And when I had digested all, and begun my recovery, and my essential pattern of forgiveness, I found that I had acquired the courage to do many things for which I had long wished, and at which I had always failed.
I sold the house, discarded most of the artifacts of my parents' life, left the little street where I had lived since infancy, and moved out here, some miles from Clonmel, to a prettier house, from which I can look down on the river.
My day has changed. I no longer stay in bed until the haphazard hours of noon and later. Without fail, I cook for myself every day, and from time to time I have company; Marian Harney spends weekends and some of her holidays here. We never squabble; I have a sense of achievement with another human being that I never had before.
And that sense of magic I always wanted? It courses through my imagination like molten silver. So much was damaged, so much was shaken—and so much was recovered in such a short time. All of them are now laid to rest in my mind.
And I have plans to write, beginning perhaps with the edition of their letters. Two weeks ago, I had a piece about Laurence Sterne, who lived in Clonmel, accepted by an English newspaper; they're showing a new version of Tristram Shandy on television soon. But I have greater plans than that—I am now wealthy beyond my dreams.
Yesterday, Marian Harney and I drove the twenty miles or so to walk again the ruins of Tipperary Castle. The main entrance has almost disappeared. There's a scrap of the demesne wall, and I found a rusted iron spar; I think it came from a gate pillar or something.
The place in general is like Troy, not much left but grass ramparts. Large piles of stones and rubble mark out the lines of the buildings—it was massive. All the terraces except one have long been plowed.
The bridge survives, but it is a bridge to no particular place. And the lake still has a pair of swans; I wonder if they are the descendants of the swans that Charles saw.
When I had finished reading the last letter, more baffled than ever, we broke the brown sealing wax and opened the Joseph Harney envelope. It contained a drawing of Tipperary Castle, the same that had been given to Terence Burke. And it contained a document from Joseph Harney—a letter to me, written many, many years ago.
Dear Michael,
You may never read this letter—but I have charged myself with writing it. You know who I am—although we have never met; I am the same Joe Harney who was Minister for Transport, then Minister for Health, and Minister for Industry and Commerce. You know what I did, I suppose, in the War of Independence, because there have been so many books and articles, and even a film about the battle on Northumberland Road and Boland's Mill. But you do not know about my place in your life, and in that of your parents.
To tell you the truth, I had mixed feelings about the marriage of Charles O'Brien—because I was in love with April myself. But I loved Charles more than I have ever loved any man; I loved his nobility—he had complete decency. He was the most generous, genuine man I ever met. When they married, I told myself that there was only one chance for me now to marry April—but since that would involve the death of my dearest friend through natural causes, that was no chance at all!
You realize that I'm joking—the thing I think I wanted last in life was that anything should happen to Charles O'Brien. Later, I myself married, very happily, a woman whom I adore more with each passing day.
So when they came back from their wedding, in December 1922, I bowed gently out of their lives for a time. Soon I began to visit them, and I visited often. I went there for weekends, and when the civil war ended, I took a job in Limerick, in part to be near them, and I began to take an active interest in politics.
In the spring of 1924, I received a letter from Charles, asking me quite tersely to come to Tipperary as soon as possible. April, he said, was “feeling less than well.” I had a good friend in Limerick, a doctor, called Brendan Hartigan, and he had a new car, so the two of us went out together.
With Charles's permission, Brendan examined April, and he agreed with her diagnosis. “The patient always knows,” he said. April, against all the odds—and, I think, due to Charles's great care of her—was expecting a child. Charles had such mixed feelings.
“How am I going to get her through it?” he asked me. I gave up my job—it wasn't a very important one, anyway—and I came out to help him. In fact, I took over the managing of the place and he devoted all his time to April—he gave her every hour of every day. Running my political life was easy enough, provided I went back into Limerick once every two weeks or so.
Charles O'Brien taught me how to love people; I never saw such devotion. His wife was going to be safe—that was what he decided. The doctors confined her to bed; they told her that if she stayed quiet, she had a very good chance of going the full term. And of course she could not get enough of Charles's company—she lit up when he came into the room, not that he was ever out of her room for long.
Against all the odds, April went the full term. A baby boy was delivered in the last week of January 1925. The mother was fine, the baby was fine, you never saw such excitement. I was there, I heard the cries; everything you ever heard about the birth of an important baby—it happened that night. And never was a baby born that was more important. Certainly you have to go back a long time for a more important birth—that was in Bethlehem, I believe, nearly two thousand years ago! Or so I joked to Charles and April.
After a few days, I fetched old Mrs. O'Brien and she came to see the child, her grandson. And I agreed to stay on at the castle. The country by and large was settling down, and who was I, anyway? I was a fellow who carried a gun once upon a time, and those days were over. And now I was back among people that I loved, and they had a baby. To stay on was an easy decision.
