A SIGHTING OF MICHAEL

Even at the worst of times Christmas was a big deal in Wexford. This had much to do with the mass return of emigrants. Everyone in town had someone in London or Birmingham; the Ffrench family had a famous cousin, George Harrison, in Liverpool.

With the ferry leaving daily from Rosslare to Wales, the saying was “you could go out for a drink on Saturday afternoon, end up at Paddington Station Sunday morning, and get the start in construction Monday.”

Everyone came home for Christmas, except those with families, or lads who had done a runner over an unexpected pregnancy, and those tragic few who had gone off the rails.

My Granny Kirwan’ brother, Michael Moran, was one of the latter.  Along with their brother, Matt, they were the Morans of Fisher’s Row. Like many up there by The Faythe, they were of seafaring stock. Their father, Capt. James Moran had gone down with his vessel in a great storm off the coast of Wales in 1898.

Their mother was their rock, she took in lodgers, ran a pub, and eventually the two boys went off to sea. Captain Matt Moran was a great success and became one of the founders of Irish Shipping. He was killed in a shipboard accident in 1942.

Michael was quieter and very close to his mother. He took her death badly, went back to London and was never heard from again. 

My granny had made a good marriage to my grandfather, Lar Kirwan, a successful cattle dealer with two big farms, one of which was less than a mile outside town. She lived there in a fine house up a tree-lined avenue.

She was a woman of much imagination, while my grandfather was quiet and steely; she used to murmur that her family was hesitant about the match, feeling she’d be isolated outside town and should marry among her own outgoing seafaring folk.

One day around Christmas I went with my father to visit. Though he was the eldest son he was often at odds with my grandfather and was making his living at sea. Lar wasn’t home, but some cattle had gotten loose so my father was out fixing a fence.

A knock came to the back door and a willowy man in his Sunday best waved in the window at us.

Granny seemed to recognize him. She fixed her hair, and hurried to the door. They exchanged some quiet words in the scullery, then she brought the man into the kitchen and set about making tea.

“How did he look?” She asked.

“Well enough.” The man replied.

“Did he say why he hasn’t written or come home?”

“You know Michael, quiet as ever. Just said, if I was in Wexford for Christmas to drop by and tell you he was okay.”

“Was he drinking?”

“He’d had a few, I ran into him at The Shakespeare on Holloway.”

“He had no news?”

“Divil a bit, just insisted I come all the way out here to see you.” He blew into his chapped hands and looked eager to be gone.

The conversation tapered off. Granny excused herself. She had been crying when she returned. She wrote some lines on a sheet of stationary, licked an envelope and, in her best copperplate, addressed it to  “Michael Moran.”

“Give this to Michael if you see him... ask him to write.”

The willowy man gravely took the envelope and, after she gave him some pound notes, he left without finishing his tea.

She sat down heavily at the table and held her head between her hands. I didn’t know what to say.  

“What’s the matter?” My father asked when he returned from the fields.

“John Byrne from The Faythe saw Michael in London. He’s alive.” 

“Haven’t I warned you about this!” my father muttered. “How much did you give him?”

“With Matt gone, I’ve no one left.”

“If Michael was alive in London, I’d have heard. You’re too much of a soft touch.”

Their routine continued - my father convinced that Michael had taken to the drink and disappeared in some foreign port. My granny hoping against hope that someday her brother would walk up her tree-lined avenue.

I wish there had been a happy ending, but emigration is messy and some people fall between the cracks.

A very happy Christmas to you all. Hold your families close.