The Woodcutter and his Family

by Frank McGuinness

  Then I’d wake, still happy, in his arms. He would kiss me on my forehead, and say, breakfast. I’m going to eat you for breakfast. No, Papa, I would happily squeal, don’t eat me. I am a cat, he would pretend, a great hairy cat, and you are a mouse, squeal if you are a mouse. So I squealed, and he said, I hear you, little mouse, now I must catch you. No, Papa, don’t catch me, I giggled as he rolled me in his arms, I will make my granny give you breakfast, then you won’t be hungry anymore.

  What will she feed me? He wanted the list. Porridge and milk, sugar and butter, duck eggs and bacon, bursting sausages, puddings of all shades and shapes, strong tea. And coffee? he asked, any coffee? Not in this part of the world, stranger, I’d repeat in my Galway voice, sounding like Mama, making him content that I remembered to include her in our game.

  I walk about the graveyard in whose Swiss clay he will soon be lying, far from his own dead. He will be lonely for sure. And what is it – the first stirring of grief? – but again I feel the wind swiped out of my sails as I retch with the shock, all air in this spot is sucked out of me. Maybe it is me dying, not Papa. And I recall how strange things happen, certainly in Galway. That same visit – or was it when my mother came with us? – we heard the story of a servant girl whose mistress treated the lass so harshly she drank bleach and died, choking, cursing the cruel lady of the house.

  Granny sang a lament for the poor child, bringing tears to my father’s eyes, but an aunt of Mama’s stepped in and put a stop to this maudlin come-all-ye, by observing she knew this yarn, and its ins and outs, from a very different angle. Then tell all you know, my granny demanded.

  Don’t break your heart for this hussy, who went by the name of Maisie Sheehy, the aunt reported, and she was known to have led two young men sufficiently astray they left the Church and were struck down with tuberculosis as a reward for their negligence of Easter duty. Not once for the allowed time span to receive the host – the best part of four months surely – did they set foot at the altar rails. Well, they themselves, the pair of yahoos, they died roaring for the priest, as she did, the bold Maisie, whose red hair was her pride and joy, her crowning glory. She did not take her life deliberately, for it was not bleach she thought she was swigging, but the best of Limerick poitín, than which there is none finer, as a lady experienced in the consumption of strange liquids such as Miss Sheehy would know, she who could not so much drink the country as the continent – nay, the very cosmos itself – dry.

  So when she thought – the man killer, that was the name we put on her and well deserved it was – when she thought she had a dose of the queer stuff in the bottle before her, didn’t she down it in one go and died on the spot, fire erupting out of her every orifice. They said she smelt of sulphur emanating even from her grave.

  My mother thought this story, even for her aunt, was a bit too far-fetched. She dared to question was it true in all parts? As true as you’re sitting there, she was assured. And, the aunt continued, how do I know that? Because she is a relation of ours, you and myself, God forgive the two of us speaking ill of the woman, though she be frying in hell. We said nothing against her, my grandmother declared.

  No, but you sat there and listened to me, and you never spoke in her defence, the aunt attacked, and that’s as bad as accusing her. There was a song written about that story, and if you know it, I hope to Jesus you’ll keep your mouths shut and not sing it, for they say it has the power to raise the dead, and I have no wish to come across anyone connected to these goings-on, I’ve bother of my own with corns crippling me.

  What song might raise my father from his grave? Mama said she loved him for many reasons, but his voice was the greatest – that much she would admit now and forever. In Zurich, hearing German everywhere, I wonder in this year of Our Lord 1941 what crimes are committed in that language, and I soon cease from wondering, for to list the present iniquities of these sorry times, even in the innocent safety of Switzerland, I can hear my very blood itself congeal within my veins. Fear. Father had his favourite arias from Italian opera. His taste there was to be expected. Nothing too untoward would startle his listeners. While Mama loved to hear such pleasant melodies, but there was in German one song that touched her most acutely, and it was by the Austrian, Franz Schubert. Papa would sing it, and she would bend her head, her sober head I should add, for this tune had the power to still her and let her weep for all her dead.

  Auf einen Totenacker

  Hat mich mein Weg gebracht;

  Allhier will ich einkehren,

  Hab’ich bei mir gedacht.

  And as he sang, she would sway her body to his music.

  To a corphouse

  I’ll trek my way.

  Here I’ll settle,

  I thought to myself.

  He never chided her. Though he had little patience with her interruptions to his performance, on these occasions he would let her whispers translate.

  Ihr grünen Totenkränze

  Könnt wohl die Zeichen sein,

  Die müde Wand’rer laden

  Ins kühle Wirtshaus ein.

  She let him finish that verse, and he politely waited as she lilted lowly to herself.

  Tenebrous wreathes, dying, green

  A sign we are sent for?

  We who have wandered wearily,

  Spent, exhausted, at this inn.

  And though her music bore next to no relation to what had poured from his mouth, though she had little notion how the German fixed itself in its own patterns, still he let her heart crack, remembering whatever it was she did from the sorrows of her life.

  Sind denn in diesem Hause

  Die Kammern all’ besetzt?

