The Hunger

by David Rees

  His parents worried about his taciturnity, his withdrawal into literature, his withdrawal from the company of other young people. “I admire his learning,” his father said, “but he should go to Flanagan’s Bar on a Saturday night and get himself drunk!”

  “Is that a sign of being a man?” Mrs Tangney asked, sarcastically.

  “Well…” Eugene relapsed into silence. Michael, in fact, did sometimes get drunk, but his parents did not know it.

  “He has the mind of a priest,” Margaret Tangney said. “It would give me great joy if he entered the Church.”

  She had said this on one occasion to Michael, who was incredulous. “Me? In a soutane?” He laughed. “God is not mocked, Mother.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I am not worthy. Domine non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum.”

  “If all Irishmen spoke so we wouldn’t have a Church at all? And you are not finishing the prayer: sed tantum diic verbo et sanabitur anima mea ― say but the word and my soul shall be healed. Is something troubling you, Michael?”

  “No.” He stared, feigning surprise. “Should there be?”

  HE had met Anthony on a hot Sunday afternoon when he was trespassing on the Eagle Lodge estate. He had heard of the agent’s departure and that no one else had yet arrived; it was an excellent opportunity to explore. Michael had lived near Eagle Lodge all his life but never seen it ― he had not previously risked entering the grounds as the agent had a reputation for shooting accurately at poachers. The house was not as large as some country houses in Ireland. It had been built in the 1780s as a summer residence for the Marquess of Letterfrack, who, at the turn of the century, had got heavily into debt and sold the house with the surrounding three hundred acres of land to Anthony’s grandfather.

  Michael, watching from a clump of rhododendrons, saw at the end of a neglected, gravelled drive an attractive brick Georgian villa, a window on either side of the porch and three above. In the middle of the lawn was a group of larch trees. He loved larches: the tiny buds in spring like green dust, the pale feathery needles in autumn. He walked boldly up the drive, round the house ― there was no sign of anyone indoors ― and found himself in a huge, wildly overgrown garden. The grass came up to his knees; summer flowers blossomed in great profusion, enswathed in thistles, docks, dandelions, buttercups. The agent had evidently been much more interested in poachers than in gardeners.

  At the bottom of the garden, beyond a hedge, was a patch where vegetables had once been grown, but it was derelict now. There were trees laden with ripening apples, plums, pears; soft fruit bushes, the crop unpicked or fallen to the ground. He helped himself to some raspberries ― delicious, sweet ― and wiped his brow. It was a sultry July day. The vegetable garden petered out in a tangle of bushes, but someone, he noticed, had once made a path that was not yet quite impenetrably dense with brambles. The path led into a small wood ― unusual in treeless Galway ― and the land sloped sharply downwards. He could hear a stream. He walked on, and the noise of the stream became a roar: he could now see a waterfall cascading over rocks into a pool of some size. Stretched out by the pool was a man. He had no clothes on.

  Michael was acutely embarrassed. He had never confronted a naked adult body before apart from his own; what kind of person was this who dared to reveal himself so brazenly? Was he someone in authority at Eagle Lodge? But… he was asleep. And beautiful.

  A lazy, drawling, English voice said “Are you going to stand there the whole day? Come down here.”

  Michael turned on his heel and made to run off, but the other called “Don’t go! There’s no harm done.” The voice was not angry, Michael realized; it was gentle and … almost pleading. He walked slowly down to the pool. “You thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. I saw you before you saw me. You look hot.”

  “It’s hot weather, surely,” Michael said.

  “Why don’t you strip too, and swim?”

  At that moment there was nothing he wanted to do more. He was prickly with sweat ― the heat of the day, his struggle with the overgrown garden, the tension of this meeting. Who was this man? Presumably the owner, but English landlords were not in the habit of taking all their clothes off and talking to Irish natives as equals. Why don’t I swim, Michael thought, but the idea of his naked body being scrutinized made him feel very uncomfortable. Then … to hell with it. Let him stare if he wants to; I’m not so ugly. He undressed and ran into the pool.

