Can My Pony Come Too? Read online

  In the week before the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, I was lucky enough to go to the museum with my daughter, Charlotte, to view the display, together with the display for Thomas Esmonde. We also went to a commemorative lunch for Victoria Cross and George Cross holders at the Union Jack Club and a service at St Martin-in-the-Field where Prince Charles and his wife, Camilla, were the honoured guests. I was also fortunate to meet two of our Australian Victoria Cross holders, Keith Payne, who was awarded his cross for a heroic act in the Vietnam War and Ben Roberts-Smith who was a hero in the war in Afghanistan. It was a memorable day and both Charlotte and I were extremely proud to be representing my uncle.

  Eugene Esmonde, VC, DSO, was also one of the first pilots to fly with Imperial Airways, later Qantas, on the Australian route.

  Some years before he joined the RAF, thinking he had a vocation to be a Catholic Priest, Eugene spent a few years studying to be a Mill Hill Father at St Peter’s College, Freshfield, so that he could become a missionary. It wasn’t long before he discovered this was not for him. About the only point of agreement between him and the good Fathers was on his unsuitability for missionary work. It was an odd choice of career from the beginning.

  Small and wiry (he was only five feet six) with a round face and mischievous deeply set Irish eyes, he was a strange mixture of fun, intellectualism, sober mindedness, and native shrewdness.

  He parted with the Fathers on excellent terms, promptly deciding on a more civilised and thoroughly dangerous occupation – the air. In 1928 he joined the Royal Air Force with a short service commission, at once volunteering to take part in bomber operations over the sea, a decidedly risky affair not many of those early pioneers cared to chance. There was no Fleet Air Arm in those days, and although the Navy operated several aircraft carriers, the first biplane bombers attached to them were manned by the RAF.

  From the RAF he joined Imperial Airways and, for the next five years from age twenty-three, he played a major and active role in the emergence of the world’s initial commercial flights. Amongst other feats he flew Catalina Flying Boats across the world to Darwin for Imperial Airways, where he delivered the first surcharged airmail to Australia and the first internal airmails in India to the Viceroy and his wife, Lord and Lady Linlithgow. By 1936 he ranked high on the list of experienced long haul pilots, then almost all employed by Imperial Airways. His co-pilots referred to him as the ‘smallest meteor alive’. He was never conscious of his lack of inches, his vital personality making it almost unnoticeable to others. If a friend made jocular reference to it he would laugh: ‘Yes, but if the engines pack up you lot need a parachute. All I need is a pocket-handkerchief.’

  But where was that pocket-handkerchief when he needed it most?

  Hitler’s ranting reached a crescendo at the Nuremburg Rally in 1938 and the Esmondes’ paradox came out in Eugene. While he was Irish to his bootstraps, he realised Britain was the only defence against a fascist Germany threatening the liberty of the whole world. He, like a lot of Irishmen, was prepared to fight and if necessary give his life for freedom. Yet in January 1939 he was faced with a dilemma. Could he afford to give up a good salary from Imperial Airways in return for a dubious future in one of His Majesty’s armed forces?

  The solution to his troubles came from the Admiralty. The Navy had formed the Fleet Air Arm some years earlier, but lacked trained pilots to give it backbone. Eugene was well known for his expertise on the flight deck of carriers and his name was recalled with admiration by those responsible for this young branch of the Navy. He was asked to join – with the rank of Lieutenant Commander with a guarantee of service for at least fifteen years, which was important to him, as he wanted to help his mother and my father with the running costs of Drominagh.

  With his usual humour he sent a letter to the Admiralty asking: Does the guarantee of fifteen years’ service at least, prevent me from becoming an Admiral?

  The Secretary to the Board of Admiralty replied in similar vein: Not at all. If you elect to remain in the Service you might well become an Admiral, if that is really what you want.

