Jack Hogan came home to Rathdargan on May Day, 1958. It was a perfect spring day, rare in the moody western Atlantic. It dawned sunny and cloudless, and, for once, never broke. May, Ireland’s greenest month, had once again delivered its bounty.
The upper fields, next to Carrigoona Commons, were ablaze with daisies, their tiny white-and-yellow flowers forming the magic carpet dreamed of all winter. Daffodils, lilies, and forget-me-nots danced in the gentle breeze, blending their fragrance with the massive lilac hedge that formed a purple canopy over the handcrafted iron gateway to the farmhouse.
Birdsong echoed across the valley. The swallows were back—a welcome sign of spring—to reclaim their nests in the eaves of the cowshed. It was an idyllic setting to celebrate a family reunion.
Myles was like a jack-in-the-box at school that day, and was chastised repeatedly by Miss Breen, who found his conduct out of character. Having skipped two grades, he was one of her favorites, and she expressed her disappointment in no uncertain terms. Others, for the same transgression, would have been dealt six lashes of the dreaded “rod”—a mountain ash plant about two feet long. It was a standard teaching tool, used more than the atlas or textbook.
In Myles’s case, Miss Breen had her reasons to show restraint. Besides, she genuinely liked and approved of Myles; just not today. “I must say that I find your conduct most unbecoming. Whatever has gotten into you, Myles Hogan? Very disappointing. I’m going to think twice about any further privileges for you to go fetch you-know-what.” This was her reference to Myles’s perk of fetching her cache of jelly-filled doughnuts from Coady’s grocery. She gave Myles one for his labor; it was their secret. But everyone knew of Miss Breen’s weakness for doughnuts; it was hard to hide with her 14-stone waddle. And Myles’s pals at school razzed him mercilessly for being ‘teacher’s piggy pet.’
Myles bolted from school at the clang of the bell, taking the shortcut across Carrigoona Commons. Normally he dawdled, taking over an hour to cover the two miles. Pickup hurling games, a fistfight to kill the boredom, skinny-dipping at Powerscourt Waterfalls, all offered distractions on the journey. This day, he was home in a flash, determined to finish weeding his patch of the vegetable garden. He wanted to leave no room for Jack’s famous fault finding, which Kitty inadvertently taught him to dread. “Wait till your father comes home. He won’t put up with that…”
The mere thought of these encounters infuriated Myles. Who the hell is he to tell me about my duties? Hadn’t he neglected his for twelve years running? And haven’t we done fine without him all these years? And what about Mammie? Sure, she’ll just become sad again, as she always has whenever his name is mentioned? And he’ll just leave us again, anyway? Maybe I can just wait him out.”
In the midst of elaborate preparations, Kitty had been on the lookout all afternoon. As Myles did when his sisters were coming home from nursing school, he watched for Ned Delaney’s Vauxhall—the only taxi in Enniskerry—to appear on the Carrigoona Road, which he could see for miles from his perch on the Rathdargan ridge.
Kitty wore a bright yellow dress with a brown belt—an outfit Myles had never seen before—and her auburn, wavy hair blew in the breeze. He’d never seen her look so young, or so happy—smiling and laughing at things that weren’t even funny. He guessed she was practicing her new routine.
Five-eight in her bare feet and possessing a strong, athletic figure, Kitty knew how to make the most of her elegant good looks. This day, she wore nylons and high heels that invited disaster on the farmyard cobblestones. The four surviving girls were away at nursing school, so the welcoming party was down to Myles and his mother.
Hour after hour, he watched the Dundrum Road. Most of the cars just kept going, not making that right-hand turn at the crossroads for Rathdargan. Finally, after hours of look-out duty, he spotted Delaney’s green Vauxhall. It turned right. Knowing it had to be Jack, he sounded the alarm: “Here he comes! They just turned at Doyle’s Cross.”
With the alert, Kitty went charging toward the lilac canopy, running the full two hundred yards of the winding sycamore laneway uphill in her high heels. In that moment of euphoria, of her hope against hope, all was forgiven: the abandonment; the drunken abuse; the deceptions and neglect. Once again, Jack Hogan was being given a hero’s welcome. Kitty’s faithful heart greeted him as any loving husband coming home from a normal, bread-winning trip.
