I have absolutely no doubt some eyes will pop out of heads – certainly locally and perhaps further afield – that what appears hereafter was produced by the occupant of this seat. Now read on…
That’s OK. However, there could never be a better or more apt illustration of the foibles of judging a book by its cover. He and I would’ve come from diametrically opposing political viewpoints. He being of the landed gentry upper class, we, on the other hand, being generationally Fianna Fail. Who, notionally at least, were meant to be the party of the ordinary folk.
Yet, as has often been professed in this space, it is my wholehearted belief that what divides in party politics are basically differing opinions on how to do the same thing. Nobody – despite the reservations the recently deceased former Taoiseach held regarding Sinn Fein – goes into politics for things to go wrong or to leave circumstances in a worse state than they found them.
But it happens. Things do go wrong. Mistakes will be made. If you think of Government – or politics in general – as committee work, it’s not as if people go off on solo runs and make life changing decisions on their own bat. There has to be consensus for any committee work to be brought to fruition.
Yet it is a painful reality of political life that when the dung does hit the fan, it will inevitably be the Minister in the relevant Department who will end up carrying the bulk of the weight in the can. So it was for John Bruton with the ill-conceived ‘tax on children’s shoes’ in Budget 1982.
Or decades later when Brian Cowen and Brian Lenihan (Jnr., RIP) were lacerated left, right and centre at the time of the Bank Guarantee/Bailout when in fact all they were doing was attempting to fix leaks on The Titanic. While it was only natural that the administration in position at the time paid the toll, like John with the VAT on the shoes, there were others behind the infamous move who not only did nothing to prevent in occurring but, to a large extent, got away unhindered – and in at least one instance – went to their grave with others still dealing with the mess they created.
However, sometimes political clean up operations present opportunity to those with the broom. Jack Lynch pulled off what must surely go down as a unique act of political opportunism when sailing back into power on the promise of the abolition of road tax. Regrettably, though the Cork legend followed through on his promise, the rebuke, maybe unsurprisingly, was decisive when the unintended consequences of the road tax axe hit home.
With Garret FitzGerald enjoying a lengthy and largely successful stewardship of the Fine Gael operation, and eventually succeeded by Alan Dukes, it wasn’t until 1990 – by then John was 21 years in Dail Eireann – that he got the reins of leadership thrust upon him. Just as the Charlie Haughey era was coming to an end it appeared it was going to be a scenario like the one with the buses for Bruton. That, having had no luck in his political career up to that point, it seemed he was going to go from the cold, so to speak, to attaining the Party leadership to entering into Government in what, by political standards, felt like the flick of a switch.
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Not quite. To best articulate what happened next in the quite remarkable biography of John Bruton’s political career, I must defer to the greatest political satirist of them all, Dermot Morgan. Unsurprisingly, the end of the Haughey era led to a shifting of the sands on the landscape of Irish current affairs. At that stage, it appeared odds on that the so-called ‘Rainbow Coalition’ was about to get the keys to the kingdom, luck again left John standing at the bus stop.
Nobody summed it up better than Morgan during Live At The Olympia in April of 1994 when, taking off Michael Noonan’s accent, Fr Ted said “It was like a circus act, on one side, you had John Bruton whistling ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’, on the other you had Dick Spring foot tapping to the ‘Marquee In Drumlish’. John jumped heading straight towards arms. Dick jumped the other way! “.
So began what looked like being a progressive, amicable looking coalition between Spring’s Labour Party and Fianna Fail, then under the baton of Albert Reynolds. And all did go swimmingly until a kerfuffle over the judicial appointment of Harry Whelehan sent Dick for the springboard!
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Thus, belatedly for a man of his political experience, John Bruton’s time had finally arrived. Due to the cyclical nature of politics and with there only being three proper political parties at the time – Fine Gael, Fianna Fail and Labour – leading such a disparate, potentially mutinous coalition – borne out FG, Labour and Democratic Left – will, in time, be seen as his greatest political achievement.
How ironic it was, though, that what was ultimately the crowning glory of his domestic political career was only made possible with the assistance of those whom he had cried foul of for eons. Lest the origins of Democratic Left – under the leadership of Prionsias De Rossa – be forgotten. A leopard can, it seems, change its spots.
I was 14 when Bruton took over as Taoiseach. Now, to my mind, this was a big deal. Having the most important man in the country one of our own had to be worth something.
What many absolutely wouldn’t know – certainly not the family circle anyway – was that back then my inclination would have been to align with Fine Gael, solely because John Bruton was Taoiseach. However, my overtures to that effect got not a single response whatever from the elder lemons of the organisation locally. In contrast, Noel Leonard immediately took me under his wing, and the rest as they say, is history.
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Mind you, here’s what might come as a jaw dropper to some – the connection between our family – on my mother’s side – and the Brutons which spans at least five generations. The final link in the chain only falling earlier this year when my cousin Ryan Geoghegan moved on from working for Tom Bruton, first cousin of John, before heading for the bottom half of the world.
By taking up station on the Red Road, Ryan followed in the footsteps of his late dad, my uncle Joe, our grandfather Patsy and great grandfather ‘Pop’ in working on a Bruton farm.
Moreover, the grandfather and great grandfather were joined in working on properties owned by the family by their wives, Nora and Julia respectively. Which naturally meant that my mother was born on a Bruton farm, Ravensdale House in Confey before spending her life up to the time she got married on the adjacent Sion Farm.
Which is why, there was one massive disappointment in my life involving John Bruton, the culprit for which might never be forgiven. March 1996, the official opening of St Peter’s College Dunboyne.
Bad enough that I was hidden away in the science lab, but there was no doubt in my mind that, in view of the fact that both the subject and the person dispensing it were detested, it was a stunt. Regardless of what occasion is going on in Dunboyne or who was organising the event it is – or at least was – routine for yours truly to be front and centre. By the way, that’s not me being egotistical, merely stating a fact.
Anyway, despite being corralled in the dastardly science lab, An Taoiseach made a bee line for me when being shown around and was about to stay chatting to me for a while – given the already referred-to connections – only for him to be whisked away and me to be told, literally and highly ignorantly, to “Get back in your place”. It will now remain a source of considerable regret that the opportunity never did appear to discuss that day with him again.
That said, though again there will no doubt be a sizable cohort who would disagree, it is quite probable that without John’s influence and intervention, St Peter’s College might never have come to fruition. And, though my own experiences with the institution are a story all unto themselves, it’s indisputable that the construction of a second level school has been a game changer – and will be for generations to come – for the locality.
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Perhaps, however, in view of the fact that the roots of the connection between the Bruton family and ours were planted in farming, isn’t it wholly appropriate that this probably ill-qualified tribute should find its conclusion in the fields again. A now poignant case of things going full circle. To a point where I myself was in a position to buy what were always referred to as ‘Bruton Cattle’ in our house. A reference to the quality of stock John’s late father Joe and his late uncle Tony were renowned for buying – predominantly in the West of Ireland – and for which Tony’s two sons, Tom and Joe, breed to this day.
Life has a strange of way of playing out sometimes. Ravensdale, and the High Lodge therein where mam lived in her younger years, were sold in and around the same time circumstance forced me out of the farming scene, to my indescribable heartache. But the gene lives on, will eternally so and now, at the time of John’s passing, the seeds of another comeback are beginning to germinate.
Thankfully, in the guise of farms at Newtown, Vessington, Cornelstown and a few other locations within a few mile radius of Dunboyne, the agricultural legacy of the Bruton family remains vibrant. Just as the legacy of John G. Bruton, through his contributions to Meath, Ireland and Europe will be eternally enshrined. May he rest in peace.
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