by Leon Uris
"Mr. Larkin, are you telling me that your village shanachie actually heard of Jean Tijou?"
"Not by name but I'd heard of ‘The Frenchman' time and again in tales of the rising of the era. My village is a particularly proud one and it has been traditional that the priest keep a record of the day-to-day history of the parish. After you visited me last week I went up to my village and borrowed the volume of that era. The reference is in Gaelic but there is mention of thirty of our men traveling to Castle Hubble, as it was called then, and working on the restoration of the Long Hall where a magnificent wrought-iron screen was being built under the direction of a Frenchman."
Caroline Hubble was abashed into silence.
"I agree with your skepticism, Countess," Conor went on. "The bits and pieces fit but the final, conclusive evidence is right here," he said, pointing to the screen. "Every artisan leaves his own brush strokes and Tijou is all over this screen. I can see it as clearly as you can see an Impressionist painter. This screen could not have been executed sixty years before Tijou's time. The work in those days was too ponderous, too tight. He alone was the one who made lace out of iron and let leaves float as though they were bubbling down a stream."
Conor shuffled through the recent restoration plans, found what he was looking for and spread it out. They were the architectural details for reinforcement of the beams and foundation of the Long-Hall required to hold the screen securely. "This footnote is in French."
"Yes, the recent restoration on the hall was done by Frenchmen of the Le Due school."
"Aye. I can't read it exactly but wouldn't it say that anchor bolts and other attachments were found every three feet that were totally unrelated to the present screen?"
She turned the plans around, held her pince-nez to her eyes, then stared at him in astonishment. "Yes, it says that."
"Wouldn't you conclude that those bolts must have held an earlier screen in place?"
"The one destroyed during the Cromwell wars?" she said excitedly. "So that, in fact, Tijou did make one later on."
"That's my conclusion," Conor said.
"Mr. Larkin, I believe I owe you an apology. I've been very skeptical. As you know, this has been the object of tremendous research."
"Well, they didn't have Daddo. The question is, what to do now?"
"Do you think you can build a full restoration from this?"
Conor shook his head no. "Come here, Countess, let me show you something."
They stood as close as their eyes could focus and he traced his fingers over a sweeping curled bar that wove into a narrowing circle, ultimately sprouting iron vegetation in a recurring design. "At this point here you can see with your own eyes where Tijou ends and the German master, Schmidt, begins. Not only are the tools and castings a different size but the composition of the iron itself becomes different. Like oils or marble of different texture, certain irons take on their own unique character. However, the most important difference is that one master cannot get into another master's mind. Schmidt is great but could Cézanne make a perfect imitation of Renoir?"
"I see your point," she said, enthralled.
"Tijou must have known he was creating a masterpiece in the class of his fountain screen at Hampton Court. He set up traps to make certain this could never be duplicated. Copied, yes, but never duplicated. Look at these corner scrolls, would you? Surely Tijou brought in a left-handed blacksmith to execute these. And as for the Italian restoration on the upper section, it's the difference between Verdi and Wagner."
Caroline had shown or told him nothing to indicate an Italian had worked on it but it was obvious he could read the screen like a book and she was not about to question his mastery any further. She was flushed with elation that it was truly a Tijou, truly an immortal work of its kind.
"What should I do, Larkin?" she asked, but even as she uttered the words a tinge of suspicion lingered that he might be trying to oil his way into her confidence and strike out for a commission to establish a nationwide reputation. "What would you recommend?"
"If it were mine there would be no choice," Conor answered. "Jean Tijou means as much to me as Da Vinci means to you. One third of a Tijou is worth a hundred Conor Larkins. I'd leave it alone." As Conor's eyes played over the screen, Caroline closed the book on ever questioning his motives again. "There is some careful restoration that should be done and those counterfeit German and Italian sections ought to be removed."
"Will you undertake it?"
"I'd like to give it a go."
An arrangement was made whereby Conor could come to the Manor once a week to do the job on site.
"I'm curious to know where you were trained."
"Oh, that. Well, in a number of unlikely places. In a wee shop in my village with a very fine master, and under a tree . . ."
"Under a tree?"
"That's where I do most of my reading. Then, there is a stonemason's yard, a good old stony in Derry who's a right fair hand at sculpture. I suppose stone cutting is one of the oldest professions in the world. It predates writing, even ironwork, by thousands of years so they must know something. When I asked him the secret of carving he told me to study the leaves. ‘Conor," he said, 'no two leaves are alike.’"
"So Tijou is Tijou and Schmidt is Schmidt."
"Aye, something like that."
Caroline left him to make some further sketches and retreated to her boudoir. She was drawn to the window by sounds of the boys playing outside. Jeremy and Christopher and a number of visitors from England were in a rugby game on the vast lawn below. Her attention shifted to Larkin as he emerged from the Long Hall.
He was a finely put together man, the kind of body she had once frothed over in fighters and other brawnies, yet his brawn was modified by the stack of drawings under his arm. He was so utterly Irish with his cocked cap and sweet talk but so terrifyingly knowledgeable. Suddenly the ball sailed in his direction and he nimbly brought it to a stop with his feet, picked it up and booted it away. It arched heavenward and seemed to fly forever. After the lads finished gaping they rushed to him and implored him into twenty minutes of play.