  It was superbly cold. He splashed about, then swam, ducked his head under the waterfall. The tension drained away.

  “Here, you may have my towel,” Anthony said.

  As he dried himself Michael was aware of the eyes looking at his face, then at his legs, his arms, elsewhere. He is as I am! He turned and gazed at Anthony, astonished. There is someone else in the world. I am not alone.

  Anthony was smiling, Michael solemn.

  “When you’re dressed,” Anthony said, “and it’s time I got dressed too, we’ll go back to the house and I’ll make tea. There are no servants yet; I’ve been here only one day. And you can tell me who you are and what you’re doing here ― your whole life story. Then I’ll tell you mine. Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not a ghost!”

  Three hours later Michael was walking back to his parents’ house, seeing little of the familiar landscape; his mind was in turmoil. Heavy, bruised clouds gathered over the mountains and lightning flickered. The air was muggy, still. He would probably not reach home before the storm began, but he was oblivious to the weather. He did not even notice the first heavy drops, and was amazed to find, when he opened the door of the forge, that he was wet right through.

  What had been left unsaid was as important as what was said. There had been no instant invitation, as might happen nowadays, to go upstairs and fuck; and neither of them mentioned past sexual histories and non-histories, or present desires. Michael felt certain of one thing, however: he wants me as much as I want him. But… there is danger of hell-fire.

  What was said, as Anthony had intimated, was biographical, though Michael did most of the listening. Anthony’s world was a revelation. Michael knew of it, of course, from books, newspapers, and people talking, but he had never conversed with an Englishman in this way, and had never met anyone who had been to India. Places that were abstractions, coloured by his own mental images, suddenly became alive, no longer figments of his dreaming. He felt he could really see London now.

  And there was the sheer niceness of this man, too, his charm and exuberance, and the way he sat in his parlour drinking tea with the son of an Irish blacksmith as if it was the most common everyday occurrence. Books: “Have you read… ?” Anthony asked, several times, and on the whole Michael had not. “It’s in the house,” Anthony said; “borrow it if you want.”

  Was this love? Did it happen so quickly? Yes, it did: one day he had not noticed Joseph Lenehan or Dan Leahy, the next he had, and he could not take his eyes off them or get them out of his thoughts.

  If he didn’t want me, I wouldn’t have been sitting on that sofa drinking tea. He’d have accused me of trespassing, ordered me out of the grounds, probably handed me over to the peelers. Is it love with him, or does he just want my body? Not that in either case Michael was at all ready to hand himself over, but he would soon find out. Anthony had offered him employment and he had unhesitatingly accepted, even though the idea of quitting his present situation had not previously occurred to him. The job was that of general factotum: the garden needed attention, and Michael could perhaps help in the house until Anthony hired a cook and maybe a couple of other servants.

  A month went by, and Anthony made no attempt to find other servants. He did the work himself, or shared it with Michael ― directing operations in the garden, cooking some of the meals, even cleaning the rooms. Michael was surprised, but said nothing. He was given a free run of the house as if they were partners, ate his meals with Anthony, sat with him in the evenings, reading, talking.

&
nbsp; There were few visitors ― Mrs Peacock had been an early caller ― and when they were present, Michael made himself scarce or acted up the servant role. He did this without being asked, but Anthony said “If you didn’t do so, I would tell you to.” Anthony knew no one in the neighbourhood, and seemed disinclined to form any acquaintanceships. It is because of me, Michael said to himself, as they swam together in the pool; it has to be that ― there is no other reason.

  But still nothing was said. His bedroom was across the passage from Anthony’s, and he would lie awake at night, wishing he could sleep, listening to Anthony turn over, or snore, or get up to shut a window. This love was far more painful than the previous two, for he knew this man, spoke to him, shared the same space all day, every day. And yet… we have not touched; I have not sinned.

