“Yes, my dear friend?”
Was I a dear friend? Who knows? Then I blurted it out.
“What about the gate?”
And I realised in that moment that I had not been aware of how troubled I had been. Lost in other longings, I suppose.
“Ah, the gate.”
“Yes, Thomas, I must know.” Ruthless.
“Must, Olivia? Why? So long ago, Olivia. Such a relatively minor matter.”
“Why did you give it to my father?”
“He needed it.”
“And my mother sent it back.”
“Eventually.”
“The gate, Thomas? Where did it come from?”
We looked at each other; each of us was sad. In the end there would always be a question. Which was just sad. He bowed his head.
“Dear Olivia, must every German gate have opened on to horror?”
“I don’t know. And that’s the truth. For a number of years it opened on to the place …”
“Your father wished for the gate because your brother loved it.”
I wanted to say, that is not an answer. But I just said “And?” Which again was brutal, I suppose.
“We do a lot for those who are dead and whom we loved. To appease a ghost, Olivia. Remember?”
Then someone came up to talk to him, a woman. She said she was a friend of Harriet Calder. At the mention of her name, or was it just out of good manners, he bowed and said how much he wished to speak to her—Ilsa, I think I heard that right—but would she excuse him for one moment as he needed to arrange something with me, and he took me a little to one side and held his hand out to me.
“Not here, Olivia. I must now talk to those who so kindly came to listen to me. Shall we meet tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Your house? My hotel?”
And I didn’t want to let him into my life. It was too beautiful. Which was ungenerous of me.
“Your hotel. We’re in the midst of reconstruction,” I lied.
He smiled at the word.
“Reconstruction takes much time. It is exhausting.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
“I’m going to Sotheby’s tomorrow. There is an Irish sale there. I am particularly interested in a painting by Jack Yeats.”
I’d forgotten that he was so rich. Old money.
“Perhaps we could have lunch afterwards?”
He rang the next morning and cancelled.
“I’m not very well, Olivia. I return to Ireland. I will write. Goodbye.”
A few days later the letter arrived.
Dearest Olivia,
It is clear to me that through a small act of kindness a very long time ago a troubling question remains over a place of veneration for you, the entrance to the ground on which the central tragic event of your life took place. A strange description but one that sounds correct to me. Did the history of this gate desecrate the place? Were the shadows that it cast in summer or winter unworthy of the landscape? Was a memory so precious to you defiled during the years your mother allowed it to stay there? You must judge. You must make the decision.
The gate opened onto a house outside Munich which swung closed on our family for a time during the war. It was used for the purpose of Lebensborn. Lebensborn means “fount of life”—some translate it as “source of life”—and was ironically a child welfare programme initiated by Himmler to aid the racial heredity of the Third Reich. Pregnant wives of SS officers and unmarried pregnant young women were cared for there, prior to and after birth. Much controversy surrounds this enterprise, including the idea, which was subsequently found to be false, that perfect specimens of the perfect race were specifically brought to these homes for the purposes of procreation. Though this, as I said, has been proved untrue, love, as we both know, defies exact definition. The love-act, as it is often referred to in an ambiguous use of words, is a complicated matter. We absorb what we can handle and no more. If we go too far the system breaks down. It is the belief of Klaus Mann, son of Thomas Mann, that their home was so used. That too is disputed.
After the war my father refused to live in that house again. Heinrich and his wife Carlotta, however, felt differently and spent summers there. Carlotta wished for a system of greater security and decided to replace the gate. My brother’s wife is immensely wealthy; security therefore is an obsession. I took the gate. I had it shipped here to open and close on to another landscape. Why? It seemed a symbolic gesture to me and quickly it seemed to me to be part of the new landscape of my life, Lake House. Which is strange because I took a number of other items also, which did not, it seemed to me, fit in. Perhaps we do not fully trust our memory, we need mementoes, and I was finished with that old house. And that is all. Your brother saw a gate that he associated with the heroic; your father saw a gift to make up for gifts he had not given; your mother saw that the gate was inappropriate, symbolic of what she did not wish to consider.
