The Misremembered Man

by Christina McKenna

  Eighty-Six and his partner worked in unison, wordlessly sharing their burdens. Their eyes scanned the mucky soil, where the worms squirmed and the bugs crawled, as their hands dug and tore and dropped the bitter harvest into the basket, their cargo growing heavier the farther they advanced down the row.

  At one o’clock, a glorious sight: the tea. Mrs. Doyle at the gate in her wide, floral apron, struggling with two enormous bags. She’d set her burden down and holler at the men both big and small. The boys would rush toward her, wiping their hands on their clothes as they ran, clamoring for their hard-earned reward.

  She’d unstopper the soggy newspaper plugs from several bottles of tea and fill a clatter of tin mugs laid out on the grass. Then she’d unwrap a batch of fresh-baked bread rolls and hand them round, each thick scone glued together with homemade butter and jam. Such a treat! So far removed from the stale bread and dripping which was their daily fare.

  On the rattling bus back, and later on as they slept, it was not so much on the painful labors of the day that the orphans dwelt, but on the smile Mrs. Doyle had bestowed upon them as they ate.

  One smiling adult in the long, grim day—a rarity indeed, a gift.

  Chapter seventeen

  Jamie returned to consciousness on the morning following his unfortunate bout with the bold Chuck in O’Shea’s bar. He was heavily hungover and mightily depressed.

  He lay still in the rumpled bed, staring up at a damp patch of ceiling, while a reel of the previous night’s events twisted sluggishly through his head. He saw himself once again up there on the high stool, driving the rich, sweet music into the room—“A brilliant performance,” Declan had said. And then suddenly the scene had darkened: sullied and stained by the piercing shouts of the wee bastard at the back. “Jezsis!” Jamie swore aloud at the very thought of it.

  He tried to imagine how great the night would have been if he hadn’t been maddened to violence by the filthy words that poured from young Sproule’s mouth. But he couldn’t somehow picture it; the damage had been done, like an ink drop clouding clear water, the brightness could not be retrieved. The night had been ruined.

  He shut off the dark thoughts and eased himself carefully out from under the covers, sat for a while on the edge of the bed, staring down at his feet, planted now on the red linoleum. The area beneath them had faded to pink from years of wear and from Jamie’s habit of simply sitting there in contemplation.

  That morning, he sat for a lengthier spell, dwelling on the nature of his being: his very lonely being, now that his dear Uncle Mick had passed away. Mick’s death had cut him loose from life’s easy groove and thrown him back within sight of a terrible solitude where the wind forever blew, the snow forever fell, and the devil blackened the night and the daytime hours. Ten months of heartache so far, and every day very much the same.

  Dr. Brewster called it “depression” and was treating it accordingly, but Jamie knew deep down that he needed more than pills. Life was cruelly demanding that he finally take responsibility for himself and, in short, become a “man.” But how could the child who had never been allowed to be a child somehow suddenly become that “man”? He’d have to leap across a gorge of emotions and scale an awesome height.

  The future was waiting for Jamie, skulking in a dark forest with no way out. He tried not to brood on it and looked to the past instead; to that part of the past which shimmered bright with his uncle’s memory and the only happiness he’d known.

  His gaze fell on a St. Brigid’s cross, now gathering dust to the right of the window. His uncle had painfully fashioned that cross with his unsteady fingers shortly before he died. Below it hung a photo of a youthful, pain-free Mick, smiling broadly on his wedding day, the toothy grin, stiff-winged collar and breast-pocket hankie all now deeply yellowed through years of smoke from hearth and pipe. And his beautiful bride, Alice, her delicate features dwarfed beneath a surging flourish of peacock feathers and plastic fruit; an extravagant bunch of lace sprouting at her throat.

