The Secret Wound

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The Secret Wound Page 9

by Deirdre Quiery


  “Molly come here.” Paddy took a few steps towards the cat which bounced away from him, heading towards the end of the alley. “Don’t be like that Molly. Nuala will be looking for you. Don’t run away.”

  Paddy walked slowly down the alley towards the Calle de La Luna. He turned left. Molly was nowhere in sight. He reached the Plaza. On his left was the St Bartholomew’s Church – grey stoned, sculptured greatness of Gaudi. Paddy looked at circular stained glass window, the spires above reaching into light blue sky. It didn’t look like the twin spires of Holy Cross Church. It was a Church and maybe Nuala would be inside. He climbed the steps slowly. He counted the steps to take his attention away from his aching knees. There were twelve steps or was it thirteen? He disappeared into the darkness.

  Paddy wandered up the middle aisle of the Church towards the main altar. One man sat leaning on his wooden stick. The inside was dark, with statues in gold to his left imprisoned behind black railings. Behind the statues were paintings in which obscure, cloaked, semi-naked bodies reached out their arms from dark corners.

  There was no sign of Nuala. She must have gone home. It must be getting late. Nuala would have the kettle on for tea by now. He peered into the side altar and then walked slowly down the side aisle and out of the main door.

  There were drummers playing in the Plaza and three men wearing swinging black coats, red tights and black hats brimmed with gold braid played guitars and sang a song he didn’t recognise. He turned left. He always turned left after going to Mass in Holy Cross. He turned left again and walked uphill towards the railway station. On his right there was a row of white taxis with a blue diagonal band on the door. He approached the first one which had the number ten written on the door.

  A tall blonde woman chatted with another taxi driver. When she saw Paddy, she opened the door of the taxi for him. At first she spoke to him in Spanish, but when she saw that he didn’t understand, she asked in English,

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Home.” Paddy said confidently.

  “Where’s home?” The woman tentatively asked.

  “Facing the Church.” Paddy climbed into the back seat.

  “The Church in the Port of Soller?” She started driving.

  “That’ll do nicely.” Paddy nodded.

  Ten minutes later they arrived in the Port of Soller, beside the Church of San Ramon, a few minutes’ walk from Cornelia’s house.

  “That will be eight euros.”

  Paddy pulled out a handful of notes and passed them to the front.

  “Do you have euros? These are sterling notes.”

  Paddy nodded. He handed over a second bundle of notes.

  “One of these is enough.” The taxi driver smiled returning Paddy’s money, with his two euros of change.

  “Are you sure that you know where you are going?” She looked over her shoulder.

  Paddy smiled as he stood on the pavement, he leaned into the front window of the taxi. “I do. Thank you. You are very kind.”

  The taxi pulled away. Paddy saw the sea sparkling at the end of the street in front of him. Maybe Nuala would be on the beach with Gurtha. Bangor. That’s where he was – Ballyhome Beach in Bangor. He must have left them to buy cigars. He felt in his shirt pocket. He had his Hamlet and a lighter. It would be OK now. He only needed to find Gurtha and Nuala. He walked along the pavement and looked to the right towards the setting sun. The Faro lighthouse to the left of the bay on top of the hill was falling into shadow.

  The sun dropped slowly towards the horizon. A large white yacht sailed quickly towards its mooring. A wooden boat groaning with drummers and pipers circled the harbour creating a medieval feel to the evening. Paddy looked at the people walking along the front –slim women in scanty bikinis, men with reddened faces and overstretched stomachs, children throwing lights into the air with elastic bands and seeing them fall like fireworks back onto the sand. There were couples eating hazelnut and vanilla ice cream in cones, hastily licking the edges as the ice cream melted. Paddy breathed in the warm air and the peace. He forgot for a moment that he was looking for Nuala. Then he spotted ‘The Irish Bar’.