I suggest that you do not impart this information to your mother. It is unnecessary. I see her sometimes in the town. She is serene, I think. My remark that she resembled Harriet Calder, which I was aware at the time distressed you, was, forgive me, inaccurate. Again, my apologies.
Perhaps we will see each other when you next return.
With affection,
Your friend,
Thomas
And I didn’t tell her. I regretted asking him, really. Berated myself for asking for answers to long-ago questions, the answers to which would never provide balm for my wounds. In the end one must heal one’s own. It’s solitary work.
NINETEEN
She died suddenly. “My mother died suddenly,” I say whenever anyone asks. Which is rarely, as you would expect. “A coronary. Massive.” Or so he said, the doctor who rang me and I thought, but she’s a small woman! “Massive” seems wrong. I pulled the telephone off at the root and threw it against the wall. And I cried out “No” and again “No No.” And “No.” But then everyone says no. And then the doctor rang my mobile. Which of course she’d given him. For emergencies. On my instructions. Mothers become more obedient as they grow older. And when he rang back I said, “It’s over,” and he remained silent. Like her. I went home for the funeral. A witness. The only family witness as it happens. Daragh, though he was not physically there, followed her out to where the others lay, walking beside me step by step. We must all find our own best way to endure.
Daragh did his mourning in another country. And I sent photographs of the graves. Helpful as ever. Bishop Fullerton said mass. He’d been “very fond of Sissy O’Hara. Very fond.” Spoke to all of us who’d come “to see her off,” which was virtually the entire town. Referred to the tragedy of “Tom and Sissy’s boy” and how she’d borne so much loss in “her life of quiet courage and spiritual dignity here, in our community.” Lovely speech and then the letters! About what they’d meant, what she’d meant to everyone. How can I summarise? Or guide you to what lay beneath the weight of the words? Perhaps everyone knew that in a sense life had almost defeated them but they’d somehow loved on, loved life, had revered it still. I could tell from the letters that people seemed grateful to know that it is possible, that love can do that. Just in case. And if she’d shocked despair out of herself, once, years ago in a mental hospital, well, that’s what was demanded to make the unendurable endurable. It was an honourable course. They’d lived close to what was lost. He’d always believed that was the only way.
And they had been happy. What more can one say?
TWENTY
So time marched on without either of them. It’s a quickstep. I relied on Patricia, Bridget’s daughter, and on Bogus for stories of what was real, there, in the place that had become the dream-landscape of my life.
Once when I went back to deal with certain issues, as my solicitor put it, I visited Bogus. Aoife was resting so she couldn’t greet me. The news was on. “Gerry looks like a monk on TV, a real ascetic, don’t you think Olivia? Martin doesn’t, but is a very
dedicated man. They’re ‘naturals’ on TV. Though Gerry’s more natural than Martin. But I suppose Martin has other means of communication. And they know short and snappy works on television. Is it sound-bites, they call them? You know, I think the newsmen seem a bit soft on them. Have we laden them down with guilt about Ireland, the sins of their fathers and grandfathers, their great-grandfathers? Ah now, here come the Unionists. Listen to them! Hopeless! Useless! Inarticulate! Apart from Paisley, who lacks a certain charm, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t it amazing, Olivia, they have no facility, none, in the language of the country to which they’ve sworn allegiance and for which they’ve often given their lives. No one understands their story, no one ever will, even if they knew how to tell it. What’s the point? They’ve no history of oppression. And singing the praises of… King Billy? Oh for God’s sake! The Battle of the Boyne? Oh dear, oh dear. And pride in a religion that, as they see it, had defeated Rome, the Mother Church. No one wants to defeat their mother. And no humour. None. At least if they’d sat beside Catholics they’d have got the rhythm of language and have learned how to tell a joke. They’ve had a poor education in the things that matter. Still, I suppose segregation means you won’t be contaminated by another point of view. You know you’re right, all the time, about everything. Both religions agreed on that, at least. They’re together on the idea of segregation. It’s a blessing. Do you not agree, Olivia? It’s an education.” I couldn’t answer because Aoife banged on the floor and he looked at me—with what? I’d rather not know. But he wrote it to me. Determined man, in his own way.
