother on the farm.
Myles was the only one in the family who seemed to accept the fact that his father was never coming home. He’d heard the story so many times, with so many variations and subplots, that he felt it was just another fairytale. Kitty had tried to make excuses for Jack and present him as a heroic figure, but Myles never bought the fiction, sensing an unspoken truth: the real hero was the woman who stuck with him and his older sisters instead of farming them out to relatives, or worse: Killane orphanage, the workhouse in Gorey.
Kitty Hogan was a maddening bundle of contradictions Myles could never figure out. She could be gentle and nurturing, treating Myles as an equal, a partner. Ever since he could talk, she had sought his views on all sorts of grown-up matters, large and small: Should she sell the bonhams or fatten them? Should she plant Furlong’s Field with oats or lease it to John McDonald? Should she let the girls go to the dance in Bray Sunday night? And she wasn’t just humoring a child; she really listened to what he had to say and encouraged him to tell her the truth, especially when it was hard.
Like two years ago when he left the turkey run open and a fox killed the whole flock; it was their only Christmas cash crop. “Mammie, I have a confession to make.” He found her in the middle of baking a cake for supper. “Well, this sounds serious. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Myles sat down, fought back tears and spilled the story. “It’s all my fault. You told me to lock the gate every time I came out, but I didn’t. I just forgot it, like an eejet. And that’s when the fox must’ve slipped in. I never saw him. Just heard the racket and ran in there. It was too late. He’d killed them all and was gone. There wasn’t even any blood. Just broken necks. Like I said, it’s all my fault and I don’t mind if you whip me with the belt. I deserve it... I do anything if it’d make ‘em come back…anything.”
Instead of a whipping, she gave him her brightest smile, wrapped her arms around him and said, “You’re a good man, Myles Hogan. Any fool can tell the truth when it wraps him in glory. It’s the hard truth that separates the men from the boys. Now, let’s have some tea and scones before we have to break the news to your sisters that we have to cancel Christmas this year.” As she said this, her voice broke and she turned away to hide the tears.
This was in sharp contrast to the way she treated her daughters, whom she dismissed as “a bunch of gillagoolies”. His sisters resented this, of course, and took it out on Myles with fiendish creativity. Knowing his fear of the dark, they seldom missed an opportunity for nightly terror games. Once, when he was about seven, they put a small goat in his bedroom, complete with horns; the devil come to claim his prey. Myles promptly went into screaming convulsions to gales of triumphant giggling from under the bed.
The harsh punishments meted out by his mother only made Myles feel more guilty. He tried to make it up to his sisters by currying favor, but to no avail. It was their mother’s approval they craved, not his. But, for them, that approval would always be in short supply.
Myles had always been puzzled by the deference people showed his mother. All sorts of people-- men, women, prosperous and poor-- seemed to speak of her with a kind of reverence, like they might speak of the priest or prime minister. It had a magical power that seemed to cast a protective shield around him and his sisters as soon as people knew who their names. Being Kitty Hogan’s son was special in Enniskerry; everyone seemed to understand that, for reasons Myles could only guess at. “Can I give ya a lift? Ain’t you Kitty Hogan’s boy?” “Sure, it’s alright. Ya can have it for five bob. Aren’t you one of the Hogans of Rathdargan?” “Yer mother’s a great woman. She done a lot for this country. You must be very proud to be her son.” Once he asked her what people meant by this but she brushed it off with, “Oh, son, we all did a lot for our country in the old days. It’s not worth talking about. Now, run down to the Lower Meadow and bring up the cows!”
But he knew there was more to it. He had seen some of it firsthand.
He recalled the fate of the schoolteacher, Brigid Breen, after she slapped his oldest sister, Nora, for misbehaving in school. For other children, beatings in the National School were expected and accepted. Except for the Hogans. Myles remembered the terrible spectacle of Miss Breen falling on her ample knees on the gravel road, pleading for mercy, as Kitty stood leaning against the stone wall, cool as a lioness ready to pounce.
Miss Breen’s plea was in vain. With one backhand swipe, the hefty schoolmarm practically flew across the road, landing in a pile of nettles, nose gushing like a crimson fountain. “Now, Miss Breen, let that be a lesson to you. That’s how it feels to be slapped by someone stronger than you are? Never lay a hand on one of my children again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hogan. Oh, for the love of God, please… It was just a misunderstanding. It’ll never happen again. You have lovely girls. All so bright…”
“Thank you, Miss Breen. I’m glad you approve of them. If they give you any trouble, just let me know. I’ll deal with them myself. I discipline my children, not you. Your job is to educate them. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, yes…of course. We all have a job to do. Thank you, Kitty… I mean, Mrs. Hogan.”
“You’re most welcome, Brigid. Safe home, now.”
The other episode that puzzled and frightened Myles was the exchange he’d overheard between his mother and the Hannigan twins two years earlier. Billy and Bobby Hannigan were neighbors. They worked the big family farm and general store in Newtown, just off the Dublin Road, near Sally Gap. They were tall, burly red-heads, popular with the girls and well-liked by one and all. Both were gifted football players, dominating defenders for the senior Wicklow team. They came from a well-respected family. Their father, (Sean the Gap, as he was affectionately known) was a feared and famous IRA guerilla fighter. The twins seldom visited Rathdargan, so it was a surprise to hear their voices downstairs speaking in hushed tones with his mother early one Friday morning as Myles was coming awake.
Billy Hannigan, in his distinctive tenor voice, was speaking softly as Myles came fully awake.
“Wid all due respect, Mrs. Hogan, what we do or don’t do with girls at the dances, that’s our own business. I don’t see where ya get off summoning us here to lecture us about Molly Redmond or what happened at the dance in Kilkenny Sunday night. If she has a complaint about anyt’ing, she should call the Garda.”
Kitty’s voice, calm and deadly, came back—the same tone Myles had heard her use with Miss Breen. He felt a tightening in his stomach and fought back a wave of nausea. Suddenly, he felt sorry for the Hannigan twins and had to resist an impulse to.
His mother’s voice continued the deadly inquisition.
“That’s a good speech, Billy. It shows courage, which is admirable, given your situation. Now, Bobby, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Not a t’ing, Mrs. Hogan, except that I’m sorry it had to come to dis. Tell ya the God’s honest truth, we didn’t mean no harm. We had a few pints an’ t’ings got a bit out o’ hand, I s’pose. An’ the reason we’re here is ‘cuz me father has great respect for you ‘n what ya did for the cause. We all have. We meant no harm, as God is me witness, Mrs. Hogan.”
“Very good, Bobby. God is your witness, always has been and always will be, but we won’t need to call on Him just yet. Your brother should take a page from your book, since contrition is the gateway to redemption. But you’re both whistling past the graveyard if you think this is just about making nice.
“No. That won’t do at all. Here’s why: I’ve known Molly Redmond since she was a little babby. Her mother and I were in the movement together long before you lads were even a gleam in your Daddy’s eye. She’s a lovely girl and it so happens I’m her godmother—not that you should know that.
But after the dance last Sunday night, she came by for our little chat, as usual. Only this time, she was hysterical. She told me everything. Everything. About what you blackguards did to her in Kelly’s hayshed—or tried to do, I should say. I’m glad you have a few scruples left. Since her mother died in that ferry accident, I’m the one she turns to for advice. Thank God she did. And that’s your bad luck…”
(to be continued next Friday)