  Tragic Alice had tripped over a bucket of chicken feed and struck her head on the doorstep. Some days later it became apparent that the accident had released a toxin into her aggrieved synapses that disposed her to suffer agonies of prolonged disquiet. Dear Alice would never be the same again. Mick nursed her as best he could, but had to admit defeat when she came at him one day with a bread knife in the hen house, mistaking him for the Sunday dinner. Mick, heartbroken, had sobbed mightily at this great misfortune, and with a heavy heart and trembling hand, had reluctantly signed her over into the care of the St. Peregrine Institute for the Mentally Deranged, Disturbed & Those of a Nervous & Anxious Disposition.

  She died there soon after.

  Jamie’s eyes began to well up when he thought of that misfortune; he reached for his wallet on the bedside table. Inside, folded into a neat square, was a handkerchief, yellowed with age and edged with a delicate border of tiny shamrocks. He dabbed his eyes with the cherished fabric, and with great reverence returned it to the wallet. He immediately felt better.

  After some moments his eye fell on his most treasured possession: his uncle’s silver, two-row accordion in its walnut case. Playing with the pleasure of such memories helped Jamie to face the reality of yet another day.

  He heard the animals in the yard crying out for breakfast, but ignored them. His head felt like a rock trembling on a stick, his legs and arms toothpicks that might break under the weight of him. Slowly he rose, trying not to look down, seeking for support, as he scrabbled into his work clothes. Finally belted and buttoned up, he stumbled to the scullery for his first, sobering, brew of tea.

  It took him longer than usual. Every sound—the clanking of the mug as he retrieved it from the crammed sink, the gushing and spitting of the water from the tap, the teaspoon stirred in the mug—all contrived to assault his fragile senses. As he sank into the tattered armchair, nursing the mug on the armrest, fishing in his pocket for the first cigarette of the day, he vowed never to drink again. But it was only a thought and it would pass.

  The sun struck hotly through the window, a great shaft of mote-rich light, giving a cruel wash of clarity to the room. A blue-bottle madly buzzed. Jamie watched it settle on the armrest, knitting its frantic legs, its metallic engine throbbing. He thought he might touch it, but knew his merest shift would send it off immediately. He wondered idly how a fly always knew when it was about to be touched—or killed. Could they tell the future, feel the air from a raised hand, or maybe they had an extra pair of wee eyes on the top of their wee heads. Who was to say?

  He drew on the cigarette and reached for the poker, could hear the fly stitching its way desperately up and down the windowpane. A flame shot up from the banked coal and at once the fire leaped into life. He returned the poker to its place by the crane crook and reached automatically for the bottle of Valium. These actions, these mindless moves, Jamie performed every morning with the sureness of an acrobat tumbling through the air to land, as always, dizzy and dazed on the same spot. But on this particular morning, as he unscrewed the tablet bottle and shook the pill into his hand, a thought struck him that made him falter.

  What if it’s like this for a body all the time? He posed the question to his open palm. What if I’ve to take these pills for the rest of my life? Wake up always to this empty house with only Shep for company. What if…?

  He gazed about the shabby room as the tears began to flow again and he plunged into the vast terror of the question he’d been avoiding since his uncle died.

  “What if it’s like this always?” His appeal rang out in the hollow silence, but only the ticking clock and the madly buzzing fly responded.

  Reluctantly, Jamie began to push down all the dark alleys he’d been afraid to tread. What’s the point in looking for a woman, he thought. Rose and Paddy and Dr. Brewster think it’d be a good thing, but they don’t know how shocking hard that would be for me. They don’t know about the orphanage or what was done to me. They know nothing about all t
hat. Besides, he pondered, he’d posted the letter to the mysterious woman well over two weeks ago and still she hadn’t answered. There’d be no sign of it now.

  He stared down at the Valium tablet again, then flung it into the fire, finished the tea in one hot glutch, and made for the door.

  Shep leapt up to greet him as he stepped out into the sunshine. Jamie smiled and ruffled the dog, then crossed with determination to the barn with Shep on his heels. Inside he stood in the dusty silence contemplating the high rafters. He saw the last joist Mick had hammered into place all those years before when Jamie was just a boy, and thought it might be the appropriate one for the job. He studied the rafter, the hank of baler twine that hung near the door, then the rafter once more. Yes, it would be so easy to do, he reasoned. That rope and rafter could take me away from all this. Could take me to paradise in no time at all, to be with Mick and Alice again. Just a breath away, he thought. Just a breath.

