Irish Gold

by Andrew M. Greeley

  In my heart I don’t think it was a Tan bullet that killed Tim. I think he was shot in the back by Daniel O’Kelly about whom he’d found out something terrible.

  The last time Tim was here at home, on the run at night as always, he said to me, “Little one, you might not be all wrong about the colonel.”

  He wouldn’t tell me any more. Now he never will.

  Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. May perpetual light shine upon him.

  And I promise You and him that there’ll be justice. Daniel O’Kelly will not get away with murder.

  I won’t let him kill my Liam too.

  Dear God in heaven, please help poor Moire. Not even twenty and she’s already a widow and herself about to give birth to her first child.

  She’s pretty and good-natured and has some fine land, so she’ll dry her tears and find another good husband eventually, not that I blame her for it. She’ll always have the wee one to remind her of Tim. Still, she’s desolate now and she needs strength and faith. So You’d better help her, do You hear me?

  What if I should lose Liam too, and ourselves not even married, not even thinking of being married? Well, at least not saying a word to each other about it.

  I won’t have anything to remember except a couple of kisses stolen on the strand at night—and a lot of harsh words when I was angry at him, poor dear man.

  I don’t want to lose him that way. If he is killed, if that terrible man shoots him in the back, I want more to remember.

  I hope You aren’t too angry at me for thinking such terrible things. I know the priests, even the young priest who is so kind and understanding, would say that I’m thinking about a terrible mortal sin.

  Meself, I’m not so sure that for us it would be. I’m willing to trust in Your love for me.

  You see, dear God of my heart, I love him like You love me. I will always love him. I will never stop loving him. I believe that You will always love me and never stop loving me.

  So, whatever I do or try to do, You’ll be there loving me and Liam. I know You’ll take care of us always. Even as You take care of all of us all the time. I’m sorry I was angry at You about Tim. You understand so much more than I do.

  I give You fair warning, O Lord. I’m not going to make it easy for You to take care of me, and it being Your own fault for making me so stubborn and contentious.

  And Yourself, just like Liam Tomas, loving me the way I am.

  –– 34 ––

  June 1922

  Them that says lovemaking is a terrible burden are liars!

  ’Tis the grandest thing in all the world, even if like my Liam and I you’re novices at the game.

  [Translator’s note: I can’t believe she did it, and myself knowing all along that she would! I don’t think it was sin either, not with all that killing and dying all around them. I know the tale has a happy ending, but as I read her words, I feel that her Liam will die and she’ll be alone like Moire with a child and herself not being the kind that would ever find another husband. I can tell you one thing: The tone of her voice as I hear these words says that she’s not ashamed or sorry at all. Mind you, she’d never approve of her daughters or granddaughters doing the same thing!

  [I’ll erase this from the hard disk after I print it out. I know you’re dying to hear about me daft reactions to this story!]

  There are a group of Tans in the neighborhood. They’re still angry about what happened in Oughterard and the regular army being ambushed on the way up to burn the town by the Clare and Galway flying squads. They’re looking for a few innocent people to kill before the English government pulls them out and sends them to Palestine.

  They’ll not be finding any victims because people fade away when they hear that the Auxiliaries are coming. The lads keep track of them and shoot out their tires. The orders are not to kill them unless they are about to kill civilians.

  The night before last Liam and two other lads blew up the Tans’ motor car by shooting their Mausers at the gasoline tanks over in Salt Hill. It made a grand fire, I’m told.

  The lads use the Mausers now even though they have only a few bullets for each one of them because they don’t have any more bullets for their Lee-Enfields.

  So yesterday morning even before the sun comes up, doesn’t Liam Tomas sneak into our house? He’s under orders, he says, to hide here until the lads are sure that the Tans have taken the train back to Dublin.

  “Good riddance to them,” says I.

  “You’ll be wondering why we didn’t just shoot them?”

  “I am not. Sure, didn’t the Big Fella tell you not to violate the truce?”

  “ ’Tis yourself that should be in London, negotiating the treaty with Mick and Art and Eamon.” He grins his big wonderful grin at me.

  “I’d be doing a better job at it than a bunch of stupid men, excepting me good friend the Mick of course.”

  Well, we both laugh and we’re friends again. The rest of the day was very pleasant and myself biting off my tongue not to start another one of my fights. Moire brings over young Nell Tim, who is a little handful, let me tell you, almost as bad as her godmother, and my ma and da loving Liam almost as much as they loved poor Tim.

  I miss him every day. I cry for him almost every day at Mass. The young priest says I’m a deep one.

  [Translator’s note: I called the store in Carraroe where I leave messages for my own ma and da. When they call me back I’ll ask them to see if the parish priest has any records of marriage for Nell Tim Malone. We might be able to find where she lives. I wonder if your ma and pa kept in touch with her. And herself asking me whether I’m a terrible eejit altogether for thinking that they wouldn’t keep their eye on her godchild, no matter where she lived.]

  While Liam is napping in the afternoon, I take some sheets and blankets and some candles to the old ruined house over by our lough and make a little bed where a couple could sleep for a few hours if they wanted to.

