A Ghost in the Throat

by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

  Having followed her son from the moment of his birth to the moment of his burial, I am saddened that my search has yielded no further clue to her own life – but what had I expected? An act of desperation, such an approach was always doomed to fail. Now, Ferdinand and Eibhlín have both disappeared, Art is dead, Máire Ní Dhuibh is dead, and Con and his eldest son both lie in the dirt of Kilcrea. Although they were all long gone before I ever began to spy on them, I still mourn the point at which I must witness them fall into oblivion once more. The only descendant left to follow now is Eibhlín’s grandson, Con’s second son. Goodwin Richard Purcell O’Leary, so I look towards him in the hope that he may reveal something of his grandmother that his father could not. I watch him closely to see what he will make of his life, for he is the last of Eibhlín Dubh’s line.

  Ambitious and precocious, Goodwin was fascinated from a young age by the workings of the human body. Among the many medical graduates from Edinburgh in 1841, he was awarded a gold medal for his achievements. A polyglot, he began to travel through Europe, continuing his studies as he went. Having lost his mother as a child, Goodwin also buried both his elder brother and his father in the space of a single summer. Three years later, in early spring, he married Helena Sugrue, the daughter of a prosperous family of merchants. The couple, both in their late twenties, made their home in Cork city, where he was appointed Professor of Materia Medica at Queen’s College, Cork, in the same department of the same university where I would later stand over a cadaver.

  In an issue of The Freeman’s Journal dated 29 July 1858, directly above news of a ten-foot statue of Empress Josephine in transit towards Martinique, I find a list of the ‘Latest Arrivals at Finn’s Royal Victoria Lake Hotel’. In the picturesque resort of Killarney, new guests included ‘Mr and Mrs Purcell O’Leary’. Helena’s hand is tucked in the hinge of her husband’s elbow as they stroll through the breakfast room, nodding at their fellow guests: the elegant Miss Le Hunt, Captain Jacob, the Misses Cliffe, George Martin of Boston, and Alderman Bradley of New York. On each table they pass, I set a freshly pressed cloth, silver cutlery, and steam yawning from the china mouth of every teacup.

  Back in the city, the couple made their home at 9 Sidney Place. I have stood outside this building, my hand a shade to the sun against which Goodwin and Helena’s home rises in three stories of bright red brick. A flight of steps leads from the street to the door and fourteen windows face the city valley below. Beyond each of those windows is a room through which they once moved. Leaving the house on a bright morning with a slender case in one hand and an umbrella hooked over the other, Goodwin’s commute to the college would have made for a gentle stroll across the city. As Professor of Materia Medica, he spent his days teaching the therapeutic properties of various substances, and the ways in which they might be used to influence the workings of the human body. The examinations Goodwin set for his students let us glimpse some of the words he might have spoken during his working day.

  Explain the re-actions which take place in the preparation of valerianic acid, and trisnitrate of bismuth.

  Describe the properties, chemical characteristics, and action of foxglove? Give its Latin name, its preparations, indications, contra-indications, and doses.

  What is the physiological action and the uses of cod-liver oil?

  —

  In western Canada, jagged peaks of limestone and sandstone form a mountainscape that lies deep under pale sheets of snow. Goodwin was among the selection committee that chose Dr James Hector as chief geologist for the expedition team that first mapped this area and, in 1859, Hector named these mountains after Eibhlín Dubh’s grandson. I can’t help but judge the arrogance of a generation of white explorers that presumed to ‘name’ a mountain range formed in Proterozoic Era, overwriting the nomenclature chosen by the people who had known those slopes for generations, and yet Goodwin’s name remains in every modern atlas I find. To place my fingertip on that spot and hold it there on the letters of his name is not only to sense some remnant of his life – and indeed, of Eibhlín Dubh’s – it is also to sense the lives of others. On those slopes, many hearts are beating now: the hearts of grizzly bears snoring in caves and elk strolling under velvet antlers, the hearts of mountain goats and caribou nibbling lichen, the hearts of wolverines and the hearts of meadowlarks swooping over that steep white. Under my finger are the letters of Goodwin’s name, and under his name, a pulse still beats.

