Death at Christy Burke's

by Anne Emery

  So Michael ordered a pint of Guinness and chatted with the young barmaid until the door opened and Sarah Duffy came in weighted down with packages. She appeared to be around fifty, thin with a tired-looking face and fair hair going grey. Michael got to his feet and relieved her of two heavy-looking bags.

  “Thank you, sir! If we could just deposit these things in the back behind the bar there . . .” They dropped the bags, and the young one said she would take care of things, since Michael was here to see Sarah.

  “Here to see me, are you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Her face brightened and lost its careworn look.

  “It’s not often a stranger comes calling!”

  “My name is Michael O’Flaherty. Father O’Flaherty, actually, but it’s casual day, as you can see. I’m visiting from Canada, basing myself in Dublin and taking a little tour of other parts of the country. I’m on my way to Donegal Town,” he claimed, “for a quick visit there. But I knew Jimmy O’Hearn had a sister working in Ballybofey, so I got off the bus to say a quick hello and enjoy a pint.”

  “Oh! Lovely, Father.”

  “Call me Michael, if you like.”

  “All right then, Michael. Let’s take a table. So you’re a friend of Jimmy.” She poured herself a glass of orange juice, and led him to a table. “How is he?” she asked when they were seated. “We haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “He’s well enough.”

  “I’m worried about him, though. I always am, but any time I hear from him, things are grand, couldn’t be better.” She leaned closer to Michael. “He drinks too much.”

  Michael could hardly deny that. He tried to put a good face on it. “He does take a drink. But I’ve never known him to be ill with it, or rowdy, or to drive a car while under the influence.”

  “I suppose we should be thankful for that. So, what else brings you to Donegal, Michael?”

  “Nothing but love of this part of the country. I come to Ireland fairly often, but I don’t get to spend enough time in this area. I had a chance, so —”

  “Sarah!”

  “Oh, Niall. Come in.”

  Michael looked over at the man poking his head in the door. He had a pleasant round face with laugh lines at the eyes; he wore glasses with thin silver rims.

  “This is Father Michael O’Flaherty, up from Dublin,” Sarah said. “Friend of Jim. Michael, this is my husband, Niall. He’s here to collect me.”

  “Good to meet you, Niall.”

  “How are you, Michael?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Sarah said, “Why don’t you come to the house for tea?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble you, Sarah.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. I’d be delighted.”

  “Well, thank you then. I will.”

  “All right. Let’s be off.”

  They said goodbye to the girl at the bar and walked to the Duffys’ car on the street outside. The vehicle had seen better days, and Michael estimated that those days were fifteen years ago, judging by the style of the car. Amateur bodywork had been done on the fenders, which were grey and lumpy, a contrast to the faded red of the original paint job.

  “Just give me a minute to clear a space for you, Michael,” Niall said as he reached in and gently pushed aside two violins and a couple of tin whistles in the back seat. “Sarah, why don’t you take the back seat and Michael can sit up here with me.”

  “I’m fine in the back,” Michael protested, but Sarah waved him off and gave him the seat of honour.

  After a couple of false starts, Niall got the machine moving and they lurched out into the street. They drove for a few minutes, then pulled in beside a cottage-like house outside the town. The place needed a coat of paint, and the window frames were in need of repair, but the property was neat and orderly. The Duffys ushered Michael into the cramped front room, where there were a sofa and chairs, piano and stool. Dampness had blighted the ceiling and the wall around the window. There was a harp, and a big brass horn of some kind pushed into the corner by the piano.

  “I give music lessons here,” Niall explained. “Doesn’t pay a fortune but it teaches . . . well, it teaches the children music, and teaches me the patience of Job!”

  “I suppose it does,” Michael agreed. “Do you have children of your own?”

  “Aye, do we! Three boys and a girl, from age nineteen to twenty-six. And they all have better things to do than come home and keep their old parents company!”

  The two men exchanged small talk while Sarah wet the tea. Niall’s conversation revealed a gentleness and self-deprecating wit that Michael enjoyed.

