The year 1944 was marked by some strange experiences. These I have already described elsewhere,* but their significance was such that they cannot be omitted from any account of my childhood.
One harsh, dark March afternoon a squealing hinge made me look through the kitchen window. A young man was entering the cobbled yard from the abandoned cinema, which meant that he had climbed our eight-foot garden wall. Yet I felt not at all alarmed, possibly because I was never prone to be made uneasy by the unconventional. Or it may simply have been because the young man looked so amiable and vulnerable. As he stood at the back door I noticed that he seemed rather apprehensive and very tired. He was tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, and I marked a Kerry brogue when he gave his name as Pat Carney and asked, diffidently, if he might see one or both of my parents.
In the living-room my mother’s bath chair was close to the sulky wartime fire of wet turf. She seemed oddly unsurprised by our visitor’s original approach route and my curiosity was further sharpened when she asked me to leave her alone with Pat. Ten minutes later Pat was back in the kitchen. He said that he had been invited to stay for a few days and that my mother would like to speak to me. Then, pausing inside the living-room door, I did begin to feel alarmed. Never before had I seen my mother looking so distraught. Mrs Mansfield and San Toy were coming to tea so there was no time to waste on euphemisms. In a couple of sentences I had been told that Pat was on the run, wanted for the murder of a Dublin detective-sergeant. He had come to us as a protégé of my father’s elder sister who, never having recognised the validity of the post-Treaty Irish government, was an active member of the illegal IRA. On no account must any caller be allowed to see our guest or any trace of his presence. As I continued to stand by the door, paralysed with astonishment, my mother made a gallant preliminary bid to sort out the ethics of the situation. ‘This young man is a criminal though he regards himself as a patriot. No doubt his elders are chiefly to blame. They are using his muddled, foolish idealism. But we can talk about it later. Now please show him his room and give him a meal.’
I walked down the hall in a joyous daze. This was the stuff of which fantasies are made, yet now it had become part of the reality of my own life. I was to prepare a meal for a man on the run who would be hanged if caught. My mother might have saved her breath. Of course Pat was not a criminal, or muddled or foolish. He was a most glorious patriot, heroically dedicated to the reunification of Ireland. No one had ever suggested that my grandfather and father were criminals because they belonged to the Old IRA. One had to be logical. I was badly jolted when I discovered how strongly my father disapproved of Pat. But then I reflected that he (my father) was very old (forty-three). And I made allowances for the fact that at that age some people just can’t have the right reactions any more.
Listening to my parents, I gathered that for some days they had been half-expecting Pat without knowing exactly why he was on the run. Now they were disagreeing vigorously about how they should deal with him and it gave me a certain sardonic satisfaction to observe them both being inconsistent; at twelve, one likes the feet of clay to appear occasionally. My father should have been the one to welcome – or at least tolerate – Pat, while my mother (given her ancestry) should have been the one to reject him. Instead, my father coldly argued that it would be sinful to shelter someone who had deliberately killed an innocent man in the course of a seditious campaign against a lawfully established government. And my mother warmly argued that it was unthinkable, sinful or no, to betray someone whose coming to our home was an act of faith in our humanity. She insisted that allowances must be made for Pat’s sick idealism. To which my father, sprung from generations of rebels, replied austerely that it would prove impossible to govern the state if hectic emotionalism were to be accepted as an excuse for murder. My mother then suggested that he should go at once to the gardai barracks and report on Pat’s whereabouts. But he didn’t.
My parents seem never to have debated the ethics of capital punishment; presumably they accepted it, in theory, as the appropriate penalty for murder. Yet had it not been employed in Ireland during the Forties, as part of the government’s anti-IRA campaign, they might well have refused to succour Pat. When such a decision can lead directly to a death sentence it requires more moral courage, or moral arrogance, than either of my parents possessed.
From their point of view an awkward situation was being compounded by the need to impress on me that giving refuge to Pat did not mean condoning his crime. In the end they gave up pretending to unravel this tangled skein for my benefit, which was sensible of them since I well knew that they were incapable of unravelling it for their own. I had in any case already come to my own conclusions and was only listening to their dutiful dissertations out of politeness. Yet I vaguely sympathised with their discomfiture; though they repudiated Pat as a violent man their consciences compelled them to allow for the fact that he saw himself as a soldier fighting a just war – a dilemma that in present-day Northern Ireland has again become familiar to many.