Forgive me, Olivia. I seem to be losing my way. Jim Brannigan’s ill again. Marjorie may go to live in Dublin. Which I find a very painful thought. I’m sure, since you’re a perceptive woman, that you’ve noted I’m not exactly impervious to the glories of Marjorie Brannigan. “Time cannot wither her,” though it’s withered me. Aoife is still not well. I do my best, Olivia, and I know it’s a brutal thing to say but a permanently unwell wife breaks the spirit. A man must tell someone the secrets of his soul. Someone has to know. I want advice, Olivia. I’ve thought of writing Marjorie a letter. What do you think Olivia? Would a letter be a sin? A letter from me? It would, wouldn’t it? I know. I’m prepared to lose my soul but I think it’s lost already. It’s hers. Marjorie has my soul. What can I do, what can my body, the temple of my soul, do but accompany it on its long, long journey of worship? If I had one hour with her after these decades of desire and waking dreams I would suffer the eternal flames of hell, laughing. I’d be laughing, as they say. There, my confession, Olivia, but I trust you more than any priest. Especially now.
Your friend,
Bogus
P.S. Does love drive you mad, Olivia? And now I have a terrible question. I keep asking myself this question, over and over. I keep thinking that if I get the answer right on this I’ll have learned an essential thing. Ah, who am I to think that I could discover an essential thing? But my question, or is it our question, could it have been all for love? And sure isn’t love just torture, Olivia! Was it love spirited Jean McConville away from her nine children? Men can be demons to women! Oh the long list of men and women loved to death for love of Ireland. I’ll stop now. I’m tired and Aoife is calling me. Again. Burn this. I should never have written it—but I had to. I just had to. And I’ll post it.
I wish he hadn’t.
In our few other calls or meetings we made sure we were on safer ground. For us, at least. “Hasn’t the lexicon expanded through years, Olivia: broadcasting ban, the disappeared, human bombs, hunger strikes—didn’t anyone warn that woman Thatcher of the significance of hunger strike in Ireland, didn’t anyone mention the famine?” That, years later, became part of Holocaust Studies. Bridget, who feels very strongly about the Famine, goes to the theme-park—two hundred acres in Limerick—and, alas, she brings back photographs. And Bridget is not photogenic. Oh there’s one I’d love you to see: she’s standing beside a newly constructed coffin-ship, which I told her didn’t seem to be her style at all. God—she looked daggers at me and sure I sent them winging back to her.
“She thinks her trump card is the granddaughter, Carly—Carly Ní Houlihann—what are we coming to, Olivia? Eighteen now, at Trinity. ‘Brilliant girl’ according to Bridget. French is her subject. Amazing when you think we’re not exactly linguists. But maybe we are. I’ve heard Carly is living with her boyfriend, Eton boy, Tristan! Dresses like a tinker, but there you are. I suppose we’ve come a long way. Who ever thought the Taoiseach would be a separated man? Twice. Divorced? Well, as Bridget said, ‘it’s complicated.’ Still, we’ve come a long way. Sexual intercourse—may I use that phrase, Olivia? It still shocks me to be able to say the words out loud—sexual intercourse began in Ireland rather later than 1963. But we caught up. I think we would both agree that we caught up. Much later, when we saw the light, when it came to light that the Bishop of Galway had an illegitimate son. ‘WHAT? NO!’ Priests have no power over us any more.
“And once religion loses that power all that’s left is love of God rather than fear of God. I suppose we’ve been more frightened in our bedrooms than we’ve … well, you know what I mean. Isn’t He the ultimate Father? Who wants their father in the bedroom? Am I shocking you again Olivia? Why do I find it so easy to talk to you? We’re great friends aren’t we? Are you shocked? What’s wrong with being shocked? Anyway, ‘Fuck ’em’ is the feeling now. And fuck ’em we do. We’re on ‘the long slide to happiness.’ Thanks for the Larkin, Olivia, though that long slide is a bumpier ride than people let on. Loved the last line of ‘I Remember, I Remember’: ‘Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.’ We can’t say that any more, can we, about Ireland? Have I gone too far, Olivia? Don’t go now! Talk a bit more.” Though I hadn’t said a word.
