The Nightside of the Country

by Meaghan Delahunt

What would it take for a man to make the great empathic leap and see this situation from a woman’s point of view? If more men knew the extent to which women fear what some men can do, would they take more responsibility for their actions? Would a man then be mindful of crossing a street at night, to signal that he is not a threat, instead of walking behind a woman, creating chaos in her mind? What would it take for a man to ensure that the night doesn’t always have to end like this: a woman lying on a dark street hoping that someone will hear her.

  At the end of the week, in the House of the Holy Trinity, the guesthouse owned by nuns, I wake to find that B has gone.

  She’s left a package for me at the reception desk. Inside are handwritten pages and two filled notebooks. There’s an unfinished final chapter for me, she writes. On top of the package is a smooth green stone.

  For you, the note says. And a stone for you to keep.

  I’d got used to those nights in the dining hall by the fire, the light falling into the sea through the picture window; the exchange of stories. The whisky golden in her glass. She left no forwarding address – real or virtual – because she has no forwarding address. She’s left the island and I realise now that it’s also time for me to leave.

  She is on a pilgrimage, she writes. One day she hopes you will join her.

  ✳

  THE SEA AT OUR BACKS

  (unfinished)

  I’m a stranger here, and I’m not the only one.

  I look round the ferry and I do not stand out, off-season, as one of the few foreigners. No. It’s clear that I matter less to the other passengers than the women in headscarves, their excited weans, their husbands nervously smokin on deck. Arabic words float on the breeze. I watch the Greeks warily observe the women in headscarves. For the moment, I am safe.

  I smile at the weans and they smile shyly back. They’re slidin around the wet deck in their new trainers and I worry that the smallest one, a boy, about three years old, could slide through the white railings; slide bluely overboard into the Aegean. God, I think. After all they’ve been through – to lose a child like that! Of course, I’ve no idea what they’ve been through. Perhaps they’re locals now, making their way back to some other island. Who knows? But there’s something about them. They have the alert look of the recently displaced, a look I know well. It’s the look on my own face. A look I see every time I pass a mirror or a shop window. I note their new phones, new clothes, rucksacks. I wonder at them. I’m anxious for the sliding boy.

  They hold up their phones and photograph each other as we pass small islands. I offer to take a photo of a woman in a bright headscarf and glitter cardigan with her four weans. But she insists, smiling, that I join the photo. She entreats her husband to take the shot. And so I stand out on deck with the woman and three of her children. The wind whips our faces and our hair. We hold on tight to each other, laughing into the sea spray, and I try to gather up the girls’ hair, but the wind is too strong. The husband comes over to show us the photo on his phone. He speaks English. He’s telling me they’re from Afghanistan. That he once had his own business and that he once had a life before the Taliban. This is the first day of their new life, he says. They’ve been processed in Athens, he now has the European identity card. They hope to get to Germany, he says. Because the Greeks have no jobs, not even for themselves, so I know we must keep going. And it is my daughter’s first birthday! She was born in the camp in Athens, he says.

  In the photo, we’re all happy and laughing. In years to come, in their new lives in Germany, maybe, the family will one day look at that photo and get to thinking: who was that woman on deck? That foreign woman who smiled at us?

  It’s better that they have no idea.

  What was life like in Afghanistan? I ask the man.

  He looks over at his daughters and his wife, shakes his head. It was not good. It was worse than that. With my daughters…the Taliban…what life could they have?

  The twin daughters are dressed in all in pink. Their t-shirts and trainers are pink. They wear cropped jeans with pink braces. They have fair hair and one of the twins has lost her front teeth. They are about ten years old: the family is beautiful. One of the girls reaches into a rucksack, and it’s then that I see the blue-and-white of the logo – UNCHR – and the child offers me the last of her UN-issue bubble-gum. I’m so moved by this that I take it from her and silently put the gum in my mouth. Behind my sunglasses, my eyes fill up. Thank you, I say and we give each other a hug. Briefly, she smiles her gap-toothed smile, and holds my hand tight.

  Thank you, she says, delighted with herself, sounding out the English words.

  Drop all expectations, the Taoists say. This takes practice. For a future event, have one expectation only, for example: that you will smile, or enjoy yourself. That’s it. So simple. Smile, enjoy yourself. Time is short.

  I’ve enjoyed myself today with a refugee family. I smile to myself as I note all this down.

