by Dermot Healy
This has already happened today, explained Tom in a quiet voice. This morning he nearly climbed in beside me.
You’re joking.
No, I am not.
What are you saying about me?
The other men in the ward who were awake watched us with a great sense of finality.
Will I get the nurse? asked Da.
Say nothing, said the Bird.
My wife’s birthday, said the man, was a Holy Day of Obligation. Now it’s not. Pope John said there was no Philomena. That she never existed. That there was no such thing. I was ashamed for my wife, and when she was young she had nothing but miraculous medals pinned to her. And my wife Philomena is in the women’s ward. But they won’t let me go to see her.
Just then the nurse raced to the door, bowed her head, came down and took the man’s hand.
Jim?
Yes sister.
Come on Jim, she said.
Where are we going?
Back to your room.
Was it a man or woman came round this morning with communion?
A woman.
I thought that.
He looked at us and got out of the bed, and climbed into his trousers. He sat a moment as she rubbed his hands.
It was good of you to call folks, he said.
Sorry, she said, fixing the sheets, then off he went with her.
When they were gone, the Bird explained: It seems he is in the next ward to this one, and in a bed placed exactly where my one is. So every time he goes to the toilet he’s inclined to wander looking for his wife and he ends up here.
It’s sad, I said. Why will they not let him see his wife?
I don’t know.
That’s strange.
Maybe she’s not here.
Oh Christ.
What have you got there?
Something for you, I said.
I opened the box and slowly placed the six bottles of perfume – one after another – on his side table. He watched me with grateful eyes, then with his good hand he lifted one bottle, handed it to me and so I undid the cap, and he held the perfume to his nose, and he smelt it, and closed his eyes.
I placed the other bottles out of sight in the locker with the caps loosened. Thank you sincerely, he said.
And Da looked on in wonder as the Blackbird squirted a swish of perfume onto his neck, chest, wrist and with a tortuous reach under the sheets did his knees. Then the final bottle disappeared into the locker and he took the dudeen out of the pocket of his pyjamas and placed it on his side table.
You brought me the very things I wanted, he said. I’m glad I gave you the key.
I didn’t want it to look like I was breaking a secret, I said, but I thought you’d like them.
And I was afraid to ask you. He looked at me cautiously. There’s a few secrets in that house.
There is, I said.
He nodded. And so now I have my perfumes and you have my dog. Aye. There’s a certain relief in that. You see they say I might not see home again.
Is there anything we can do? asked Da.
No, son. This is it I think. As they say in the airport my flight is now closing. The brain has taken a beating. And he looked around him at the silent beds, the nodding heads. I’m back on the ground floor again, he said. Then his voice dropped to a whisper – Do you see that man over there – in the blue top – a young couple came to see him and they were all speaking English with a Dublin accent – then they slipped into another language from somewhere out there in the world and then suddenly they were back in English. They had flown from far away to see him. And I wanted to ask where they came from. And then I thought I won’t. I won’t ask. I’ll leave it as a mystery, and they were gone, just like that. I’m not too sure what I’m going to say next. Except to say I lost my singing nurse.
Bimbo.
The very man. But now I know what I want to say – How is Joejoe?
He has a very tidy house.
Do you know what it is – you stay at a certain age in your head. Going back I met the man coming, the man I was then. Everywhere I went I met myself, and other forgotten voices kept breaking in. I do not want those voices. I want the silence. The voices grow, and along comes the same song over and over, till I’m demented with the repetition of the words. It could be ‘The Auld Triangle’ today, and ‘They Shot Henry Mountjoy’ tomorrow I’ll be singing. And it will be the same three lines. I’m there and here, and I’m fast approaching the horror again. I have something in my past is troubling me. Yes. Yes. By the way do you know who was sitting in that chair first thing this morning?
Who?
He leaned down and opened the locker and with his good hand took out a paper bag, and put it between his feet, and out of the bag he took a small bottle of champagne with a tissue in the top.
Miss Jilly, I said.
Yes sir. She went to the general hospital and they directed her here. And she pulled the cork, and filled me out two glasses. But I think that woman is very low, he whispered.
Do ya, asked Da.
Yes.
Well she has plenty of plans, said Da.
As Joejoe would say, it’s a sign.
Well from now on she’ll have a clear view of the sea from her drawing room.
That’s good.
Yeh, said Da.
And we sat in silence.
The Bird looked straight in front of him.
You are the second generation, he said. It will come to you. As it did to us, and then to you, and you are the third generation, you Mister Psyche are like my father, the same sane eyes. He left me when I was young and I sought him out, then as I grew old he tried to find me. The rejection went both ways in the long run, with my mother looking on. He died unhappy. I got my revenge, and now he – as I grow old – is having his revenge on me. I want to make this clear Tommy Feeney. Love travels on the same journey as hate. Isn’t that right Mister P?
Yes.
I am here because of a wrong I did. Then he turned to Da, and said: Do you know you are my son?
What?
That’s why you hate me.
I don’t hate you.
We are not saints, said the Bird. That’s why we have the same name.
Tom.