  Unfortunately his wish, whimsical as it may have been, was not to be granted, yet for the number of years he was with the Fleet Air Arm he sent money home to help with the upkeep of Drominagh – where years before he’d landed a Gypsy Moth in the 22-acre field at the back of the house, much to the delight of the rest of the family. However, he baulked at Paddy’s request to pass his share of Drominagh over to his mother and my father who’d kept it going for so long, while the others all pursued their own careers. Eugene felt his career in the Services would probably be short lived. So he wanted to have Drominagh to come home to without feeling he was just a guest. This, in hindsight, I can quite understand; however, my mother told me: ‘At the time it caused quite a bit of angst.’

  Ironically, on his death, his share went to his mother anyway, as the sole beneficiary of his will.

  Supposedly, he was a great party man and like most Irishmen enjoyed the odd tipple. The telling of his escapades grew better with each drink.

  I asked my mother if he was good looking. ‘Lord no,’ she laughed. ‘When I first saw him walking across the lawns at Drominagh I thought he was the new gardener. Even then I thought he was a very unimposing gardener. But he had great charm.’

  Similar to most heroes he had a certain recklessness to him. My mother also told me that on his last trip back to Drominagh before he was killed, he relished the peace and quiet of the familiar surroundings away from the traumas of war.

  ‘It’s something I’ll always take with me,’ he told her. ‘And keep close to my heart.’

  When she asked him if he was ever afraid of flying on operations, he replied: ‘I’m always afraid of being afraid, Toni.’

  I have in my possession Winston Churchill’s victory speech titled: ‘Forward Till the Whole Task Is Done,’ where he mentions amongst other matters:

  When I think of these days I think also of other episodes and personalities. I think of Lieutenant-Commander Eugene Esmonde, VC, DSO, of Lance Corporal Kenneally, VC, and Captain Fegen, VC, and other Irish heroes that I could easily recite, and then I must confess that bitterness by Britain against the Irish race dies in my heart. I can only pray that in years, which I shall not see, the shame will be forgotten and the glories will endure, and that the peoples of the British Isles as of the British Commonwealth of Nations will walk together in mutual comprehension and forgiveness…

  —Winston Churchill. May 13th 1945.

  My mother told me that this speech infuriated the Esmonde family enormously, for they felt Churchill had been fairly unprofessional in his approach to the organisation of the Channel Dash and its aftermath. Unfortunately for all, Churchill was also wrong in his prediction that the conflict in Ireland would pass, particularly in the counties of the north.

  Eugene’s many letters from abroad to his mother at home in Drominagh describe in great detail his passion for flying and the adventures of which he partook. He had a wonderful relationship with his mother, and not being married, he told her of his exploits, feelings and hopes for the future as if she were his companion. There was one where he tells how he had to dramatically crash land in the desert after engine trouble. He and his passengers, whom he’d picked up in Karachi, survived for several days with little water and provisions before a rescue party thankfully arrived. Much longer and they’d all have perished in the intense heat.

  The first letter I have of his is written on Imperial Airways letterhead on the 17th of December 1934 when he was flying to Australia. After crossing over to Paris he travelled by train to Brindisi in Italy, where he took command of his flight – and where Rob and I anchored on our yacht, Sea Dreams, seventy-five years later. The last letter is written shortly before his death.

  All Esmonde brothers served in the English forces during the war, apart from Donal, who became a Mill Hill Missionary priest in Kenya. My father, after a short course at Uxbridge, was posted to Sheffield Balloon Ba
rrage as a Pilot Officer in the RAF Volunteer Reserve. Being thirty-seven at the time he was mainly restricted to Administration, which frustrated him enormously.

  Witham, in the Royal Navy, was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross (DSC) for his service on HMS Mowri.

  Paddy, a doctor in the Royal Medical Corps, was awarded the Military Cross, finishing his career as a medical officer at Sandhurst Military College.

  Much to my joy, the Irish Government has now decided to honour its Irish heroes who fought for Britain during the wars. Previously there was a definite feeling that they should not be acclaimed, due to Ireland’s neutrality, but most of all her animosity towards Britain. In fact Thomas Esmonde, VC, and Eugene Esmonde, VC, DSO, were hardly acknowledged at all in their own country, a tragedy I found difficult to believe. For surely, by fighting for freedom, the enemy of Britain and her allies, Ireland, as her near neighbour, had more to gain than most.