  “Hi, Jamie, are ye in there, are ye?” Someone was shouting from outside.

  Shep was barking at a rare sight: Scrunty Branny, the postman, cycling into the yard. Jamie’s heart lifted as he went to greet him. But he didn’t dare hope.

  “How ye, Scrunty? Not often I see ye here.”

  Scrunty Branny, a Breughelian peasant with a wart on his left eyelid and chipmunk cheeks, heaved his fat frame off the bike, wheezing and puffing. “Aye and it’s well ye…it’s well ye…it’s well ye don’t get many letters, Jamie…” He maneuvered his weighty satchel unto his ample front and sighed deeply, “for that hill a yours would ’ave me damn-near kilt, begod!”

  “She’s a steep boy, right enough, when you’re not used to her,” Jamie agreed.

  He and Shep watched with interest as Scrunty rooted in the satchel and unearthed an elastic-bound bundle of mail. He licked a chubby finger and peeled off an envelope.

  “Very grand writin’, Jamie. A wonder who it’s from.”

  Jamie studied his own address, elegantly rendered in what could only be a female hand. He believed he knew who it might be from. But Scrunty Branny, he vowed, would be the last to know.

  “Could be Mick’s sister in Amerikey,” Jamie lied, avoiding Scrunty’s tiny, prying eyes.

  “But then there’d be an airborne stamp on it. That letter’s from here.”

  “God, you’re right. Well, be seein’ ye, Scrunty.” Jamie hurried into the house, leaving postman Branny in a state of beetle-browed perplexity as he readied his bike for departure.

  In the scullery he found a knife clotted with day-old lemon curd. He wiped it off on the sole of his boot, slit open the envelope, sat down in the armchair again, unfolded the pristine pages, and proceeded to read.

  Elmwood House

  River Road

  Killoran

  Dear Mr. McCloone,

  Thank you for taking the time to answer my advertisement which appeared in the Mid-Ulster Vindicator, of July 17th.

  I would like to meet you, but before that happens I think it fair to let you know something about myself. I would also like to ask you a number of things, so I can get a better picture of you. I apologize in advance if you think my questions intrusive. But you see I am essentially an honest person. Experience has taught me that anything less will not only waste my time, but yours as well.

  Jamie scratched his head in puzzlement, wondering what she could mean. Maybe he’d find out soon enough.

  I am around the same age as yourself. I teach at a primary school in Killoran and have done so for some years. I enjoy my work with the children and like the challenge of moulding young minds.

  The word “teacher” frightened Jamie somewhat, his memories of such individuals being less than happy.

  In my spare time I like reading, particularly romantic fiction and historical biographies, although I can only fully indulge this passion at holiday time. During term time I am usually too busy. You mentioned in your letter that you too enjoyed reading, perhaps you could tell me the kind of books you like.

  Jamie looked up from the page. The fly still buzzed madly round the window frame. On the sill stood the only two books in the house, old possessions of Uncle Mick’s, which Jamie had barely opened, let alone read: Old Moore’s Almanac and a worm-eaten copy of Great Expectations, which had been purloined from an ancient school by Mick’s Uncle Fergal. A fearless young man with a thirst for knowledge and an eye for profit, he’d escaped a bitter boyhood by losing his religion and boarding a coffin ship to the Americas in 1849. Once there, according to Mick, Fergal had got himself an education. He became a bank clerk of some importance, only to be felled at thirty-two by a single bullet meant for Fred “The Fats” McSweeney in a New York gangster shoot-out. Fergal had been emerging from The Thirsty Bull liquor store at the time. “So it was the drink that kilt him,” Mick used to wryly say.

  Jamie thought that his curlicued signature, “Fergal J. McCloone,” on the inside cover of the novel, indicated a man who was “terrible clever” and who knew a thing or two about something. He continued reading the letter.

