much death
and destruction,’ he elaborated. ‘My two brothers died in the
Troubles. One was murdered by Provos because he joined the British
army and the other was shot by the British simply for being in the
wrong place at the wrong time.’
It still didn’t make a
great deal of sense, not the reasons why Dad’s brothers, my
uncles, had died but of course I understood that Dad had suffered
because of it. Was suffering all over again because I’d asked. But how could I
have known what the effect of my question would be?
I’d almost always been aware that Dad had
come from ‘somewhere else’, why else did he sound different from
Kiwi Dads? So wasn’t it important for me to know more about
him?
‘ What exactly is a family
tree?’ I’d asked Gran not that long before I tackled
Dad.
‘ It’s the history of a
Family,’ Gran had said. ‘It’s
like a great big tree with
branches extending every-where, but one strong deep root system to
hold it all together.’
‘ Like the tree in the
Garden of Eden.’
Gran looked at me. ‘All trees have hidden
snakes,’ she said unexpectedly.
‘ What’s your history Gran?’ I’d asked.
She went even more serious then, her mouth
tightening into a line. ‘It’s a history of injustice,’ she said.
‘It’s a history of being a second-class citizen in your own
country. It’s a history of the loss of sons.
Ask your father Andrea. And one day, go
there and discover it for yourself.’
So I had asked Dad. There was clearly more,
lots more, to our family tree but Dad wasn’t prepared to
shake any more apples off its branches.
Tears were streaming down either side of my
face, like small waterfalls.
‘ What did she say?’ I asked
Dad. ‘What did she say? I didn’t hear her!’
Not her actual last words. Those were for
everyone. ‘Damn and bugger.’ Her last words to Dad, I meant.
Turned out to be those famous lines from a
poem by Dylan Thomas.
Do not go gently into that
dark night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Those were Gran’s last words to us.
In her coffin, open before the requiem and
shut before the Mass began, Gran’s hands held her rosary. Rather,
we had looped the beads around her fingers. Each bright bead had
been a milestone, on the way to . . . God? Gran had reached all her
milestones. She had nowhere left to go. But had she got there in
the end, where she had expected and wanted to be? Had God reached
her in time and touched her index finger, closing the gap? Who
knows? How can anybody know? It was all very well to believe, as
Mum said
she and Dad did, and as I had always done,
in the Happy-Forever-After place but where was it and why did no
one ever come back to tell the rest of us what it was like?
We buried Gran in St Brigid’s graveyard,
among
the ghosts of her distant past, those people
who had come all the way from Tippperary, from County Kerry and
County Clare, and then we all went home.
I didn’t go back to the cemetery for another
three years.
Part Two: The Joyful Mysteries
An extract from Chris’s notebook
I wondered whether, if Andrea had happened
to see me the day I drove past in the car with Dad, would she later
on have remembered me?
STRANGE MEETING
I can’t help thinking, I’m twenty-two today
and already I feel old. The history of my life seems to have been
written although I know for a fact it hasn’t, it’s only just
beginning.
‘ It’s so weird, bumping into you like this,’ says
Chris.
‘ Do you remember the first
time we met?’ I ask.
‘ Yes,’ he says. ‘But . . .
it wasn’t the first time I saw you Andy.’
‘ Not the first time? What
do you mean?’
‘ The first time I saw you,
noticed you, was the day you were coming out of that little church,
the day of your Gran’s funeral.’
I remember that day, only too well. But not
that Chris was part of it.
‘ St Brigid’s?’
‘ Yep. Dad was teaching me
to drive. You were at one corner of your Gran’s
and destruction,’ he elaborated. ‘My two brothers died in the
Troubles. One was murdered by Provos because he joined the British
army and the other was shot by the British simply for being in the
wrong place at the wrong time.’
It still didn’t make a
great deal of sense, not the reasons why Dad’s brothers, my
uncles, had died but of course I understood that Dad had suffered
because of it. Was suffering all over again because I’d asked. But how could I
have known what the effect of my question would be?
I’d almost always been aware that Dad had
come from ‘somewhere else’, why else did he sound different from
Kiwi Dads? So wasn’t it important for me to know more about
him?
‘ What exactly is a family
tree?’ I’d asked Gran not that long before I tackled
Dad.
‘ It’s the history of a
Family,’ Gran had said. ‘It’s
like a great big tree with
branches extending every-where, but one strong deep root system to
hold it all together.’
‘ Like the tree in the
Garden of Eden.’
Gran looked at me. ‘All trees have hidden
snakes,’ she said unexpectedly.
‘ What’s your history Gran?’ I’d asked.
She went even more serious then, her mouth
tightening into a line. ‘It’s a history of injustice,’ she said.
‘It’s a history of being a second-class citizen in your own
country. It’s a history of the loss of sons.
Ask your father Andrea. And one day, go
there and discover it for yourself.’
So I had asked Dad. There was clearly more,
lots more, to our family tree but Dad wasn’t prepared to
shake any more apples off its branches.
Tears were streaming down either side of my
face, like small waterfalls.
‘ What did she say?’ I asked
Dad. ‘What did she say? I didn’t hear her!’
Not her actual last words. Those were for
everyone. ‘Damn and bugger.’ Her last words to Dad, I meant.
Turned out to be those famous lines from a
poem by Dylan Thomas.
Do not go gently into that
dark night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Those were Gran’s last words to us.
In her coffin, open before the requiem and
shut before the Mass began, Gran’s hands held her rosary. Rather,
we had looped the beads around her fingers. Each bright bead had
been a milestone, on the way to . . . God? Gran had reached all her
milestones. She had nowhere left to go. But had she got there in
the end, where she had expected and wanted to be? Had God reached
her in time and touched her index finger, closing the gap? Who
knows? How can anybody know? It was all very well to believe, as
Mum said
she and Dad did, and as I had always done,
in the Happy-Forever-After place but where was it and why did no
one ever come back to tell the rest of us what it was like?
We buried Gran in St Brigid’s graveyard,
among
the ghosts of her distant past, those people
who had come all the way from Tippperary, from County Kerry and
County Clare, and then we all went home.
I didn’t go back to the cemetery for another
three years.
Part Two: The Joyful Mysteries
An extract from Chris’s notebook
I wondered whether, if Andrea had happened
to see me the day I drove past in the car with Dad, would she later
on have remembered me?
STRANGE MEETING
I can’t help thinking, I’m twenty-two today
and already I feel old. The history of my life seems to have been
written although I know for a fact it hasn’t, it’s only just
beginning.
‘ It’s so weird, bumping into you like this,’ says
Chris.
‘ Do you remember the first
time we met?’ I ask.
‘ Yes,’ he says. ‘But . . .
it wasn’t the first time I saw you Andy.’
‘ Not the first time? What
do you mean?’
‘ The first time I saw you,
noticed you, was the day you were coming out of that little church,
the day of your Gran’s funeral.’
I remember that day, only too well. But not
that Chris was part of it.
‘ St Brigid’s?’
‘ Yep. Dad was teaching me
to drive. You were at one corner of your Gran’s
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