  ‘This lack of recognition was a great sorrow to your grandmother,’ my mother told me. ‘When you think how her five sons readily joined up and one lost his life you can imagine how she felt.’

  I might point out here that it’s almost unheard of to find a family with two Victoria Crosses, let alone an Irish family fighting for England when Ireland was neutral, and with some controversy as to where her allegiance lay.

  Chapter 6

  On the Shores of the Shannon

  I began my life at Drominagh as a ten-day-old baby in 1946. I howled my way into this world at the busy Rotunda hospital in the heart of Dublin on the 4th September. My godfather was the renowned Rickard Deasy, squire of the beautiful estate, Gurtray, not far from Drominagh and who was famous in Ireland as head of the Irish Farmers Association and leader of the notorious Irish Farmers March in 1967. My godmother was Rosemary Esmonde, my father’s spinster half-sister, with whom I kept in touch until her death many years after we arrived in Australia. She was, in fact, a great favourite of mine, not least because of her long flowing hair that fell to her knees like a spindly spider’s web, but also because every birthday I’d receive a cheque for the amount of years I was turning. This finally petered out when I became twenty-one.

  I don’t remember Drominagh from that stage as I was only eighteen months when I left; however, I do remember it from the many visits I’ve had there since. One particular trip I recall was in 1979 when I took my two daughters, Charlotte and Georgina, aged eleven and seven, to visit the land of my birth, the first time I’d returned there since leaving in 1954.

  After a week or so at Cloneen in Glendalough we drove down with my parents to Tipperary to stay in a traditional Irish cottage at Puckaun on Lough Derg. With great glee my father showed us his beloved Drominagh and O’Kennedy’s castle where he and his siblings had played amongst the ruins as children. We scrambled to the top and admired the expansive view of the Shannon River where the thick callows crawled with waterfowl, golden plovers, ducks and a myriad of other bird life. It was a cold day, the lake was big and an icy wind blew across from the Tipperary Mountains shrouded in thick clouds. Shortly after our ascent of the castle it sadly collapsed in a heap of rubble. The present owners had removed the ivy, which my father assured me had been holding it together for centuries. Being one of the oldest castles in Ireland its sad demise made the front page of the Irish Times.

  The stables brought back memories of my parents’ horses, Dalmi and Jane, waiting excitedly for the hunt. No matter what the weather conditions, my father loved these events until the time he was severely injured with a split kidney and had to fight for his own life. Both of my parents were competent hunters. Summers were wonderful times of swimming, lazing and hunting.

  On Dublin trips my parents stayed at a private hotel and frequented clubs in the evenings, including the United Arts Club, which my mother described as a most convivial and inspirational venue, with artists and poets including Jack B Yeates, brother of WB Yeates, and Oliver St John Gogarty, gracing its grand rooms. She said, ‘It was a wonderful time of fun and gaiety.’

  My mother adored the lavish Hunt Balls and the August Dublin Horse Show with the associated grand ball in the evening at which my father wore his ‘hunting pink’ and the ladies, silks and taffetas. They sometimes attended the rowdy dances at the leading Dublin hotels, including the famous Gresham and the Shelbourne.

  ‘Although it was great fun,’ my mother added with a laugh, in case I thought they were totally frivolous, ‘it wasn’t all parties. There was a lot of scrimping and saving…and hard work too.’

  One of my parents’ ventures at Drominagh was to run charters up and down the Shannon River on The Wayfarer; a wonderful old wooden houseboat, which my father turned into ‘a smart white cruiser with green topsides’. They found The Wayfarer in June, 1938, where she was moored in the docks at Portumna on Lough Derg. She was originally brought from Gloucester on the Avon by Sir Robert Woods, a renowned Dublin surgeon, and was towed from there to Kingstown in April 1917. After a few more owners she came into the grateful hands of my parents.