Bridget, as she grew older and felt perhaps that she did not have the time left to write a long letter about long ago, sent postcards. And annually, on St. Patrick’s Day, greetings for “old times’ sake,” though no longer with a shamrock—“It’s not that fashionable any more. Only in America, for the parade.” And sometimes I saw her when I returned, which was rarely. She was careful with a woman from another tribe, as she saw me now. “Ah Olivia, sure we’d hardly recognise you.” And then, “Though I suppose it’s because you’re still the same!” Terrifying! She phoned occasionally. “Mr. Middlehoff has gone more into himself. Lost in himself. They say he’s depressed. Ridiculous, I say. He’s just sad. And of course he’s got no religion. Nothing to help him. The sadness descended deep on him when Mrs. Calder died a few months after his father. Though he was never a bundle of laughs, was he, Olivia? Now he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, which in Ireland is a definite sign of insanity.” And she’d laugh. She was right, he probably was lost in himself. Lost in the old dream of Harriet Calder, talking to her silently, the way half the best conversations in a human life go on. Silently. With ghosts. I wrote to him. His reply was short. The normal thank-you letter. A nothing thing really. Just manners.
The letters, the cards and the phone calls from Bridget and Patricia and Bogus grew less frequent as we moved inexorably towards that biblical moment, the millennium, when, with shock, one realised one had lived much of one’s life in another century. The last word on Robert Carter and Bishop Fullerton arrived without warning. Patricia was the messenger. She took time over it, news of death mustn’t be rushed. Robert Carter died first. “He always stayed loyal to Mr. Middlehoff, Olivia. Perfidious Albion does friendship well,” she wrote. And I thought my mother would have laughed at that. I miss her laughter. Always will. Turned out Robert Carter was a war hero. He’d told no one, perhaps believing that an English war hero, even in the Ireland of the sixties and seventies, would not be welcome. Later perhaps he’d forgotten his heroism, sometimes people do, or perhaps he understood that a nation’s history is like a carefully constructed family photograph album. There must be excisions. In fact the local paper, which Patricia sent to me, picked up the Times obituary and with great de
licacy managed to explain in considerable detail the nature of his heroism, the courage with which he’d tended the wounded, without making much of the fact that he was an English soldier. It was a minor masterpiece of elective editing. Bishop Fullerton, who’d believed himself to be in the spiritual preservation business, a kind of area-manager for the Holy Father and for whom the Galway debacle had dealt a blow to his vision of Ireland as “a unique gift to His Holiness, the ultimate example of the perfect Catholic country,” was killed in a car crash on St. Stephen’s Day. He was driving himself. Eamonn was in the Caribbean on his Christmas holiday. “The blessing of that!” Such a relief to Eamonn’s family who’d long feared the death of a bishop on their conscience. The car belonged to the Palace and was a write-off. However Bishop Fullerton, knowing the car to be Palace property, left money to Eamonn to buy his family a new Mercedes. It came with the admonition to “behold St. Christopher! Then go thy way in safety, Eamonn, My Good Shepherd.” Which evidently had Eamonn’s family in “floods of tears, for days.” Tears that turned to laughter. The way tears do.
Though tears came again. We were crying for our friends, like everyone else that September day when the world changed. As did Ireland. And in the ashes of that September day in New York the Provisional IRA finally traced the out line of their own destruction. And that figure—over three thousand dead—became more than a question of mathematics. We’d started our own reckoning, over three thousand of our own dead, which in the context of Northern Ireland is the equivalent of six hundred thousand in America, and one hundred and fifty thousand in Britain. “Quantity has a quality all its own,” as someone once wrote. Bogus rang me: “It’s over now, Olivia. Try raising money for the boys back home in a New York bar now.”
The Truth About Love Page 16