Yes.
You are not even related to me.
I am your father!
A nurse appeared at the doorway and walked the ward silently towards us.
Is there something wrong Mister Feeney? she asked.
No, said the Bird.
Is there anything I can do for you?
I’m up in the air and running, running out of breath, he said.
Excuse me, she said to Da, I take it you are a relation.
He is a relation! said the Bird.
Let’s put it like this – we share the same name.
Can I speak to you for a moment? she asked, please.
Shaking, Da followed her out of the ward and the Blackbird closed his eyes. He rose his right hand round his head like he was looking for forgiveness, but really he was trying to wake himself up. Not a word was said till Da returned about ten minutes later by himself. He took a see-through plastic bag of the Bird’s clothes off the floor. We’re taking his washing home, he whispered. We sat waiting. Da nodded at the door and watched me.
Am I your son as well, I asked the Blackbird.
Indeed you are Mister Psyche, and he suddenly opened his eyes and stared straight ahead into an empty space till slowly we returned into view. I can make small talk, he said slowly, I can do that but out of the corner of my eye I can see the dark approaching.
He looked at us and then he touched the tips of the fingers of his left hand with his right hand, and shook hands with himself, then the left hand fell back down into the sling.
You can go now, he said.
We shook hands.
Sin-é, he said. Good luck.
We stepped along the corridor without speaking, and as we drove the road to Ballintra we passed Anna runn
ing for home.
That night myself and Anna and Ma and Da went up to Mister John’s to take part in a quiz where all the monies made were being donated to cancer. There were free sandwiches and crisps and tea and coffee.
About forty people arrived. To take part we all paid fifteen euro per person, so 600 euro went into the kitty.
The four of us were joined by Anna’s father to make up a table of five.
He took the questions on sport, Lala answered the ones on Pop, Geography and Natural History; Da took on the political ones and traditional music; Ma answered the current affairs and films; and I was left with History and Irish Mythology. The answers – in the long run – included Michael Collins; wild celery; Churchill; the sandpiper; the Far East; County Kerry; The Chieftains; The Quiet Man; Donal Lunny; Jack Lynch; nectar; Maureen Potter; Schillaci, Red Hot Chilli Peppers; John Cleese; Tullamore; The Godfather; Easkey; ‘Ruby Tuesday’; Diarmuid and Grainne; Britney Spears; the Brent geese; Buddy Holly; and a lodestone.
We came third.
On the way back I stepped into Joejoe’s. The remembrance candles were fluttering on the windows.
He handed me the book of Psalms that fell open at Matthew.
I read:
And when they were come to a place called Golgotha, that is to say a place of a skull,
They gave him vinegar to drink mingled with gall: and when he had tasted it thereof, he would not drink.
The place of the skull, Joejoe said; and he tapped his forehead. He looked at me. Is that right?
Yes.
And he would not drink.
No.
No, he agreed with a nod.
I could see blue lines gather on his face.
Are you all right?
No.
Will I fill you a glass?
Do.
He sat back in the armchair. Cnoic was at his feet and Timmy was in his chair and both were watching the old man. He took the glass and held it with both hands in his lap. Rain started pelting on the galvanised roof. The front windows echoed with splashes.
We go round in circles, he said.
We do.
Circles, he said.
Aye.
Like Mister Gary said. Unless you have a place away in the heights ahead of you that you can see. That’s why they put the forts on the hills – so that you could find your way. But then – what happens – you come back!
You do.
And what do you do – you head off again, he said, shaking his head.
He drank. The rain threw another clout at the windows.
We’re back in February of eighty-seven. You’ll be drenched. Take the auld umbrella with you.
I will.
And don’t be worrying son.
I won’t.
Good man. Spell the word mystery.
M–y–s–t–e–r–y.
One night here you know what that man Gary said; he said the whole thing was a mystery, and then he asked me what the word mystery sounds like, and I said I don’t know, and he said it sounds like my story.
I took the auld black umbrella, and he stood behind the door, opened it a fraction and the rain beat in, then I dived out and hoisted the umbrella and the door crashed closed behind me.
BOOK SEVEN
The Signs
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Diamonds
I opened my eyes, got up and Grandma followed me across the room. She was in black, and then I heard the Bird singing ‘I Wish, I Wish in Vain’ over and over so I dressed as quick as I could, and ran downstairs.
The house was empty and the sun streaming through the windows.
There was a note on the floor inside the front door.
Can you give us a hand today, yours, Joe Lenihan, it read.
I headed off on the tractor with bales of hay from Lenihan’s fields to Laird’s Barn. The humming trawl of the mowers was everywhere. Steam was rising on the road. The rushes were bent and swishing. Montbretia was swaying its lucifers, and here and there were the last of a few harebells and the torn ends of what was once the wild woodbine. A storm was due on the morrow, so the final cut had to be done and finished today. There were four of us lads going back and forward till night fell, then the lights were switched on and we continued in the dark.
The last bale was dropped at ten. Joe paid me 100 euro. I was coated in straw when I stepped into Joejoe’s that night.