  Privacy for the young couple at Drominagh was difficult to attain with my grandmother in residence, so The Wayfarer provided a needy haven. Recently, I discovered my father’s log books from that time. There seemed to be a lot of time spent ‘recovering with a strong whisky down below’. Not dissimilar to what we’ve done over the years after a stormy ride on our own yachts, although now, as we sail the Mediterranean on Sea Dreams it’s an icy cool vino that we relish at the end of a long hot day.

  Not all the charters on The Wayfarer were incident free. One late summer’s afternoon my father was happily chugging along with a half a dozen passengers when he noticed that the deck chair and the elderly lady who’d been on it, dozing off her lunch and wine, were missing! An hysterical scream alarmed him and he swivelled around to see the deck chair bobbing along and a cream calico tent-like apparition flailing its tentacles in terror in the air, screaming raucously, ‘Help! Help!’ Fully dressed, my father leaped into the water and with a life raft, rescued her, but lost the deck chair. Fifty years later, my father chuckled with mirth when telling us this tale as we sat on Rob’s and my yacht, The Charlotte Rose, fishing in Tasmanian waters. ‘She was extremely forgiving and appeared at cocktail hour in fine form,’ he said as he hauled in a flathead, one of twenty we’d caught that day.

  Our log books on all of the yachts we’ve owned sound remarkably similar to my father’s. Most times the weather is better ‘elsewhere’, yet the satisfaction of dropping anchor in a new and undiscovered destination is second to none.

  During the war years, shopping was done by bicycle to Terryglass some 10 miles away or by sailboat across the lake to Portumna. This was the time of petrol rations. Even The Wayfarer could only be used sparingly. My mother tells of many times coming home from Terryglass with her bicycle laden down with Christmas presents for the children waiting anxiously for Santa Claus. Needless to say, Santa was not overly generous during the war years and an orange was a great surprise.

  Drominagh is a lucky house. When the Esmondes sold it in 1947 it went to a wonderful family who still have it today. They’re extremely generous to the Esmondes and each year Viv and her family come over from Wales, spending two weeks there (joined occasionally by those of us who happen to be in Ireland), and pretend that it is ‘like the old times’. But my mother refuses to stay in Drominagh, saying it would bring back too many memories. However, she’ll come with one of us to visit for a few hours from time to time. One year she stayed with Rob and me in the glorious Gertalougha Private Hotel next door, which is once again a private home, now belonging to the Getty family. From there we walked through the woods to Drominagh to have afternoon tea with the delightful caretaker, Helen, who welcomed us all with open arms.

  We often dream of buying Drominagh back, but even if the owners wanted to sell, it remains a dream. Besides, who would look after her – with four of us in Australia and Viv in Wales?

  Chapter 7

  Across the Lake at Clonm
oylan

  Clonmoylan on the other side of Lough Derg and in County Galway, where we moved to in 1947 when I was eighteen months old, looks much the same today as when I lived there as a child, apart from a central heating system throughout and a new sunroom added to the front overlooking the lake. Only last month I visited for old times’ sake and was kindly ushered into the kitchen at the back where, just like at Drominagh, the original Aga takes centre stage.

  The only difference when driving up the long wooded avenue is that the apple orchard has long gone.

  In 1947 many of our goods and chattels were ferried in a small rowing boat across the lake from Drominagh with my father at the helm. The rest he carted by tractor towing a trailer.

  When we drove for the last time down the long avenue from Drominagh, we passed the stone gatehouse, where the faithful Boyle family, who’d served the Esmondes for so many years, were standing with tears in their eyes.

  It was then that Gill was heard to lament in her usual compassionate way. ‘This old house is going to be very lonely without us.’

  No doubt it was – not just for us but for all the Esmondes who’d enjoyed her serenity, happiness and sadness for so many decades before. But it was no longer possible for us to continue life at Drominagh. Finances were stretched to the limit, overdrafts were not viable and prospects of matters improving were grim indeed. Sadly there was no alternative other than to sell up and buy something smaller. Fortunately that something smaller happened to be Clonmoylan across the lake where my father had first met my mother at her Aunt Winnie’s. My father felt that the harvest from Clonmoylan’s apple orchard, together with poultry farming, would provide him with enough income to see us through.