  In 1862, a fire was sparked in the university, a fire that began in the rooms dedicated to Materia Medica. Conspiracies swirled around possible culprits, but for my purposes I am less interested in such accusations, and more in any glimpse that this event might provide to Goodwin’s life. In his deposition, Denis Bullen, professor of surgery, described the scene on the day the fire broke out:

  The room was in order, except that I observed, on an open shelf over the door at least one dozen large glass jars were placed, containing Pathological specimens preserved in spirits of wine (some of them methylated spirit).

  After the fire had finally been extinguished, Bullen returned, noting,

  On closely inspecting these portions of the floor, I, deponent, saw visible marks, as if an inflammable fluid (as methylated spirit) had leaked out from under the said door, making a defined figure on the timber flooring, and as if, when this part of the floor took fire, the part impregnated with the fluid burned through.

  He also suggested who might be responsible:

  some person intimately acquainted with the tenor of said College, who had accurate knowledge of the peculiar matter contained in the Materia Medica Museum; that he had access thereto, without apprehension of being detected, and went into the said room by ordinary means, thereby evading discovery … It was only necessary to place the manuscripts on the floor, pour over them the contents of a few of the jars, apply an ignited lucifer match, then lock the door.

  When I imagine how the hot breath of that fire must have blazed through the medical department, it strikes me as strange that so many years later, its modern quarters might be abbreviated from the Facility for Learning Anatomy Morphology and Embryology to FLAME. Perhaps the past is always trembling inside the present, whether or not we sense it.

  The losses sustained in the fire are detailed in The Cork Constitution of 16 May 1862:

  One whole wing of the building has been completely gutted, and a valuable pathological museum, which took the diligent labour of years to accumulate, and a large number of valuables have been utterly destroyed … Professor O’Leary, in whose room it is said the fire commenced, is one of the heaviest sufferers, there having been destroyed eleven years’ manuscripts, besides a valuable microscope, a collection of microscopic preparations made by himself, which were highly prized, and a number of other articles.

  This was the destruction of a life’s work, and the more I learn of his character, the more I feel that the grief of this loss haunted Eibhlín Dubh’s grandson for the rest of his days.

  Goodwin began to struggle. Perhaps he had been struggling already, but from 1862 onwards, the university archives reveal difficulties with his professional duties. In 1865 his roll book was not returned, and then found to be faulty, with absent students marked in attendance. In seeking to move one of his lecturing days to Saturday, he cites feeling overworked. Under the headline ‘A SERIOUS BUSINESS’, The Waterford News reported that Goodwin had involved himself in a scuffle outside a money-lender’s office. His companion, Edward Freeman, was owed money by William Lindsay, a printer and stationer from Fermoy, and when

  Mr Freeman collared Lindsay and told him that he had a revolver in his pocket, with which he would shoot him, Professor O’Leary seized Mr Lindsay by the throat, dashed him against the wall, and waving a horsewhip over his head, threatened to ‘flake’ him with it if he did not sign the bond.

  What might Goodwin’s employers have made of this turn of events? What of Helena? How would she have felt to see this behaviour published in the newspaper for all to
see – was it a shock to her, a source of shame or indignation, or was this the public culmination of behaviours familiar to the woman who shared a home with him? In 1867 he received correspondence from the president of his workplace querying why his lectures had ended as early in the term as 14 April. Goodwin was not in the room; he had left.

  In a newspaper dated 12 May 1869, I find the following account:

  Professor Purcell O’Leary, of Queen’s College, was spending yesterday evening at an hotel in the city, and his man-servant called for him about eleven o’clock. When passing through Prince’s street, three men met them. It is not known what the three men said or did, but the professor pulled out his revolver and presented it at them, whereupon a shout of police was raised. The professor then put down the weapon, and approached the three men, to whom he commenced to explain the superior make and shape of the weapon, and its kicking abilities. While this was going on two or three others were attracted to the spot, and while the professor held the revolver in his hand it was seized from behind his back and wrenched out of his hand. A scuffle ensued, in which the professor was struck and knocked down, but he was unable to regain possession of his revolver.