On the night of the 15th of May 1925, a Thursday night—the baby was about three and a half months old—there was a thunderstorm. It was very brief, but we had lightning near the castle. It didn't trouble me; it didn't seem to trouble anyone—the baby was already a sound sleeper, and by now he controlled the entire place anyway.
All the next day I was uneasy. I went around in a kind of querulous mood. You know those days when you're searching for something and you don't know what it is you're searching for? That's what I was like. I went to bed early, I tossed and turned, and then I went to sleep.
The next thing I knew was my door being hammered on, and Charles shouting at me. There was smoke everywhere—and I could not make it out. I ran out of there and saw Charles ahead of me—and there were actual flames ahead of us. They weren't so bad that we couldn't get past, and I caught up to Charles and was beside him—and he was carrying the baby, who was still asleep.
I took the baby from him—we had a clear path now and no smoke and he went back to help April. He shouted to me that she was gathering clothes. As I finished my journey downstairs Charles reappeared, and he skidded a suitcase down the marble steps.
I remember thinking, “This is no time to be packing a case”—but he shouted at me to grab it. I did, and I was almost the only one up and about. We had no bell or alarm gong or anything like that—everybody in Tipperary knew when it was time to eat, so I had no means of warning people.
As far as I could I got away from the castle. I just kept going, the baby crooked softly in my left arm, and lugging this damn suitcase with my right hand. When I got up onto the highest part of the Long Terrace I looked back, and I never saw anything like it. There were flames everywhere in the main building. Now at last people came running out, and I wanted to shout—but I didn't want to wake the baby. So I went back down a little—but even from there I could feel the flames, so I retreated again.
I thought about putting the baby down on the grass—but I was afraid that somebody would step on him. So there I stood, helpless, hoping that someone would see me, and come and take the baby, so that I could go and help Charles and April.
We found out afterward what had happened. The previous day's lightning had hit a metal stanchion embedded in a beam t
hat was rotten but didn't appear so from the outside; and because it looked good it had never been replaced. That beam ran right up under the bedrooms, and all that day it had smoldered. Then, when it caught fire—it went up like tinder.
In those days, we had no fire-prevention treatments for new timbers, and that corridor had all new flooring. And there were fabrics everywhere—April had some kind of tapestry hanging from every wall, and many of them were old. They all caught fire.
One of the older servant-girls came up the terrace, and she saw me and the baby, and she was so thankful. She took the baby, and I went down as fast as I could run. No sign of them—no sign anywhere, and nobody had seen them. People were moving farther and farther away; the smoke was frightful, you couldn't see a thing from the front of the building.
There was a back staircase—all those houses had staircases everywhere—and I headed for that. The servants' hall, and the rooms where we all had our offices—they weren't affected. But the main house was in an even worse conflagration. I never want to feel as frantic again in my life. I ran everywhere, I even got into the house, and then I saw that beams were coming down.
We lost twelve people in that fire. And among them we lost Charles and April. Isn't it ironic—when you think of how they had twice fought off fire? It still remains a source of awful wonder to me that the house— especially the part we had so carefully restored—was so completely burned out. As I'm recalling it now, I see that my hands are shaking.
I spent the days that followed at Ardobreen with old Mrs. O'Brien, and together we looked after the infant. Believe it or not, the old man was still alive, and still sharp. They had seen the fire; they were up all night watching it. I think she knew the worst; he didn't. What broke their heart was the fact that they were now too old to look after their one and only grandchild.
The solution came from Mrs. O'Brien. Charles had told her of one other love affair—a girl he met in Dublin, who now lived in Clonmel. Mrs. O'Brien had met her the day we opened the castle with a grand banquet. The two women had become good friends. Mrs. O'Brien was fond of anybody who was fond of Charles.
I was dispatched to find this woman—and by now you have guessed. She was Margery Nugent; her maiden name was Coleman. She had told Mrs. O'Brien how it broke her heart that she couldn't have children. And how much she had wished that she could have married Charles O'Brien. I might be wrong about this, but I think she said that she married into the county so as not to be far from Charles.
When all the papers were done, it was of course discovered that April had indeed donated the house to the nation. The idea came to her as a trick to stop the Irregulars from burning down the place—and then she and Charles followed it through and donated it formally, because at that stage they had no heir. The takeover would not be complete until they died, and in the meantime they would open it to the public on certain days a year, and get tax relief for any work they did to improve the building.
Then, the pregnancy was so all-consuming that they never got a chance to take the estate back again. They had started legal proceedings, but the lawyers hadn't even got around to making the application.
Mrs. O'Brien and I put the adoption process in motion. The papers presented no problem—Mr. and Mrs. John Joseph Nugent would be the legally adopting parents of this child, who was never to be told. I have never understood why the child was never to be told—probably because there was such a stigma attached to adoption; it usually meant illegitimacy.