  Bin matt zum Neidersinken

  Bin tödlich schwer verletzt.

  And here it was he might expect she would stop, too damaged to draw breath, let alone speak, for when she could, that was all she’d do – speak, and he’d listen to her sore heart, repeating after each line, my father, my mother.

  Then is this house entirely full?

  My father, my mother?

  Are all the rooms taken?

  My father, my mother?

  My body’s ready to expire.

  My father, my mother.

  Death has quite destroyed me.

  My father, my mother.

  She would repeat the last line, adding only the words my father, my mother, your death has quite destroyed me. This was when my father would take my mother’s hand, and it was as if they breathed as one till he finished – what was it? A lullaby to bring his troubled wife peace?

  O unbarmherz’ge Schenke,

  Doch weisest du mich ab?

  Nun weiter denn, nur weiter,

  Mein treuer Wanderstab!

  He knew that she would let him end in silence, for she understood only too well what these words promised. She would have stopped weeping too, and there they would sit until she would nod her head, ask him to sing that hateful ballad. I used rush from the room. As a grown man, I am deeply embarrassed to admit this, but such is the nature of our family, that if you have even the slightest acquaintance with our comings and goings, I expect to be believed when I declare that it is a true thing I am saying when I hear a piece of – what? How would I describe it? Serenade, no – shanty, definitely no – dirge? That is warmer. All I know is that since hearing this strange piece as a boy, it has the capacity to unman me. All the more so now as an adult, for it appears to have acquired the power of prophecy.

  I once seriously disturbed a gathering at lunch on a Sunday afternoon by stamping my feet on the floor and shouting no, no, stop it, stop that song. It was not my difficult and demanding sister who was causing the scene. No, it was the boy, the quiet child, so silent and reclusive I might not be there in the company, never, unlike her, attracting attention to myself.

  What is the matter with you, Archie? Mama looked genuinely worried. I shook my head but could not confess what troubled me, for there and then I collapsed into a convulsion of sobs, choking me, bur
ied in my father’s lap. These did not cease, and they were of sufficient violence that Mama – I heard her crying out to Father, Jesus, Dick, what ails him, is he having a fit, could it be epileptic or what?

  A medical man in the company assured her this was not the case. That particular illness was his specialist area, and I was showing no signs that I had succumbed to the disease. I could see such a look of relief cover Papa’s face that I knew I must be brave and stop this excessive display so his mind could be put to rest. When I was under control again, my father pressed me to tell what had brought about this outburst. That awful song – the Irish one about a merry-go-round, a fairground – it scares the life out of me, I confessed, and I am sorry I never admitted it to you before, but please, do not sing it.

  –That’s what caused this chaos, the words of ‘She Moved Through the Fair’, is that it? Papa asked.

  – It is, I admitted, I hate them, for I can see ghosts when you sing them and I think you and Mama will die soon, if I listen to them.

  – Well, he’s your son all right, Papa smiled at Mama, you have him well trained to be as bad as yourself, feeling himself haunted on every occasion. Will you watch what you say in front of the boy?

  – The child can’t help his own history, and don’t you deny, my good man, that on your side of his house there’s a more than passing acquaintance with those long dead and buried, she challenged him. The only thing would truly trouble me in this business is how early it’s manifested itself. Not that it should shock me. That song has always and ever been considered unlucky.

  – The first time I ever heard tell of that, he admitted.

  – Then you should listen, she advised him.

  – And what would I hear? Tell me, he demanded. When is it unlucky to sing–

  – At a wedding, to sing it at a wedding, how do you not guess that even? Mama laughed at him. It can mean the married couple have no hope of lasting together.

  – He’s not at a wedding, is he? Papa observed, and he’s hardly likely at his age to be taking a wife.

  – That’s exactly what worries me, she admitted, he’s young to be sensing something not right in what he hears.

  This was when Father burst into song.

  The people were saying no two were e’er wed,

  But one had a sorrow that never was said,

  And she walked away from me with one star awake,

  Like a swan in the evening moves over the lake.

  Is that what put the wolves howling at your door, my son? The swan, does it frighten you? Or could it be the star? he wanted to know. Sure they’re lovely and bright, stars and swans, aren’t they? Might it be the sorrow that never was said?

  Will you desist from teasing the boy? Mama warned him. Look, he’s already going to bawl again.

  So is it the sorrow – the sorrow never said? And what is that sorrow? Or maybe who is it would be more accurate? Could it be your sister?

  Now you’re drunk, Mama threatened him, you’re very drunk, and you’re stepping well over the line that’s allowed in my kitchen. Don’t you see how you’re disturbing the child?

  That’s when he’d wrap me in his arms, humming the scary song to himself, caressing my hair, kissing my head, telling me there was nothing in this world to fear, though I kept seeing ghosts as he murmured,

  Last night, she came to me, my dead love crept in,

  She crept in so softly, her feet made no din.

  As she moved away from me, these words she did say,

  It will not be long, love, till our wedding day –

  It will not be long, love, till our wedding day.

  On my own wedding day I kept listening to that air, though no one played or sang it. I wondered did anyone else hear it haunt the feast, or was I alone the guilty party inviting disaster on the union? At one point I looked at my mother who was looking at my bride, and I saw no malice on either expression.

