“You could not marry the woman you loved, nor could you claim your son. I don’t have that kind of strength, Dad.”
“Yes, you do. You are the product of two people who dearly loved you and the kindness and love of the person you called father.”
Eoin bearing his own loss knew he had to be strong in order to help Genevieve through the loss of her only daughter. He helped young Eoin who was so happy that his father returned home and then lost his beloved mother a year later. It was a bittersweet year for the young lad.
In 1961, when John Kennedy was the president of the United States, Kate’s cousin, Sheila, returned to Ireland, married, and settled down. Genevieve had hoped the new granddaughters would have been named Katherine and Genevieve for her and her sister, but understood it was Kate’s wish, should the babies be both girls, that they be name Aoife and Genevieve to honor both mothers.
Ireland now saw herself in a new light. A new era had begun. To America, who had taken in all who arrived on her shores, Ireland had given an illustrious son. Hope spread across the land.
Kate’s funeral took place in Dalkey. Francis drove Ned and Mary in for this sad occasion. They would spend the night with Genevieve and Eoin rather than make the long trip home. Eoin O’Toole, on seeing his reddish-blonde-haired granddaughters, could not help but be reminded of Aoife of long ago. So, too, was his brother Dermot, who came with his wife, their son and daughter-in-law to console the family in their loss and to quietly celebrate the birth of Aoife and Genevieve.
Rory turned to Gwen and remarked on this duel event. “Here we are dressed in black in mourning for Kate, while bearing brightly wrapped gifts for her infant daughters.”
Coming towards Gwen and Rory, Eoin O’Toole asked, “Do you wish to go into the other room to say goodbye to Kate?”
“No,” answered Rory, “I wish to always remember Kate, fully alive, as she galloped along the strand in the early morning hours on her beloved horse.”
Eoin nodded in acknowledgement of Rory’s decision. Gwen agreed.
“From the beginning to the end of life, joyfulness and sadness intermingle,” Gwen softly spoke as she tightened her grip on Rory. “Kate’s daughters will come to know their mother and what an exceptional person she was from what they hear of her from the family.”
Kieran sat in a corner of the room with head bent down weeping while his wife, unable to console him, stood silently next to him.
Nora and Deirdre begged to hold their redheaded cousins, while Nora lamented how she wished they lived closer to the twins so that they might babysit the girls. Alas, Eoin and Genevieve had already volunteered for this service and would hire a nurse for six months until the twins slept through the night.
Six couples from the lane attended the funeral, plus two women and a boy. He was the Donavan boy who had been Kate’s first patient in the lane, and who was now nineteen years old. In a somber day following the funeral, the twins would be baptized.
To the surprise of all, Brian Fitzgerald, who now had a granddaughter of his own, made a brief appearance after the baptism, and was warmly welcomed. Brian told Francis that his long time horse trainer was about to retire, and he offered the position with all of its lucrative benefits to Francis. This was the once-in-a-life-time opportunity Francis craved, but it came at the worst possible time. He had, therefore, to refuse for many reasons: his life was in turmoil, his beloved wife had died, he had a home in Dalkey, and he would, need to uproot his family or have a long ride to work and back, should he accept Fitzgerald’s offer. Eoin would have to change schools and bid his friends goodbye which would add to the already drastic changes in the young boy’s life. Genevieve and Eoin had bought a house within walking distance in order to be close to his family, and he and his children needed them to be close by. There was also Ned and Mary to consider. He had already spent too much time away from his aunt and uncle, and they were no longer able to give the land and animals the care they once did. He knew he would never make a decent salary from the farm and would always remain financially strapped. Yet his was a childhood of wonderful memories, being on the farm during the summer holidays from school, Christmastime, his birthday and other special occasions. As a single man he was contented working along side his uncle.
It was a good life. He had his own cottage, and his aunt, an excellent cook, made meals for all three of them from that which grew on the farm: potatoes, vegetables, and fruit for pies and jam. They raised chicken and pigs, and their cows gave them fresh milk daily. The little cash he received met his needs. Now, however, he must provide for his young family, make mortgage payments and pay other expenses. More importantly, the farm was not the kind of work he wanted and so became like an albatross around his neck.
His uncle, in turning the farm over to Francis, told him he could run it anyway he wanted; he could modernize the milking machinery, for example. It was their fervent wish that he would keep the farm in the family. Francis, however, did not want the farm. He wanted nothing to do with cows, hogs, chickens, or any kind of farm animals. Unlike his uncle, who had always kept a horse for working the fields and driving the cart into town, and a horse for Francis to ride, Francis’ sole interest was in horses. He wanted to ride and train horses. Fitzgerald’s offer was the kind of opportunity he had always hoped for. Francis wanted desperately to accept Fitzgerald’s offer, and it tore at his very soul to have to turn it down. Loss of his beloved Kate combined with the loss of a position he craved but could not accept. Combined with his guilt over the years he spent away from Kate and Eoin, Francis was wrenched at the inner core of his being. I had everything in life I wanted, and then Kate died.
His mother would have said ‘he was a rich man having three delightful children and poor only in lacking riches.’ Kate would have agreed with his mother’s statement, he felt. Kate raised their son alone in his small cottage without heat or electricity or money. Kate’s happiness came, not through wealth, but through her family and friends.
I must not let Kate down. I cannot let Kate down. I will be here for our children.
