The Importance of Being Kennedy

by Laurie Graham

  So I did. I sat up front, beside Walter, and Pamela Digby Churchill rode in the back with Jack. She’d been married to Mr. Churchill’s boy, Randolph, but it hadn’t lasted. The ink was still wet on her divorce papers, but she was back on the prowl already. Always a Jezebel, that one. I remember how she used to flirt with Mr. K when we were at Prince’s Gate, and she couldn’t have been more than nineteen at the time. I think she’d been hoping for a romantic ride out into the countryside, but Jack wasn’t interested in her. His mind was on finding the place his granduncles had farmed.

  He had an address from his aunt Loretta Kennedy, who’d visited years back and found some cousins in a house near Dunganstown. We stopped and asked directions of a red-faced old boy. He had his pants held up with string.

  He said, “Well now, let me think. It must be Jimmy Kennedy’s you want. You go away down here and then left, only not left where you might think. After the turn you don’t want there’s another bit of a lane. It’s a pity you’ve come this way. It would have been easier to tell you if you’d been coming from New Ross.”

  He was peering into our beautiful shiny motor. He must have thought we had Mr. de Valera himself in the back.

  We found the house belonging to James and Kitty Kennedy, and they had us all in for a cup of tea and a photograph, but they must have wondered what in the world was going on, because they were no more related to Jack than they were to the King of Siam. In the end it was their wee lad who piped up.

  He said, “You got the wrong house, mister. It’s Mr. Ryan’s you want only Mammy doesn’t like to say so.”

  Mrs. Mary Ryan was a Kennedy by birth, they said.

  It was only another mile down the track, a muddy yard and a little crouched-down cottage. Jimmy Kennedy followed behind us on a bicycle, with his boy on the crossbar, to make sure we found it. There were three children ran squealing into the house when they saw our motor stop at the gate, but Mrs. Ryan, née Kennedy, didn’t look so thrilled to see us. She came out wiping her hands on her apron.

  Mrs. Churchill said, “Heavens, Jack! They got these people from Central Casting. I’m sorry. This isn’t really my kind of thing. I’ll just stay in the car.”

  Jack was already out, trying to give Mrs. Ryan the Congressman’s big handshake.

  “Jack Kennedy,” he said, “Boston, Massachusetts. I think we’re family.”

  “Are we so?” she said. “Mary Ann, run and fetch your Dadda.”

  She had that washed-out look of a woman who’s on the go from dawn till late, and up from her childbed after three days. My own Mammy looked just the same, and all her sisters.

  Walter said, “This gentleman’s come all the way from America.”

  She said, “I suppose I’ll make a pot of tea.”

  I heard Mrs. Churchill say, “Please, no more tea. I could use a whiskey but then where would one go to tinkle?”

  James Kennedy said, “Your man here’s a politico, Mary, in the United States of America.”

  She said, “He looks like he’s only just out of short trousers.”

  I said, “He’s old enough to have won a medal in the war.”

  But she was already on her way into the house.

  Walter shouted, “He’s drove all the way from Lismore Castle to see you. He’s the guest of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.”

  Jimmy Kennedy cut right across him.

  He said, “I’d pipe down about dukes and duchesses in front of Mary Ryan if I was you, driver. She’s a fearsome Fenian, that one. She’s like one of the lads.”

  A lot of the Nationalist women were. Our Aunt Flighty was married to a Home Ruler, and she always said if there were guns to be moved the women would do it because they weren’t so likely to get searched.

  Mammy used to say, “I don’t want to hear about it, Flighty. Children getting their schooling is what’ll change Ireland, not women hiding guns under the eiderdown so one mother’s son can shoot another.”

  That’s why we were never kept out of school, no matter how much work there was to do at home, and Edmond was made to stay on till he was fully fourteen, though God knows there wasn’t much inside his skull for the masters to work on.

