Chapter 12
THE LOSS OF ENDA
Enda died on 30 January 2001. On that winter afternoon I had been out with my dear friend Celine Campbell at a mutual friend’s house for Sunday lunch. All was well when I had left Enda at about two o’clock, and when I came home at around five o’clock, he was still in great form. It was a bright and sunny, cloudless January day. We don’t get many of these, but when they do come, it is exciting, because they hold a promise — early and tentative as it may be — of spring and summer yet to come. I can still remember so well Enda’s words, ‘I can already see the stretch in the evenings.’ It would have been five weeks since the shortest day, and yes, a stretch was clearly discernible.
As we looked out the living room window together, Enda relayed to me details of the telephone calls there had been and the fact that he had brought in the line of clothes I had hung out to dry earlier. He also noted with great love a telephone call he had had that afternoon from Feargal, who was in Limerick at a rugby match. We then sat down companionably and I said, ‘I’ll get the dinner on now,’ and got up to go into the kitchen. When I said I was doing roast chicken, he said, ‘Would you do some of your own stuffing?’ And I replied, ‘Of course I will.’ He loved the stuffing done in a separate dish, not in with the chicken. It was just a quirk he had and one I was always glad to indulge. Then he said to me, ‘Before you go out to the kitchen, let’s look at the news together.’ And so we did and watched as opening credits and headlines came up for RTÉ’s six o’clock news programme. The leading item was a story about some political row between John Bruton and Michael Noonan over a speech Noonan had given. Enda and I discussed it with great interest and then he said, ‘I’ll go up to The Green Olive [his local pub] and I’ll have a pint, and by the time I get back, we can sit down to dinner together.’
I went into the kitchen to turn on the oven, put in the chicken and make the stuffing. All at once, I heard a muffled cry from the living room. Our living room opens off onto our kitchen, but it is around a corner. So, while I could hear everything, I couldn’t see Enda. As soon as I heard the muffled cry, I came out to find him slumped in the armchair, but still coherent and talking to me. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he said, so I rang two friends of ours, Mícheál Ó’Faoláin and Jack Lally; and I rang Dr Maurice Collins, who was an Army medical doctor, but was on call for that weekend in Athlone.
By the time Dr Collins arrived, and he came very quickly, Enda was slumped further down in his chair but when we straightened him more comfortably, he was able to talk to both Dr Collins and myself. When Dr Collins gave his opinion — that he should immediately go to hospital — Enda said quite firmly, ‘No, I won’t go to Ballinasloe.’ Then I too insisted, ‘We’ll bring him to the Mater.’ I knew that Enda had always felt happier there, even though he had often been very sick during the two long stays he had had: he just somehow felt more comforted and cared for there. We didn’t call for an ambulance. Instead, my two friends and I got Enda into the back seat of the car and I sat with him as we set off. Dr Collins had rung the Mater and they were expecting us. I cradled Enda’s head on my breast as we drove.
I always thought afterwards, what a comforting way for anyone to die, cared for in the arms of one who loves you, speeding along in the dark night. We somehow knew. Certainly I knew that the end was coming for Enda. He was coherent and still talked from time to time as we drove. From Enfield on, a Garda escort took us right to the door of the Mater, where they had a stretcher and a crew waiting. Whenever now I read of paramedics and particular types of ambulances, I find myself wondering if Enda should have gone to the Mater in one of those? But he went in the way that suited him best at the time, in the way that he wanted to go.
Our two sons had been awaiting him, and he was soon settled in bed with all of the medical paraphernalia around him. I remember saying to one of the medics, ‘There is no hope.’ ‘You are right,’ he replied, ‘but we will do our best.’ Tests were done and examinations carried out by the medical experts who were brought in, but the damage to the brain was huge. Enda never came out of the coma he had fallen into. But when we went in to see him in his bed, he looked so peaceful, just as if he was sleeping. He was kept alive for a certain length of time. We would talk to him and sit with him, but I have always been relatively serene in my own mind that Enda’s last memories and thoughts were that I had my arms around him and that together we were speeding to somewhere where he would be comforted. Yes, of course: he was speeding to death and to his God.
Enda was brought home to Athlone and there followed all the business with John McNeill, the undertakers, and the priests, and the Mass. And of course there was his family to be comforted: his three sisters who loved him dearly, as did all his friends. Enda had a terrific gift for friendship, which he shared with so many. On the day of his funeral, I remember with great clarity how, as the hearse went by The Green Olive on the way to the church at Coosan, we paused and all of Enda’s regular friends came out. The pub was closed and dark, and they stood in silence as he went by and then they all began to clap.
The Mass was huge because of the presence of all his friends and relatives, as well as all of the Fianna Fáil supporters in Westmeath and all over the country. All my friends and relatives came out in force too. Enda was greatly loved. For many people, he had been the face of Mary O’Rourke, the voice of Mary O’Rourke and the mainstay of Mary O’Rourke — all of which he so undoubtedly was. Most of the day was a blur. After the Mass, we brought everyone who wanted to come to the Hodson Bay Hotel for a luncheon. My two sons were strong and stalwart beside me.
