by Kalyan Ray
Maire could tell the pains were coming. The thin knees were drawn up, her pale feet at the end of her narrow legs were jerking up and down unevenly. Brigid’s face was contorted, and she was saying something. Maire bent her head close.
“Padraig, Padraig,” she heard, “O Padraig, what will happen to us?”
“I am here, child,” soothed Maire Aherne, even as it dawned on her that it was still far to Christmas, a good six weeks, and this clotted blood and the ooze that had wet the bed so early was not a good portent. “Aye, so ’tis an early baby,” she muttered, then to cheer Brigid up, she said aloud, “The baby’s in a hurry, like his da, who is always so.”
Brigid looked at her, uncomprehending, then slowly as the pain subsided, she understood. She smiled tentatively at Maire and asked, “Is the boy born yet?”
Mrs. Aherne laughed in sheer relief. “And how did you know that it is a boy?”
“ ’Tis a girl then?” asked Brigid.
“Ah, child,” she said, “birthing is not that easy. It’s the first wave of the good pain. We will not know if a mad boy it is or a wild girl, until some hours now.”
Brigid’s face fell.
“Now save your strength, my girl, and don’t push yet. I will tell you when ’tis time.”
• • •
’TWAS NOT TILL much later that I came to know about all this. It was the tenth of November. I had gone as usual up to Mr. O’Flaherty’s school. More and more these days, it was I who taught school while Mr. O’Flaherty would sit on his chair under the tree in front and enjoy a bit of sun on the odd day, puffing on his pipe. I could tell he was enjoying my telling all the stories he used to tell us, when we were children.
Ever since he decided to teach me all the Latin he knew, he gave me half a dozen books in that tongue. After my teaching of the young ones was over, I would stay on for my Latin lessons, which ran into the evening, and he would offer me some of his simple dinner, embered potatoes, buttermilk, an egg—if his birds had laid. I would be that tired by then, my head full with all the good talk and smoking a twist of his tobacco. I would often take his offer of a straw pallet in the corner of his hut. But this day black clouds had swept up from the Atlantic. Once the thick sea-blown rain started, the roads would be impassable for the next few days. Already the prow of Ben Bulben looked hazy in the light as I walked home quickly.
As I was turned the bend on the sloping road into the village, I saw a clump of folks standing in front of Padraig’s cottage. Ah, he has returned, I thought and, throwing my bag of books over my back, ran until I was nigh out of breath at his front yard, when something odd struck me.
In the way they stood about, the neighbours seemed shaken, and there was no talk, nothing lively. What is it? I thought, Whatever could it be with Padraig? There was a bit of struggle of some kind at the front door. I could see the corduroy of strained backs, for they seemed to be pulling something out—and it was surely a bad fit. Then they did get through. What they were grappling out of the cottage was a coffin. I shuddered involuntarily and stood still.
The women had broken into a high-pitched keen but Padraig’s mother stepped out, pale and gaunt, and spoke urgently. “ ’Twill fright and wake the baby,” she said. The women became silent, wrapping their black shawls about themselves. Then all began to follow the coffin box. Father Conlon was there, his head bowed, holding his little black Bible in his left hand, the rosary hanging from it, each bead small as an autumn blackberry ruined by frost.
’Twas a small enough procession that was headed for the cemetery. I followed, numb. We reached in no time, walking through the stone gate on which leant its rusty Celtic cross. The cloud seemed lower now. The hard rain would be upon us in an hour, I feared, with the Atlantic gusts skirling overhead. The keening had started again. The women had all known Brigid from when she was born, and the rocking and the bitter cries rose from their hearts. Mrs. Aherne stood, a little apart from Father Conlon, her grief carved on her sleepless face. She had a look of helplessness. That was the last word I would have thought of, ever, to describe Padraig’s ma.
Father Conlon stepped up to her. “I am that sorry, Maire, for my hard words. Where is Padraig . . .” His voice trailed off. I was amazed to see this, but Padraig’s ma put her head down on his shoulder. She did not weep. Then she stood back and faced the coffin on the ground. The grave had already been dug. After the prayers, the coffin was lowered. Padraig’s ma moved aside and the priest came and stood by her.