  That day my father kept his distance from the whole company, as if he would not know any of us had he the choice. What have I done to offend the man? my own wife wondered. I had begun to notice how she was always wondering that, always thinking she had affronted someone and now they were paying her back, no matter how much I tried to convince her this was not so.

  I hoped no ill omens would befall us, and I was relieved we all seemed to be on our best behaviour. All proceeded swimmingly, despite my misgivings, until I heard out of the blue my sister shriek – Look, look up at the sky, that bird, is it an albatross?

  Someone shut that stupid bitch up, my mother hissed, what is she trying to show off about now? That she knows this marriage won’t last? We all know that, fuck her, including the happy couple, don’t you?

  Mama turned to us and asked, You’re well aware this cannot last?

  We did not contradict her, for it didn’t last, she was correct in that then, and if she took pleasure from our misfortune, wasn’t that her nature?

  Chapter Two

  Wife

  Bertha

  Galway, Ireland

  Am I not the black pity of a woman? How often did I hear my own mother chant that refrain? She then would add that the cause of all grief in her life was her reluctance to become a nun, and if she had a chance to relive the days of her existence, then that’s the path she would have followed – to the convent, best of food, best of accommodation, work about the house all done for you as you prayed the knees off yourself, and what was best of all? No men. Absolutely no men to bother you or to need minding. Who could not be happy – delirious even – with such a set up?

  But what about us, Mama? What would have become of your children? If you’d become a nun, where would we be? In heaven, she said, annoying the hell out of the angels and the saints, as you annoy me on earth.

  Wasn’t that an appalling answer for her to give an innocent child? Is it a wonder I feel wanted nowhere? I suppose if you took things easy, and to my credit, I always try to do so, my mother’s words made me allergic to promises of plenty in the next world, and I’d fiercely refuse to countenance any palaver about what’s in store for us, if we believe in such nonsense as divine reward. That’s what I told himself, my fellow, for it’s what he wanted to hear.

  If I have a fault, and I have many I admit, it’s that this was what I’d always do. Tell him what pleased him. What was the point denying him? He’d get his way in the end. Of course, he would argue the opposite. He would describe me as a woman hell bent on leaving him heart-scalded by what I would or, more likely, would not do. Odd that two people living in such closeness should have exactly the opposite notion of how they tick. Or is it odd? Maybe we each of us develop a knack for not listening to what the other is saying. That’s why, years ago, when he declared he was going to learn to lip-read, I told him it was the best thing he could ever do, so go on, full steam ahead. Did it ever go further than a declaration?

  I can’t ask him now, for he’s lying there, his lips sealed. Nothing could shift a response from between them. Lips that once opened and out of them poured the sweetest of melodies, softest of sighs. There were times after he sang I swear his breath smelt like a woman’s perfume – comical that, for he had the purest tenor voice ever put into a man’s mouth. Say what you like, and I could say plenty, there was an occupation he did to perfection. An awful pity he didn’t just stick to the music and leave the writing to other boyos who could do nothing but the one thing, and then never as well as him either – hence, his determination never to let it go.

  Would he have been a happier man if he’d done so? Me a happier woman? What is happiness, any road? There was a beggar woman used call to my grandmother’s house, regular as a clockwork mouse, twice a month in winter, once in summer, always on a Friday, looking for a feed of fish, but never mackerel. Though the poor creature be starving, she would not touch its flesh, maintaining it was what she called to our delight as children a lascivious beast whose behaviour disgraced the ocean. Behind her back we used mock her fancy way of describing a stupid old mack
erel, and one day when I was older, I had to inquire from her why did she shun only this species.

  What was I expecting to hear from her? A dirty story from under the seas? I was never a girl for such yarns at the best of times, so I doubt if it was that which prompted me. She told me I could never learn young enough the dire effect mackerel had on a young lassie. Eat your fill and more of it, and you would turn into the most beautiful girl ever to be seen in Connaught. Well may you jump hearing this as I can see you doing, she noticed, but pay full heed to what else I’m warning. Once you get a taste for this magic, it’s like a man who gets a taste for red-haired hussies, there’s no hope. Nothing else will satisfy. Isn’t that what happened me? Isn’t it why I lost house and home, family and friends – all in pursuit of becoming the loveliest of them all? Didn’t I get what I wanted, and my face, wasn’t there symphony after symphony, sonata after sonata, composed in my honour?

  I never heard any, I remarked.

  You wouldn’t, she confirmed. What happened to them? I asked her, for some reason expecting her to lie – why I cannot say – but no, she told me truthfully, they were all forgotten, not a soul remembers a single piece, except herself. And did I know why?

  I didn’t – tell me.

  Because she it was who wrote them, all in praise of her own splendour. She paid the price for this sin of pride. No one could recall a single note, and when she’d tried to remind them of the melodies she had plucked from the ether, what did the music provoke from this shower of begrudgers but a jeer, a thousand jeers, ringing in her ears, and all of them singing the same nonsense, you stole that from better fiddlers than yourself, you’re claiming credit for another’s labour.