WordSmith: Mr Mullholland’s Travels

- Gerard Smith -

You and I – in fact, all of us have lived in a place called Brobdingnag. It’s a mouthful to pronounce, but we’ve all been there. For some of us Brobdingnag was a frightening place, where we felt helpless, vulnerable, and sometimes afraid. For others, it was a land of wonder, where we felt cossetted and safe. For this was a land populated by giants, and as tiny children we were all Gullivers and Gullivellas, trying to navigate the bewildering world of grown-ups from our little vantage point.

Mr Mullholland first brought me to Brobdingnag, but before he took us there we stopped off at Lilliput. He was my primary school teacher in Manchester, and I can still remember the awe I felt as I looked up at this big, friendly giant. He was a lean tall tower of a man with the most wonderfully warm Irish accent. Every Friday afternoon we kids would sit cross-legged on the floor as Mr Mullholland read us another chapter of the Children’s version of Gulliver’s Travels. But to say ‘read’ would do a disservice to our teacher’s talent. He was a natural story-teller, and on those Friday afternoon’s he transformed a draughty Victorian classroom into the land of Lilliput, becoming the giant Gulliver, looking down on us little people from his great hight. We were all immersed in his performance, and personally, I lived for Friday afternoons with Mr Mullholland.

One Friday afternoon, as we gathered for another adventure with Gulliver, Mr Mullholland announced, “Everyone stand up and form an orderly line, we’re going to the land of giants, Brobdingnag.” For us mostly latchkey kids, this was an adventure like no other. Where were we going? What had Mr Mullholland planned for us? Our excitement carried us down the cold concrete stairwell.

He led us into the assembly hall, a stark space with a huge stage at the far end, usually reserved for austere occasions presided over by the fearsome headmaster (a man who confused me, for he always wore a smart suit and tie, yet smelled of wee). The stage was lined with adult sized chairs and when we clambered onto them, we found ourselves looking down at the hall from an adult’s perspective. I had never felt so grown-up in my life. Then Mr Mullholland appeared carrying one of our little classroom chairs. He sat down, his tall skinny legs folding like a grasshoppers until his head nestled between his knees. Throwing out his arms, he pronounced, “I am Gulliver, and you are now the giants!”

I was enthralled by the transformative power of his performance. Until a sight in the near distance pulled me out of Gulliver’s Travels and back into the reality of St Joseph’s Primary School. It was the headmaster marching up the corridor from his much feared office. He halted at the back of the hall and boomed – “MR MULLHOLLAND!”

My beloved teacher jumped from the child’s seat, turned and began a slow walk forward. And as he walked away from us I’m sure I saw him slouch, his broad shoulders rounded, and a giant of a man diminished in height before my eyes, for when he reached the headmaster he behaved like one of us – a child looking up at the face of adult authority.

Thereafter, Mr Mullholland finished Gulliver’s Travels reading from a book while seated at his desk. It wasn’t the same. I can vividly recall feeling sorry for him, while wondering how a grown-up could be so diminished by another grown-up.

Summer break came, and off my siblings and I travelled to Cavan for our holidays. For me, the freedom was exhilarating, and I explored the landscape like Gulliver in the land of giants and little people. I looked forward to returning to school and telling Mr Mullholland all about my adventures in Ireland; for he loved to hear our stories, as much as he enjoyed telling us his own.

Except, when we returned he wasn’t there. We were introduced to our new teacher, Mrs Whitby, by the wee-smelly headmaster. We were never told where Mr Mullholland went, nor did I ask. I remember wondering why he never said, “Goodbye.” I’ll never know.

This October marks the 300th Anniversary of Jonathan Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels.’ A book that has its roots right here, in Cavan. As I write, I’m wondering if Mr Mullholland ever knew that fact. How proud I would have been to tell him I hailed from Gulliver’s lands.

Jonathan Swift wrote Gulliver’s Travels as a political satire. For me, it will always be a metaphor for our journey from childhood to adulthood; and a reminder that the very best grown-ups never forget what it felt like to be small. Mr Mullholland was one of them.