No Country for Young Men

by Julia O'Faolain

  ‘I don’t know what he means,’ said Grainne coldly. ‘You’ll remember what I said to tell Cormac?’

  ‘Oh, don’t have a worry on that score, Mrs O’Malley, now. You can trust me.’

  And he must have delivered the message, after all, for Cormac came home shortly afterwards and sneaked upstairs. She caught a glimpse of him through the bannisters, dodging upwards with a stack of papers under his arm.

  He must have got something to eat while out. Michael too. The skipped meal left her feeling that the family structure had collapsed. Meals were the pivot of a housewife’s function. Now Cormac was getting his from the likes of Patsy Flynn, a bad influence in anybody’s book. She had heard him last year indoctrinating Cormac. ‘Be Irish,’ he had kept begging in his whining, nasal voice. ‘Ah, now Cormac, for yer grandfather’s sake, be Irish.’ Patsy’s mental make-up was as simple as his shape which was like that of a man in a child’s sketch. His face could be drawn with a compass; there were two red spots on his cheeks and his hands were like hunks of steak. There was no question as to what Patsy meant by being Irish. His prison sentence had been for placing bombs in British pillar-boxes. Grainne had seen him singing in the club, his face a sweaty glitter of fervour.

  ‘Whether on the gallows high,

  Or on battlefield we die,’

  he had sung,

  ‘What matter if for Erin dear we fall?’

  If anyone should be put away in the national interest it was Patsy Flynn.

  After half an hour, she slipped up to Cormac’s room and found him asleep. She tucked him in, half eager to kiss his unprotected face, half repelled by the unfinished awkwardness of it and the knowledge that he would have turned from her if awake.

  Beside the bed were the papers he had brought home. The top one was a comic paper. Cheaply printed, with sooty photographs, it featured a hero, Super Mick, who outfought a bowler-hatted robot standing for British Capitalism. The paper was called Focalín, Gaelic, she remembered, for Little Word. Whose? The distributing address was in London and the thing so illiterate, it could have been a product of the British Special Branch aimed at undermining the Irish psyche. It mocked hard and knowingly. A letter signed ‘Turd Policeman’ made literary reference to a distinguished Irish novel and jokes of no distinction at all about IRA detainees’ alleged habit of torturing themselves in their cells so as to discredit the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The passion for self-abuse, complained the purportedly hard-conned constable, was forcing the force to forego tea breaks and watch at all times lest suspects damage themselves under cover of sleep. The half-clever, half-infantile humour struck Grainne as perfectly attuned to the likes of Patsy Flynn. Looked at another way, the paper, if Irish, was itself a form of self-abuse.

  Bereft, she stared at the turf sod which was going whitish-grey like the muzzle of an old dog. Why wasn’t Michael home? She had a physical illusion that she would be whole again only when she held him in her arms. Did that merely mean that he was to her as routine was to laboratory mice and institutions to inmates who grew addicted to them?

  But Michael could come alive and blaze with a gaiety which was the more thrilling for the long wait between times. He could be iconoclastic, insightful, funny, perhaps a tiny bit mad? She had hoped that her coming back would spark him off. She had, with equally forlorn logic, reasoned that her leaving, five months ago, would jerk him from his apathy.

  ‘Forget it. Just quit tormenting yerself with hoping. There’s not a single thing you can do that’ll make a pick of difference.’ This, the verdict of the O’Malleys’ char, Doris, had been delivered shortly before Grainne left. ‘Get it into yer head,’ Doris had advised, ‘that you and yer hubby are goin’ to have to jog along the way yez are doing for the rest of yeer mortal lives. Mark my words. Miracles don’t happen.’

  It had been this prophecy which had sent Grainne hurtling from the house and across the Irish Sea.

  ‘Yiz aren’t the first,’ Doris put the matter in a stern perspective, ‘and I doubt yiz’ll be the last. Annywan taking to the drink the way your hubby has …’

  *

  ‘Are we walking in circles?’ James couldn’t be sure, for the roads seemed to wind and a spiral might be the only way to advance. The ground was filmed with grease.

  ‘City’s built on a bog,’ said O’Malley. ‘Founded by Norsemen. Seafarers. Lovers of wet. Cellars flooded all winter. Here we are.’