  Sarah brought in cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. Michael thanked her. He took his cup, walked over to the wall opposite the piano, and stood before a family photograph. It was in black and white and appeared to have been taken in the 1940s. Sarah joined him.

  “That’s our Jimmy, right there. Isn’t he a dote?” She pointed to a little fellow of eight or nine with freckles, jug ears, and a shy smile. “That’s me on the knee of my sister, Deirdre. I was three then. And this is Rod, our big brother. And there’s Kathleen, Maggie, and Denise. But I can do better than that. Have you time for a home movie? It’s only about ten minutes long.”

  “Oh, I’d love to see it!”

  “This was done by the same fellow who took that picture, same day. It was a Yank, wouldn’t you know it? You always see them with all the newest gear hanging off them. Anyway, it was an American who came to Donegal on a bus with his wife. He had a great clunky camera, and he went from house to house asking if people would like him to take a movie of their family. A lot of people took him up on it. I can’t remember what he charged. A few bob maybe. Anyway he filmed us, and I got it transferred onto videotape last year. Hold on a minute while I set it up.” She reached into a shelf under the television set and drew out a videotape, stuck it in the player, and pressed a couple of buttons.

  Michael was surprised by the quality of the film. The black-and-white images were clear and sharp. “That’s Roddy,” Sarah said. Rod looked to be about fifteen and was kitted out in white shorts, dark knee socks, and a dark jersey bearing an inscription in Irish, which Michael translated as the name of the St. Columcille School football team. A makeshift goal was constructed of netting hung from a clothesline and anchored in place by tree branches. It was manned by another lad of around the same age as Rod. Two little boys, one of them Jimmy, kicked at the ball and attempted to move it towards the goal. All of a sudden, Rod came up behind Jimmy, scooped him up in one arm, grabbed the ball with his other hand, zoomed in behind the goalkeeper, and booted the ball at the goalkeeper’s rear end. The grin on Jimmy’s face went from one ear to the other, and he raised his fists in triumph. There was a roar of approval from the O’Hearn side and some mildly profane protesting from the other. The scene switched to a wharf and a dockside building bearing the sign “O’Hearn Yachts.” On a boat tied up to the dock, Roddy stood behind a little girl in a sailor suit. She had her hands on the wheel. She kept saying “ooh” and “whoosh” as she captained the vessel over imaginary waves. Two other little ones stood by with unconcealed impatience for their turn. “Roddy! Me now, me now!”

  “The family business,” Sarah said. “The O’Hearns began building boats in 1843. My great-great-grandfather founded the business. When you bought an O’Hearn boat, you could be sure you were sailing in the most finely crafted wooden vessel Ireland had to offer. My great-grandfather started a sideline making figureheads. You know what I mean, the carved figure on the prow of a ship. So you could get a yacht with a personalized figurehead showing your wife or your sweetheart, or whatever carving you wanted. Some of them were very witty; one might have features suspiciously similar to those of a local character or a politician. Of course you could buy a figurehead even if you didn’t have a boat. We received ord
ers from all over the world for our boats and carvings. Our da lived for his work, but that didn’t mean he missed out on family life. We children spent every free minute there. Took our schoolbooks there after classes, went to work with Da on the weekends. Roddy started learning the family trade when he was eleven years old, so he could be Da’s partner. Jimmy did the same when he got old enough. We all had some role to play in the boat works.” Sarah sighed and reached for the teapot. She poured Michael another cup and pushed the plate of biscuits in his direction.

  “Your father wouldn’t be living now . . .”

  “No, he died in 1981.”

  “So, I take it Rod has stepped into your father’s deck shoes, so to speak, and is running the business?”

  She shook her head sadly. “No, Michael. I’m heartscalded to say we don’t have the business anymore. O’Hearn Yachts is now based in Miami, Florida. The Americans bought us out.”

