Suddenly, the mysteries of deference to his mother made sense.
After each incident, Myles had assumed that his mother, a naturally dominant personality, intimidated her targets with sheer force of will. Now, he understood their pitiful pleading, their sudden show of compassion, their ready admission of guilt. They all had one thing in common: terror. They weren’t facing his mother; they were facing Kitty Cusack, legendary commander in the Cumann na mBan, a secret enforcer for the IRA.
But did they know the whole truth? That she’d shot a Black n’ Tan prison guard, and the only living witness was Jack Hogan? Maybe the whole truth was even worse. Perhaps she’d shot others? If so, how many? And who else, besides Jack, knew?
Myles was left to ponder these questions alone. He would have to bide his time before he could even broach the subject with his da, and Kitty was completely off limits. On that front, he was sworn to secrecy.
After that one extraordinary tale of his escape, Jack returned to his other persona: an endless fountain of hilarious mimicry, ancient wisdom, songs, and poetry. Myles, in turn, decided to focus on the bright side of this newly revealed heritage. He was the only son of Kitty Cusack and Jack Hogan, Cumann na mBan and IRA insurgents who’d trounced the Black n’ Tans, hooligans and murderers all. This was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, he was proud of his pedigree. After all, Kitty and Jack had put it all on the line for Irish freedom when it mattered most. He didn’t know anyone else who could say that about both of their parents.
So resolved, he got up each day now intent on making the most of being alone with his da. He never raised the topic of the IRA again, and Jack avoided all references to his days “on the run.” Instead, they seemed to have reached a tacit agreement that Kildargan farm would be their new cause.
Jack taught Myles the verses to all his favorite songs—Slievenamon, the Croppy Boy, Dawning of the Day and, Myles’s favorite, Kevin Barry. They cleaned out the old car-shed, built a workbench, and cut down several hardwood trees—ashes and oaks—for the new paddock they’d planned to fence in behind the stable.
At night, Hogan’s farmhouse turned into a lively ‘rambling house’—the center of community fellowship and entertainment. Gone were the days of isolation when Myles and Kitty wouldn’t see a soul from one Sunday to the next. The Voice had raised the ante; singers never heard from before emerged to perform and match their talent against Himself. The same with the musicians—and all the other performing: storytelling, poetry recitation, and occasionally a tug-of-war on the long summer evenings. It was the best summer of Myles’s life, far and away. He finally had a father of his own, and one who was supremely talented, great fun, and a genuine IRA hero, to boot.
Then, one balmy August evening, their idyllic summer ended abruptly.
The ramblers had gathered for another night of music and storytelling, but Jack was still in Enniskerry on some errand. Myles heard the border collies first, their barking chorus unusually shrill—with Parnell, the big, black alpha, dropping into an ominous crouch, hackles up, slamming against the kitchen door with increasing urgency, as if engaged in some mortal combat with an invisible foe. This was a sound Myles had never heard the borders make before, and he felt a shiver invade his whole body.
Kitty finally tuned in to the banging against the kitchen door and turned to Myles without noticing that he’d turned pale. “Myles, will you go out and call off those dogs! They’re giving me a headache with all that randy-boo.” When she saw his hesitation, she picked up the Tilley lamp and, without further comment, stormed into the dark farmyard to see what all the fuss was about. “Parnell! Shep! Rover! Come to heel! I said, HEEL!”
With that, the dogs backed off, but did not go quiet. They stopped barking, but Parnell kept baring his fangs in an ugly snarl, while the others growled and refused to lie down as they normally would when Kitty took charge. As one, they paced back and forth, glaring toward the outer gate with baleful suspicion.
Standing just beyond the gate, frozen in fear, was a homely little woman, dressed in a black with a large hat on top of a wizened little head. As she stepped into the farmyard, Myles could see her large pair of glasses reflect the light as she introduced herself as Fanny Wilcox, explaining that Ned Delaney had driven her up from Enniskerry, but had to go for another fare, leaving her to carry her large suitcase down the long driveway by herself. She looked exhausted, leaning on a cane, and Kitty immediately felt sorry for her. “Well, come on in and have a cup of tea and some refreshments, Fanny. You look famished, and sure, who wouldn’t be, after lugging that suitcase down the lane all by yourself? I’m surprised at Ned to leave a woman in such a lurch. Shame on him.”
Fanny waved this aside with, “No, no—Ned seemed like a nice chap, really. Very polite and friendly, ‘e was. I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but I’m looking for Paddy Hogan, and I understand ’e lives ’ere.” Here was an accent Myles had never heard and could barely make out a word.
“I’m afraid you may have the wrong farm, Fanny. This is Jack Hogan’s house, and he’s away at the moment, but we don’t know any Paddy Hogan.”
Fanny sipped her tea, glancing through her horn-rimmed glasses at the assembled ramblers and Myles before speaking. Then, with a condescending cackle and an air of conspiracy, she leaned toward Kitty and whispered, “You may want to ‘ear the rest of wot I ‘ave to say privately. Can we go into another room, then dear?” Caught off guard, Kitty blushed and said, “Of course, of course…sure let’s go up to the parlor so that we can talk. Myles will join us.” Myles moved past the ramblers toward the parlor, but as he walked by Fanny, he felt her cold, clawlike hand grasp his wrist and whisper, so that all could hear, “I don’t think we want our knuck here listening to wot I ‘ave to say.” Kitty recognized the British taunt: knuck—dimwit, eejit—but hadn’t heard it since her days as a nursemaid in London, when it was used to ridicule Irish country-girls—fresh off the boat—on the “downstairs” staff of her upper-crust employer.
Ignoring Fanny, she guided Myles in front of her as the three of them withdrew to the parlor—the formal room reserved for company—to the gawking silence of the ramblers. Kitty poured more tea and invited Fanny to proceed, which she did with an air of being in a deep conversation with a long-lost friend. Her story, which took over an hour to tell in her halting Yorkshire style, erased all doubt of its credibility.
(to be continued next Friday)