  I went into the Ryan cottage with Jack. Walter stayed outside with Mrs. Churchill. The children all sat around and studied us and then Mr. Ryan came in from the field. He said he recalled hearing something about Kennedys in America. Jack loved it. He doesn’t have the same patter Joseph Patrick had, or Mr. K’s way of bowling you over, but he’s more natural. He was teasing the little ones how they’d the same freckles he did, telling them the names of his brothers and sisters. All except Rosie. He didn’t say anything about her even after I reminded him. They’ve everything worked out, my Kennedys, except what story to tell about what’s become of Rosie.

  Jack took a snapshot before we left, but first the Ryan girls wanted their Sunday ribbons put in their hair and then the neighbors came nosing, to see who belonged to the limousine. Half of Dunganstown was in that picture before we were finished.

  I felt sorry for Jack. He was so thrilled to have found his folks, but all Mrs. Churchill would say was that she had flea bites. They would have been from the cat she’d picked up and dandled.

  He kept saying, “If Great-grandpa hadn’t left, that’s where I’d have been born. Except I wouldn’t have been. I just wouldn’t exist. You realize they don’t have a telephone? They don’t even have electricity.”

  I said, “We none of us had the electric light. Now I think back, it’s a wonder we’re not half blind the way we used to knit by candlelight.”

  He said, “Nora, I always thought you were from Boston.”

  He had no idea.

  I said, “I came from Westmeath, you noodle, eighteen years old with nothing but a cardboard valise and two sisters waiting for me. Fidelma Clery the same, she was from Tralee, Danny Walsh was from Limerick, Gabe Nolan was from Kerry.”

  He didn’t remember Gabe Nolan.

  I said, “He used to drive your Daddy, way back, before we went to England. We were all from the Old Country in those days, apart from Mrs. Ambler. All from wee houses like the ones you were in today.”

  He said, “Well, let’s go see yours. Where’s Westmeath? Let’s go tomorrow.”

  I said it was likely too far. Walter said he didn’t mind an early start. I said I hadn’t been back in thirty-five years, had never wanted to, and I didn’t even know if the house was still standing. Jack said all the more reason to go find out.

  Mrs. Churchill said, “Count me out. It’s all been just too Tobacco Road for me.”

  Wherever Tobacco Road is it obviously isn’t a good enough address for an Honorable Mrs.

  Kick was fuming when we got back.

  She said, “You’re late, Jack. People are having drinks, dinner’s ready and you don’t even have time to change.”

  He said, “I had a great day though. Found our folks. Got pictures and everything. Wait till you see.”

  She said, “Well, Pamela didn’t have a great day. She says it’s been boring and beastly. Why couldn’t you be nice to her? And you smell of dogs or something. Tomorrow I want you to be especially nice to her. Play golf with her. She’s so sweet.”

  “Sorry, Sis,” he said, “no can do. Tomorrow we’re going to look for Nora’s roots.”

  34

  The Trouble with Blood

  We left at seven, with soda bread and thermos flasks of tea, and went up through Kilkenny and Port Laoise. Jack was in the mood to love every beck and horse and cart he saw and even Walter allowed that the hills were nearly as bonny as Derbyshire, but I couldn’t look at any scenery. I was too worried about what we were going to find. Just before we got into Tullamore I smelled that hot, biscuity smell of the distillery and I knew I was nearly home.

  We were past the cottage before I realized. Things are always smaller than you remember and it seemed set lower from the road. Walter had to back up. And we were no sooner out of the car than there was a face at
Donnellys’ window across the way. A woman came out.

  She said, “You’ll find nobody there. It was Mrs. Clavin’s house but she left.”

  I said, “It was Mr. Brennan’s house. Did he die?”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “I’m from Mullingar. Was he an old man?”

  Hardly. In his sixties, but younger than Ursie.

  I said, “Are you one of the Donnellys?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m married to Sylvester.”

  I said, “And who’s Sylvester?”

  He was Martin Donnelly’s boy.

  I said, “Martin had two sisters went to America, Bridget and Marimichael. Marimichael was my friend. We sailed the same time.”

  “Oh yes?” she said.

  I said, “Marimichael’s been dead years, of course. Did you ever hear speak of her?”

  “Don’t think so,” she said. “There’s an awful lot of the Donnellys dead. It’s hard to keep track. You don’t sound American.”

  She’d followed us down the path.

