The Hogans of Glenart

My connection with the Pearse family began before I was even born. While trying to improve his Irish, my father read Íosagán agus Scéalta Eile, a collection of short stories and poetry by Pádraig Mac Piarais. One of the stories in this book was about a wooden doll called Bairbre, who was bald, had a gamy eye and only one leg (the other having been bitten off by a dog). Despite these physical deficiencies, Bairbre was much loved and accompanied her owner in all the tasks of a five year old's life. The name appealed to my father, and it was agreed that if the imminent baby were a girl, she would be called Bairbre. And so I was.

In turn, I was introduced to those same stories in school. I loved them, and found it easy to imagine the people whom Pearse described: children running around barefoot, a sickly boy watching the swallows arrive and leave, an old man who hadn't been to Mass for more than sixty years. We took part in a class play when we performed Na Bóithre, about a little girl who envied her brother's freedom, cut off her hair and ran away. Our teachers taught us his poetry in Irish and in English. On a family holiday, we had visited his house in Rosmuc, Co. Galway and I was familiar with the names of the Conamara townlands and parishes that he threaded through his writings. And when a 1916 veteran came to our primary school to mark the 50th anniversary of the Easter Rising, I was only interested in hearing about Pearse the writer, not Pearse the patriot.

We had a great family friend, Sr Denis, who was a Religious Sister of Charity in Linden Convalescent Home in Blackrock, Co. Dublin. She was a tall, imposing figure, dressed in black from head to toe, but with a gentle voice and a mischievous sense of humour. She asked me if I would like to meet Margaret Pearse, or Miss Pearse as she called her -- the elder sister of Patrick and Willie, who was in her 90^th year and was a resident in Linden. I was thrilled. I decided I would recite The Wayfarer for her and practised it night and day at home, to ensure I was word perfect.

I only knew one other nonagenarian -- a neighbour who travelled into Bewleys of Grafton Street every day by bus, and who lived a very busy and fulfilled life on her own. I was, therefore, taken aback slightly to be brought into Miss Pearse's bedroom in Linden, and to see this tiny white haired lady, propped up on pillows and only able to whisper her greeting to me. It was difficult to picture this little lady as a serving Senator in the Oireachtas and as a teacher in the famed St Enda's. She looked so frail, so fragile, that I felt my ten-year-old voice might shatter her delicate frame, and so our few words were whispered to each other. Then Sr Denis mentioned that I would like to recite a poem for her. I began The Wayfarer. Though my voice shook with nervousness, I made no mistakes. I was word perfect.

When I finished, I looked at Miss Pearse. Tears were trickling down her face. I didn't know what to say. Should I apologise? What had I done that made her cry? She thanked me for coming. I asked her to sign my newly purchased autograph book, and then Sr Denis ushered me out. Almost forty years on, I can still feel the shock of seeing this famous woman cry. I wonder what exactly she was thinking about.