  After tea when it starts to get dark, me ma and da leave for a wake in Oughterard, taking the pony and the jaunting car. They say they’ll be back by midnight at the latest, and I’m not doubting that because they’re uneasy about the way Liam and I are laughing.

  I suppose if I were them I’d be uneasy too. There’s no telling what wild kids will do when there’s a war going on.

  So Liam and I leave for a walk on the strand.

  “I hope there’s peace, Nell Pat,” he says, so tired and weary. “This war will be the destruction of all of us if it goes on much longer.”

  “ ’Tis a terrible thing, I agree,” putting my arm around him.

  “I thought I was a brave soldier.” He hardly seems to notice me. “I’m not. I was not meant for fighting or killing.”

  “I’m thinking that’s a true thing if there ever was one . . . but now there’s a truce, isn’t there?”

  “The commandant is saying that Mick Collins is a traitor, himself and Art Griffith and Bill Cosgrave and Kevin O’Higgins, and that they’ve sold us out to the English. So maybe we won’t observe the truce.”

  “And what will you not observe it with—make-believe bullets?”

  “Aye, that’s the truth, isn’t it now? Ah, I’m thinking it doesn’t make much difference anymore. Sure, we don’t have the bullets to fight the National Army if we wanted to, and I’m not sure I want to, not with the Big Fella saying that we should accept the treaty.”

  “And I’m thinking that after it’s all over and Ireland is free finally, you and I will have a lot of things to talk about.”

  “Ah, that is as it may be.”

  Then he begins to kiss me, so fierce as to take my breath away.

  This time I don’t even pretend not to want it. I kiss him back every bit as fierce.

  Then he begins to caress me, something a man has never done before, except the poor man I killed in Oughterard. I know it’s going to happen and I’m not sure that I’ll like it. But when Liam does it to me, I think I’m going to die with joy.
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br />   So we walk along the strand and the moon is coming up, just like God arranged the light for us, and we’re kissing a lot and Liam is playing with me and I love it and before we know it we’re at the abandoned house.

  I whisper an aspiration to Our Lady that there be no rain tonight.

  I take my man by the hand and lead him into the house and light the candles. He stands at the door, looking at the clean sheets and the flowers and the jug of poteen I’ve stolen from me father, and knowing what I intend and himself not sure and maybe a little frightened too.

  It’s up to me, as I knew it would be. So, petrified with fear, and also to tell the truth dying of curiosity, I take off me blouse and skirt, real quicklike, and stand there in me shift for Liam to look at.

  “Nell Pat,” he says, still terrible hesitant. “We shouldn’t!”

  “We should too,” says I, not even perfectly sure what we should do, though God knows I’ve seen the animals do it often enough and I’m not thinking we’re all that different from them.

  He doesn’t move, though I can tell he likes what he sees and why shouldn’t he?

  I take a deep breath and slip off me shift so that I’m standing there in me drawers. I’m terrified with love and shame and doubt. But there’s no turning back now, is there?

  So I kick off my drawers and stand there with my arms outstretched, offering all that I am to my love. He’s drinking me in with his eyes, like I’m a cool glass of water at the end of a long day.

  Then I walk over to Liam, take his hands, and put them on my bosom where I know he wants them to be and undo the buttons on his shirt.

  Well, I won’t put anything more down on paper, except to say that it was a grand night and both of us had a grand time and we couldn’t do it often enough before we had to go back to the house to beat me parents.

  And didn’t me man sneak into my room after Ma and Da were asleep and love me again?

  That was the most fun of all.

  — NUALA’S VOICE —

  Nell Pat, you wonderful woman!

  Of course you want the story told. Why else would you have left the diaries? Why else would you have made him bring me here?

  He’ll never solve the mystery without my help, not at all, at all.

  Sometimes I think he knows that, and other times I don’t. I wish I could understand him better. Is he a mystery because he’s a Yank, oops, Irish American or because he’s a man or because he’s this particular man?

  Could I do what you did to win your man?

  I don’t think so. It was a time of war and death then and it isn’t now. Women have more options than they did in your time. I have my career to think about, don’t I?

  I know that you’re after telling me that the two of us are not supposed to imitate you and your man. I’m not even sure my man, if he’s my man and I don’t know that at all, at all, would succumb the way yours did. Probably he wouldn’t.

  So probably I won’t.

  But at some point I’m going to challenge him just the same.

  There’s lot of good reasons why I shouldn’t, but I don’t care. I’m not going to let him get away without telling him what I think.

  I don’t know whether my love is a lifelong love like yours, but I don’t care about that either. I’m going to have it out with your man and that’s that.

  The poor amadon has no idea what we’re going to find out in Galway. I’d better keep a close eye on him. Otherwise he’ll make some terrible mistake.

  I love him, I love him so much.

  When I’m through writing these notes to you I will erase them from the floppy disk I’m putting, them on.

  –– 35 ––

  “YOU DIDN’T tell me that we were to have lunch with the toffs.”

  “Even the perfect boss forgets now and then.”

  We were in His Lordship’s Rolls inching our way through heavy traffic and heavy rain.

  “Like you forgot to check in with George day before yesterday and himself calling me all filled with concern, poor dear man.”