Pat stayed with us for a fortnight, but he and I never referred directly to his peculiar status and he made no attempt to influence me politically. We played round after round of rummy and he gave me lessons in map-reading and taught me how to whistle through my fingers so piercingly that I can be heard two miles away. To me this marvellous companion seemed a magic sort of person, an intelligent grown-up who had retained all the wondering enthusiasms of childhood. And my intuition was right. It was Pat’s tragedy that he had never outgrown either the innocence or the ruthlessness of youth.
My parents also became very fond of Pat and deeply concerned about him. Night after night they argued patiently in futile attempts to make him see the error of his ways. Soon he seemed a member of the family – quite an achievement, in view of the strains imposed on all the adults concerned by his presence in the house. Had he been detected under our roof, my father would not have perjured himself by denying any knowledge of his identity and so would certainly have been imprisoned – as his sister was soon to be, on Pat’s account.
Our guest was careful never to go too near a window and any knock at the door sent him rushing upstairs. Remembering how I relished all this melodrama, I wonder now if I fully understood that we were truly dicing with death. But my light-hearted approach may well have helped by easing the tension generated between the three adults. Pat knew that I took the game seriously enough to keep all the rules, and I was made deliriously proud by his entrusting to me the addressing and posting of his letters. One morning I went into his room to leave fresh linen on the bed and saw an automatic by the pillow. For years this was to rank as the most thrilling moment in my life. I tingled all over at the romance of that weapon – symbol of Adventure! – gleaming black and lethal on the white sheet. It never occurred to me that in certain circumstances it could be used to kill the local gardai, the fathers of my playmates. But then it was impossible to associate the gentle, considerate Pat with any form of violence or cruelty.
One evening Pat said goodbye instead of good-night and when we got up next morning he was gone. We heard nothing of him for several months, but his luck did not hold. He was eventually captured in my aunt’s house, while asleep, and tried in Dublin before the Military Tribunal. Then he was hanged by the neck until he died, at eight o’clock in the morning on December 1, 1944. His real name was Charles Kerins.
In Waterford city, where I was by then at school, December 1, 1944, was a morning of violent wind and slashing rain. Just before eight o’clock I was queuing for my breakfast. I knew of Pat’s attitude towards his sentence and at the moment of his hanging, when the gong in the hall was signalling us to enter the refectory, I experienced an almost hysterical elation. Then, curiously enough, I ate my usual hearty meal. It was against the nationalist tradition in my blood to mourn such deaths, for that would have been to imply that the sacrifice was not worth while.
Our mail was distributed during the mid-morning break and two worlds met when I stood amongst my classmates and – while they chattered of hockey and drank their milk – read a letter from a friend who had been hanged three hours earlier. With his letter Pat had enclosed a silver ring made on the prison ship in Belfast by a comrade of his, ‘Rocky’ Burns, who was later shot dead in Belfast by the RUC – or perhaps the B specials. I wore the ring constantly from that moment until my fingers and my ideals outgrew it – developments which conveniently occurred at about the same time. But I have it still and I would not part with it.
A few days later I had a letter from the aunt in whose house Pat had been arrested. She wrote:
My dearest Dervla,
There is no need to tell you that Charlie Kerins met his death with the greatest possible courage and bravery. I was allowed to visit him on Wednesday and Thursday last and he gave me courage, too. I am more than sorry that you could not have seen him – he was so proud and happy to die for Ireland that one could not feel depressed – sad indeed – heartbroken – but not depressed.
I spoke to the priest who heard his confession and he told me that it was a privilege to meet him and that he had no doubt whatever he had gone straight to Heaven. He offered his life with Our Lord for all the people of Ireland. He had no bitterness against his enemies. For the week before his execution he heard Mass and received Holy Communion every morning. On the very morning he was hanged he sang two songs for the wardens, ‘Kevin Barry’ and ‘Kelly the Boy from Killane’. As one of the warders said, ‘he was the only happy man in the prison’ during the terrible week before he was hanged. The following is a copy of his last letter written to me.