  James, who had begun to despair, saw that they had turned in the gate of a driveway. Gravel was gritty underfoot. An early-Victorian house stood away from them like a theatre backdrop. Steps rose to its front door which was surmounted by a fanlight. On either side were high-pedimented windows screened by blinds. Abruptly one knifed upwards, revealing a lit room which hung like a suspended stage half-way up the dark façade. A woman silhouetted in the foreground swung what James took to be a pole.

  *

  ‘May I come in?’ Limp-necked, like a faded daisy, a head of white hair hung just in the door. Aunt Judith swung from the handle, pulling and leaning on it so that the door hinges creaked.

  Grainne opened it wide. ‘Come in,’ she invited. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No, girl, no, don’t worry yourself!’ The old lady advanced in a tremor of hesitancy. ‘It’s just the TV. They say it’s dangerous to leave it on after close-down and it’s different from the set I’m used to. I didn’t want to turn the wrong knob, break it maybe?’ She was all uncertainty. ‘I know how intrusive I must be. A stranger in the house,’ she commiserated. ‘Burdensome.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Her accent was old-fashioned genteel. Grainne tried to recall when she’d heard it last, a Dublin specialty but of a period long gone. ‘People have their ways. But, you see …’ The electric blanket on her bed was turned on too. One read warnings. ‘Electrocution.’

  She smiled, deprecated, might have been charged with the current already. Doubts steamed from her, hissed – something about her teeth or palate? – and she shifted from foot to foot as though about to levitate. She looked ungrounded, frail.

  Grainne was ashamed. ‘I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you sit down. We can have a chat.’

  About what, though?

  The two perched, doubtfully, across from each other.

  ‘Would you,’ Grainne hoped, ‘care for some warm milk? Tea?’

  But the old lady wouldn’t. She swooped to the floor, retrieving what looked like a scrap of felt. Her clothes seemed to be moulting. Yes, she had enjoyed the show. Her supper too. ‘You’re too good to me. I’ve disrupted your lives.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I have.’

  ‘Michael,’ Grainne hoped, ‘will soon be back.’

  ‘Who?’

  She refused to go into this again. But into what could they usefully probe? The aunt’s nunnish status embarrassed Grainne who feared she might expect visits from priests, and religious statues in her room. Probably she would. Grainne, who had rid the house of any she’d inherited, would have to go to some shop which sold illuminated images of the Infant of Prague or perhaps the Sacred Heart drawing aside his robe to reveal an organ bleeding solid pigment for our sins. Of omission and commission. All this was only if the old thing was staying on, which as a long-term proposition would have to be thought about hard.

  Smile at her. Shuttle of vigilance in the old face. Wonders why she’s here and where next. The Times had a piece the other day about how the mad can fake sanity. She’s looking at me. Perhaps I look mad? Contagion. Say something.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Grainne looked around the room, ‘you’ll think I’m a dreadful housekeeper. I’ve been away, you see. Tomorrow, Doris will clear things up.’

  Reaching behind herself to illustrate, she retrieved a hockey-stick from deep in the recess of the couch in which she was sitting. Must have been there for months. Pencils, coins, crumbs and hair-grips disappeared in that maw. Now this.

  The old lady held out h
er hand for the stick.

  ‘May I?’

  Her fingers felt frail as chicken bones. They tried to clench around the handle. Had she arthritis? No, she’d managed to make two fists. A twitch of humour flicked for the first time around her mouth. ‘I’m seeking a memory,’ she told Grainne in a social voice. ‘Very old.’

  ‘Oh. Did you play hockey?’

  But the old woman was not holding the stick like a hockey-stick. She had it upside down and was thrusting forward as though making hay. ‘You said,’ she surprised Grainne by remembering, ‘that my brother, Seamus, was your grandfather. He used to teach recruits to charge with bayonets. Drilling for the Volunteers.’ She laughed, jabbed. ‘I’d forgotten. They gave me shock treatment, you know. It impairs the memory. Also, I sometimes doubt whether I want to recover the things they buried. Memories? It might be as well not to dig them up? One can get nasty surprises. Not everything buried is treasure.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Grainne stared in fascination. A sensuous apathy had come over her. She watched the old woman’s fledgling movements. Jab, went the old thing at a cushion, jab at the air. Was some tapestry of remembered images being built up in Aunt Judith’s mind by these embryo movements? Her gestures were unmartial. She reminded Grainne of pictures of Victorian women playing tennis with those tear-shaped bats. They had always served under-arm, hadn’t they? Probably the tight sleeves they wore wouldn’t permit them to raise their arms. Scoop, they went with their rackets and scoop, jab, went prim Aunt Judith.