*
Roger always brought any late paperwork to Caroline's boudoir, where they set up face-to-face desks in order to work their evenings together. Midway through a stack of correspondence she signaled that it was talking time.
"I think we may finally get something resolved on the screen."
Roger set his work aside and braced for the announcement that a Hungarian ironmaster had been unearthed and would soon be screaming around the Manor corridors.
She related the story with great detail that King Billy had possibly commissioned a screen as a gift to replace the one destroyed. Roger dug about in memory but could add nothing.
"I rather like the idea of restoring and keeping the old screen," he said.
"So do I," she said.
"That chap must have a remarkable background to dig up all that history."
"I should tell you right off he's a Catholic and from Londonderry."
“Really, you're joshing."
"True enough, darling. He'll be the highest of his class we've had about so I thought I'd better brace you to brace everyone else."
"I think we can bear it. Show of democracy and all that. What did you say his name was?"
"Conor Larkin."
"Larkin? Is he a blacksmith? In Londonderry?"
"That's right."
"Larkin? Family has been around for years. Fenians, I believe. Swan had quite a piece of nasty business a year or so ago. Something to do with Caw & Train."
"You're not going to cancel out on me, are you?"
"Of course not," he said. "Frankly I don't remember all the details. Well, never mind. Be sure to check him out to see if he's honest and reliable. You know how bloody feckless they are."
"I have the feeling he'll be quite all right," Caroline answered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Father Cluny arrived at the Larkin cottage overcome
with excitement, for he had received a letter from Liam containing twenty quid to erect the most beautiful tombstone possible for Tomas.
Conor had his stonecutter friend in Derry create a fitting monument and added money of his own for a more appropriate stone for Kilty. When these were done he brought them up to Ballyutogue along with a wrought iron fence to encompass the Larkin plot.
The Larkin graves had always been beautifully kept with devotion from Brigid, Dary and Finola. Now they had the added distinction of fine tombstones from sons who had done well on the outside and remembered.
The letter from Liam also told that he had married the English girl, Mildred, and she was pregnant. As a new Larkin was preparing to enter this life halfway around the world, another Larkin of Ballyutogue prepared to make his departure. As Dary reached his fourteenth year, it was time for him to go off to the diocesan seminary. Although it had been planned for many years, that moment of leaving was a moment of sorrow.
Once again Finola packed the few belongings that each of her sons had taken in some beaten-up piece of luggage purchased from peddlers years ago at some forgotten fair. She fussed over him for the last time, giving all sorts of advice and restraining her tears somehow.
As Father Cluny came she held Dary's hand and they trudged down the path with all the cottage doors open to impart the oft-imparted words of farewell.
"God watch over you, Dary."
"And may the same God watch over you."
The family led a trail of black-scarfed women into St. Columba's for the lighting of candles and prayers, then Dary went alone to the graveyard and said good-by to the daddy he had never really known. The lad stopped at the crossroad and took the suitcase from his sister. "I'll go the rest of the way alone," he said, repeating a Ballyutogue adieu. Finola seized, then released him.
"Good-by, Dary," Brigid said.
The wee one smiled and walked away.
"He's so tiny," Finola wept, "so tiny and frail."
For that instant Brigid felt given to comforting her mother but stopped short at the point of touching her. Father Cluny studied the two women and felt done in by the pity of it. The priest was filled with his own urge to command Brigid to leave. Myles McCracken had gone to Derry to work for Conor and the Larkin cottage would become a mausoleum, but Father Cluny held his tongue. Long before, he had learned to share the never ending sorrows of his parishioners in silence.
A ghastly emptiness encased the Larkin house as each went to a separate cell, Finola to her bedroom where she once had slept with Tomas and where her children had come into the world, Brigid to the loft she had shared with her brothers, Rinty Doyle to the byre to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. As if each had taken a monastic vow of silence, they moved about in their chores with but the barest bones of conversation.
With Myles McCracken out of the way, some of Finola's fears subsided. Any breaking of the silence generally came in short, terse tirades admonishing Brigid to marry Colm O'Neill. Brigid kept her tongue until she could bear it no longer, then countered with verbal violence so fearsome that Finola became wary of pushing her further. Even the matter of Colm joined the other matters of silence.
Brigid had always been plain but managed a touch of loveliness as long as Myles was around. She turned drab. She hated herself for entertaining a persistent nagging thought of how much better life would be if her mother died. She confessed this over and over. After each confession the rancor toward Finola deepened.
The cycle of wanting her mother's death, guilt, confession and penance became her treadmill of existence. After a time she began to forget what Myles looked like. She forgot the sweetness and pain of the sensations that had surged through her when she ran over the bridge into his arms. It all dimmed as though Myles had never really existed. Then, as he faded, hatred for her mother faded too.
Brigid Larkin became totally resigned to spinsterhood, being able neither to love nor to hate any longer with any great fervor.
*
Eight miles out of Derry where the bridge crossed the River Burntollet, a side road wound up onto a wooded crest to the walled confines of the Sacred Heart Seminary of the Holy Order of the Fathers of St. Columba.
