FOR THOMAS, PATRICK, AND ANASTASIA

It seems appropriate to celebrate St Patrick’s Day by reference to these members of the Irish side of my family. Thomas (Tom) was my grandfather, born in 1878; Patrick was his brother, born in 1885. Anastasia was their younger sister, born in 1893. The two young men, Patrick possibly no older than 15, migrated from their home in Outrath, Kilkenny, around the turn of the century, as described in Chapter One (Hard Times) of my memoir. Anastasia is a bit of a puzzle, appearing in a list of eight children replete with conventional Irish names. Originally, I thought she might have been named after the famous Russian Romanov princess of the same name, but the princess was born in 1901, her Minogue namesake in 1893. If anyone out there can offer an explanation, I’ll be delighted.

The story of Tom Minogue’s settling down to work, marriage, and children (one of these my father Martin Bernard) on the estate of the Catholic aristocratic Mowbray and Stourton family is told in Chapter Two (...and Hard Masters). Buttoday I want to tell a much later story about how my Dad (and Mum) went to visit Ireland for the first time ever in 1971.

We (me, my then wife Lizzie, Dad, and Mum Josephine) travelled more in hope than expectation, since Grandad seemed to have left scant information about his old family haunts, or indeed his family. This was also the first time my parents had been in an aeroplane, a baptism of fire so far as Mum was concerned. When we were told we could remove our seat belts, I turned to look back at them. Mum still had her eyes closed and was clearly in a state of permanent prayer. Dad caught my eye and said, “Have we taken off yet?”

After a night in Dublin to recover, we headed off in a hire car for Kilkenny.  Arriving, we tried ringing various Minogues in the telephone book (you see how ill prepared we were).  Given that Grandad and Patrick had scarcely ever returned there over the intervening six decades, the polite but baffled responses were unsurprising. We decided to sink our sorrows in a local pub. It soon became clear that our very English group was being regarded with a sort of guarded curiosity. A couple of men came over quite deliberately to chat, and I remember feeling a little anxious, reflecting that the English were not likely to be popular just then, given what had been going on in Belfast. I need not have worried. Dad told them why we were there, about his Irish origins, and his usual cheery and open demeanour seemed to allay any suspicions. He was soon the life and soul of the evening. At closing time, we were almost caught flat-footed when everyone rose and struck up ‘The Soldier’s Song’. Happily, Dad knew the rousing words, schooled at his father’s knee, and our new friends wished us well in our search.

Touring the West of Ireland, we found ourselves in Bantry. The highlight here was a race meeting, in a large farmer’s field outside the town. Things seemed both in spirit and practice probably much as my Grandad would have found them in 1900. You paid a couple of pounds to get in, though a large number of people were unwilling to countenance this charge and stood outside along the hedge, jostling for position to view the races for free. Inside was a long oval track marked by oil drums roped together. Inside the oval everything else took place; horses trotted about and were weighed out and in for each race. About six bookies had set up shop. Each employed runners to convey odds and carry back bets for the many people lining the hedges outside. I often wonder if they ever took any winnings back.

The horses were all ridden by jockeys who could not have been more than 14 years old, mostly quite skinny and light. The racegoers were tremendously friendly and informative. One informed us that the horse that had just won the first race would be racing again later but under a different name.  “Don’t spend your money,” he advised, “she’ll be held back”. Sure enough, when the twice-named horse ran again, the jockey visibly stood up and with all his strength held the horse on a tight rein as the others ran past. Ascot it was not, but everybody seemed to be having a good time, punters, trainers and jockeys all trying to outsmart each other. I now understood better why my Irish Grandad always at race meetings parked himself firmly alongside the bookmaker, making sure that he would not run off with the winnings.