Young Eoin introduced Mr. Fitzgerald to his baby sisters and to his school friends. Mr. Fitzgerald had not only given the babies gifts but also, to Eoin’s great surprise, gave him a gift, too.
“Take good care of your little sisters, Eoin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not only now when they’re young but when they reach their teen years.”
“Isn’t that what his father is supposed to do?” Niall asked.
Fitzgerald smiled at the boy, then turning back to Eoin, continued. “A parent cannot go where teenagers go. Develop good communications with those two young ladies so that when something is bothering them, they will, in confidence, turn to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Brian Fitzgerald put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You are young now, but the years go spinning by, and when this advice is needed, I hope you’ll make good use of it.”
“Yes, sir.” Fitzgerald shook hands with the boy.
“See you all at the Dublin Horse Show in August,” Fitzgerald said as he reluctantly bid the family goodbye. Walking to his car, Brian Fitzgerald remembered the first time he met Kate who, on seeking her son, found him mounted on one of his horses. On meeting Kate, it was beyond his understanding how Harry Brown could forsake this intelligent, graceful, and most attractive young woman and treat her so shamefully. He was glad his daughter did not bear a child of Harry’s. Now Kit was married to the overseer of his farm, a man who cherished his daughter, and together gave him a granddaughter. He wished Kate’s life had turned out well. He was greatly troubled by her death. He liked Francis, knew his love for and experiences with horses, and would be happy to have him in his employ.
Aoife and Genevieve had been born the year President Kennedy entered the White House. What had been impossible now seemed possible! It was in this atmosphere, that it was thought, Ireland could be reunited. It was a huge expense for the British g
overnment to maintain a presence in Northern Ireland, but they couldn’t withdraw without consequences. Those running for political office in England needed Northern Ireland’s vote to win an election.
A small group of Irish people began walking in a Gandhi-like demonstration, but they were abused and beaten while the police in Northern Ireland stood by and watched. These demonstrators were idealistic. Soon both sides were involved in reckless killings. The longer the fighting went on, the more bitter and more revengeful each side became, and the harder it was to stop. As the years went by, another generation, who had seen the mistreatment of their people, were enlisted by the IRA, and a terrible era was born.
After Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher stepped down, Tony Blair took office. He did the unexpected; he apologized to the Irish people for England’s past atrocity to Ireland. That was the turning point. It helped many people let go of the past. Peace did not happen immediately, but concessions were offered, many rejected and some accepted. It took a long time for peace to take hold.
The standard of living on this small island gradually got better. Emigration was no long deemed a necessity. By the year 1990, Ireland’s economy grew and strengthened. It was known as the Celtic Tiger. Many who had left Ireland in earlier years had returned and prospered. In the year 2000, it was said, Ireland had the strongest economy in Europe. It was hoped that the Egan children would grow into adulthood in this new found prosperity. Life, however, with its ever changing capacity, shook this island nation when the European economy collapsed. After its full and plenty years, the Irish economy came crashing to a halt. Loss of jobs, a huge national debt, the declining housing market: this was the new reality. Non-Irish people who had come to work in Ireland at the height of its boom packed up and left.
Francis, who saw Eoin looking at his and Kate’s wedding photograph, excused himself from a group of people and walked over to put his arm around the boy. At that moment, Eoin buried his head in Francis’ abdomen and cried. After several minutes, the boy withdrew from his father ever so slightly, and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, asked, “Dad, why did I have three grandfathers?”
“Three?”
“Yes, your father and mother died before I was born as did Mom’s father. Yet Grandpa O’Toole is your father. How can that be?”
“Yes, it is a bit complicated. I did not discover Grandpa O’Toole was my father until I returned from England.”
“How come you didn’t know he was your father?”
“When you are old enough, I will explain it to you as it was explained to me.”
“Do I have to be over thirty before it’s explained to me?”
“No, son, when you are eighteen and legally a man, I will explain all.”
“Is it something, bad—well, not good?”
“Oh, no. It’s a wonderful love story which you will better understand when you’re more mature.” A silence followed wherein the boy’s thoughts jumped around in his head. This father thing was very confusing. He had yet another questions to ask.
“Why did Mr. Brown say he was my father when he was not?”
“That, too, will have to wait until you are older.”
“Is that a bad story?” The boy thought it surely must be a bad tale.
“No, Eoin. It, too, is a love story but of a different kind.” Seeing the confusion on the boy’s face, he added, “Love, while it is a wonderful thing, it often produces misunderstandings, and it can also play havoc in our lives.”
The boy looked at his father perplexed and with great love.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Aine O’Brien Paulus. She did research and organized a contingent of friends in Ireland: Joyce, The Foleys, and also Tom and Celine Devoy who travelled around Dublin photographing cottages that are the inspiration for the cover.
I also wish to thank The 12 o’clock Scholar’s Writing Group, especially Jack Chalfin, Arthur Clarke, Valerie Lane, Ted Richards and all the group for their belief and encouragement in my writing.
AUTHOR
Maura Rooney Hitzenbühler was born in New York, the fourth of seven children of Irish immigrants. When her mother died in childbirth, Maura, only four years old, and her brothers were sent to relatives in Ireland and England, never to live as a family again. The Lane is based on her memory of the forgotten places and insular society of Dublin in the Fifties.
On returning to America, Maura became a writer and traveled extensively through Asia, Latin America, Europe and the Middle East. A frequent visitor to Ireland, Maura lives and writes on Cape Cod.
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