  Goodwin’s temperament flailed between such strange outbursts and performances of great intellectual clarity. In 1870, the Cork Examiner details a guest lecture delivered to the illustrious member of the Literary and Scientific Society:

  The lecture was generally admitted to be one of the most brilliant and interesting ever delivered in the theatre of the Institution; technical details which were most lucidly stated, being enlivened by occasional flashes of wit, and humour, by graceful flights of fancy, and passages of quaint eloquence, which evoked loud and frequent applause.

  In 1873, the Cork Constitution recounts a musical recital in the city, featuring ‘Song, “The Colleen Dhu” – Words by Dr. Purcell O’Leary’. ‘Dhu’ is an abbreviation of ‘Dubh’. That same year, The Bradford Observer published the headline ‘EXTRAORDINARY AFFAIR AT QUEENSTOWN’:

  Professor Purcell O’Leary, who went like a maniac through the streets of Queenstown on Monday, dressed to represent the Shah of Persia, in a yellow suit and chamois knee breeches, armed with a sword, bow, arrow, and a large club, and wearing a gold crown for a cap, was arrested late in the evening and brought before Messrs Macleod, RM, and Beamish, JP, charged with presenting a revolver at one of his servants, and firing the same at her head. The unfortunate gentleman was walking through the town all day, followed by crowds especially a number of emigrants, who thought he was some sort of wild Indian, and in several instances, made them fly in all directions with his club and arrows. Colonel Lloyd was attacked by him near the Royal Cork Yacht Club, his hat knocked off, and he was obliged to fly for refuge to the Cork Clubhouse. He then went home by train, and encountered a young woman selling strawberries at his house. He met her with a loaded pistol, fired over her head, and nearly frightened the poor creature out of her wits; after which he reduced some of his house furniture to splinters with a sword. He was lodged in Bridewell, on remand, for eight days.

  Where had the furniture described as ‘his’ come from? Might it have been inherited? Heirloom: the impulsive twitch, the rages, the grudges, and the brashness – such traits are not unfamiliar within the broader emotional architecture of this family. With every newspaper report I find, I feel for Helena. Reading the Sligo Champion of 5 July 1873, I wince:

  Dr Purcell O’Leary, Professor, Queen’s College, Cork, was on Monday evening arrested in Queenstown on a warrant. Informations were made by Mrs O’Leary and her servant Ellen Daly, charging him with repeated acts of violence. He drew a revolver on the servant, and caught his wife by the throat. His violence was so great they were obliged to fly from the house.

  By 1875 he had resigned his professorship and gone to England to stay with his mother’s brother, the uncle with whom he shared a name. The Reverend Goodwin Purcell had dedicated his life to his congregation in the village of Charlesworth, Derbyshire. There, he raised money to build a modest chapel, a school, and a vicarage. It was in this village with its steep hills and cluster of gritstone buildings that Goodwin Purcell O’Leary, grandson of Eibhlín Dubh, died on a summer Sunday morning, at 9:30 on 9 July 1876. He was fifty-nine years old. His obituary in The Lancet allows us a glimpse into his time in England.

  Suffering for the past two years from phthisis, he had retired to Charlesworth in the hope of recruiting his health; and few beyond his own relatives knew the distinguished reputation he had earned, or the talents concealed under his quiet and unobtrusive manner.

  ‘Phthisis’, I find, is an archaic term for tuberculosis. Goodwin’s uncle was granted the letters of administration of his estate, but the will was annexed and the professor’s effects listed as ‘less than £100’. When Helena died in 1889, however, she left a fortune of £3,769 9 s. 4½ d.

  The Nation published an account of Goodwin’s funeral leaving Manchester

  in a suite of three coffins … At 7.30 the funeral arrived at Kilcrea Abbey. The procession passed down the beautiful avenue beneath the shadow of the tall elm trees that line it on both sides, Mr. Aldworth reading the service of the Church of England, the group of mourners standing by beneath the tower of the grey ruin, as the evening sun was lighting up the nave, cloisters, and chancel of this historic spot. At the conclusion of the service, the body was lowered into the tomb amidst ancestral ashes, and the vault was then sealed up for time.

