O'Sullivans Book 2

 

Book 2 (1913)

Fergal (43) & Bridie O’Sullivan (39)

Children: Michael 20, Sean 18- Con 17 & Kate 17 (twins)

Mary 42 and Peter Devlin 41

Children: Peter 16, Daniel 13 & Mary-Frances 11

Kate O’Sullivan 38 (Sisters of Mercy)

Finn (33) & Jessie O’Sullivan Children: None, Jessie ‘barren; bitter & spiteful. (Finn 33 went to St Alloysius and became a teacher)

Patrick O’Sullivan Bachelor: Master Carpenter (aged 34)

Jude O’Sullivan (blind mute)

Chapter One

Edinburgh 1913

Fergal O’Sullivan scanned the packed hall from his chair on the stage, sensing a growing feeling of expectation hanging in the smoky air. Most of the audience knew of him and his reputation as a fine orator, but he was not the one most of them had come to see tonight. As the audience settled, Edinburgh trade unionist, Mick Grimes, walked to the centre of the small stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, comrades on the path to a better future. Our two speakers tonight will speak on a subject close to your hearts. The great lock out in Dublin is looking to starve the workers into giving up the right to join a union and we are honour bound to stand with our brothers in Ireland and see this fight through to a successful conclusion.’

As the somewhat lengthy introduction to the first speaker continued, Fergal glanced at the man sitting on his left. Dressed in suit a back clerk might wear, the unimposing man nonetheless possessed an aura, a presence that at once inspired and slightly intimidated Fergal. Fergal had spoken to him briefly when he had arrived at the hall and sensed instantly his intelligence and grasp of the major issues of the day. He had questioned Fergal about his background and activities in the growing labour movement and seemed satisfied with his replies. ‘Good man, O’Sullivan,’ he had said in an accent which retained a Scottish tint. ‘There are hard days ahead and we must stand as one.’

The man, sensing Fergal’s eyes on him, turned and smiled at him, saying quietly, ‘an old priest once told me that he advised new boys in the profession to design their sermons well. He would tell them, ‘If you don’t strike oil within five minutes, then stop boring.’ Fergal knew he was referring to the ongoing and rather long-winded introduction which was showing no sign of ending as yet. He laughed quietly to himself and refocused on the compère who at last seemed to be reaching a conclusion.

Fergal was exited to hear the first speaker, having read so many of his books and pamphlets. He had been fortunate enough in earlier years, to tour the country with Michael Davitt and learn the intricacies of public speaking from a master. He had heard much of his current speaking companion’s style and had the perfect seat from which to watch both him, and the audience’s reaction to him. At last, the compère seemed ready to introduce the first speaker. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I know you are eager to hear our first speaker. He is making a rare visit to the city where he was born. Therefore, I yield the floor to Mr James Connolly.

There was loud and long applause as the man on Fergal’s left, stood and walked to the centre of the stage.

Chapter two

The soft hum of prayers drifted on the air like the smoke from a newly extinguished candle, as Fergal O’Sullivan quietly opened the door and slipped into the crowded room. His sister, Mary, still in her matron’s uniform, knelt at the head of the coffin and led the rosary. Around the coffin knelt most of the O’Sullivan family and their assorted children. Fergal knelt by his son Michael and joined the others in their responses to the prayers. He closed his eyes and was in an odd way soothed by the rhythm and simplicity of the ceremony. His own thoughts about religion were complex, but he knew its power to bind families and even communities together. He also knew that the church was playing a leading and vital role in educating the Irish community in Scotland.

His sister prayed in that dignified voice of hers and the others responded, nimble fingers counting the prayers on their rosary beads. ‘The first sorrowful mystery; the agony in the garden. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…’ As Fergal prayed, he thought of his father’s own agony; imprisoned for five long years. Separated from his wife and children and unable to support them as they began a new life without him in Scotland. Now that he had a family of his own, he better understood the anguish that would have caused his father.

‘The second sorrowful mystery; the scourging at the pillar. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…’ He thought then of his father’s devastation at the death of his wife, ten years earlier. How that had shaken the very foundations of his life. Kathleen had been his rock, his constant love since they were little more than children. Fergal thought it might break his father, so deep was his pain and melancholy. He had gone on though, eventually, perhaps for the sake of his children and grandchildren.

‘The third sorrowful mystery; the crowning with thorns. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…’ For John O’Sullivan, nursing his wife through her final months of life was indeed his crown of thorns. Fergal would see him being so gentle and loving with her as she lay listlessly on the bed, wasting away. He was never sad in her company and never once betrayed the fact that the daily trial of watching her slip away from him was a torment for him. Once she was asleep and he was behind the door of the other bedroom though, Fergal would hear his father crying or pleading with God to take him instead.

