At last, Kitty emerged, under the guise of picking scallions and lettuce for supper. To his surprised relief, she assured Myles that she was not upset, that she understood it would take time for him to get used “to having a man around the house.”
It was the last thing he needed to hear. His anger returned, surprising both of them: “I’m never gonna get used to it. I was the man of the house an’ we were doin’ fine without ‘im. An’ I’m not goin’ to call ‘im Da either, so there’s no use trying ta make me.”
“Alright, a Cushla, I know this is hard for you. But I still expect you to show your manners and to be polite. There’s no excuse for rudeness. Promise me that you won’t let us down. Do this for me, please!”
Myles dug at his tear-stained face with two muddy fists, promised her without conviction, and went in to wash up for supper. He was used to being without a father, but now it was beginning to look like he was also about to lose his mother, too—at least the one he’d known up to now. Fine, maybe he’d just run away to England; that would show her about a ‘man o’ the house.’ He could find work on the buildings. Four of his cousins had already gone to Sheffield, and they were only three years older.
Jack Hogan proved hard to resist; he had a magic about him that Myles felt drawn to. Even mundane tasks like shearing sheep or clipping the pony became occasions of performance and celebration. Everyone—men, women, and children—even the animals, seemed to vie for his attention. He was charming, entertaining, and loved to make people laugh.
Myles knew his father had won several singing competitions, in both Ireland and England, but he had no idea what that meant. Then, on his second night home, Myles came to understand why Jack Hogan was known as “The Voice.”
With plenty of Guinness being passed around and conversations buzzing in the kitchen, the nightly “ramblers” had arrived to perform their party pieces. No one was paying much attention—all talking at once—until someone shouted, “Hush up! Jack is goin’ ta sing.”
As if someone had hit a silence switch, the house instantly went quiet. Jack stood up, stepped confidently to the middle of the room, took a deep breath, and launched.
His selection was Thomas Moore’s classic, “She Is Far From The Land,” a song familiar to all.
From the first line, all Myles’s resentments and plots for escape dissolved. His father’s voice is unlike anything he’s ever heard—sweet, enchanting and almost like a musical instrument in its perfection. Like the rest of the audience, Myles was swept up in the emotion of the moment, crushed by the grief, still embracing it with both ecstasy and anguish that he had never experienced with other singers. By the end of the first verse, several people, women and men—were openly weeping. Some were actually sobbing, shoulders heaving. Handkerchiefs were out, arms clasping shoulders in comfort, and Myles found himself crying openly with the others, without an iota of self-consciousness.
The words, poetry sung from the heart, etched themselves in Myles’s memory, words he would recite and sing in faraway places decades later:
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!
In full performance persona, Jack was swinging toward the kitchen audience he’d had his back to for the first verse. His hands formed a moving circle in front of him as he sang, and he made deliberate and lingering eye contact with each person as he delivered each lilting line:
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him,
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
For the finale, he came full circle, paused for several seconds, then turned toward the finish. The silence was perfect as he hit the piece de resistance.
Oh! Make her a grave, where the sun beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved Island of sorrow!
As Jack finished on a caressing inflection of “sorrow,” his audience sat stock still, mesmerized. The tears kept flowing, mingled now with self-conscious giggles. The applause was long and loud, everyone on their feet, even Mick Murphy, who never rises unless to relieve himself or to go home. They were uniformly awe-stricken. Shouts of “No trouble ta ya, Jack! More! More! Give us, “The Foggy Dew,” could be heard in the adjoining townsland.
Jack obliged, without further coaxing, leading off with, “The Foggy Dew,” then, “Dawning of the Day,” “If I Were A Blackbird,” and closed with a nationalist favorite, “The Croppy Boy.” He delivered his medley of ballads with the same fluid energy, beautiful voice, and engaging presence. Long before the final song, Myles had been captured by his father’s magnetic field, holding onto his jacket, proud to claim him as his very own Da.
The ramblers noticed the gesture and applaud that, too, long and loud. In the background Myles could see Kitty, beaming her approval as she busied herself making the tea.
(to be continued next Friday)