  There were three wooden tables outside with couples drinking Duval and Guinness in chilled glasses. Paddy opened the door. Inside the walls were dotted with familiar photos of trams and buses in Dublin, O’Connell Street, and there were leather seats that reminded him of the Crown Bar in Belfast where he had sat alone celebrating his twenty fifth wedding anniversary. Paddy shuffled towards the bar, pulled crinkled notes from his pocket,

  “A pint of Guinness.”

  The bartender waved a hand.

  “Have a seat and I’ll bring it over to you.”

  “Can you put a smiley face on it like Tommy does?”

  Paddy sat with his back to the window and from his shirt pocket he removed a packet of five Hamlet and a plastic orange lighter which he placed side by side on the wooden table. As it was a beautiful evening most customers were sitting outside watching the sun set between the two lighthouses on either side of the bay. A tall man with a mottled overgrown freckled face sat on a stool at the bar studying his half-drunk pint of Guinness. He turned slowly to look at Paddy. His dyed orange hair curled over his shirt collar. Grey roots showed through, maybe an inch or more. He wore a white short sleeved cotton shirt with the collar crisply ironed and the rest of the shirt left wrinkled. There were three spots of blood, each the size of a one euro coin on the knees of his jeans. These might have come from an animal he had tried to help, a fish he had gutted, a wound to his own body – perhaps a self-inflicted injury or the splattering of someone else’s blood onto his trousers during a brawl.

  Paddy gave him one of those big smiles which showed neither teeth nor gums. When Paddy was thirty five he started to lose his teeth one by one from gum disease. One night, for reasons Paddy never shared with anyone, he pulled out all of the remaining wobbly teeth with a pair of pliers, popping them one by one into a blue ceramic cereal dish. He said to Nuala, “No hair, no teeth and the girls will still love me.”

  He never bothered to get a set of false teeth or go to the dentist. Later he joked, after chewing on an apple and pointing at the indentations made by his gums, that you could see teeth marks.

  “I could be on TV like that Uri Geller chap you like.”

  ♥

  The man at the bar slid off his stool and walked towards Paddy, with his pint of Guinness in hand. He walked in an unexpectedly steady way with his eyes trained firmly on the wood panelled floor.

  “You look like a real Irishman. Can I join you?” Brian hoisted himself into the seat beside Paddy without waiting for an answer.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Belfast,” Paddy said without hesitation and with a touch of pride.

  Brian took a Hamlet from Paddy’s packet. He cautioned.

  “You’re not meant to smoke inside but I act stupid and it works every time. Mind you – I don’t have to try too hard.”

  After helping himself to a cigar Brian offered Paddy one. Paddy placed it in his mouth and waited for Brian to click the lighter. Paddy inhaled deeply.

  “Do you fancy something to eat?” Brian waved at the barman for a menu.

  “Now that you mention it, I am a bit peckish.” Paddy puffed enthusiastically on his cigar.

  “They do a mean prawn sandwich – on proper brown bread – you would nearly think that it was wheaten bread with the lovely mayonnaise and a slice of lemon. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds perfect to me.” Paddy reached into his pocket and pulled out his roll of sterling notes. Brian took them from him and shoved them into his own pocket.

  “Have you any euros? That money is like monopoly here. It doesn’t count.” Brian stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and waited in silence. Paddy set his pint of Guinness carefully on the beer mat, adjusted the beer mat so that it was straight, reached in to his second pocket and tossed the crumpled the bundle of euros onto the table.
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  “That’s more like it. We’ll have two of those open prawn sandwiches then and another pint. What do you think?”

  “Why not? I’m on my holidays.” Paddy offered Brian a second cigar. He took four attempts at lighting it before a red ember brightened like a hot poker. Brian rested his hand on Paddy’s shoulder.

  “After we have our tea, if you don’t mind, I’ll be getting home.”

  At ten o’clock Paddy sat alone, staring into space and chewing on a prawn, for his only company.

  “Are you OK?” the bartender asked resting both hands on the table and staring into his eyes.

  Paddy nodded. His lips were closed but his jaws were moving extensively up and down, his cheeks from time to time puffed up like balloons.