Sit down there, son, he said. You look like a scarecrow.
Do you know what a straw man is? I asked
Continue.
He is a lie. He is pretending.
Well last night, he said, I saw another lie. I saw the Bird in my sleep. We were back at the Stations, and the Bird was choking on his communion.
Jesus. I had a dream last night too.
You had.
I dreamt that my Grandma had just died yesterday.
Dear God.
And she had died long before I was born.
He looked at me with astounded eyes, and felt his neck, and then he patted my knee. Aisy son, he said.
Why did I dream her?
Because you never met her. The dead you never met die a little bit every day in your head.
I looked at the photo of herself and Grandda, and Granduncle Joejoe that sat on the third shelf of the dresser, along the way from the Wayward Lad. She was seated. Joejoe and Grandda were standing. She was in black, with glasses, not posing but studying herself in the eye of the camera. I took down my drawing pad and pencil, moved the photo to the table and began to draw her. Beside me the oil lamp blazed on the window. I got her shoulders, I got the dark twist of hair, and then I waited on the eyes and the cheeks to appear, but the face remained empty.
Joejoe looked over my shoulder.
Aye, he said, and he placed a lit candle on the table and went back to his chair.
I sat carefully dressing the cheeks and the ears, and then I brought the rim of the glasses round the eyes. I tried to get the puzzle into the pupils. Then I saw Grandda’s hand on her shoulder and I followed his arm back up to his shoulder and stopped there. I wanted to get that touch of his hand on her black woollen jumper. I curved the threads and straightened the neck line. And then went after the slight bow, that questioning nod.
I tapped the nostril. Put in the only wrinkle.
I looked at the face a while. I looked at his hand on her shoulder. I put in the fingers nails, the knuckles and the bent thumb.
Are you done son?
The best I can do.
I handed him the drawing book.
Dear God, he said, and he stared at me nearly in anger, then smiled, and closed the copy book and handed it to me. I turned another page, and started drawing him, trying to get his eyes, but he closed them, then I stopped and put the book back on the shelf, and made tea.
He came over and beat the straw off the back of my jacket.
Did you ever hear of the boys from the Andes? The Incas were tough. Tough out! And the Aztec from Mexico was a hard man. He stopped work at twenty to twelve every night.
And we’re standing here at the same time.
It’s a strange world Mister Psyche.
It is.
Timmy came up and looked at him. Right, he said, and he lifted the bag, and as he poured the nuts into the dog’s bowl, Timmy kissed his hand while Cnoic, with a backward eye, quietly waited his turn.
So read us the news, he said.
I lifted the local journal, and read various lines from small extracts:
On the Bank holiday weekend, an elderly man was fatally injured at the Cross at Binn. Meanwhile a Latvian lorry driver died when his milk tanker ploughed into a bog. And sadly a fisherman fell overboard as he reined in lobster pots off Carn.
Dan Herrity won the singing contest at Leyden’s in a rendition of an old McCormack favourite.
2000 euro was collected for cancer in the 30 mile run. 400 people took on the run, including a class of girls from St Ann’s.
Good lassies, he n
odded, and I put away the paper and he lifted the remote and turned on the weather on Russia Today news.
The thundering rain started at midnight. I got drenched on the road up home. The dark was swinging round the blowhole. Da and Ma were seated at the table playing poker.
You were busy today.
I was.
Will you take a hand?
I will.
I joined the game and we played till one o’clock when the telephone rang.
Ma took it.
Yes, she said, that’s me. Yes, she said looking at us. Oh dear. What time was that at? I see. OK, thank you.
She came back to the table.
Is it bad news, asked Da.
No.
What happened?
The Bird was caught trying to climb out a window.
What?
He said he was only trying to get some air. If he does it again he’ll be in trouble, she said. What’s trumps?
Diamonds.
Late the following afternoon myself and Ma went to shop in Lidl’s on the far side of town. We filled the boot with toilet rolls, sugar, tins of tomatoes, white wine, McAllister’s Shortbread, Mister Choc’s Choco Caramel, balti sauce, mint-chocolate biscuits; rashers, sausages, a saw, a lamp, Tayto Crisps, an apron, Italian apples, and Spanish oranges; stopped off down the road for a McDonald’s salad hamburger and chips, and sat in the car watching a group of jackdaws and crows attack a dustbin, and scurry across the pavement like monks in dark wind-blown shawls; then we drove to the Garden Centre where Anna worked.
She was alone in the huge glasshouse watering plants.
I just want to get a few things.
It’s so late in the year, it’s not a good time for setting, Anna said but she brought us round to the coastal plants and we bought camellia, sea buckthorn, and sea holly.
Next spring you can tell us what to do.
I will.
See you Anna.
See ya.
Wait a minute. Can you get off for a half an hour, we are on our way to see the Bird.
I’ll ask, and she was given an hour off.
And so we went to visit Thomas Feeney.
There was an empty bus at the door of St Francis’s Home. In the foyer the old folk sat facing the door. A woman stood and pointed her stick at me.
Are you over twenty-one? she asked.
No, I said.