4 Small Rivers

AND so, my going to see the film added another dimension to the father-daughter dialogue, for I was going to see the work of the daughter who at present no longer acknowledges my existence.

THE first note, then, is of pride. That Jenny is (in what exact way I don’t actually know) deeply associated with a film that is so peculiarly interesting, rich in humanity. Yes, there’s blood; yes, it’s not perfect.

AND then came the point at which I burst into tears. Well before the movie’s o-so tragic and touching ending. Clint reads, in spectacularly rough Gaelic, and then again in English, the opening lines of the Lake-Isle of Innisfree.

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

I AM transported by memories. This is, no doubt, the most famous poem from modern Irish literature. It was a poem that my dad could cite, in its entirety, until his final days. I also am quite sure that it is a poem that, even late in his life, he knew also in Irish (although I believe it was originally written in English). It is a poem that speaks of a man in the City who longs for the peace of a country glade.

LATE in his life, visiting dad in London, we would some evenings read poetry. Even, I bought several poetry books, since I knew of his love of poetry and found so few poetry books in his flat at Number 30. I think not one such evening would end without this poem. I imagine also that many of his student boys at Salesians’ would have heard this poem also, heard his voice, linked the poem inexorably with that voice, as I do.

TO me, then, the poem always invokes memories of my father, his loss of Ireland’s peace in the pavements gray of London and his sometimes-wistful thinking of old Ireland. And my own wondering and loss; wondering where my own, peaceful bee-loud glade might be, and my loss with my father’s death.

AND so, I wanted to read it aloud also at dad’s funeral. Some thought it not appropriate; it is quite likely that, even tho’ it is short, I might have been full unable to read it in the church. Be that as it may, I bowed to pressure, did not read it then, and have regretted it ever since.

THE FILM, then, for me near ended with that moment. Did Jenny influence the selection of this poem? Did she remember me looking some years ago, as Clint’s character does, struggling to learn a word or two of Gaelic? Did she, even if she did not put the poem in, understand its symbolism in my relationship with my mourned dad?

AND FOR Jenny, what was it like to work on a movie entirely about the sadness of loss and estrangement in a father-daughter relationship? She, whose birth father is most noted for his complete absence: I do not know how that hurt burns here. She, whose legal father, me, gave her at best a less-than-ideal relationship. How much does she even think of her life as having more than one parable in this movie, both with her two estranged fathers, and with her own toughness and solitude carrying her forward.

Jenny: A stoirin, Tá mo chroí istigh ionat

FRANKIE DUNN, Clint’s character, has this also in common with my dad. He went to church each day. At least this much was not a parallel with my father: he would pester the priest after Mass with relatively inane questions.