11

IN SPITE OF ALL THE DRIVING that our father did while we lived in Tullamore he cannot have enjoyed it. When we moved to Herbert Place he garaged the Overland in the stables at the back of the house and seldom took it out again. And this was at a time when it was possible to enjoy a trip to the mountains or out of the city in any direction, so free of traffic were the highways and byways. With the Overland gathering dust over a period of nine or twelve months, a local man made some small offer for the car and bought it.

Father used to take us on long walks on Sundays. Leaving Herbert Place we would go in a big arc round to Milltown, from there to Dundrum, thence to the top of Foster’s Avenue and down to the Bray Road and in on that road to Donnybrook and home. I remember walking along the Bray road itself rather than on the footpath.

Father did not smoke or drink. Perhaps he would enjoy a few glasses of cider at Christmas time or on some special occasion and accept a cigarette from our uncle Gearóid.

It was difficult to make him angry but the odd thing would provoke him. I remember a telephone call that came late one night, when he was a Commissioner. It was shortly before the budget. I was in bed, but I could hear the conversation quite clearly. I can only guess what was being said at the other end of the line, but it was clear from the sudden change in my father’s tone that some attempt was being made to glean information about the new taxes that were to be imposed. The impression I sensed was of astonishment, then outrage and finally white anger – father’s voice stammered momentarily with rage and then he took control. It was apparent that the person at the other end of the line was desperately trying to withdraw and excuse himself, but he got no sympathy.

Father was a regular communicant on Sundays and his life at home was quiet and untroubled. However, there must have been considerable tension and worry in the life of a person who raised a big family during that unsettled period in Irish history. If indeed he felt those tensions he showed no trace of it. His life reflected his two baptismal names: Michael and Victor. Michael was reflected in his strength, and Victor in his achievements.

On an evening in July 1937, he, Róisín, Fergus and I were in the sitting-room in the house in Blackrock. The younger sisters, Nuala and Sheila, were also there, and some sort of game developed where our father was laughing and chasing Sheila around the table. He then sat down and resumed reading a book he had put down. In the meantime I had gone up to my own room when I heard Róisín calling urgently to my mother to come at once, that something was seriously amiss. I ran down to investigate. His arm was limp at the side of the armchair, the book fallen from his hand. It was a massive thrombosis. He was dead before a priest or doctor reached him.

He is buried in Deansgrange Cemetery, and my mother and Brian share the same grave.