“The child’s early, Father, much too early.”
“You are there to take good care of it. I have faith, Maire, you will pull her through, God grant that.”
“ ’Tis hard, Father, for she won’t feed. We tried giving her milk, but her wee face is puffed and broken in a rash. She is too tiny to keep it down and is fast sinking, I fear”—her voice quavered—“and no one here just now to give her pap. Someone heard of a woman beyond Collooney. She has also birthed, but then, even if she agrees, the weather’s turning so, it would take two days at least.”
We could hear the neighbours drop handfuls of sod where they fell with a hollow sound on Brigid’s coffin. The wind was rising.
“Whatever shall we do then?” said Father Conlon. His distress for the doomed baby was written all over his unshaven face. His Adam’s apple moved up and down, and he was close to tears. This was not a Father Conlon I had known either. “Where’s the baby now?”
“Mrs. Hanrahan down the lane is sitting with her, by my fire, till I return.” Mrs. Aherne clutched at Father Conlon’s sleeve. “Will you . . . will you come and give her the last words, Father?”
But before anyone could say a word, there was a wild despairing cry. Startled, I looked and saw an older woman, black shawl fluttering, hobble and run, her mouth open. Her hands were flailing, but her progress was slower than her flinging arms made it look. Padraig’s ma ran towards her, screaming, “Where’s the baby, where? Oh Mrs. Hanrahan, where is my baby?”
The old woman collapsed on the road, panting, words choked in her breathless throat, just pointing back at the direction of the cottage whence she had come. “Aaah, aah,” she panted, bent fingers clawing at her throat. “Aaah . . .” A faint welt, as from a hard blow, was beginning to form on her face.
Mrs. Aherne stood transfixed for a moment, then took off. She was a tall, strong woman, and two nights of sleepless vigil could not slow her. Holding her wide skirts up with both hands, she ran, her feet flying over the stones, and everyone else followed, the men, Father Conlon grunting with effort, the women, and I. But ahead of all of us was the desperate speed of Maire Aherne.
She raced into the dark door of her cottage, her skirts trailing up a swirl of dust from the yard. Motes whirled in the doorway, and then the crowd burst in, jostling to get inside. I stood packed with others.
In the silence of the room with its low red fire, we saw Padraig’s ma on one side of the bed. Then on the bed, as our eyes became used to the gloom, we saw the baby, held in grimy hands, its tiny mouth suckling the nipple of half-naked Odd Madgy Finn, whose eyes were closed in bliss.
Padraig
Dublin
October 8, 1843
As I walked into the unknown city, I realized how one could lose one’s identity here. One could wear any face in its hurrying crowds.
Even such a wondrous variety of bridges to cross the Liffey every few streets amazed and consternated my head. I drank in the sight of the many manners of houses, arches, painted doors, and the variety of colourful awnings.
I spied a tall column with a figure at its very top, solitary at that great height. I read the name: Lord Nelson. Aye, I thought, that’s very like the English to put their hero on a huge height without the benefit of a ladder or even a skimpy rope so he could, of a misty day, fetch himself a nourishing pint!
I walked aimlessly, crossing street after street until I came across a fair building with grand pillars and grounds like a carpet around it. I read the sign in front: So thi
s was the great Trinity College our Mr. O’Flaherty had told me about. It had been the All Hallows Monastery, before it had been snatched by Elizabeth. How welcome are Catholics here? I thought, my heart sore at our humiliation. But another thought struck me. In County Sligo where I was raised, I could name those who were not Catholics on my finger: the landlord’s agent and some of his henchmen. But here, in Dublin, there must reside such great numbers that could fill such a vast college as this. It stopped me short. I looked about me, at all the crowds that flowed past. I could not tell for certain between Catholic or otherwise. The thought also struck me: neither could they.
Nearby, I came across another mighty building. On its gate was a brass plate, shiny enough that I could see myself leaning forward: Bank of Ireland. So this was where they gather our monies before they take it all away.
