by Brian Friel
‘Good days – bad days,’ I said.
‘But she won’t survive?’
‘Who’s to say?’ I said.
‘No, no. They don’t survive. That’s the pattern. But they’ll insist on having the operation, won’t they? And who’s to dissuade them?’
‘Let me get you a drink,’ I said and I walked away.
I watched Maria during the service. Her beauty had always been chameleon. She had an instinctive beauty for every occasion. And today with her drained face and her dazed eyes and that fragile body, today she was utterly vulnerable, and at the same time, within her devastation, wholly intact and untouchable. I had never seen her more beautiful.
When the service was over she came to me and thanked me for coming. We talked about Aisling and Helga. They were having a great time with her parents in Geneva; they loved it there and her parents spoiled them; they weren’t good at answering letters but they liked getting mine even though they were a bit scrappy. They were happy girls, she said.
Neither of us spoke Roger’s name.
Then she took my hand and kissed it and held it briefly against her cheek. It was a loving gesture. But for all its tenderness, because of its tenderness, I knew she was saying a final goodbye to me.
As soon as I got back to Ballybeg I resigned from the hospital and set about gathering whatever belongings I had. The bungalow was rented, never more than a lodging. So the moving out was simple – some clothes, a few books, the fishing rods. Pity to leave the lakes at that time of year. But the lake I enjoyed most – a lake I had grown to love – it had been destroyed by flooding. So it was all no great upheaval.
I called on Molly the night before I left. The nurse said she was very frail. But she could last for ever or she could slip away tonight. ‘It’s up to herself,’ she said. ‘But a lovely woman. No trouble at all. If they were all as nice and quiet …’
She was sleeping and I didn’t waken her. Propped up against the pillows; her mouth open; her breathing shallow; a scarlet coat draped around her shoulders; the wayward hair that had given her so much trouble now contained in a net.
And looking down at her I remembered – was it all less than a year ago? – I had a quick memory of the first time I saw her in my house, and the phantom desire, the insane fantasy that crossed my mind that day: Was this the chance of a lifetime that might pull my life together, rescue a career, restore a reputation? Dear God, that opulent fantasy life …
And looking down at her – the face relaxed, that wayward hair contained in a net – I thought how I had failed her. Of course I had failed her. But at least, at least for a short time she did see men ‘walking as if like trees’. And I think, perhaps, yes I think she understood more than any of us what she did see.
Molly When I first went to Mr Rice I remember him asking me was I able to distinguish between light and dark and what direction light came from. And I remember thinking: Oh my God, he’s asking you profound questions about good and evil and about the source of knowledge and about big mystical issues! Careful! Don’t make a fool of yourself! And of course all the poor man wanted to know was how much vision I had. And I could answer him easily now: I can’t distinguish between light and dark, nor the direction from which light comes, and I certainly wouldn’t see the shadow of Frank’s hand in front of my face. Yes, that’s all long gone. Even the world of touch has shrunk. No, not that it has shrunk; just that I seem to need much less of it now. And after all that anxiety and drudgery we went through with engrams and the need to establish connections between visual and tactile engrams and synchronizing sensations of touch and sight and composing a whole new world. But I suppose all that had to be attempted.
I like this hospital. The staff are friendly. And I have loads of visitors. Tony and Betty and baby Molly from this side – well, what used to be this side. They light an odd fire in the house, too, to keep it aired for Frank. And Mary from that side. She hasn’t told me yet but I’m afraid Jack has cleared off. And Billy Hughes; out of loyalty to Frank; every Sunday in life, God help me; God help him. And Rita. Of course, Rita. We never talk about the row we had. That’s all in the past. I love her visits: she has all the gossip from the club. Next time she’s here I must ask her to sing ‘Oft in the Stilly Night’ for me. And no crying at the end!
And old Mr O’Neill! Yes! Dan McGrew himself! And Louise – Lou – his wife! Last Wednesday she appeared in a crazy green cloche hat and deep purple gloves up to here (elbow) and eyeshadow half-way down her cheek and a shocking black woollen dress that scarcely covered her bum! Honestly! He was looking just wonderful; not a day over forty. And he stood in the middle of the ward and did the whole thing for me – ‘A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon’. And Lou gazing at him in admiration and glancing at us as if to say, ‘Isn’t he just the greatest thing ever?’ And he was – he was! Oh, that gave my heart a great lift.
And yesterday I got a letter, twenty-seven pages long. Frank – who else? It took the nurse an hour to read it to me. Ethiopia is paradise. The people are heroes. The climate is hell. The relief workers are completely dedicated. Never in his life has he felt so committed, so passionate, so fulfilled. And they have a special bee out there, the African bee, that produces twice as much honey as our bees and is immune to all known bee diseases and even though it has an aggressive nature he is convinced it would do particularly well in Ireland. Maybe in Leitrim. And in his very limited spare time he has taken up philosophy. It is fascinating stuff. There is a man called Aristotle that he thinks highly of. I should read him, he says. And he sent a money order for two pounds and he’ll write again soon.