  “Spit it out,” The bartender anxiously urged, holding a paper napkin under Paddy’s chin. Paddy kept staring ahead, past the bartender, towards the back of the bar. He continued chewing the prawn.

  Paddy continued with his lips closed, jaws moving up and down in an attempt to configure the prawn into a condition where it might be swallowed. Not achieving this, at precisely ten twenty three, he got his feet, waved at the bartender and attempted to exit the pub.

  Seeing his unsteady gait, the bartender rushed towards him. He grasped at the brass door handle, pulled it gently towards him, opening the door. He watched Paddy stumble from the Irish Pub –his feet pointing outwards, his bandy legs within floppy trousers shuddering like newly hoisted sails in a gentle August breeze.

  It was dark now outside. There were three tables of people chatting and drinking – two on Paddy’s left and one to his right. He stopped for a moment to look at the table to his right where two women were in the process of downing a pint of Guinness.

  Leaving them behind, Paddy released the prawn from captivity. It flew through the air towards the Mediterranean Sea. A small capsule of life after more than two hours in Paddy’s mouth, heading senselessly home but falling short on the pavement, inches from the sand, only a short distance from the swishing waves from where once it had been free.

  Paddy shuffled in the direction of the prawn. He silently passed it by, hobbling onto the sand towards the edge of the sea. The waves broke quietly with a swish rather than a roar. In the darkness he saw the whiteness of foam.

  In Paddy’s mind it was froth on the simple sands of Ballyhome Beach, County Down. It was dark. He had only swum once in the sea in the dark. It was in July of 1972. Gurtha was four years old. ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland had been at an all-time high. He had decided to take Nuala and Gurtha for a weekend’s holiday to Bangor. Nuala had enthusiastically packed two cases, singing ‘All you need is love’ as she ran between the ironing board and the upstairs bed where the clothes were neatly pressed and folded.

  The train pulled out of Belfast and headed towards Bangor. Paddy remembered the comforting clickity clack …. sschuchhhzzz … click … click … sschuchhhzzz … clickity clack of wheels on the track.

  Gurtha sat on Nuala’s knee, Paddy sat opposite them in a wooden carriage watching Belfast disappear and the oak trees and green fields of County Down open up before them for the first time. Paddy’s body buzzed with pleasure, with anticipation, with pride that he was taking his family on holiday. Fifteen minutes later, Belfast seemed a world away. There were new glimpses of the sea – steely grey smooth panels like those Paddy soldered for ships. They were followed by rolling hills with smooth curved backs of seated wild hares.

  “Tickets please.” A uniformed ticket collector slid open the wooden door and put his hand out. His presence didn’t break this sense of sacred peace held within the carriage. As he returned the punched tickets to Gurtha, with outstretched hands, he was like a priest administering the Eucharist, looking into each other’s eyes, slightly bowing to one another in respect. Paddy closed his eyes as though saying his prayers after Communion.

  Gurtha didn’t say a word, but only gave the occasional “Oooohhh” or “Aaaahhh” with a deep sigh of satisfaction, pointing his finger at the black bulls with their thick necks, long bodies, and thin dangling tails with a tassle on the end like Nuala’s blinds. They stood unmoving in the long grass and didn’t provoke fear in Gurtha, only awe and wonder. In another field there were Scottish Highland cattle with their long shaggy fringes and sticky out horns, curved at the end. Then there were the Jersey cows with their big soft eyes like teddy bears, fawn and beige coats which watched the passing train with curiosity before they broke into a gentle run towards the furthest end of the field. In another field there was a mix of black and white cattle which were Gurtha’s favourites – the Belted Galways – huge, like the bulls he had seen earlier, with a broad saddle of white like a blanket around the middle of their torsos and Friesian cows with white skinny legs, a white star in the middle of a black forehead and patches of white and black over their bodies like maps of another world. Drinking in these animals, Gurtha felt that he was drinking in a magic substance, filling him with a special power that they possessed. It was seeding in him a sense of the peace and strength that they embodied, which he had never seen before.