  “Oh!” Michael had heard that Jimmy was no longer in the O’Hearn Yacht business, but he hadn’t known the circumstances. “So the family sold it. What brought that on? They gave you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

  “I only wish! No. We were the victims of an unscrupulous lawyer, Michael. He took advantage of our trust, got the business into his own name through some kind of finagling — taxes, offshore holding companies, I don’t know what it all meant — but in the end, the Americans became the owners, and the money went into the lawyer’s pocket. And that was that. We would be celebrating one hundred and fifty years of boat building next year if it weren’t for him.”

  “Oh, Sarah, I’m so very sorry to hear that. How heartbreaking for the family. Rod, especially, perhaps?”

  “He never got over it. He moved as far away from here as he could go. New Zealand. He couldn’t bear to be here and to walk along the strand and not see an O’Hearn boat bobbing in the waves, not see the boat-building works, not take his place in the boatyard every morning and wave to everyone passing by on the shore.”

  “What a shame. You must miss him terribly.”

  “We do. We’ve tried to persuade him to come home, or at least to visit.”

  “Maybe he’ll soften up over time. Surely he will.”

  “We hope so. But there’s also the fact that, well, things have not gone well for Rod out there in New Zealand. He just never found his way. Reading between the lines of his few letters, we got the clear impression of someone living in poverty. And shame. Finally, he just stopped writing.

  “We’ve often talked about taking up a collection to bring Roddy home for a visit. Costs a packet to fly here from New Zealand, but we thought if we all contributed . . . We’d make up a story: won some money in the sweeps, the lottery, something, so he wouldn’t be embarrassed. I know he’s ashamed of how he ended up. But surely that would be forgotten if he got home with us all, wouldn’t you think?”

  “This must be a great worry for Jimmy as well. It’s obvious from the photo and the movie that he worships his big brother.”

  “Adores him. He’s forever trying to persuade Rod to come home. Or he was, before we lost contact.”

  “Don’t give up hope, Sarah. You’ll bring him around. Rod will get in touch with you someday. I’ll keep you and Rod and the rest of the family in my prayers. You can be sure of that.”

  “Thank you, Father. Michael.”

  “What happened with the lawyer? Who was he?”

  “Carey Gilbert, in London.”

  “Did you bring charges against him?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that.”

  “Sue him for damages?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “It took a long time for us to realize what had happened, how we had been swindled. By the time we found out, it was too late. The damage was done.”

  “But surely, there are steps you can take, prosecute the lawyer . . .”

  She just shook her head and turned away.

  Michael did not intend to impose on the Duffys all day, so he thanked them and said he’d be on his way. Would they mind dropping him off at the bus stop?

  “Where are you headed now, Michael?” Niall asked.

  “To Donegal Town. I like walking there, the castle and the ruins of the old abbey, all of that.”

  “Well, no need to take a bus. I have to see a student down past Ballyshannon. If you’re up for a little drive, we could go through Donegal and out into the country for the lesson. I’ll enjoy the company. You’ll just have to wait a bit for the wee boy to play his scales!”

  “I’d love to go along for the drive. Thank you, Niall.”

  So the two men got into the Duffys’ battered little car and, after another shaky beginning, drove out into the Irish countryside. At one point Michael looked down at his feet and saw the highway going by under a hole in the rusted floor of the car. Times were obviously tough for the Duffys.

  They drove into Donegal Town, which had always reminded Michael of Mahone Bay back in Nova Scotia, with the addition of a ruined Franciscan abbey and the castle of Red Hugh O’Donnell. Niall found a parking spot near the water and said, “One of our boats is docked here. Come and have a look.”

  They walked along the shore, and Niall pointed ahead. They drew up beside a magnificent sailing boat, which, in Michael’s estimation, was about fifty feet in length. The hull was painted a gleaming black with cream trim; the wood of the deck and masts was in tip-top shape. But the most striking feature was the figurehead. “Look at that, Michael. The boat was built in 1893. The owner’s daughter died of a fever. That’s her, the figurehead.” It was an exquisite carving of a little girl, the folds of her dress billowing in the wind. She was depicted playing a tin whistle, and the artist managed to convey a sense of joy and mischief in the child’s face.