  The End. Another of his obituaries begins: ‘A notable man has passed away from us, whose name and brilliant acquirements deserve more than a passing notice,’ and ends with the following line: ‘Dr O’Leary’s grandfather was married to Miss O’Connell, sister to the grandfather of the late Daniel O’Connell, M.P. of Derrinane Abbey, Co. Kerry.’ There she is, at last, our Eibhlín Dubh, marked again as mother and sister. I have searched and searched through Goodwin’s life, hungering for of any trace of her, and then, at the very last moment, Ta-dah!, she appears, cast once more in the periphery of men’s lives.

  Another ending has come upon me, and again, I meet it with reluctance. I have grown fond of this professor, for through him I have witnessed how temperament may ripple through generations. In studying Goodwin’s life, I have felt something of Art’s ferocity and impulsivity, but I have also felt something of Eibhlín Dubh: her pride, her rage, and her intelligence, as these traits ricocheted through another life.

  —

  To spend such long periods facing the texts of the past can be dizzying, and it is not always a voyage of reason; the longer one pursues the past, the more unusual the coincidences one observes. As an amateur paddling in a vast ocean of historical research, I doubt myself with each piece of information I find. Any scholarship I find of Eibhlín Dubh’s second son suggests that Fear, or Ferdinand, became a priest and disappeared, but I don’t believe that this is true, because I find him, I do, and not by skill, but by accident.

  The first time he surprises me, I am scanning a ledger of old Marriage Bonds in search of confirmation of his parents’ union. Instead, when I reach L for Leary, their son leaps out at me. Ferdinand! I think, What are you doing here? I run my finger over his name and find that I am laughing quietly to myself. Surely it can’t be him, I think, surely someone else would have found such a record long before me, and yet, new hope begins to throb in me, red and muscular as a heart. If this is Eibhlín Dubh’s son, he might hold a different kind of clue to her life. I run my finger through the other pairs of male and female names, and every time I come to Ferdinand’s entry, goosebumps swim the line of my spine.

  Leake, George, and Ann Purcell 1763

  Leake, Samuel and Joane Stephens 1680

  Leary, Ferdinand, and 1797

  Leary, Timothy, and Jane Kilpatrick 1720

  Lease, Thomas, and Mary Mara 1779

  Leaves, Ann, and Robert Law 1796

  Lebat, Margaret, and John Reeves 1777

  Never in this quest have I found a simple answer; every lead
is always a prelude to more questions. Even this document holds a mystery within it – Ferdinand’s line is the only one with a lacuna where the woman’s name should be. Everywhere I turn, another erasure greets me.

  I take the fact that Eibhlín Dubh refers to him as a baby in the Caoineadh, and calculate backwards to estimate his year of birth as approximately 1772. This leads me to conclude that this marriage bond would have been drawn up when he was (perhaps) in his mid-twenties. If a marriage followed, however, I cannot find evidence of it. I do, however, stumble upon evidence of another relationship.

  This discovery happens while I am intent on finding his older brother, scowling in concentration through church records in search of a baptism record for Con. I do find a Cornelius Leary, but his dates don’t match the incarnation I seek: another dead end. I am about to start again when I notice that this baby’s father was called Ferdinand. The coincidence of finding these two names in such proximity draws me closer. I follow this father’s name through the records, scanning page after digitised page, all the while whispering, ‘Ferdinand O’Leary, Ferdinand O’Leary,’ repeating it like a summons, or like a spell, to no avail. There is nothing there. Still, I enter the keys: Search. Return. Search. Return. Eventually, I return to the original record and note the name of this Cornelius’s mother: Cathe, or Catherine Mullane, and set to following her instead, tiptoeing after her as she enters the church again and again, each time with a new baby in her arms. She stands at the baptismal font in 1818, 1820, 1823, 1825, 1828, 1830, 1831, and 1836, and with each new baptism, her partner’s name appears differently in the digital transcriptions: now Osmond, now Terdmand, now Frederick. My suspicions are electric enough to send me cross-referencing each of these documents to judge them against the difficult copperplate of the old church ledgers. I run the pale scalpel-scar of my fingertip along those handwritten names, and there, with each new baptism, the father’s name is the same.