I have never forgotten my debt of honour to Enda and my sense of obligation to him. It was he who put me on the political path; it was he who was steadfast for me and with me. It was he who gave me courage when times were bleak; it was he who rejoiced with me when times were good. He was my lover, my husband and the father of my two sons. And now I was bereft and alone. Widows are a lonely, often unacknowledged section of society and I have always thought that their plight and their sorrow are not fully recognised. Later it was confirmed to us that the cause of Enda’s death had been a massive brain haemorrhage from which there was no hope of salvation. He was a very spiritual man, in the proper sense of having one’s religion, and in the end he faced death with much courage.
When Enda died, I tortured myself for some time with thoughts of how I had perhaps sold him short during those frantic, frenetic years. As I have related in an earlier chapter, this was something which had much preoccupied me over the years — the dilemma of how to achieve a happy home life while fulfilling all the many commitments which come with being in public life. But for me, the quandary came to the fore again so strongly following Enda’s death. Should I have been with him more? Had I sold him short on that day in September 1960 when, aged 22 and 24, we had taken our first steps together into the unknown? Had Enda envisaged then a happy-ever-after scenario in the traditional scene, where I would be there every night when he came home — which was how it had been in the very early years of our marriage, but which was later to change so radically into such a very modern set-up? Could I have been more of a soul mate to him?
But then I am comforted by the thought that Enda had always wanted and pushed me to go forward. From the time I entered the political field as an elected member of the town council back in 1974, when we had two very young children, he was the person who prodded, pushed, supported and stood by me — as he would do right throughout my political odyssey. In fact I would never have embarked on it all, only for him: I would, I feel, have quite happily continued my career as a secondary school teacher. You see, Enda believed in me and in what I could do for people then and in the future. He also realised early on that, to bring that about, he would have to play the huge part he played in our home activities. And so he did. Yes, we had rows, as every married couple has. What relationship is utterly harmonious 100 per cent of the time? Find me the couple who makes this claim and I can tell you,
I don’t believe their story! In the end, I know that Enda and I worked things out to the best of our abilities and we built an enduring, satisfactory and very happy relationship. For that, I will always be immensely grateful.
Chapter 13
11 SEPTEMBER 2001
We can all remember where we were when the terrible events of 11 September 2001 happened in the US. In 2011, the tenth anniversary commemorations of such a hugely significant and dreadful occurrence in American history brought back some of the intensity of the horror we had all felt. Like many of those I know, I found the images and words of the various documentaries and programmes of remembrance from RTÉ, BBC and other stations so moving, so real and so full of personal sorrow. Particularly poignant was the footage of some of the friends, companions or close relatives of those who were killed in the attack on the Twin Towers, as, ten years later, they visited the memorial at the site to find the names of their loved ones on the cold bronze slabs. I can only imagine the havoc in the stomachs and in the minds of those people as they kissed the inscriptions of the names of their lost loved ones.
To pinpoint where we were and what we felt on that day now more than a decade ago seems somehow poignant and fitting. In fact I was in the US on that morning of 11 September 2001, on holiday on Cape Cod with two good friends, Ailish O’Donoghue and Kathryn Byrne. It was the first holiday I had had in the nine months since Enda died, and I had been looking forward to the break. A Boston College colleague of Seán Rowland, another close friend of mine, had offered us, through Seán, his house in Falmouth, Cape Cod for a week and we had gladly seized the opportunity. I had been several times to the US but mostly for work-related business functions and for a short period each time, so the prospect of the week on Cape Cod was an exciting and welcome one.
Ailish, Kathyrn and I had landed at Boston Airport, which is the nearest major landing point for that part of the US. Before we left we had made arrangements to hire a self-drive car and Ailish took the wheel when we duly collected it at the airport. Ailish is my Valentia Island friend whose husband Tadhg had been in Revenue and stationed in Athlone, which is where we met them. Tadhg is from Valentia; Ailish herself is the daughter of a lighthouse keeper and as such, can be said to be from many parts of Ireland, including Donegal, Blacksod and Valentia. It was when her father was stationed on the island that she had met Tadhg and they married. During their time in Athlone, they lived two doors up from us on The One Mile in Arcadia and we very quickly made friends with them and their increasing brood of lovely children. For a few years before I went into national politics, Tadgh and I played bridge together, even representing Ireland at National Junior level at one stage. I can always remember how, just a few days after having twin boys, Ailish was out playing bridge herself, and that is the way she is — perky and plucky and ready to take on life’s challenges. In later years, Enda and I had gone on several very memorable holidays to Valentia to Ailish and Tadhg, and later to Portmagee, a lovely spot in South Kerry.
And so, off we friends went on the highway from Boston to Cape Cod, passing through those beautiful little towns — Hyannis, Provincetown, Chatham, Plymouth, Barnstable — until we finally arrived in Falmouth. Picking up the key as arranged, we then went to our lovely beachside house. A short hop down the back garden led to the ocean’s edge. We were delighted with our good fortune and began to settle in, choosing our bedrooms.