Mother comes in occasionally; in her pale blue headscarf and muddy Wellingtons. Nobody pays much attention to her. She just wanders through the wards. She spent so much time here herself, I suppose she has an affection for the place. She doesn’t talk much – she never did. But when she sits uneasily on the edge of my bed, as if she were waiting to be summoned, her face always frozen in that nervous half-smile, I think I know her better than I ever knew her and I begin to love her all over again.
Mr Rice came to see me one night before he went away.
I was propped up in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, and he stood swaying at the side of the bed for maybe five minutes, just gazing at me. I kept my eyes closed. Then he took both my hands in his and said, ‘I’m sorry, Molly Sweeney. I’m so sorry.’
And off he went.
I suppose it was mean of me to pretend I was asleep. But the smell of whiskey was suffocating; and the night nurse told me that on his way out the front door he almost fell down the stone steps.
And sometimes Father drops in on his way from court. And we do imaginary tours of the walled garden and compete with each other in the number of flowers and shrubs each of us can identify. I asked him once why he had never sent me to a school for the blind. And as soon as I asked him I knew I sounded as if I was angry about it, as if I wanted to catch him out. But he wasn’t at all disturbed. The answer was simple, he said. Mother wasn’t well; and when she wasn’t in hospital she needed my company at home. But even though I couldn’t see the expression on his face, his voice was lying. The truth of the matter was he was always mean with money; he wouldn’t pay the blind school fees.
And once – just once – I thought maybe I heard the youngish woman sobbing quietly at the far end of the corridor, more lamenting than sobbing. But I wasn’t sure. And when I asked the nurse, she said I must have imagined it; there was nobody like that on our floor. And of course my little old snuff man must be dead years ago – the man who wanted us to drive to beautiful Fethard-on-Sea. He gave me a shilling, I remember; a lot of money in those days.
I think I see nothing at all now. But I’m not absolutely sure of that. Anyhow my borderline country is where I live now. I’m at home there. Well … at ease there. It certainly doesn’t worry me any more that what I think I see may be fantasy or indeed what I take to be imagined may very well be real – what’s Frank’s term?
– external reality. Real – imagined – fact – fiction – fantasy – reality – there it seems to be. And it seems to be all right.
And why should I question any of it any more?
About the Author
Brian Friel was born in Omagh, County Tyrone, in 1929. His plays include Philadelphia, Here I Come!, Translations, Faith Healer, Making History and Dancing at Lughnasa.
By the Same Author
THE ENEMY WITHIN
PHILADELPHIA, HERE I COME!
THE LOVES OF CASS MAGUIRE
LOVERS
VOLUNTEERS
LIVING QUARTERS
THE FREEDOM OF THE CITY
THREE SISTERS (Chekhov)
ARISTOCRATS
THE COMMUNICATION CORD
MAKING HISTORY
FATHERS AND SONS (after Turgenev)
THE LONDON VERTIGO (after Charles Macklin)
A MONTH IN THE COUNTRY (after Turgenev)
DANCING AT LUGHNASA
WONDERFUL TENNESSEE
MOLLY SWEENEY
GIVE ME YOUR ANSWER, DO
TRANSLATIONS
FAITH HEALER
THREE PLAYS AFTER
THE HOME PLACE
UNCLE VANYA (Chekhov)
PERFORMANCES
BRIAN FRIEL: PLAYS ONE
(Philadelphia, Here I Come!, The Freedom of the City, Living Quarters, Aristocrats, Faith Healer, Translations)
BRIAN FRIEL: PLAYS TWO
(Dancing at Lughnasa, Fathers and Sons, Making History, Wonderful Tennessee, Molly Sweeney)
also available
FABER CRITICAL GUIDE: BRIAN FRIEL
(Philadelphia, Here I Come!, Translations, Making History, Dancing at Lughnasa)
Copyright
First published in 1999
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2013
All rights reserved
This collection © Brian Friel, 1999
Introduction © Christopher Murray, 1999
Dancing at Lughnasa © Brian Friel, 1990
Extracts from ‘Anything Goes’ by Cole Porter © Harms Inc., reproduced by permission of Warner Chappell Music Ltd
Fathers and Sons © Brian Friel, 1987
Making History © Brian Friel, 1989
Wonderful Tennessee was first published in Ireland by The Gallery Press, and first published in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd in 1993 © Brian Friel, 1993
Molly Sweeney was first published in Ireland by The Gallery Press, and first published in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd in 1994 © Brian Friel, 1994
The right of Brian Friel to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights whatsoever in this work are strictly reserved. Applications for any use whatsoever including performance rights must be made in advance, prior to any such proposed use to: The Agency (London) Ltd, 24 Pottery Lane, Holland Park, London W11 4LZ.. No perfomance may be given unless a licence has first been obtained.
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ISBN 978–0–571–30064–8