  I said, “Mr. Brennan was my brother. He was married to Mrs. Clavin.”

  Jack said, “Any idea where we’d find her?”

  “Tullamore,” she said. “She went to a row house in Tullamore. You sound American, so. Are you a film star?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m a congressman. I’m Jack Kennedy.”

  She said, “You look like a film star. What do you want with Mrs. Clavin? Has she come into money?”

  The door was hanging off its hinges. We could walk right in. There was nothing much left inside except Mammy’s picture of the Sermon on the Mount and some old shelf paper Ursie put up with thumbtacks.

  I said, “You know what, Edmond must have passed away and that Clavin woman never thought to let Ursie know. All that driving for nothing. Well, now you’ve seen it. Now you know why we all left.”

  Jack said, “But it’s cute. I’m glad we came. Let’s go back to Tullamore, try some of that whiskey. What do you reckon, Walter?”

  Walter said, “I never touch the stuff, sir. But I’d be happy to keep you company with a pint.”

  The Donnelly woman said there were row houses next to Daly’s malt barn.

  She said, “What did your man say his name is?”

  I said, “He’s Jack Kennedy. He’s a very important young man. You listen out for that name in years to come.”

  “I will,” she said. “I’ve a friend in Mullingar gets Silver Screen magazine sent her. I’ll look out for him.”

  We walked along to the graveyard and I picked dog roses. There was a blackbird singing on Nellie’s headstone. It was the only time the sun broke through all that day. Helen Mary Brennan 1898–1902. She’d have been nearly fifty if she’d lived. We split up when we got back to Tullamore. Jack and Walter went to the pub while I knocked on doors in Daly Street. One woman said she knew everybody and there were no Clavins or Brennans.

  Another woman said, “There is an Edmond. An old feller. I don’t know his other name. He’ll be drinking in Larrissey’s this time of day. Will I send my boy to fetch him out for you?”

  But Jack and Walter had already found him. There were the three of them walking up the middle of the street like Larry, Moe, and Curly.

  Edmond said, “Is it you, Deirdre? Have you come home?”

  He had all his hair still, but not a tooth in his head. He showed us his dentures when we went in for a brew of tea, still in their box, because they’d pained him so much he couldn’t wear them. He said he kept meaning to put an advertisement in Magennis’s window, to see if he couldn’t sell them. The Clavin woman was gone. She’d died of bad headaches and was buried at Ardnorcher, and Edmond was left on his own in a fine little house with an inside toilet and electric light.

  He kept saying, “Where are you staying, Deirdre? You can stay here.”

  And I kept saying, “It’s not Deirdre, it’s Nora. Do you not remember? I went to America.”

  He’d seem to catch on for a minute. He said, “I do remember. And you sent Mammy a handbag. We’ve got it still.”

  He went off and found it, that beautiful leather bag Ursie sent to Mammy, must have been 1910, never been used. I’d have had it from him, only it was so old-fashioned-looking.

  I said, “It was Ursie sent this bag. Remember Ursie? She’s the one always writes to you. She went first, to Boston, and then Margaret and then me. I’m Nora.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I remember now. It’d be worth something, that bag. I could sell it.”

  I said, “Are you hurting for money?”

  “No, no,” he said. “Annie Clavin left me all right. I can have anything I want. And we’ve the two rooms. You could stay here. We’d be company for each other.”

  I said, “I can’t stay with you, Edmond. This here is my husband. We’ve a home in England. I just came by to see how you’re doing. Take a look at the old place.”

  He said, “I’m doing just grand. England, so? You’re not with the Sisters anymore then?”

  I said, “It’s Deirdre who’s with the Sisters. And Ursie was saying, about the old house. That Deirdre might be glad of it if she ever comes home from Africa.”

  “Oh,” he said, “you wouldn’t want to live there. It’s terrible damp. Tell Ursie she can stop with me. Tell her I’ve got a wireless set. I’ll bet she doesn’t have one of them in Africa.”

  Poor Edmond. The few wits he ever had were gone. I felt terrible walking away from him. He shouldn’t have been living there like that, all alone.