‘The fourth sorrowful mystery; the carrying of the cross. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…’ Fergal’s father had carried them all through the dark wilderness of sorrow when she had gone. His strength in those days was incredible to them all. He refused to let them wallow in self-pity and saw to it that each of his children returned to their jobs and lives as quickly as possible. He had forgone his work to care for Jude and be there for his children, should they need him. All his life he had tried to be their rock, their provider and protector. Now, it seemed he would also be the one assuaging the pain they had all felt at losing their mother.

‘The fifth sorrowful mystery. The crucifixion and death of Jesus. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…’ Now John O’Sullivan lay before his family, his journey over. Fergal hoped the promise of the church was met and that he’d be with his beloved Kathleen again. They all now had to accept that two great pillars of the O’Sullivan family were gone. It was now the turn of Fergal and Mary to lead the family. As Mary finished the rosary, Fergal crossed the room to embrace her. ‘That was beautiful, Mary. Thank you,’ he said quietly in her ear. She smiled a sad smile and looked at her big brother, ‘It’s good to see you, Fergal. I suppose you’re the old man of the family now.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, though I’d much rather I wasn’t and the old fella was still with us.’ She glanced at her father, who lay in the casket, a peaceful expression on his lined face. ‘He’ll always be with us Fergal. So will our mother.’ Fergal nodded, ‘they shall indeed.’

The house was busy with neighbours and family coming to pay their respects. Fergal watched his eleven-year-old niece, Mary Frances, as she stood close to the coffin peering at her grandfather. She looked so like her mother. She also looked anxious, afraid even. She was just a babe in arms when Kathleen O’Sullivan had died and this was her first wake. It was as if she wanted to do or say something but was unsure what it should be. He walked to her side and said quietly, ‘do you know what the greatest lesson of an Irish wake is?’ She shook her head, ‘no, uncle Fergal.’ He took her hand and placed it onto her grandfather’s. ‘It is that death is part of life and nothing to be frightened of.’ ‘He’s so cold,’ she whispered. Fergal nodded, ‘yes, Mary Frances, but he lived a long and mostly happy life. Now his soul has gone back to God and back to join your grandmother. We’re here to remember him and give thanks that we knew such a fine man.’

She thought for a moment, before her bright, young eyes met his, ‘why do we call it a wake? I mean he isn’t going to wake again?’ She said it almost as if she was unsure of the veracity of her own words. He smiled slightly, ‘in times past people would hold a vigil for the dead person. Praying in relays for their soul. Some would stay awake all night and gave the practice its name. It was also said that long ago people would stay by the dead person to be sure he really was dead.’ He looked at the girl’s innocent face, ‘this wake is to honour a good and hard-working man, who lived for his family.’ She nodded and gently withdrew her hand, somehow looking a little less anxious than before.

As darkness fell over Glasgow and the younger children had been laid in their beds, more people arrived to pay their respects. Among them were two musicians, Fergal had asked to come play for the family. He had known wakes to become raucous, rowdy even once the alcohol had taken effect. Tonight though, almost as if they knew what John O’Sullivan would have wanted, the mood was more restrained. The fiddle music washed over the people crowded into the house. Its soft, distinctively Irish sound, made the listeners contemplative and quiet. They talked in hushed tones about John O’Sullivan’s life and sometimes laughed at funny stories from the past.

Fergal’s wife, Bridie, sat by him, her hand seeking out his. ‘Ah, Fergal, life can pierce your heart sometimes.’ He looked at the woman he had shared the last twenty years with, and who had borne him four fine children. ‘Aye, it can, Bridie, but we endure these times and we remember the happy times too. All my happiest days have been spent with you.’ She leaned her head on his shoulder, ‘And my happiest days have been with you, my lovely man.’ ‘Look,’ he said, the hint of a smile on his face, ‘I think our daughter may honour us with a song.’ She followed his gaze across the room where Katie, their seventeen-year-old daughter was speaking to the musicians.

Katie O’Sullivan was the apple of her father’s eye. She and her twin brother, Con, had arrived six weeks early on a stormy winter’s night. It had not been an easy delivery. Bridie had nursed the two little bundles of life day and night after the doctor had warned her that one of both might not survive the week. They had thrived under her loving care and grown into two inseparable and energetic children who made it their business to find mischief on a daily basis. As children, they could fight like cat and dog, but woe betide any who picked on one of them as they were the staunchest of allies. Kate in particular had a rage for life and even as a small child barely slept six hours at night. Fergal would get up in the morning and find her already awake, reading a book or gazing at a spider’s web in the garden. It developed into a time they shared together at the start of each day. She would sit on her father’s lap and they’d talk quietly about any subject which happened to have caught Katie’s attention. Fergal came to really value those times.

As the fiddle began to flood the room with long, sombre notes, Katie stood and smiled briefly at her parents. There was a hush as the quiet beat of the bodhran joined the plaintive sound of the fiddle. Fergal looked at his daughter, so near to womanhood now and so sure of herself. Her auburn hair, neatly tied with a bow, framed a delicate, pale face. She had her mother’s green eyes and they sparkled with life. When the room was quiet, she began to sing in a voice Fergal thought quite beautiful…

‘I sat within a valley green. I sat me with my true love,

My heart it strove the two between, the old love and the new love.