  He was on the point of giving in his notice. He couldn’t stand the strain any longer; it would surely be easier to be apart from him, not see him again. Not see him again? He couldn’t live with that either.

  He lay in bed staring at the moonlight. He heard Anthony’s footsteps: the door opened. “I wanted … that first afternoon!” Anthony said. “I’ve watched you … how you walk, your eyes. Your body. I had to be sure. I had to wait. I love your gentle, sweet character… I love you.”

  Michael lay there a moment, then got out of bed; touched Anthony’s skin, shoulders, arms. Anthony took his hand and led him into his own room. The first real kisses of Michael’s adult life. The first hands stroking his body.

  Afterwards, drifting towards sleep, he thought: I have sinned now. But was Sodom and Gomorrah as this was? “But the men of Sodom were wicked and sinners before the Lord exceedingly … Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and overthrew those cities with all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.” There were no wicked men in this bed, he told himself, no one who has sinned exceedingly. It was love. But the Lord rained down brimstone and fire. God is love.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ___________________________________

  THAT man should be in the army, not in the church,” said Mrs Peacock. “He would make an excellent sergeant-major.” She was referring to Father Quinlan.

  “Nevertheless, my dear,” Mr Peacock replied, “without him this morning the mob would have been uncontrollable. We would have had a riot on our hands.”

  The Relief Committee had held its first meeting, but so great was the crowd who wanted to hear its deliberations that it had adjourned from Dr Lenehan’s house to the bigger premises of Flanagan’s Bar. Nearly everyone whose entire subsistence was the potato tried to cram in, demanding immediate solutions to their problems. When the committee had no immediate solutions to offer, the scene grew ugly; Mr Peacock could not make himself heard above the noise, and Keliher, enraged because he had the impression he and his family were to be allowed to starve, threw a glass of porter at the Protestant clergyman. Anthony leaped into action and bundled him outside; “I expect the highest standards from my tenants!” he shouted. “You will set an example!”

  “You won’t go hungry!” Keliher shouted back. “You’ll see to yourself first!”

  “If you had brought your potatoes up to the house on Saturday,” Anthony said, “you’d have no worries now!”

  When he returned inside, Father Quinlan was imposing order on the chaos, yelling out instructions left, right and centre. Only one representative of each family was to stay in the bar. If there were any further disturbances, he would send for the peelers. Mr Peacock, Anthony noticed, had a very disagreeable expression on his face, as if he had stuck his head near some disgusting smell. His hair was wet with porter.

  “The police are of no use,” said Mrs Peacock, in a tone of voice that sounded as if she’d like to see blood flowing. “Soldiers are required when peasants run amok! A few shots would have scattered them like sheep!”

  What slaughter might have ensued had soldiers opened fire in a crowded bar did not enter Mrs Peacock’s head, but her husband, knowing she would not understand ― or did not want to ― merely said “They did scatter like sheep. We had no trouble after Father Quinlan spoke to them.” He sighed. “He certainly knows how to lead his flock.”

  “It is still no way for a man of the cloth to behave,” Mrs Peacock sniffed.

  Dr Lenehan was listened to in silence. He was a short, peppery, red-faced man, extrovert and not without a sense of humour. The committee, he said, had no power to distribute relief in the form of money ― many people were suffering under the misapprehension that they would be given cash or tickets they could exchange for food ― and in any case it had, as yet, very little money: when more subscriptions came in, members would buy food and store it for distribution when there was nothing left to eat.

  “We have nothing left to eat,” an old woman said.

  “You must all have a few coins, surely,” the doctor answered. “Or goods to pawn.”

  “So the gombeen man becomes rich? Never!”

  The doctor was incorrect in assuming that everyone possessed a few coins. Some people had no money at all. They did not go into a shop from one year to another; they grew their potatoes and survived: they did not need to buy anything.