Not only that, the adopting father insisted that some device be constructed whereby people would think the child was his—and to pretend that she was away in confinement at her parents' house, Margery went to stay at Ardobreen for several months. You can imagine how Mrs. O'Brien loved having her grandchild—namely you—in that house.
But I can't stand lies and deceptions, and I decided to write this letter and let the wise hand of Time take care of it.
That was the only complication. Except for one thing. The nation, after years of dithering, divided the estate lands. A family that bought Ardobreen after the O'Briens passed away got a large chunk of it. And nobody wanted what was left of the house; nobody wanted to rebuild it. So it just lay there, and people plundered the beautiful stone.
But the law specified a sum of ten thousand to the heirs of the castle, should any next of kin wish to claim it. Nobody did—because everybody knew about you and thought that one day you'd find out. The money, with interest accumulating every year, is there in the Land Commission in Dublin.
I have drawn all these facts together and left it to the discretion of my family as to whether they should ever be divulged. If they decide to tell the story to you, Michael, they'll have done so because they'll have assessed that it will do you nothing but good to be told who you are. In Ireland, that's something we don't always know.
If and when you read this, know that you were doubly fortunate. Not only were you raised by decent folk, you also came naturally of wonderful people. What man can say that he had four parents, all of them exemplary? In short, in your spirit you had a brilliant past, and in your being you had a safe existence. That's Ireland for you!
And wherever you go, you'll also have my good wishes like fair wind in your sails.
Yours sincerely,
Joseph (Joe) Harney.
It will take me years to make sense of all this—to make emotional sense, that is. I know that I'll go back over the “evidence” again and again for things that I insufficiently celebrated.
Such as the sacrifices of my adopting mother, Margery Coleman, who must have longed to tell me the story of my life. That was her main thrust—the truth of things as she saw them through her camera.
Such as the decency of my adopting father, John Joe Nugent, to behave to me so gently and amusingly and acceptingly. He taught me to sing, and he taught me the words of songs—mostly railroad songs—and how to identify a locomotive, and how his uncle helped build railroads in North America.
Such as the size of the spirit possessed by my mother, April Burke— to use the money she had been left for such a noble and brilliant enterprise, to keep beauty preserved. And to perceive the man who loved her, even if it took her a while. Or did it?
And such as my real father, Charles O'Brien, whose writings taught me that we do not have to continue as we were. Or thought we were. And that life brings out its brightest colors only when you ask.
In the Land Commission offices, I was attended to by a boy I once taught. He was a quiet fellow in school. And he became a quiet man. I had not known that I would be dealing with him.
He also knew of other papers—the inheritance from Bernard and Amelia O'Brien at Ardobreen. My adopted father would have nothing to do with it, and my mother never told me. It simply sat there and piled up, and if I never claimed it the state would have when I died. There's nothing so complicated as inheritance law.
This former student of mine had prepared all sorts of documents for me. And some of them were clearly outside his purview. I asked him why. He said that I'd told him one day that he had a mind like the poet John Keats, and that ever since then, he could always raise his spirits up on that memory.
On the street outside, I was scarcely able to walk. Or take in how much I was now worth. But I knew immediately what I was going to do.
I was going to establish—and I have—an annual award through the library for the writing of personal history. Above and beyond that, I have more than enough money to build and endow a small theater. It will have within it an exhibition space for local photographers and an annual contest for them. And if anyone wants to found a railway historical society, I will pay for that too. Thus, I shall honor all to whom I feel indebted. What man, indeed, has been fortunate enough to have four parents?
On Sundays, when the weather is fine, Marian and I drive over to the castle and trace again its outlines. And we stand on the grass-covered terraces and admire the view, the son of the owners and the daughter of their beloved friend.
FRANK DELANEY was born in Tipperary, Ireland. Before his novel Ireland, a bestseller and his first novel to be published in the United States, and Simple Courage, his American nonfiction debut, a career in broadcasting earned him fame across the United Kingdom. A judge for the Booker Prize, he has had several fiction and nonfiction bestsellers in the United Kingdom; he also writes frequently for American and British publications. He now lives with his wife, Diane Meier, in New York and Connecticut.
Also by Frank Delaney
Ireland
Simple Courage
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Frank Delaney, L.L.C.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered
trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Delaney, Frank
Tipperary: a novel / Frank Delaney.
p. cm.
1. Land tenure—Fiction. 2. Landowners—Fiction. 3. Ireland—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6054.E396T56 2007 823'.914—dc22 2007013186
www.atrandom.com
eISBN: 978-1-58836-657-3
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Tipperary: A Novel of Ireland Page 49