  “Oh, Niall, she is beautiful! What artistry!”

  “That was the work of Sarah’s great-grandfather. He knew the family. All of his figureheads were one of a kind. He spent months on them. I’m thinking they don’t do that now, in Miami!”

  Michael shook his head at the beauty and the loss.

  They returned to the car and set out for the countryside. Niall gave Michael a running commentary on the places they passed and told him about the young lad who was having his lesson that day. The child’s father had lost his job as people deserted the village in the wake of the recent Troubles; it sounded to Michael as if Niall was providing his services without expectation of payment. They pulled up before a modest bungalow in a quiet rural area. No other cars passed by. It was clear the place was not thriving.

  “How far are we from the border?” Michael asked.

  “A mile or so, just down that road.” Niall pointed the way. “The music lesson is for an hour. You’re more than welcome to sit in.”

  “No, no, thank you, Niall. I’ll go for a little walk, and meet you back here in an hour’s time.”

  “Where would you be walking to, Michael?”

  “Em, I’ll just go for a bit. Get some exercise.”

  “Be careful, then. Keep an eye out. Never know who’s around.”

  “I won’t get into a car driven by a stranger, no worries there,” Michael said lightly.

  “You won’t even see a car, if you’re of a mind to go as far as the border. The road’s closed to traffic.”

  Niall went up to the door of the house. Michael stood and had a little stretch, then set out along the narrow road that led to Northern Ireland. There was nobody in sight. The land was boggy, not much good for farming. There were a few houses scattered about, but he didn’t see any life around them, not even a farm dog. He’d been walking for fifteen minutes or so when he caught sight of big metal spikes of some sort sticking up in the air. As he got closer, he saw they were attached to an enormous chunk of concrete that completely blocked the road ahead. An ugly sight, a blight on the landscape. Well, i
t served the purpose of stopping cross-border traffic; that was obvious. But Michael saw a young boy walking past the barrier ahead of him. He decided to do the same.

  Within seconds, he was in Northern Ireland once again. Things didn’t look any better on this side of the frontier than they did on the other. Michael saw the same forlorn-looking houses scattered about. He kept going, and eventually came to a tiny village. There was hardly a soul in the streets. He stood in what must have been the market square and wondered what to do. Suddenly he jumped at the roar of a motor. He turned to see a big green and black army vehicle bearing down on him from behind. It slowed, and he saw three British soldiers inside, rifles in their arms. They looked him over before continuing on their way. What could they be looking for in this sad little place?

  It began to drizzle, and that prompted Michael to move on. He walked up a side street and saw a faint light glowing in a window. Saints be praised! A pub. Just in time, as the drizzle turned to rain. He heard another loud racket and looked up to see a British Army helicopter approaching from the east, flying low over the town. Michael watched till it was out of sight, then walked over to the pub and opened the door. Half a dozen men sat on stools at the bar. Michael smiled and was about to greet them. But the expression on their faces stopped him cold. To a man they ceased their conversation and stared at the newcomer. The outsider. And he wasn’t even in his clerical garb. Was there something about his face, his clothing, his demeanour that announced he was a blow-in from the other side of the border? Michael didn’t know how they knew it, but they knew. The bartender wasn’t much better. He jerked his head up and grunted. Well, Michael wasn’t about to turn tail and leave. He ordered a glass of Bushmills, paid for it, and took it to a table in the middle of the pub. Not only did the men not speak to Michael, they didn’t say a word to one another. For some reason he thought of Monty Collins and what he would say. “A Catholic priest walks into a bar . . .” He’d make a joke about it. But Michael couldn’t come up with a punchline; there was nothing funny about this. He had rarely felt so uncomfortable in his entire life. Was it always like this, or were tensions even higher than usual with the Protestant minister missing in action? Michael finished his whiskey, got up, and left the silent pub.