OFaolain - No Country for Young Men

In late March 1922, the following item appeared in the columns of the Gaelic American, a journal published in New York City, price 5 cents:

AMERICAN CITIZEN

LATEST MARTYR TO IRISH CAUSE

Word has been received by relatives in New York and by The Friends of Irish Freedom of the death of one of their delegates to the Old Land. John Chrysostom Spartacus (Sparky) Driscoll was killed while performing his mission which was to observe the fighting being fomented in Ulster by agents of the Crown. The time-honoured tactic, divide and rule, has set Irishman against Irishman in a last-ditch try by the old usurper to strangle the new Free State at birth. This act of perfidy strikes at John Bulls oft-aired claim to justice and fair play.

Do the tyrant-masters think such acts will stop Irish men and women from taking part in the onward march for the regeneration of their country? Do they believe that the sight of young Driscolls corpse going through the streets of Dublin will make Irish people more loyal to the English connection? What fools they are! What fools they must remain so long as they believe so!

The sympathy of a wide circle of friends and business acquaintances in New York, Massachusetts and other parts of the United States will go to the parents and relatives of this new martyr to an old cause. Sparky Driscoll could have lived a life of ease and comfort if he had so wished. Instead, he felt that the Old Land needed him and hearkened to her call. Deliberately, he chose the road of the Patriot and it led him, as it has led many, to a tragic end.

His father, Mr Aloysius Driscoll, has always been prominent in the Republican movement in New York as has Sparkys mother, Mrs Mary Driscoll, whose children have not forgotten the lessons in Irish Nationalism received at her knee. All have remained identified with the IR Veterans Association, the Gaelic League, the Clan na Gael and other similar organizations working for Irish freedom.

At the last meeting of the Robert Emmet Club a resolution was passed sympathizing with the family in their irreparable loss.

Beannacht De le h-anam.

They didnt call it Childrens Hour any more but the ingredients were the same: two children, a dog, some mystery what? Sister Judith was galvanized in her chair, her mind jerking from the screen before her to one whose picture curdled as though she had failed to adjust the setting. There was tension in her stomach and in the back of her neck.

Something was wrong.

She must what must she do? Oh God, she begged, let me remember before its too late. Please, Jesus, I know its important. Remember, Oh Most Gracious Virgin something appalling was about to happen. A knifing? There was a gap in her brain: a hole, and meanwhile A hole?

Terror ebbed. Like water from a basin. Like blood. There had been a redness before her eyes but now it was all right. She was sitting here watching television and the well-spoken children were laughing with their dog. It was Childrens Hour and she must have dropped off, got confused. The dog was the link.

Hers had been called Bran. A red setter. Dog? Digging? That was it. A hole. She closed her eyes and the image steadied. Brans bright body rippled like a feather boa, doubled, laboured. His chocolate nose was down, his feathered feet digging in the backyard of their house long ago. The soil flew. It was suspect, too soft, recently tampered with. Oh Jesus, Bran, stop! Judith was seventeen and the country in a perilous state. She hauled at the dogs collar, screamed. She was seventy-five and wanted to see what happened next but the image had gone jumpy and her seventeen-year-old self pulled the dog from the hole. She was sweating. Both Judiths were clammy and terrified inside their clothes.

*

She had been found wandering the corridors and once though that was years ago naked at the convent gate. In the moment between sleep and waking, she had felt her nightdress flannel muffling the doors to her soul and had twitched it off. You could hardly explain such a thing by daylight, though could you? Especially to unflappable nuns! So shed let them think shed done it in her sleep.

Her fear was that theyd make her undergo more electro-shock.

Look, a doctor had told her. I accept what you say. Youve lost or nearly lost a memory. Well, why not let it go? Just relinquish it?

Cheerily smiling at her, he might have been proposing to remove an old tooth. Poison your system to hold on to it, he might say, not so pretty any more either. Why dont we get you a nice false set, hm?

Old tooth? Old heart? Your memory was you.

You think someone might fear your testimony?

He was humouring her. Did he think her senile? The next thing she said sounded it. The past can kill, she told him. Theres an urgency, she said, about this anxiety. I feel it.

Ah, thats nerves, he told her. Tension. The urgency is in yourself. I wont say relax because Ive found that that only makes people tense up. Worrying about worry, ha ha, has half the population on pills. Ill let you have some if you like, mind, but what I tell my patients is a little worry keeps off worse. Laughing. Pleased with himself. Did she want pills, he asked.

No, she did not. What about her dreams now, he wondered.

Do you think you see Christ?

She was astonished. Im not mad.

No, no, but shed said, hadnt she, that she dreamed of a man who held his guts in his hand. Now, that would remind you of the statue of Christ showing his sacred heart, hm? After all, he must be thinking, she was a nun and who else would nuns dream of?

She refused to see any more doctors and Reverend Mother said all right. That had been years ago. The side door to the building was kept locked so that she couldnt get out in her sleep even if she had wanted to.

Well have to pray that theres never a fire, said Reverend Mother.

*

Sister Judith told Sister Gilchrist that she would no more think of going to confession to that new pipsqueak of a chaplain than shed fly. With all respect, Sister, shed said, its what he is. How old is he? A teenager?

Hes an ordained priest, Sister.

Well, they must be badly off for priests.

They are.

Sister Gilchrist made an effort to explain, although, with Sister Judith you never knew whether it was worth while. There arent enough to go round the religious houses, she told her, so we share him with the Dublin Juvenile Prison. It must be hard for him to change his style when he comes to us, and style, said Sister Gilchrist, speaking against her convictions, is but a superficial thing.

Poor Father Merryman, God rest him, said Sister Judith, was helping me with my therapy before he died. He became very involved in helping me to track down my buried trauma.

He had great patience, said Sister Gilchrist absently.

He was fascinated, Sister Judith corrected her. He thought that it might turn out to be of National Importance if only I could remember it. It was a setback to me when he died. Recently, however, Ive made some advance. Im back on the track, thanks to television.

I see youve been watching it a lot.

I watch the murders, said Sister Judith. I get a fizzle in my extremities whenever I watch an axe or sword murder. Ha! she cried in a muted shout and shook her fingers at Sister Gilchrist. A tremor in the tips, she said, like in a diviners rod. What do you say to that, Sister? I watched The SevenSamurai again last night and afterwards my dream was several degrees clearer. Almost understandable.

How do you know the television didnt cause the dream in the first place?