20 The Stolen Child
Glynn had little time for children and, according to his wife, showed next to no interest in his own. She would say that though, wouldn’t she, Gladys or whatever she was called. Gladys or Gloria or Glenda Glynn. Her accusation rings hollow in light of the fact that so much of Glynn’s work could be defined as childlike in character. This assertion may strike the attentive reader as a contradiction — children are rarely depicted in the work of Glynn, and when they do feature it is to appear out of thin air and catch you in the act, Mammy’s little double agents, no more than a plot device, really, a way of forcing events to a crisis. The exception was his own child, Sofia, the one who lived, or Cassandra as she was christened in the text, accursed daughter. Sofia Cassandra appeared just the once, but oh how memorably.
No, by the term ‘childlike’, another meaning altogether is here intended. Glynn’s writerly imagination was childlike in its intensity, rendering its surroundings as fresh as if experienced for the first time. He was never found wanting when it came to the profound. When personages of national importance passed away, it was Glynn whom the press canvassed for a quote, Glynn who appeared on the RTE News, his patrician hair nodding compassionately. He was the closest we had to a poet laureate. The urbane jadedness endemic in the work of the next generation got short shrift from him. It was true that his work had gone out of fashion lately. He would have been the first to admit that.
Glynn had spoken eloquently about the nature of the imagination when we first came together as a group without knowing it that filthy wet night in ’81. He evoked it as unknowable and majestic as a star and went on to rue its woeful undervaluation in our society. A number of audience members nodded their agreement at this assertion. The imagination was a faculty shed by most children once they hit double numbers, Glynn continued. It evaporated with exponential momentum until nothing was left by adulthood but a silty tidemark outlining what once had been. It was a sad irony of the human condition, the great writer pointed out, that the taller we grew in feet and inches, the smaller we shrank in scope. It wasn’t an irony at all, of course, we knew that; it was a paradox.
Glynn proposed the theory that same evening that future generations would evolve the imagination out of their genetic make-up altogether. It would come to be regarded as freakish as an atavistic limb — people would pay an admission charge to squirm at its workings. He lambasted the pre-eminence accorded the so-called ‘real world’. No parent would encourage their child to become an artist in the real world. Money didn’t grow on trees in the real world. But what were we without our sense of wonder? he asked the audience. Take the childlike imagination away, and what was left? What was the point? Why should we bother? Did anyone know? Anyone at all? His questions were met with silence.
The theories propounded by the great man that night provide insight into his refusal to grow up. ‘I don’t want to be an old man,’ he had complained midway through his bender the previous week, speaking as if this fate was peculiar to him alone. It’s quite possible his staggering solipsism allowed him to believe it was. It can be appreciated how an artist might feel constricted by the quotidian world with its emphasis on pounds and pence. ‘Banal’ is a word they reach for often, and never with reference to themselves, employing it instead as shorthand for the rest of the world. Western society had been infected by what Glynn called ‘blandular fever’. It was the artist’s duty to swim against that current, he informed us during a workshop. Was he talking about us though, or yet again about himself, when he used that loaded term ‘artist’? We never knew where we stood.
What cannot be as readily appreciated is the artists’ persistence in perceiving themselves as alone in their persecution by the quotidian. This is a monumental failure of the imagination on their part. Spouses and children, specifically, could not possibly comprehend their predicament. Spouses and children, they appear to think, do not suffer like they suffer. No one, they think, suffers like an artist suffers. They believe themselves not made for this world, but worse than that: they believe that others are. The question is, why do they marry, why do they procreate, why do they inflict themselves on the human beings around them if they harbour such low opinions of them? Making certain that someone’s around to take care of them? Securing a captive audience?
A young woman was making a terrible scene in the middle of Front Square, oblivious to the looks she was attracting. She’d have drawn curious glances even had she kept her counsel, so out of place did she look on the college grounds — an ungainly figure dressed in ungainly clothes, like something got from the nuns. Her floral skirt kept inflating in the breeze, revealing solid, mottled legs. A sudden gust blew the hem up as far as her thighs.
So visibly distressed was the young woman by then that she didn’t appear to notice the exposure. Glynn did though. He noticed the girl’s thighs, and he noticed those around him noticing, his colleagues and students, the odd tourist. He couldn’t screen the girl from their prying eyes, although you could tell he dearly wanted to. Nothing he said or did placated her. She didn’t seem to hear him.
‘Do you think she’s maybe deaf?’ Faye asked.
Antonia shook her head. ‘No, she isn’t deaf.’
Glynn gestured towards Front Arch and made to place a guiding hand on the woman’s shoulder, seeking to escort her off the premises. The woman shied as if she thought he was about to hit her. ‘Oh no,’ Aisling whispered, chewing at her cuticles, peeling them off in strips with her teeth. A fazed Glynn retracted his hand. That was a first: Glynn looking embarrassed. We didn’t think him capable. Odd, that he didn’t storm off, his standard cop-out. What hold did this person have on him?
The woman’s skirt blew up to her thighs again, and again she failed to notice. Her white nurses’ shoes were yellowing at the soles like geriatric feet. Ankle socks, at her age, white cotton ankle socks folded over at the hem — the woman had strayed out of her depth with Glynn. She was too young for him, apart from anything else, far too young and gauche. The five of us watched closely from the workshop window. What had he gone and brought upon himself now?
Glynn’s voice, though raised, unfortunately wasn’t raised enough to make out what he was telling the girl, even after we’d opened both windows. He had the courtesy to look sheepish, I’ll give him that. I would go so far as to say guilty. Good enough for him. Served him right. Might put manners on him in future.
‘She’s not exactly his type, is she?’ I observed.
Antonia turned from the window to regard me with withering disgust. Truly, she outdid herself. ‘You are obscene,’ she said. That isn’t his lover. That’s his daughter.’ She returned her attention to the sparring pair below. ‘Bet she’s the one sending the poison-pen letters.’
I looked down at the woman in the quad again, at her flowery dress, her fleshy knees, her permed hair, her sloppy dismay. She was crying now, big blotchy tears that didn’t hold a candle to Guinevere’s. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and Glynn produced a rancid hanky, which she declined. This was Sofia? This was Cassandra? No, I remember thinking. Not possible. She departed too radically from the image held aloft in my mind. Glynn had written about her with bewildered tenderness in The Common-place Book She was his strange fairy child, his troubled sprite, and I was half in love with her.