  The port has a blue handwritten sign in English and Greek along the whitewashed walls: Welcome! There’s a bronze sculpture of Icarus in the harbour. We get to the island late, after midnight, and the air is warm and fragrant and the small port is busy with cars and trucks and Army jeeps. Men stand around in fatigues, cigarettes in hand, waiting for the new recruits to get off the ferry. I mind we’re close to the border. I say goodbye to the refugee family and we hug and kiss on both cheeks and the little girls hold my hand tight and then stand waving at me from the deck.

  I walk out into the warm night, leaning a little on my stick, stiff after the journey. A man gifted me the stick the day I left the Saint’s island and the guesthouse, and I’m glad of it now. An elderly woman appears in front of me with my name wrote on a piece of cardboard.

  I’m Sofia, she says, Καλώς Ήρθατε. Welcome.

  Sofia. Dimitri’s aunt. I know her stories only through him. She has a past, a political past. She was a child when the Germans came through; when she was young she joined the Left, against the junta, was sent to prison. Dimitri says we have a lot in common. He’s arranged for me to stay with her. When I used to think of Sofia, I always thought of a woman in black, peering into a small white cup, one elbow rested on a wooden table. I used to think of a white cube house with a red tiled roof. I’ve seen the photos of her village. Just the thought of this used to calm me. To sit at such a table, with such a person. To tell her everything.

  This is how it will go:

  You’re a complicated woman, she’ll say, in Greek, and her niece will translate for us.

  We’re all complicated, I’ll answer.

  And then I’ll wait. I’m waiting for her to read my future in the coffee grains; to tell me that all will be well, that I have nothin to fear.

  It will be dark soon, she’ll say, rest up. No harm can come to you.

  From the shore below there’s nothing but the sound of the waves.

  Sit, she will say, closing her eyes. Listen.

  ✳

  You’re almost tempted by this island, the scent of frangipani (you know it’s frangipani) and the woman Sofia and B’s version of the end. And you’re tempted to end it there, just to please her. Or to please yourself. Some kind of happy ending. How seductive. What a comfort. And if this were a different kind of story perhaps you could stop just there. Smile, enjoy yourself. It’s over. Your work is done. But it’s not that kind of story – you know that by now – and you both know it doesn’t end that way.

  WHEN THE NIGHT HITS DOWN

  In my room, with the bag of coins and the I Ching, I sit with the 24-hour news, the sound turned down. Everything on a loop and I wait. The news from the Old Country: the man found, dug deep in that beach in County L—. They’ve found traces of the man: one shoe, a leather bag strap, pieces of bone. DNA. I know the man. I know immediately. The police gather the evidence. And I weigh up the odds – my odds – even though police evidence can’t be used, I know that. Special agreements since the Peace and so on. But a civilian found the body.
And the full impact – what it means – my immunity may not hold. Again the digger in the sand, the forensics team. There may be more than one body. I turn off the sound completely and sit on the bed, hugging a pillow to my chest; my free hand frets the bed covers. And then there I am once more, myself on the screen — clips from the interview — only a week ago but it seems longer, much longer – the heat of the lights, the side door entrance, the security men in suits. I turn the sound up a little. I can just make out what I’m sayin: about X, the Movement, the interrogations. How no-one went to the police back then. How nothin was done and X is still out there and men like him are still out there. About justice in this Time of the Felled Men.

  And then The Big Man comes on. I turn the sound full up now, just in time to hear the words: liar and the Peace and enemies of the Peace. I turn the sound up just in time to hear: lack of evidence…witch-hunt…bandwagon…lack of credibility… Of course the Movement…no cover-up… never took the law into its own…never put anyone out of the country… Then they ask The Big Man about the find on the beach in County L—. He pauses, strokes his beard. Let’s just say, there’s a connection here…perhaps…let’s just say… this woman has a history. And I realise then exactly what he’s doing. What he will do. This woman – I hear, in that moment, in his voice – this history will be used against me. And though I’m not responsible for the bodies in the sand – I didn’t disappear them – he’ll try to discredit me. To protect himself. To protect them all. Specifically, to protect the men in the Movement. And my story? The woman’s story? What happens to that?

  And then a photo flashes up in black-and-white, the long dark hair around my face. A prison photo. An earlier incarnation. I stare hard at that photo from thirty years before, surprised to find myself, once again, for more than one reason: A Most Wanted Person.

  I turn off the television in the guesthouse room and shake the bag of coins and they teem bronze across the table. I take six coins and throw them three times. I open the I Ching, the Book of Changes and I’m tryin to get the gist, what the hexagrams mean. I have a question but the answer escapes me. I take out the old map of Europe from my rucksack, close my eyes, throw another coin, see where it lands. Jesus Christ. I look at the map again, just to be sure. After all this time. It makes me want to laugh. There?

