Grandfather

My grandfather was Jack Donovan. He was a hard man on the outside but he had a soft and emotional core. He loved his wife, my Grandmother, Molly. They had five children, four daughters and a son. The daughters ; Nelly, Biddy, Maisie and my mother, Kate were all very different. Their son Tom was, in many ways, the black sheep of the family. He was born with a club foot and a bad temper, neither of which he ever lost.

Kate was the youngest Donovan and the closest to Tom. She was feisty and daring, attractive and determined. She liked to get her own way but then who doesn’t ? She set her sights on my father when she was just sixteen and she was married to him by the time she was eighteen. I escorted the pair of them up the aisle, albeit in the warmth of my mother’s womb, in the Winter of 1950.

Being born in 1951 Ireland had its challenges. The good times were yet to arrive. The houses were cold in Winter, basic food was plentiful but treats were rare. There were few cars and even fewer buses; lots of bicycles and lots of walking. Pony and traps and ass and carts were still seen on the roads. Horses still transported the milk to the creamery and drinking water was carried manually to houses  from ancient pumps found  on the sides of  main roads.

My Grandmother and Grandfather had a small cottage and a small plot of land which was used to grow vegetables :  potatoes, carrots, turnips and parsnips. In the Summer strawberries were grown. There were chickens, goats and pigs. My grandfather also kept greyhounds. He fed them, trained them and raced them. When he found one that was fast he took it to Dublin to race and, if it won, he sold it at auction.

It was not unusual at that time  for the first born child to be reared by their Grandparents. Not long after I was born my father went to England in search of work. He joined his brother in London and worked initially on the railways. My mother remained with me until I was two and then it was decided that she would join my father in London and I would remain with my Grandparents until she and my father had settled in England. It must have been so difficult for my mother to leave me at that time but, of course, I was too young to take that desertion  personally. My parents visited my Grandparents and I every Summer  - strangers to me then. It must have been particularly painful for my Mother to have to wrench me from my grandparent’s arms in July each year.

In 1954 my mother gave birth to my brother in London and a year or so later she and my father found suitable accommodation for us all to live together as a family. As I understand it my Grandparents were not very keen to hand me back at that time as they felt that I was too young to cope with such a traumatic event. It was agreed that more time would be allowed for me to become more mature, more resilient. Indeed, it was not until the Summer of 1958 that my mother insisted on me joining her, my brother and my father in London. By that time I had been in school for two years and was more rooted in Ireland and in the love of my Grandparents than ever.

In the late August of 1968 I was an innocent seven year old exploring the world around me completely unaware that a major change was about to take place in my life. I wasn’t to be informed about this change until the day before it was due to happen and it was agreed that my Grandmother would travel to London and stay with me for some time to aid my transition to a new and very alien world.

My Grandfather, whom I spent most of my waking day with, opposed the move but had to accept the situation when confronted by the rest of the family. He was heartbroken.

Some days before I was due to leave  (at the time I had no knowledge of my impending departure)  I entered my Grandfather’s shed at the back of the house.  He was sitting on an old wooden chair wearing his checked  flat cap , smoking a pipe and sobbing loudly. He was gazing out the side window and hadn’t notice me enter.

“What’s wrong  Grandad ?” I asked.

He turned his head slowly, removing the pipe from his mouth as he did so. He tried to speak but choked instead.  He knelt down and reached for me pulling me into his chest. I felt the roughness of his stubbly beard mixed with his tears and could smell the smoke from his pipe mixed with the smells of the countryside which he carried everywhere with him – a smell I have never forgotten.

At that moment my Grandmother appeared at the door. She moved towards me slowly and took me by the hand. My Grandfather released his grip on me allowing her to take me away from him putting his head in his hands as he did so and sobbing loudly.

“Why is Grandad crying Nana ?” I asked.

“Take no notice of him,” replied Nana. “He is upset about something – he’ll get over it. Let’s get you ready for bed shall we ?”

The night before I was due to leave I lay in bed, confused and unable to sleep, hearing the raised voices of adults coming from the sitting room. Some sort of an argument was taking place but I wasn’t sure what it was about. Eventually I fell into a light sleep and woke when I heard the door handle twist and  the light from the hall invaded the dark in the room. I was turned towards the wall and kept my eyes closed pretending to be asleep. My Grandfather entered the room quietly and sat on the bottom end of the bed. He pushed the door too but there was still a sliver of light entering the room which gave it a purgatorial feel. He was sobbing and muttering  quietly to himself. Eventually he stopped and there was a period of silence before he started to speak. I was still feigning sleep but could hear him praying. He had his rosary beads in his hands and I soon realised that all his prayers were about me. I needed a guardian Angel. I needed comfort. I needed good fortune. I needed good friends and I was to be filled with happiness. I was not to forget my Irish heritage and under no circumstances was I to join the British Army (he had once been arrested at a fundraising event for the IRA in the time of the Black and Tans and had been ferried to England and locked up in Dartmoor for fourteen months).  Between prayers he sobbed, he touched the bedclothes on the bed as if that would bring him closer to me. I faced the wall, eyes shut tight.holding back the tears. I could hear my heart beat loudly in my head as I held my breath as if I was underwater. I could feel his love and his care for me. His heart was broken, his pain unbearable, his misery beyond description.

Now, a grandfather myself, I understand his pain and anguish, his acute sense of loss. One broken heart amongst the many who suffered the loss of their children to other countries over hundreds of years.