  I said to Walter, “It’s true what they say about ignorance being bliss. Now I’ll be worrying about him. He needs looking after.”

  “Nay, Nora,” he said. “He’s all right. They seem very fond of him in that pub. They give him his dinner every day.”

  Well, I still felt bad. Typical of that Clavin woman, to have had her pleasure and then upped and died.

  Directly the holiday at Lismore was over, Mrs. Kennedy and Pat and Jean went home. There was a new Navy destroyer ready for launching. It was to be called the Joseph P. Kennedy and Jean had been chosen to name it. But Jack traveled back with us to London and the minute she had him to herself Kick spilled the beans about her new sweetheart. She thought that because Joe had sided with her when she wanted to marry Lord Billy, Jack would do the same, that he’d step up to the mark now she needed a friend again. I wasn’t so sure. There was a very big difference between Billy Hartington and Blood Fitzwilliam, and anyhow, Jack refused even to meet him. Her face fell.

  He said, “I’ll do just one thing for you, Kick. I won’t call Dad and warn him what’s going on, like I should do. But you have to wake up and face facts. I’m trusting you to do the right thing before Mother hears about it.”

  She said, “Go ahead and call Daddy. I don’t care. You don’t even know Blood, so why are you so down on him? You’d like him if you met him. He’s got war stories and stuff. He plays golf.”

  Jack said, “Listen, a guy might be okay for a round of golf, but that doesn’t mean I’d want him marrying my sister. A married man? You’re dreaming if you think this’ll ever work out, so don’t even bring it up at home. You’ll break Dad’s heart for one thing, and Mother’ll run off to the nursing home again, which’ll rebound on Teddy and Jean. It’s just not fair. I’m going to give you time to come to your senses, so don’t go firing off any dumb letters. Hell, Kick, what is it with you? You meet plenty of nice guys. Why can’t you fall in love with somebody who fits the bill?”

  She said, “Well, that’s pretty rich considering the mess Daddy had to get you out of down in Florida, Mr. Whiter-Than-Snow Congressman.”

  His face turned to thunder.

  He said, “Don’t you ever speak of that. You hear me? You don’t have any goddamned business knowing about it. Who told you about that anyhow?”

  “Joe did,” she shouted. “He told me everything. And he wouldn’t be such a hypocrite if he was here. And don’t use bad words in front of Nora.”

 
But he’d already slammed out. It was a rare thing for those two to quarrel.

  She sat biting her nails to the quick.

  I said, “Do I have to bring out the mustard again?”

  “I miss Joe,” she said. “He’d have known what to do.”

  I said, “And how do you think he’d have advised you?”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “But he couldn’t have said much, could he? That girl he was seeing was married.”

  I said, “That was wartime. A lot of things went on then. But you know fine your Mammy and Daddy would never have given him their blessing, and he wouldn’t have expected it. And it’s not only that His Lordship has a wife and a child. He’s in the wrong church, he’s too old for you, and if you ask me, it’s your money he’s after.”

  “That’s not true,” she said. “Blood’s got money of his own.”

  His wife’s money, according to Lady Ginny. And he ran through it like a hot knife through butter, paying for his cars and his racehorses.

  I said, “I don’t like to see you fighting with Jack. You see little enough of each other.”

  “Well,” she said. “Isn’t he the sanctimonious one all of a sudden. He must be pretty cocksure that embarrassing little secret of his is buried where no one can find it.”

  I said, “And what is the secret? Did he get a girl in trouble?”

  “A girl!” she said. “Hardly a girl! Picked-over goods, I’d say. Oh Nora, you remember! When we were living at Prince’s Gate and Jack didn’t come over for Christmas? And Daddy went home too because he had to see his stomach doctor, so Grandpa and Grandma Fitzgerald came to stay. You remember how Grandpa Fitz had to keep going to the telephone.”

  I said, “I remember all the telephoning. I thought Jack had had a mishap in his motor.”

  “Ha!” she said. “Mishap in a city hall, more like. He went to New Jersey and married this really gruesome woman, divorced twice at least and much older than him. She was obviously a gold-digger. Daddy was furious. It wasn’t easy to fix something like that I don’t imagine.”