  “You set his mind at ease, I gather.”

  “Wouldn’t you forget your head if it wasn’t fastened on?”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “So here I am in their fock—in their grand Rolls-Royce, looking like a shopgirl and myself planning a big batch of translation this afternoon.”

  Nuala’s complaints were for the record only. She was pleased to be invited for lunch at the Longwood-Joneses’, confident now that she was more than a match for the poshes.

  She was wearing her gray outfit, with the light gray sweater and a silver Celtic cross around her neck, the latter a recent addition to her wardrobe.

  She was not afraid to spend her money or to give it away to the travelers who begged on the streets.

  Yet somewhere there was a computer file that budgeted very penny, of that I was sure.

  She had not brought along her rain slicker. “Sure, won’t your man Arthur be having an umbrella for me? You really don’t understand how the poshes live, do you, Dermot Michael?”

  “You might look like a hippie if you choose,” I said to her in the Rolls after the chauffeur had shut the glass barrier between himself and us, “Nuala Anne, but never a shopgirl.”

  “You’re just making excuses for humiliating me altogether.” She was grinning broadly, enjoying herself immensely.

  This one never lets up on you.

  “I’ll not humiliate you by staggering down the stairs after lunch.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we now? And why are you calling home every day?”

  I glanced at her. As I expected, she had her shrewd, fishmonger expression. “My family worries about me.”

  “Shouldn’t you be calling your ma?”

  “She’s busy with her patients. George is kind of a communication center.”

  She wasn’t satisfied with my answer, but she decided to drop the matter for the moment. I, would have to tell her the whole story before our trip in a few days to Cork and the West. What would she think of it all, especially given her weird identification with Ma?

  “You haven’t said whether you were shocked by what herself did in the abandoned house, have you now?”

  Damn right I haven’t.

  “Each generation thinks it has invented sex, Nuala, and is shocked and not a little displeased to discover that its predecessors enjoyed it too.”

  “That sounds like a line from one of your stories.”

  “It isn’t, but now that you mention it, it surely will be.”

  “And yourself never bothering to back up your hard disk either.” She was launched on a new complaint. “Isn’t it a good thing that I’m a responsible person?”

  “That’s why I hired you, Nuala.”

  She laughed. “ ’Tis not, at all, at all. . . . And wasn’t I asking the poor priest if he had made copies of your grandma’s diary should there be the odd fire in your hotel?”

  “Had he?”

  That was something else I had planned to do. Memory was never my strong point.

  “Brilliant, Dermot Michael, just brilliant. Sure, ’tis a surprise to me that you’ve managed to survive as long as you have without a minder taking care of you.”

  “Did George make copies?” I snapped at her.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?” She sniggered back.

  “You’ll be the death of me, woman,” I protested. “You’d try the patience of a saint.”

  “Would I now . . . but what do you think about herself in the cottage without a roof and herself without a stitch on?”

  That subject was not to be avoided, even if we were at the bottom of FitzWilliam Street only a couple of blocks from the Longwood-Jones town house.

  I was afraid that her identification with Ma was so strong now that she’d feel bound to try the same tactics on me. Would I be able to resist them?

  If she was as blatant as Ma seems to have been, not a chance. If Nuala wanted me that badly I’d be a pu
shover.

  She was not, however, Ma, not really. Rather she was, for all her shyness, better educated and hence more sophisticated and hence, I devoutly hoped, more inhibited.

  “She wanted him, Nuala.” I shrugged my shoulders. “And she was afraid he would be killed like her brother. There was a war on and danger and death lurked everywhere. In peacetime she would have pursued him just as effectively if somewhat less spectacularly. The poor man, if you ask me, never had a chance, maybe from his tenth birthday on.”

  “You’re not really shocked?”

  “No, not really. A little surprised at first maybe, but not shocked. Ma was a passionate woman till the end of her life.”

  Nuala’s pretense was that she was objective, merely trying to explore my thinking—if I was to believe this particular mask, which of course I didn’t.

  “And you’re not thinking they committed a terrible mortal sin, are you?”

  “We all had better leave that to God, who, as your friend Prester George would say, is neither a catechist nor a moral theologian.”

  “Praise be to God.” She sighed.

  Ma and Pa were passionate people, not merely sexually hungry, but the kind of young folk who followed their stronger instincts through life and never looked back. A little bit of education drains that out of you. It makes you think twice, which is often a good idea but not always.

  In Merrion Square Arthur dutifully opened his umbrella and conducted the Lady Nuala Anne up the door stoop, while I trailed behind. At the door, however, she linked her arm around mine. Today we would play the sweethearts’ game for the toffs.

  “So good of you to come,” Martin dithered in the parlor after we had been conducted to it by the butler. “Liz and I had such a nice time talking with you the other night that we thought it would be most pleasant to have a more, ah, personal chat.”

  “I do so prefer informal lunches to formal dinner parties,” Liz agreed.

  Informality meant a three-piece dark gray suit for him and a long light gray dress for her. In my yuppie uniform—dark blue blazer and chino slacks—I was the only one out of sync in the gray symphony on this gray Dublin day.