Myles couldn’t stand it; he refused to join the parade. He expected to be coaxed as usual, but Kitty didn’t even notice his absence. He sat on the front steps, brooding, while Kitty and the border collies rushed to greet the prodigal father. By the time they emerged jubilantly through the gateway next to the farmhouse— thirty yards away—Myles had arrived at a plan of action.
His parents strode forward as though in a wedding parade. Kitty had both of her arms locked around Jack’s trim waist. Myles saw his matter-of-fact mother clinging to this stranger with a misty, dreamy expression he’d never seen before. It was as if Jack had never left, as if the cover story had been true all along, and this loyal provider had just gone to the forge to have the mare shod.
Jack’s white cotton shirt billowed in the wind and he carried a battered tan suitcase. He was tall and handsome, just as people had been telling Myles all his life. What if Myles had been wrong? What if the stories were all true? Jack was laughing, full of life and basking in the glow of Kitty’s adoration. They looked like a couple right out Failte Magazine, out for a stroll in the lush Wicklow countryside.
Kitty was cheerfully explaining why Myles hadn’t been with the welcoming party at the road gate. Apparently, he was shy. Finally, with a sharp change of tone, she turned toward Myles and issued one of her sharp commands: “Myles, come greet your father, right now!”
Myles stood and walked slowly toward the stranger, working hard not to betray the terror he felt at what he was about to do. He felt his big, daring plan dissolve with each step, like a slow leak in his bike tire. They met about half-way to the farmhouse, just above the open spring well. The trickling of the running spout in the yard suddenly grew noisy. Myles had to stifle an urge to turn and run.
Their eyes met for the first time, father and son, searching, like boxers in an opening round. No trust; just animal suspicion. Myles noticed his father had the same deep blue eyes and dimpled cheeks as himself. Now those older eyes twinkled with mischief, as if Jack was about to tell a hilarious joke.
He smiled at Myles conspiratorially, then reached in his pocket with crowd-pleasing deliberation, saying to no one in particular, “So this is my great big son. I brought you something I think you’re gonna like...” With great flourish, he pulled out a gorgeous silver watch, a fashionable Timex. It had a chain about a foot long, with a silver T-buckle on the end. He held it high for all to admire, then lowered it to Myles’s outstretched palm.
Without a word, Myles took the watch, gazed at it for a few long seconds, then threw it with all the force he could muster, straight at his father’s head, yelling: “I don’t want yer watch! I don’t want anythin’ from ya! I wish ya’d just stay away from us…”
He didn’t wait to see where the watch landed—just tore down the laneway toward his refuge, the garden, vaguely registering over his shoulder the flurry of apologies from his mother. “He’s not like this at all. I don’t know what got into him. Oh, Jack, please don’t be upset. I’ll talk with him…He’ll apologize...I’m so sorry…I had no idea…”
Myles had learned from watching Kitty over the years that the best balm for upset is hard work. Now he threw himself into weeding the lettuce ridges, head down, back to the house, where he could hear the subdued voices of his parents. Then he heard footsteps on the garden path. Kitty was coming to reprimand him, to order him to apologize. He didn’t turn around, just kept working, bracing for the verbal assault.
It never came. To his surprise, it was his father’s voice that broke the silence: “This is a beautiful garden you’ve grown here, son. So clean. I used to plant lettuce and onions in this very same spot when I was your age. It’s the sunniest place in the whole orchard. Did you know we used to call this ‘the orchard’? The field over the house used to be filled with apple trees—people would come from all over to pick from them. The trees would be in full bloom right about now—all shades of pink and white. We had such great yield, we just gave them away for free. The cattle and pigs ate the rest.”
He kept up the monologue, squatting down in the row beside Myles in his polished shoes and white shirt, moving with him up the row. This went on for a good fifteen minutes, during which time Myles kept working but never looked at his father or said a word. The speaker might as well have been invisible. Finally, Jack stood up, dusted off his pants and mumbled something about needing to wash up for dinner before withdrawing behind the orchard wall.
Myles waited till he heard the wooden gate close behind him, then broke into tears of confused rage that watered the fledgling lettuce plants, lasting till he finished the row, exhausted and afraid of facing his mother’s wrath.
(to be continued next Friday)