  Mr Peacock read aloud the letter sent from Dublin Castle. As well as suggesting that committees be formed to collect food, the Government had other schemes in mind. Landlords were asked to give increased employment on their estates. The Irish Board of Works would create jobs by building new roads, and relief committees were being asked to submit plans for this, with estimates of costs and how many men could be used. If there was any likelihood of fever resulting from starvation, new hospitals would be erected. And lastly, the Government itself would buy quantities of Indian corn from the United States which it would sell so cheaply that the price of food in general would be kept down.

  “It is an extraordinary scheme,” Mrs Peacock said. “Grossly extravagant! We shall have all the beggars of the nation on our backs in no time! That will be the consequence, mark my words!”

  “I completely agree with you, my dear.” Mr Peacock had not ventured this opinion to anyone else. “Who is to foot the bill for it all? We, the taxpayers!” He was not wholly wrong: it was a more generous and far-reaching scheme for famine relief than any government had ever devised, and it was to cost Sir Robert Peel the premiership.

  “If women had the vote,” Mrs Peacock said, “I would vote for Lord John Russell.”

  “My dear! You could not do that. You were brought up a Tory!”

  “It is nothing to do with upbringing, sir; it is a matter of common sense. No more Orange Peel for me!”

  Mrs Peacock may have been in an uncommonly bad temper as she thought of what the Government might do with her husband’s taxes, but Mr Peacock was more concerned with his role as the co-chairman of the Relief Committee. “The letter was very respectfully received,” he said. “I think perhaps I read it quite well.” Here he adjusted his collar, as he had done during the reading. “At the end, everyone applauded.”

  “Applauded! I should think they would applaud!”

  The idea of new roads created much interest; all of the subsequent discussion at the meeting was concerned with this. “The road past Eagle Lodge is in a very bad state of repair,” Anthony said. “There are so many ruts and pot-holes that carts regularly break axles and lose wheels; and there is no proper drainage, so for half the year it is flooded in several places.”

  “I am bound to point out,” said Mr Peacock, stiffly, “that this letter expressly says that no works may be carried out for the benefit of any one man in particular.”

  “I am not merely thinking of myself,” Anthony said. He felt quite angry. “The road past Eagle Lodge is the main highway to Clifden. To repair it ― indeed to macadamise it ― would benefit the whole community. If there was a good road through Clasheen from Galway to Clifden commerce would improve. Meat and fish would not rot before they
arrive at their destinations and travellers’ time would be reduced considerably.”

  “We cannot build a road to Clifden, nor even to Galway. Whole tracts of it would be in other parishes, quite outside our jurisdiction.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr Altarnun has a point,” Father Quinlan said. Dr Lenehan and Mr Tangney agreed, as did everyone else. Mr Peacock was annoyed to find himself in a minority of one, and even more annoyed that Anthony had brought it about.

  “You will have to draw up plans, estimate costs, and work out the number of men required,” Mr Tangney said.

  “I have no ability in this,” Anthony answered, but the doctor and the Catholic priest persuaded him to try. The meeting then broke up in a very orderly fashion. The crowd was mollified: the Government was doing something. Clasheen’s peasants were, for the moment, almost converted to Peelism; their votes might even have helped the Tory candidate at the next election despite Daniel O’Connell and the Repeal party. But, being peasants, tenants-at-will, the vote was one of the many basic necessities of life that was denied them.

  “Doctor Lenehan, what do you think is the cause of this rot?” Anthony asked, as they went out into the street with Father Quinlan and Mr Peacock.

  “I have no idea,” the doctor answered. “A kind of dropsy? There has been so much rain this year … A sort of wet corruption?”

  “A letter in the paper two days ago,” Mr Peacock said, “suggested the cause was the smoke and steam issuing from railway locomotives.”

  The doctor laughed. “A new invention is always blamed as the origin of every inexplicable ailment,” he said. He twirled his walking-stick vigorously. “That has been so since inventions were invented. It is absurd ― we have no railways here, not for a hundred miles.”

  “Mortiferous vapours belching out of the centre of the earth,” said Father Quinlan. “That is what the Widow O’Gorman believes. Mortiferous: I like the word. I have never come across it.”