The old for her, the new that made me think of Ireland dearly

While soft the wind blew down the glade and shook the golden barley…’

Bridie O’Sullivan looked at her husband as their child sang an old song for her grandfather. He had yet to fully grieve for his father, busying himself as he did with his work and organising the funeral. As she looked at him now though, she could see the tears streaming down his face. It broke her heart to see him so, but she knew that it was necessary. It was part of healing; part of saying goodbye to his father. The price of love was pain at parting. She looked back at her daughter, poised and confident, as she continued her lament…

‘I sat within a valley green. I sat me with my true love,

T’was hard the woeful words to frame, to break the ties that bound us

T’was harder still to bear the shame of foreign chains around us

And so, I said, ‘The mountain glen I’ll seek next morning early

And join the brave United men, while soft winds shook the barley.’

As Kate finished her song, her father had composed himself enough to embrace her and whisper, ‘that was beautiful. Your grandfather would be proud of you.’ She nodded and smiled at him. ‘He’s proud of you too.’ As the musicians began to play again, she took her father’s hand and nodded towards the hallway. ‘I must speak to you, father.’

He followed her from the room into the relative quiet of the hallway. ‘It’s about Michael,’ she said looking into her father’s face. Fergal looked at her, a somewhat confused look crossing his face. ‘Michael? What’s he been up to?’ She sighed, as if a little reticent about being the bearer of news he might not want to hear. ‘He keeps the company of some of the other Irish lads at the university. Nothing wrong with that, but lately he’s been at night meetings with Pat Flynn and Peadar McIntyre.’ Fergal’s eyes narrowed, ‘how do you know this?’ ‘Flynn’s sister, Margaret, is in my music class and her brother has a big mouth.’

Fergal O’Sullivan thought for a long moment about what his daughter had just told him. He knew there was growing network of IRB cells in Glasgow. Since the loyalists had armed themselves in defiance of home rule for Ireland, the Irish volunteers had been recruiting and fundraising too. It was said that they now numbered two hundred thousand in Ireland but that they had barely one rifle for every twenty men. The Glasgow Irish would undoubtedly be helping them in some way. Pat Flynn’s father was known to Fergal as a staunch republican; it stood to reason that his son was too. Fergal wanted Michael to complete his degree and become a lawyer, not get himself mixed in politics or with the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Such a move could have repercussions for the whole family.

He looked at Kate. ‘Thank you for telling me this , Kate. I’ll speak to Michael when the funeral is past.’ She touched his hand, ‘I don’t want him in trouble, daddy, or being thrown out of university.’ He placed his hand gently on her cheek, ‘you were right to tell me. I’ll speak to him soon.’ He watched as she pushed open the living room door and walked to sit by her mother.

John O’Sullivan was laid to rest beside his wife Kathleen in St Peter’s cemetery. There by the quietly whispering river Clyde, the two natives of Donegal would rest together for eternity. It had been over thirty years since the O’Sullivans had arrived in Scotland and for good or ill, this was their home now. As the family stood around the graveside, listening to the priest speak of John O’Sullivan as a hard-working and decent family man, two ravens landed on a nearby gravestone and watched for a moment, as if curious about what they were doing. Fergal and his children each dropped a handful of Scottish earth onto the coffin and said their final farewells to John O’Sullivan.

As they walked from the graveyard, Fergal said quietly to his oldest child, Michael, ‘I’m going to speak in Donegal in a week or so. I thought you’d like to come with me? See the place where I grew up.’ Michael nodded, ‘I would like that father and as there are no classes over Easter it would be no inconvenience either.’ Fergal’s wife, Bridie, took his arm. ‘What are you two cooking up?’ Fergal smiled at her, ‘always to the point, my Bridie. I was asking Michael if he’d like to come to Ireland with me next week.’ Bridie regarded her son, ‘that would be a good idea. Some time with your father and a look at the old place would do you good.’

She knew from talking to her husband in the quiet of their bed that he was concerned that Michael might be becoming involved with more radical types as the home rule question dragged on. A couple of days with his father in Donegal might offer an opportunity for Fergal to talk some sense into him. It had cost a lot of money and Fergal had used a lot of influence to have Michael accepted to study law at the University. He was bright enough alright, but there were still some crusty types on the entrance board who harboured old prejudices about who should aspire to become a lawyer.

Michael could jeopardise his future by becoming involved in anything illegal and his father would not allow that. He was adamant from the day his children were born that education would be the vehicle to take them to a better life. Michael was studying law and Sean was studying to be a draftsman in a ship building yard. His younger children, Con and Kate were both inclined to music and Fergal was prepared to

Dublin rising jumping from roof to roof