  I’m afraid I do not know much about farming, but I do like animals. I would love to own a small cat, but since my mother is allergic to fur I have to forego this pleasantry.

  You mentioned that you liked cooking which interested me a lot. I have not met many men who enjoy this art. What dishes do you like making most? What aspect of the culinary process interests you most?

  Eating, thought Jamie immediately, but knew in his heart that that would probably be the wrong answer.

  I am glad that you like music. I cannot play an instrument like you, but I enjoy singing, especially the hymns at Sunday service. I like Andy Williams and James Last.

  That phrase “Sunday service” bothered him. A Catholic would have written “Sunday Mass.” So she was maybe “the other sort.” But then he remembered that Rose had said that religion didn’t matter much and Rose, being a wise woman, was usually right about most things, so she was.

  Well I think this is all I can tell you about myself at the present. I look forward to your letter and learning more about you.

  By the way, you have beautiful handwriting. Are you artistic?

  Yours faithfully,

  Lydia Devine

  “Ly-dee-a Devine, Ly-dee-a Devine.” Jamie said the name over and over to himself, not quite believing what he’d just read. He looked through the letter again, the episode in the barn all but forgotten. Suddenly a new, exciting pathway had opened up in his life. She had written back—that was the magical bit. She had acknowledged him. She had even admired his handwriting! All at once he felt invigorated. But he’d have to be very careful with his reply. Rose McFadden’s letter-writing skills would have to be called upon once more.

  The rest of Jamie’s day was spent in a rapture of anticipation. His chores got done without his being conscious of doing them. His hangover lifted without his being conscious of its passing. He had no desire to eat, and remembered with a surge of joy that this was the first day of his diet. Well, wasn’t it just as well anyway? Now he had more to think about than food. The letter had transformed the predictable monotony of his day, had made him realize that the distance between himself and happiness was getting shorter; the “sunlit clearing” was within reach. He believed now that he could accomplish anything; could maybe scale tall trees without a handhold; could make the pig sing “Muirsheen Durkin” in a John McCormack voice; even pluck the sun out of the sky and make it spin.

  As he floated away on all this fantasy, he decided that now would be the time to put Dr. Brewster’s advice into action. He’d mark the dawn of this new beginning by taking that wee break by the seaside the following week.

  He found Rose McFadden busy in her kitchen as usual, spooning cake mixture into a bun tin; a tray of jam tarts stood ready for the oven. Paddy was seated in an armchair by the stove, the upper half of him obscured by a copy of the Mid-Ulster Vindicator. A kettle fizzled on the stove, and in the corner a wireless muttered at a reduced volume in anticipat
ion of the evening news. Rose stopped her spooning and Paddy lowered the paper at the sound of Jamie’s knock.

  “Ye know, me and my Paddy were just talkin’ about you, Jamie! Sit yourself down there.” She looked to her husband for confirmation. “Isn’t that right, Paddy?”

  “Oh aye, that’s right,” Paddy confirmed.

  “Sez I: ‘I wonder if Jamie ever got a letter back from that lady,’ and wasn’t it awful that that young eejit of a Sproule ruined the great night yous was havin’ at Slope’s? Paddy was tellin’ me that you hit him a dunder and you know, Jamie, if I’d been in your position I would a hit him a dunder meself ’cause y’know what they say: If a man keeps his tongue in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, he’ll never get his nose broke, and Paddy told me that the ruffian was gropin’ and pokin’ at you beforehand, so he got what was comin’ to him, so he did.”

  Rose stopped to draw breath. She pulled on a set of self-crafted oven gloves, their mitts showing two whiskered cats with orange button-eyes and pairs of unevenly positioned fur ears. This minor defect was occasioned by the fact that, during their fashioning, Rose had been in post-operative recovery from a detached retina in her left eye, brought about when, in the January of the previous year, she’d hit herself a “dunder” while setting a mousetrap (with a lump of Killymacoo vintage cheddar) in a corner of a cupboard under the sink.

  “Och now, these things happen,” she said, thinking of the Sproule incident, “and there’s not much a body can do about it, so there isn’t.”