Kathryn Byrne is a friend of mine from long-ago Fianna Fáil days. She had been working in the Fianna Fáil head office during the period when, under the auspices of Charlie Haughey, we set up the women’s group I have referred to earlier. Kathryn did much of the administrative, organisational work for us all back at head office. We had shared a lively working relationship together and we have remained friends ever since.
Once we had stocked up on provisions in nearby Falmouth, a lovely town straight out of an American novel, our first few days on Cape Cod quickly settled into a relaxed routine. We would get up in the morning and, after a leisurely breakfast, amble down to the little beach behind the house and swim in the ocean. We just adored it. Ailish didn’t like swimming so she would come down to join us around noon or one o’clock. And the three of us would sit on the beach, looking out to the ocean and thinking, ‘This is the life!’ We then went on different drives to various towns, coming back to the house each evening and going out again to eat in one of the nearby restaurants, which were very reasonable with delicious food, particularly fish. Fortunately, Ailish was well-versed in American restaurants, and explained how we should behave and all about the tipping protocol there! We soon understood that the staff were paid very little but that they expected — and in many cases, demanded — a decent tip. We were happy to comply with this.
We were about four days into our week-long stay. On the morning of Tuesday, 11 September, we were up early, having breakfast and planning our drive for that day to Hyannis Port. I was in the kitchen with Ailish, while Kathryn was in the breakfast-cum-living room with the TV on. She suddenly shouted out, and when both Ailish and I ran in to join her, she was pointing at the TV screen, exclaiming, ‘Look!’ There was the picture of the first plane slicing right through that New York skyscraper. All three of us decided it was some sort of spoof film, and we continued to drink our coffee and munch our toast there in the living room. Suddenly, however, we heard a terrible note of alarm in the voice of the announcer on CNN and as we looked at the screen again, we saw a second plane crash into the Twin Towers. This was for real! Immediately I knew in that lovely little seaside house in Falmouth that this was a huge, awesome, awful moment in American history, and indeed in world history.
We immediately tried the telephone but all the lines were down. Eventually, we did manage to get through and quickly let our loved ones back in Ireland know that, as far as we could tell, it was safe where we were — but that we were obviously part of the American scene. The rest of that day was numbing. We went into Falmouth: half of the shops were closed, half were open; there were terrified, worried and distraught people on the streets. Everyone seemed to have someone or know of someone in the World Trade Center and we wandered aimlessly, trying in our own way to give comfort to those we met. Back at the house, we continued to watch television throughout the day. It wasn’t long before I got word from Ireland that there was to be a special meeting in Brussels of all of the European Ministers for Transport, so that they could form some response to the atrocities and try to plan forward. Obviously we didn’t know what was going to happen next. The Pentagon strike had followed close on the heels of the attacks in Manhattan, and it was as if the whole of the US was gripped by a miasma of fear.
For us now, the main question was, how were we going to get out of the US? From the bulletins and updates on the TV stations — CNN, Fox, and so on — we were doing our best to keep informed about what was happening. There was a complete closure on all skies over the US. The only thing which was really clear to us was that nobody knew what was going to happen next. No one knew if there was going to be more devastation from the skies, and people all over the country were, like us, literally cowering in their houses, waiting for the next newsflash to tell them what was coming.
Meanwhile the Department of Public Enterprise back in Dublin was trying to make arrangements — via the American Embassy in Dublin and then the Irish Ambassador in Washington — to get me out of the US, so that I could go to the Brussels Transport meeting within the following 24 hours. It was extremely important, it seemed, that Ireland be represented there. I fully understood the situation and was as determined as the Department that I would get out of the US. Anyway, as you can imagine, by then that was all that any of the three of us wanted — to get back home. Much as we sympathised with all that had happened in the US, all we wanted was out, out, out.
The calls about possible transportation arrangements, when they came, were spasmodic and attempting to be informative, but not always succeeding in that. Finally, late that afternoon, we were told that, as early
as possible the following morning, we should travel to a small airport which was nearby, and that from there, we would be told of our next steps. Our mood was sombre and anxious that evening, as we gathered together our stuff and made ready for our departure at dawn the next morning. As you can imagine, we all got very little sleep that night.
The small airport to which we travelled the next day was in fact a defence air base. When we got there, I was interviewed and required to produce my passport and other official documentation. I was informed that a private plane would coming to take me to Brussels, and that this would be one of the very few flights in the air that day. The sheer terror of that would not strike me until later. We were told that there would be no room for Kathryn and Ailish: it would be a small, small plane. The US Foreign Affairs Information Department told them that if they could get whatever coach they could to New York and stay there overnight, they would be able to take their places alongside those seeking to leave the US within the following few days. Of course, Kathryn and Ailish were disappointed that they could not get away as quickly as I could, but they understood the protocol of the situation. Leaving me at the defence airport, they set out on their long journey back to New York.
After several hours waiting at the small defence airport, I saw a plane arrive. It was tiny, and I felt cold dread at the thought of it up in the skies over the US, where those who had carried out the terror attacks might be waiting, primed to seek anything at which they could strike. However, I swallowed hard and got on board. Other than me, the passenger list consisted of the pilot and one female cabin attendant. That girl and I huddled together in the two seats, and away we went.
Just Mary Page 17