  Perhaps I should throw another coin. And then, I think, perhaps I should ring Dimitri. Just to make sure.

  I lean out from my window in this guesthouse run by nuns, the phone at arm’s length. I struggle for reception. The coins, I tell my ex-husband. This time it’s serious.

  Yes. Dimitri pauses. Nai. I hear him take a long drag of his cigarette.

  So. Your village…? I’m tentative as I say this. Sounding him out.

  There, you can hide in plain sight, he says. He always loved an English idiom.

  In plain sight? I laugh this back at him. A nervous laugh.

  No problem, he says. You can stay with Sofia…

  I should go?

  He does not hesitate, Go.

  He doesn’t ask me why it’s serious now, more serious than before. He knows my history. He’s at home, in London, and he’s seen the interview. Bravo, he congratulates me. You stayed calm. You stayed strong. And it’s headline news. It’s everywhere, he’s sayin. It’s out there. They can’t stop it now.

  I go down to the port and from a distance, I scan the faces of the pilgrims and day-tourists. How will I know him? If I throw dust on this invisible man, will it trace the outline of his threat? I decide to take one last walk for luck and so I make my way up past the Abbey. There’s a crowd of people and a man near the entrance with a rucksack, reading a guide-book, he looks up and smiles at me and I ask him where he got his stick. The stick is carved, strong and heavy, and the man smiles kindly and tells me he’s a walker himself, leaving today, in fact. Take it. It’s yours for as long as you’re here, he presses it into my hand. I’m wary. I can’t place his accent. It’s yours. He smiles at me, again. Take it .

  Thank you, I say. And as I take the stick, I feel – what do I feel? – fortunate is the word, perhaps. Overwhelmed. The kindness of strangers: enough to make ye weep. Thank you again, I say to him. Good luck to ye. I make for the Bay at the Back of the Ocean but don’t walk in a straight line or obey any maps. I’m done with all that. I set off on my own pilgrim route with two stones in my pocket and the keyring with the picture of the Saint. I’ll leave the notebooks and a stone, for M.

  At the edge of the shore there’s a woman playing with her girl-child.

  I stand at this sea edge, a short distance from the woman and the girl, and without thinking, without effort, I put a hand in my pocket and feel for the stones. I extend an arm back and throw one into the sea. The child sees the stone disappear into the waves and points in my direction. Her mother follows her gaze and smiles and nods. The child then copies me: she picks up a stone, runs towards the waves, and drops the stone into the water. Her mother claps and smiles and I do too. Finally, to do this. And I close my eyes, make a wish for a different future for this girl-child and for myself. I close my eyes and wish this world into being. I’m feeling a bit light-headed, the other stone light in my pocket: a commitment to this future. I wave to the woman and her child and set off walking. The machair is green and firm underfoot. And for sure, I’ll keep the stick. I test its weight and heft, measure its use. I’ll keep this with me, it’ll be keepin me safe – and it won’t look strange – just a woman of a certain age – just a woman with a stick. And for sure, I’m still a fugitive, I say to myself. But also – after all this time, one final walk – I’m surely, also, some manner of pilgrim now?

  Up ahead, I see a man stride across the machair. My shoulders tense, but then I recognise him. It’s the man from the Abbey, the man who gave me the stick. I relax and wave but he doesn’t respond. He’s not lookin at me, he’s watching his steps, I think – the uneven ground – lost in his thoughts. Perhaps he’s not seen me? I wave again. Then I see that he moves quickly, too quickly towards me but I do not see the threat until it has me by the throat. I try to raise the stick, I raise it in front of my face – I’ll not go down without a fight – as his shadow falls upon me and the night hits down.

  ✳

  Acknowledgements

  With many thanks to Creative Scotland for an Open Project Literature grant which enabled me to finish this novel. Thanks also to my Australian agent, Gaby Naher; to Jessica Bennett and Bill Marx; to Elaine Henry and Tarlochan Gata-Aura. With thanks to everyone at UWAP for their care and attention and dedication under adversity.

  Other works

  Atwood, Margaret ( 1982) ‘Writing the Male Character’, Hagey Lecture, University of Waterloo https://wist.info/atwood-margaret/25926/

  Eliot, T.S (1919) Tradition and the Individual Talent, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69400/tradition-and-the-individual-talent

  Le Guin, Ursula K. (1989) Dancing at the Edge of the World: Thoughts on Words, Women, Places, Grove Press, New York, USA.

  Solnit, Rebecca (2014) Men Explain Things to Me, Granta Books, London UK