  ‘From below up,’ she informed Grainne. ‘Into the guts. Oh, you may think of it as brutal, and wounds in the intestine are terrible, but if you’re going to have war then there’s no room for sentimentality. Seamus used to say that. Owen, too, and our poor brother, Eamonn, before he died. Our lads had no ammunition. That was why they had to use ambushes and hand-to-hand combat. They’d jump out from behind something. Like that. Close up. See. Pow!’ Aunt Judith manoeuvred delicately around the sofa. ‘Then quick into the guts! They couldn’t waste bullets. Seamus used to say that you had to be several jumps ahead of the other fellow. Ready. Determined. Not panicky. Wait till you see the whites of their eyes and then POW! Who’s that?’ cried Aunt Judith, tremulous and breaking her own rules. ‘Who?’ she panicked, her weapon at the ready as the drawing-room door opened. ‘You trapped me!’ she accused Grainne, who was by now ready to behold a ghost.

  It was merely Michael. Teetering, he interrogated: ‘Grainne? Back, eh? Dint say you were coming or …’ Daunted, he trailed off, ‘Wha …?’

  Aunt Judith’s voice rose an octave. ‘A man? Here? I should have known!’ She tilted her hockey-stick into his stomach.

  Michael could have been fighting bees. Drunk Grainne saw, and saw in the same moment one of his bee-flailing hands catch Great-aunt Judith on the side of the head.

  The aunt crumpled. Michael, steadying himself, collapsed in safety on the sofa. ‘Bugger,’ he declared. ‘Think I’m going to be … sick.’

  Oh vo, vo, vo!’ came from the floor. ‘The girl’s a stool pigeon. You won’t catch me that easily. I deny it all! Violence,’ she cried. ‘I never thought I’d see the day! You’d hit an old …’

  ‘Are you all right, Aunt Judith?’ Grainne tried to haul her up but the poncho had slid down over her aunt’s elbows and was pinioning her like a strait-jacket. Grainne wrestled with wool. Michael retched into the coal scuttle.

  ‘A conspiracy,’ cried the benighted creature on the floor. ‘You’re Owen’s cat’s paw! Who are you anyway?’

  Smells were thick in the room. And, Oh Lord! A man stood in the doorway. A stranger. Respectable, Grainne judged. He wore nondescript clothes but they were clean. Thank God for that. You never knew with what class of customer Michael would hitch up in his cups.

  ‘Can I help?’ he asked, and put his arms around Aunt Judith, lifting her bodily. He was a big man. Fair-haired. ‘I don’t think she’s hurt,’ he said. ‘She was just caught off balance. Maybe we should get her to bed? I’ll carry her if you’ll show me where.’

  ‘It’s upstairs.’ Grainne was mortified, but led the way.

  Noises came from the fireplace as she went out of the door: ‘Grainne, m’dear, mush introdushe … friend. Oh God, I think she has punctured my shtomach!’

  ‘Don’t be idiotic, Michael! She couldn’t puncture a cushion. Do try not to be sick on the carpet, will you? I’ll be back in a minute.’ Shrewish, but what could he expect, welcoming her home like that after all his solicitations?

  The man followed her up the stairs carrying Aunt Judith in his arms like a baby. The old thing was croaking. ‘Destiny,’ said she, and added several bird calls. Then she started to sing an old song that Grainne hadn’t heard in decades and the aunt must surely not have heard in many more:

  ‘But the boys of Kilmichael were ready,

  And met them with powder and shot,

  And the Irish Republican Army

  Made bits of the whole shaggin’ lot!’

  The man laid her on the bed and helped pull off the poncho. She had some sort of shift on underneath it which Grainne decided not to bother removing.

  ‘My name’s Grainne O’Malley.’

  ‘James Duffy.’