People loitered before gleaming shop-windows, staring at lavish displays of merchandise, ladies’ dresses in many colours on shiny mannequins, large as folk. Men puffed cigars and pipes, with fine hats and thin canes, not the stout blackthorns of the rural counties. Every part of all the walls that was within reach was plastered with bills and notices. Such a strange world with so much to sell! I thought of my mother’s modest shop, its simple, almost severe, merchandise.
This Grafton Street was fairyland itself. There was a large sign, Jaeger, on a coloured glass above, and within the thick wide panes, jewels and dazzling silver. A little farther, on a sloping awning, simply the word Johnson proclaimed the name of another rich merchant. Fine carriages rolled by so silently that I marveled. Then I understood: Grafton Street was paved with blocks of pine! I thought of the sod thatches and the one-room cottages that dot our counties, whitewashed or weatherbeaten, floors packed with dirt, as were most homes and Mr. O’Flaherty’s school. And we Irish leave our footprints wherever we go, I thought wryly, for we live barefoot on dirt floors, and few can afford to lay boards upon their floors. Here the roads—or at least one—might not be paved with gold, but it was paved with that precious wood itself, so no slush marred the dainty ladies who might, from the looks of some, not be as immaculate as their dresses.
There were more fat people here than I had seen from end to end in an entire lifetime in Sligo, toddling about, bellies like lambeg drums, bloated under fancy waistcoats. A fierce variety of moustaches were also to be seen, waxed, in many shades, coaxed up, combed or curled. No wonder, in this big whirling city, folks could so easily shake off such a matter as the Clontarf meeting, which had seemed so momentous to me. As I gawked at the fine shops, I felt broken into fragments. One part of me wanted to prise off pieces of flagstone and fling them into the grand shops full of dazzling goods and ladies and waistcoated men. Another wanted to own a fine shop—any shop—and count the money in the ringing till. Yet another piece of me wanted to sit down right there and weep after the great failure of Clontarf. But all the parts of me were footsore and wanted a drink. Even a tramp’s poteen would have been welcome, so bedraggled and low in spirit I felt, all alone in this billowing crowd.
Evening was descending and the crowds draining away, as if abandoning the city for the coming of night. I can hardly recall how long I continued to wander the now-empty streets until I came to a dainty bridge, fancifully decorated with iron railwork. I turned right to go across it, but a man intercepted me and asked me to pay a ha’penny.
“Why?” I asked testily, having just walked over any number of bridges without let or hindrance. He chuckled at me for a bumpkin and said, “Because ’tis the Ha’Penny Bridge, of course.”
Not in a humour to be amused by this, I turned on my heel and walked away until I could barely see the high head of the Bank of Ireland. I cared not if I were lost. At the far end of the lane was a streetlamp with a sign that faintly read Dame Street. I saw stairs leading below, the blue waft of tobacco smoke, a few feet standing about on the trampled straw, and heard a hum of conversation. I knew it was a place to drink and I longed to rest my tired legs. Did not a man in a brave new city need a drink, heartsick and addled with sights as I was?
• • •
WHY I WANTED my fourth glass of whiskey I cannot tell, for I am not that kind of drinking man—as anyone who knows me from Strandhill to Sligo can vouch. I do like the first warmth of the gullet as it goes down, the feeling of ease. I enjoy the second one’s savour of peat and comfort, and am done. But on this day, there was summat in me which would not be comforted. I despise those who turn over their fourth glass and roll their eyes to cry or look for a fight. But I drank as if from a thirst, and a sense of having to let go of something precious. I also knew that soon I would have to find words to defend my lost dream, yet resenting its failure. What a strange state of mind this was.
Two men were talking at my table, wrestling with words. For the better part of an hour, I paid them little attention. I had come with my drinks and sat down with a tired sigh, ankle-deep in straw. The younger one looked a dandy with mocking eyes. He was dressed in a soft brown coat with round copper buttons, his hair thick and curly under a trim felt hat with a tan band around it. The other was of middle years, with a three-day growth of beard, whose talk, as I began to listen, was clearly from farther west, from Fermanagh perchance, or from Tyrone. This older man wore worn corduroy and cloth buttons, and his hands were rough and crusty. I would not be surprised to see him at a hayrick or a threshing, or his leg pushing a spade down to square off and lift sod, or dusting the dirt off the potatoes. ’Twas odd to listen to them—the city-bred and the rough countryman—knowing that such a chance meeting of opposites could only happen over peaty whiskey in a public house. As their animosity grew, I realized I was beginning to pay their words more attention.