Mountjoy Jail
December 1st 1944
6.30 a.m.
‘Dear Dr.,
‘In case I haven’t left a souvenir to some person I should have, please explain that the number at my disposal were limited.
‘I haven’t time to say much but I’m sure there’s no necessity. All I ask is that the ideals and principles for which I’m about to die will be kept alive until the Irish Republic is finally enthroned. This I feel sure will be accomplished before very long despite all the labours of traitors and hypocrits as right will prevail.
‘Thank everyone who has done anything on my behalf, goodbye and good luck in the future.
Charlie.’
Ireland has another martyr and we must all feel proud to have known him and to have been his friends. I’m sure he doesn’t need our prayers but I will ask you to pray for your sorrowful
Aunt Kathleen.
At this stage I realised that Pappa, too, had been closely involved with Charlie and held more extreme political views than I had ever suspected. By 1944 he no longer agreed with my father that the twenty-six county government of the Irish Free State (since 1937 known as Eire) was legitimate and should be whole-heartedly supported. To him, then, de Valera was a traitor who had thrown in the sponge before the thirty-two counties had been freed from British rule, and he considered it his duty as a patriot and an honourable man to oppose the Dublin government. But he had never preached sedition to me, no doubt because to have done so would have been to risk confusing my young mind and dividing my loyalties between father and grandfather.
A few weeks later I had a letter from a fourteen-year-old cousin, the daughter of my father’s younger sister, which indicated that extreme Republicanism was successfully being passed on to my own generation.*
10, Charleston Ave.,
1 January 1945
Dear Dervla,
I hope you are well and had a very happy Christmas. Thanks for the letter, I was delighted to get it. I’m glad you are now more used to school. Do you know what G. K. Chesterton says about education? He says that it is being taught by somebody you don’t know about things you don’t want to know. I don’t altogether agree.
Wasn’t it awful about Charlie? I’ll never forget the day of his death. The night before the people went to say the Rosary outside the prison for him but the police would not let them near it. (By ‘they’ I mean Republicans – in fact some were not but just pitied him.) Then they decided to say the Rosary aloud in procession while walking back to town but in O’Connell St the police baton-charged them and injured two girls!! And this in a Catholic country ruled by an Irish Government!!!! However when the Nuncio heard of it he must have said something because for the first time in four years the government allowed a notice in the newspapers announcing that a Mass would be said for his soul and we all went to it. It was very sad but as he died such a brave death and is nearly sure to be in Heaven it is not so bad. He was laughing and happy up to the very last and the night before he said he would not change his place for any man in the world. He even forgave the CID who always pushed him around and maltreated him. He was so brave that the warders wept and the CID in the Castle said he was the bravest man they ever executed!! And that’s saying something! I was glad to hear he left you a ring. He sent me a signed picture and left me a crucifix. I’d better stop now because if I don’t I’ll go on and on and on. I always do on the subject of Charlie. When you next come to Dublin I’ll tell you all about Charlie, Aunt Kathleen and the raid on our own house. Give my love to Aunt Kitty and Uncle Feargus. I hope you have a very happy new year.
Lots of love and kisses,
Constance.
Had I lived in Dublin I might either have been much more deeply influenced by Murphy Republicanism or reacted earlier and more strongly against it. As it was, I followed exactly in my father’s political footsteps, during this period, and despite the emotionalism aroused by Charlie’s tragic career I reserved for de Valera (Charlie’s ‘murderer’, according to Aunt Kathleen) the sort of devotion expended on less orthodox heroes by my Dublin cousins. To me ‘Dev’ was one of the greatest Irishmen who had ever lived – indeed, one of the greatest MEN – yet like my mother I was apolitical by nature and I cannot recall ever arguing about this with the more extreme of my relatives. Dev was not, in my eyes, a politician. He was an heroic, almost godlike leader of the nation who had never belonged to the dreary world of party politics but ruled us from an immeasurably higher plane. This of course was fantasy on my part, an adolescent’s glorification of a sincere, romantic and very powerful personality. But behind the fantasy there was some truth. Now many of Dev’s ideals seem to me either absurd or distasteful. Yet he did have genuine ideals, he was no mere politician out for personal power, and looking around today one realises that neither in Britain nor in Ireland is there any individual with the leadership qualities of Churchill and de Valera.