  He was an American, she saw now, paying attention to him. He was examining the photographs laid out on the bedside table.

  ‘The background could be Boston,’ he observed.

  ‘Maybe it is. Aunt Judith’s father was a returned Yank.’ Oh dear, he was a Yank himself. ‘You’ve been a great help,’ she told him. ‘I’ll manage the rest. Why don’t you go down and get yourself a drink?’

  He left and she finished getting her grandaunt to bed.

  ‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ said the aunt in a shrill, childish voice. ‘Sparky? The Yank?’

  ‘Who? No, don’t worry,’ said Grainne, deciding that the old thing was still delirious. ‘Relax, Aunt Judith. You’re among friends.’

  ‘He’s sweet on you,’ said the little girl’s voice. ‘I can tell. I watched him watch you.’

  ‘Good night now, Aunt Judith.’ Grainne summoned a ward sister’s authoritative manner. Better bully her for her own good. What would they do if she was really mad? Would their GP be able to cope? Would he even come, she wondered? It was getting on to midnight. ‘I’m leaving the nightlight on,’ she said. ‘Sleep well. See you in the morning.’

  Like a child seeking protection from night-time fears, the old lady had scooted under the clothes. Grainne, turning in the doorway, saw nothing but a nose rising from a turbulence of pillows and noted that her aunt looked more like one of the phantoms from which a child might be hiding.

  5

  In the drawing room the American was not drinking, which led her to hope that he might now leave.

  ‘Your husband asked me to help him to bed. He’s resting.’

  That meant out cold.

  ‘You’ve been kind,’ she told him. Her hand jumped to her face. ‘Have I a smudge?’

  ‘Sorry, I was noting the resemblance to your aunt’s photograph. She was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ There was a charge of attention coming at her, as though he had concentrated his energies into that steady stare. He must think he’d fallen into a stage-Irish household. Probably he’d dine out on this.

  Interrogative echoes hung and she realized that he had been asking questions. About what? Taxis, was it? Telephones? Damn, she thought. Michael had let her down again. Let himself down. Cut an idiotic figure in front of this stranger and upset the aunt whom he had landed them with. The unfairness of it! He’d conked out conveniently too, leaving her to feel embarrassed. A flurry of rage hit her and she thought simultaneously of waking him up, throwing out this embarrassing witness and smoothing the thing over. Oh God, she’d probably been making faces.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m between worlds,’ she apologized. ‘It’s not Hallowe’en, is it? The souls of the dead seem to be about.’

  The eccentricity of this struck her and she was obliged
to explain about Sister Judith’s fear of being committed by Owen and how the poncho had turned into a strait-jacket. For a moment she thought of telling him how the aunt had mixed him up with someone called Sparky. Then she decided not to.

  ‘As though the dead generations were weaving spells.’

  He asked whether the Owen she had mentioned was the Owen O’Malley and she said ‘No less!’ But the irony missed him. ‘Usually,’ she said, ‘the old bastard stays tidily in the grave and the subconscious, and impinges less …’ Remembering afterwards, it seemed that the guest had said nothing, just politely listened to her laborious efforts to make her family seem sane. At some stage it got through to her that the man was impressed rather than shocked and then, of course, her excuses began to sound like boasts. Being Owen O’Malley’s grandson, she heard herself say of Michael, must be in some ways as trying as being George Washington’s might be in the States.

  ‘God,’ she interrupted herself, mortified by the pretentiousness of this, ‘one shouldn’t try humour with strangers. It never works.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Say, I’ve been nerving myself to ask. You wouldn’t have some food around, would you? Anything would do. I’ve been trying to get to a restaurant all evening and …’

  So that was all that was wrong with him: hunger! She laughed. ‘With Michael one never gets to a restaurant. I’m starving myself,’ she realized. ‘There’s ham in the kitchen, also some hock. Come on then. Between one thing and another I forgot to eat.’ Her hand, she noticed now, was doing a jig. That was hunger but looked like Parkinson’s disease.

  The American patted it. ‘Relax.’

  ‘It’s not drink.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was. You’ve been shaken up.’

  The understanding was insidious. She could have wept or thrown her arms around him. Controlling these midnight impulses, she led him to the kitchen. ‘Sandwich?’