Dary Larkin was among eight novices passing through the forbidding gates. For the most part they were, smooth of cheek and soft of hand, indicating they had been lorded over by adoring mothers. Some had come eagerly, like Dary, and some at the prodding of an overburdened family. For some, the journey would be of short duration, a washout. The others would continue to travel it for twelve years into priesthood.
Dary gave up his possessions save his rosary beads, and was assigned to an eight-by-eleven-foot cell in the isolated building which housed twenty other novices. It would be his home for the next four years; simple, rough-hewn, stone-floored and dingy, with only the crucifix on the wall and a faded picture of the sacred heart as company.
On their first day they met the consecrated brothers who were teachers from the Christian Brothers Order. Afterward they were issued a terse command to genuflect as the Monsignor entered the assembly room. A wizened old Monsignor recited why they were there and what would be expected of them in uninspired monotone, never really seeing the faces that held an august glow or were frozen with apprehension. Dogmas of poverty, chastity and obedience were imparted, equally devoid of passion, and the rules, a chronicle of long hours and complete devotion, were tolled.
The machinery that moved the seminary operated on few spoken words and these were imparted in whispers. The nod and the beckon gave all movement in the place a sense of flotation.
The rosary was said with fervent ejaculations, the menu varied by the season, always bad, the hours of classical education, an endurance battle, and humility, total. God was beseeched in states of barefooted prostration with limitless prayer and tasks and duties of chamber pot cleaning variety.
Brother Dary seemed at ease, although there were quiet, hidden tears among many of the others who fell to fright or loneliness. In that first instant Dary was singled out as a strong one, for he had obviously prepared himself since earliest memory.
*
Myles McCracken and Conor became the closest of friends. Myles eagerly plunged into blacksmithing, an opportunity he had never believed existed for him.
Away from the forge, Conor and Cooey Quinn brought him up to a fair level in Gaelic football and he took to hurling as well. Myles was a welcome addition not only to the GAA but to the Gaelic League, where he strove to find his Irish roots.
The crunch was on from the girls, for Myles had the greatest of all qualifications for marriage, steady work. He was nearly as big and handsome as Conor, could sing a ballad even more sweetly, and his smile could charm a worm away from a mother robin. Having lived his life stone poor and unwanted, the sudden rush of attention was a thing to revel in. He would remain faithful to Brigid, of course, learn his trade and then return to her as a man of substance and demand what he could not demand before. That was the plan. He could not bring himself to visit Brigid until then, for the pain would be too much to bear. Ah, but once he was a man of substance, that would be different!
In the beginning, Myles slept in a nook of the forge, then later moved upstairs with Conor. The passage money which he did not use was given to the next brother in line to emigrate so that three McCracken boys were left in Ballyutogue. The eldest was to inherit the land and those who had emigrated or left Ballyutogue sent back money for the two remaining for their passage. A good part of Myles's salary went for that. Yet there were a few coppers jingling in his pocket, a fact he could not comprehend at first. With his first raise in pay, Myles took his own room, the first of his life.
Conor became a bit wary. Although Myles never deviated from his intentions toward Brigid, he just wasn't all that adept at holding the girls at bay.
"You listen to me good, Myles," Conor warned. "Traps are being set for you. You'd better keep your pants buttoned or you're going to end up another Bogside swaddy
."
"On with you, Conor," Myles insisted, "I'm true to Brigid."
"Maybe in your heart, but that rod between your legs has no heart and less conscience. The word came back that you're quite the lover."
"For Christ sake, man, I'm just playing around a little. You know, just playing around."
"That's what all those poor bastards said."
"Not to worry. I'll not be trapped."
Myles's words did not match his deeds. Being in the big city away from communal discipline and poverty and being sought after was too irresistible. Conor's concern deepened.
"If you've got to get laid, for God's sake, don't stick your pen in any Catholic inkwells. Between all the Hail Marys and the weeping and the guilt, there's not great joy in it. Besides, their intentions are deadly."
Again Myles sloughed it off.
"I know some fine little Prod girls in Claudy and Dungiven as well. They'll give you the roll of your life with no strings attached. So don't go fucking any Catholic girls!"
Despite Conor's advice and good intentions, Myles McCracken's eye roved from lass to lass until it came to rest on Maud Tully. There had been talk of Maud and Conor as a twosome but that was more than a year back. When she pressed her seriousness, Conor had backed off. He enjoyed her well enough, particularly as a date for cultural affairs, but her intentions carried overt finality. Besides that, he rather leaned toward Gillian Peabody.
Maud Tully was a clever, bony, vivacious little thing of nineteen who had worked at the Witherspoon & McNab Shirt Factory from the age of ten. She was one of eleven children, eight of whom survived infancy. None of her five brothers ever held a regular job. Her father had been unemployed, except for brief periods, for thirty years. As his sons emigrated, Henry Tully became a gentle drunk, wizened and toothless, seeming twenty years older than his years and never fully out of an alcoholic haze. Maud's mother and two sisters labored in the shirt factory as piecework operatives, averaging about fourpence an hour.