  The train juddered to a stop in Bangor and Paddy, Nuala and Gurtha walked the short distance to the Bed and Breakfast. The door was opened almost immediately by a bright eyed dark crimped haired woman with a slight lump on her left cheek. She wore a red and white striped apron. She smiled.

  “I’ve been expecting you. I’ve made you a picnic. Leave your cases in your bedroom and make the most the day.”

  They dropped the cases in the bedroom with its four poster bed with draped yellowed chiffon curtains. Nuala spotted Gurtha’s cot under the window. It was really a bit too small for him but would be fine for a couple of days if he curled up on his side to sleep.

  While Nuala and Paddy talked to the landlady, organising the picnic, Gurtha listened to the sea calling with a gentle swish of waves on the pebbled beach. He heard the drag of the pebbles and sand like marbles rolling in a glass jar. He had never been so close to the sea before and tingled with its mystery. He knew from cartoons that it was a place which moved and was not solid, where strange animals survived without breathing in the way that humans breathe, where they could twist and turn and nibble food which humans would find repulsive. These strange beings lived in a hidden world not to be seen. When Nuala returned to the bedroom, Gurtha tugged at her hand.

  “Let’s go.”

  Paddy changed into swimming trunks and open toed sandals. Nuala wore a yellow halter neck swimming suit, crimped around her breast and tummy. She carefully pushed her toes into white sandals.

  She clasped the picnic basket which Mrs Aspery had thoughtfully prepared. Before they headed for Ballyhome Beach Mrs Aspery caught her by hand arm and suggested.

  “You might want to have a second look to make sure you have everything you need.”

  Nuala opened the basked and started to unpack it. There were an abundance of eggs. There were six hard boiled eggs, four rounds of egg, onion and tomato sandwiches.

  “I’ve done an extra round for Mr Maloney. Maybe I should have done an extra one for you too?” Mrs Aspery smiled almost apologetically looking at Nuala and acknowledging her slightly rounded stomach. Nuala shook her head.

  “You have been most generous.”

  There was a flask of tea and another flask of milk, chocolate digestive biscuits, three apples, one orange, three slices of fruit cake, two tomatoes and a bottle of ice cream soda.

  “Is there anything else you would like? Perhaps I have forgotten something?”

  Nuala smiled and shook her head.

  “Of course not. You have thought of everything.”

  Curling his toes in his sandals, Paddy asked, “Would there be the chance of a bottle of Guinness?”

  Mrs Aspery rubbed both hands down the side of her apron. Her cheeks blushed.

  “How could I be so remiss, Mr Maloney. Of course there will be the chance of not one, but two bottles of Guinness. My deceased husband spoke highly of thei
r medicinal qualities. Unfortunately they were unable to help him in the last stages of his life. You will need a glass I presume?”

  Paddy nodded.

  Nuala repacked the picnic and Paddy carried the basket down to the beach. He remembered every step of the way. The rose bushes blooming with yellow, pink and orange. Leaves falling on the pathway beneath their feet, like a blessing. There was an old man standing on the corner of the road pointing right to Ballyhome Beach. Paddy looked at him. He was like one of those men who wore sandwich boards stating ‘The End is Nigh’ on one side and ‘Repent’ on the other. He smiled like Father Christmas and gave a small bow to Gurtha and said, “Today will be one of the happiest days of your life.”

  They arrived, sweating but exhilarated, at the beach, which wasn’t as full of people as you would expect in July. The sky was a turquoise blue with a dozen or so seagulls hovering overhead in place of clouds. Nuala stretched out three towels on the beach and a fourth for the picnic. Gurtha was stripped of his clothes and allowed to run around in white knickers. He headed straight for the waves and Paddy followed but not before pressing a kiss on Nuala’s lips. Nuala sighed one of those sighs which come from a place of peace which may always be there but not always known and then rested back on her elbows and took a deep breath.

  After Gurtha had splashed in the waves, covered himself in seaweed, dug a hole with a bucket and spade which the seawater magically filled within seconds, it was time to demolish the picnic.

 

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