“And ye have an opinion of the weather and the parliament and the sun and moon, eh?” scoffed the older man.
The young man smiled and shook his head. He let his finger run round the rim of his half-empty glass, then looked up, including me in his glance. “I could have predicted today’s matter, but then I am a betting man. A betting man should know his nag. And I can say confidently, I saw through that Dan O’Connell.” He flipped his palm open, as if anyone with sense would agree with him.
A hard meal it was for me to digest the meaning of today, and I grimaced, despite myself. This young suave was speaking as if our failed hero was little more than a gombeen come to cheat us, playing fast and loose with our hopes.
“Mr. Blackburn,” the older man said, holding his calloused palms together, as if not trusting them separately, “you are too flippant about a man who has served Ireland well all his life, but fumbles on one cursed day.”
Blackburn motioned to the serving man behind the counter. “Will you join us, sir, in a toast?” he said to me directly. I was taken by surprise, not just to be included, but also that a toast was to be proposed. I could tell this Blackburn liked to hold court. The drinks arrived and Blackburn paid. What the older man had said rang fair to me: Indeed, a lifetime of service, and one wrong step; which part sat heavier?
“To Mr. Daniel O’Connell,” said Blackburn, and raised his glass.
“Mr. O’Connell!” I repeated, and bolted it down. It ran like fire through me.
But Blackburn was not done with his toast. “To Mr. O’Connell, who makes politics a trade, the master of three great establishments—in Kerry, in Dublin, and in London.”
I was aghast and I knew my face showed it. I had drunk my portion. The older man turned to me and, ignoring the whiskey altogether, said to me in Gaelic, “Ni cuimhnightear ar an aran ataithte. Eaten bread is forgotten. All that O’Connell has done will not anymore be remembered.” Then he extended his hand. “Fergus Murphy from Donegal.” I told him my name, and we shook hands.
“You’re angry with me, I can see, my friend, so let me make amends. My name is Alexander Blackburn,” said the young man to me in a conciliatory tone. “I’ve been sitting with Murphy here, talking over this matter. I too was going to see the sport at Clontarf.”
“Ach,�
� I said bitterly, “you would have gone there not to hear, but to tear him down later at your linen table and fine china. You went there to laugh at us roaring Irishmen.”
“Why, Mr. Aherne,” he said, amused by my helpless vehemence, “why do you think that at all? I am myself Ireland born. Does that not give us both the right to hear and judge—not simply high rhetoric in a speech, but what is plain sense without the rise of yeasty eloquence? Why can’t we talk about it here, or on the lawns of Trinity College”—he gestured expansively—“and up and down our land?” I sensed with rising anger that he needed to have me acknowledge the superiority of his mind, and would be persistent.
I wished bitterly I had not the hedge-schooling by our Mr. O’Flaherty, but such sharp weapons of mind as his teachers at Trinity College had given him. I had never spoken to or imagined anyone like him. He could better me in argument, and I cared not to be shown up. I flung down a shilling—an entire shilling—for his whiskey I had drunk. I felt the shame of O’Connell drench me like wretched sweat.
I stormed up the stairs, into the cool night of October, and headed towards the Ha’Penny Bridge to let my heart calm by the nocturnal flow of the Liffey. The street was deserted, its shops shut fast. The toll-man had left, so I stood on a step of the bridge and leant my head against the cool metalwork. I knew nowhere in this unfamiliar city to lay down my heavy head. How long I stayed thus, I do not rightly recall, but I was rudely brought back by Blackburn’s loud laugh as they came up the street towards me. I’ll just stay here and let them pass, I told myself, as if I were Brendan trying to calm me down. Oddly enough, I had a sure feeling that quiet Brendan, our reading Brendan, would have found words to defeat this smooth city-bred Alexander Blackburn.