Unlike Pappa, Aunt Kathleen had no inhibitions about dividing my loyalties; she was such a fanatical Republican that she would not have scrupled to subvert anyone by almost any means. In July 1944, when she was in prison following the arrest of Charlie in her home, she wrote me the following letter – carefully designed to steer me towards the mainstream of contemporary Republicanism.
Mountjoy Prison
2.7.44
My dearest Dervla,
It just struck me that you might like to have a letter from me and to know what life is like here. Well, considering everything, it’s not so bad. The first and most important thing is that everyone here treats me with great kindness and consideration. The ordinary diet is not very appetising – in fact I couldn’t tackle it, but I have been put on hospital diet which means that I get two pints of milk and two eggs a day and beef tea for dinner. Also I can be sent in food from outside. However, I find I’m not at all hungry and I had to ask Isolde not to send me in food because it was a waste of money.
This is the routine – the cell door is opened at 7 am and you may get up if you wish to. I stay in bed until breakfast is served and I usually take that in bed. As a rule the cup of tea is all that interests me. The cell is locked then for about an hour while the wardens have their breakfast. At about 10 I have a bath, which I enjoy immensely. After that I potter around – tidy my cell, wash my cup and saucer, etc. I then go out for exercise – I can walk around or sit down and read or just think – and I have plenty to think about! I can also read the paper which is sent in each day. Dinner is at 12.45 – beef-tea and bread and milk. The cell is locked until about 2 after which I may go out into the grounds again. The high light of the day is my visit (usually at 4.0). I can see two people at a time but in the presence of a warder and a detective. The visit usually lasts from 15-30 minutes. The children come to see me in turn. I have not seen Pappa yet as he has been away in Limerick. Sunday is the dullest day here as there can be no bath and no visit. Mass of course is a great consolation. The ten days I was in the Bridewell included two Sundays and there is no possibility of getting Mass there.
After the visit I have tea, bread and butter and a boiled egg. Then I go out to sit in the grounds and before coming back to my cell at about 8.30 I spend a little time praying in the chapel. Although in the usual way there is no meal between 4.30 pm and 7.0 am I have my own tea and a teapot and I make some tea every evening. My door is locked at 9.30. However, I have the privilege of having the light on for a few hours so I read in bed until the small hours. Although the bed is very comfortable it’s not so easy to sleep – all sorts of things come into your head and keep you awake. This morning I woke at 5 and was thinking of the morning last summer when you and I and Anne went out before sunrise to pick mushrooms. We didn’t get any but I think it was well worth while to see the dawn over the mountains and the stars, that were so bright when we started, fading away one by one.
Daddy told me that you have all decided that it is best for you to go away to school next September to the Ursulines in Waterford. I’m sure you’ll like them – they are the only nuns I ever really liked. Isolde and Niamh went to the Ursuline Convent at Forest Gate when we lived in London and they loved it. I know, of course, that they were day-pupils and how lonely you will be at first – but I know too that you have plenty of grit and backbone and that you’ll do your best to be happy when you know that the only reason you are being sent away from home is that your wonderful mother is an invalid and that she and Daddy are prepared to give up the joy of having you always with them for the sake of your education.
Do you remember when I saw you last, and we were looking at Daddy’s Active Service medal, you asked me if I had ever been in jail? When I said no you remarked that I was the only one of my family who hadn’t been – well now I’m no longer a blot on the family escutcheon – in fact I’m more like a skeleton in the cupboard! I can hardly believe that you are only twelve years old when I remember how tall and strong you are – why, you’d make two of me!
Your affectionate Aunt Kathleen
When the present round of the Troubles began in Northern Ireland, Aunt Kathleen was soon to be seen in the Republican ghettos of Belfast. Perhaps she merely went north as an ‘observer’, but that seems unlikely. It would not surprise me to discover that although well over seventy, and in poor health,* she was gun-running. Where there are godfathers there can also be godmothers. And to this day the name of ‘Dr Kathleen’ brings an affectionate gleam – and occasionally even a tear – to the eye of many a Provo.