“We can’t miss them, we go right by Lady’s View.” That was true enough, but the rain clouds were so thick at that observation point that the lakes were invisible.
We drove into Killarney and pulled up at the parking lot of the Great Southern Railway Hotel, built across the street from the train station.
“I’m starved,” said Nuala. “And spoiled from living like a fockingrichyank.”
We both laughed heartily, our friendship completely restored again.
“I thought we weren’t going to use that language once we left South County Dublin?”
“’Tis the only exception.”
We strolled into the dining room of the Great Southern, which was damp from the moisture that cloaked the hotel, but no more damp than we were. Before the maître d’ could show us to a table, we were greeted by a hearty voice.
“Dermot! Nuala! Haven’t you picked a terrible day to visit the West? You must be my guests at lunch. And you, young woman, haven’t you been deceiving me and the rest of Lord Martin’s guests?”
Brendan Keane.
–– 54 ––
“ME DECEIVING you, Mr. Minister?” Nuala had turned on all her charm. “Sure, would I be deceiving a member of the government of Ireland?”
We were seated at his table, waiting for our sherry, only one glass for me because I was driving. The minister had come for the opening of an art exhibition in Tralee and was taking the late train back to Dublin.
“Sure, it’s a slow ride but I wouldn’t want to be on the highway today, would I now?”
He was so disarming that it was easy to forget that he was on the handwritten list of the Consort, between Peter B. Joyce and John H. McMahon.
In the back of my head I wondered again how Patrick had come into possession of the list and why he had given it to me.
Moreover, a cabinet member of the republic would certainly have a limousine at his disposal for official business. Hence the train story was unlikely. What then was he doing in Killarney? Waiting for us? Why not then in Galway? How did he know we would stop at the Great Southern for lunch when we didn’t know it ourselves until a mere half hour before? Or was he waiting for someone else?
Nuala was fending him off while I watched him closely.
“Well,” the minister went on, smiling benignly, “you told us that it was a pleasure to watch the lass who played Pegeen Mike, and how does a person watch herself?”
“Sure, don’t you watch yourself with the internal eye”—the little fraud smiled her most appealing smile—“with which every artist watches his own work?”
“Martin and I were both astonished when the American attaché called us and said his wife told him on the way home that our young guest was Pegeen Mike and she herself had seen the play, but she didn’t want to embarrass you at the dinner.”
Martin had not mentioned that at our lunch. It would probably have interfered with his principal agenda.
“Sure, wouldn’t it have been a terrible thing if I admitted it was me after all the nice words had been said?”
“I grant that, young woman. And I tip my hat to your modesty. Moreover, we would have discovered the truth eventually as your career on the stage develops. I’m only sorry I missed the performance. By the time I read the reviews it was already too late.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Minister. But I’m studying to be an accountant.”
“My dear, what a terrible waste of talent!” He raised his sherry in a toast to both of us. “Can’t you persuade her to change her mind, Dermot?”
“The woman has a mind of her own,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to change it.”
Brendan Keane was sleek and smooth in his morning suit—Irish pols wore them as often as they could find a pretext to do so—a hardworking and ambitious politician on the make. However, today in the dim dining room in this old hotel in the Kingdom of Kerry, I noticed a touch of sleaze that I had not seen in the romantic Georgian atmosphere of the town house on Merrion Square.
The lines at the ends of his lips, the darting eyes, the forced high spirits, the too-rapid flow of his words, the nervous motions of his fingers—all these quirks made him appear tricky.
Like a politician trying to explain away a mistake on a Sunday TV program back in the States, he was clever, but not clever enough. Or too clever by half.
Or was I reading my knowledge about the Consort into his behavior?
No, I was not. He was indeed a bit of a gombeen man—too much perhaps ever to rise quite to the top of the Irish government. It was permitted, indeed expected, that Irish politicians be tricky. But they ought not to seem to be too tricky.
He was under pressure at the moment. He knew that we were on the trail of mysteries the explanation of which might be a powerful embarrassment to his career. Was he trying to talk us out of our search by flattery? Was he trying to persuade us that he was a nice fellow so we would not put him in jeopardy? Or was he talking away a mile a minute with his occasional Richard Nixon smile merely because it was in his nature to do so?
As Daniel P. Moynihan once remarked of Henry Kissinger, “He deceives not because it is in his interest do so but because it is in his nature to do so.”
It seemed to be in the nature of Brendan Keane to talk.
“There are scads of young actresses and singers in Dublin,” Nuala was explaining her career choice, “and most of them working as shopgirls or, if they are lucky enough to do word processing, as secretaries. I have no reason to think I’m any better.”
“The review in the Times suggests that you have more talent than most.”
“I’m probably good enough”—she weighed her skills judiciously as she nodded for another glass of sherry and shot a warning glance at me—“for amateur theatricals, and that’s grand for me. I can earn a better living as an accountant over at the Financial Services Center, and if they want me in the theater I can do that too.”
Need I say that I declined the second glass of sherry?
I had been planning to do it anyway. Well, I think I was.
“You’re not migrating to America, are you now?” After ever so slight a pause, Nuala responded, “I have no plans for doing so at the present moment.”
I remained silent.
I was also tormented by another thought. Suppose Nuala should come to the United States in pursuit of me. She would make common cause with my mother, my sisters, my sisters-in-law, my brother the priest, and indeed everyone else in my family. I’d be finished, like it or not.
Was she capable of such strategy?
Was the Pope bishop of Rome?
Did St. Ignatius found the Jesuits?
Brigid, Patrick, and Columcille!
And Fintan, Finbarr, and Finian too, thrown in for good measure.
“I could, of course,” Keane babbled on, “say a word or two in the proper places for you and would be happy to do so.”
“Wouldn’t I be terribly grateful for that, Mr. Minister, and yourself not even seeing me act.”
He waved his hand airily. “All I would have to do is show people the review in the Times.”
“After I graduate in the spring, they can find me at the Financial Services Center.”
“You already have a position there?”
“Not exactly.” She smiled at the waitress who placed the Galway smoked salmon in front of her. “But haven’t a number of companies shown interest in me?”
“Such as?”
“Such as Saatchi and Saatchi and Arthur Andersen.”
Arthur Andersen was a Chicago-based company of enormous size and influence. They would have no need to import talent from Ireland, would they?
The minister babbled on as we turned to our meat course (overcooked but tasty roast beef) about dramatic and vocal opportunities in the republic. Nuala calmly repeated her rock-bottom position: She would be delighted if she could perform on the stage, but she was going to be an accountant.
At the Financial Services Center being bu
ilt on the banks of the Liffey? Hadn’t she told me that she planned to work in Galway City to be close to her parents?
Maybe she merely planned to pick up some experience there for a couple of years before returning to Galway.
In the frantic world of international business, an intelligent and beautiful and naive young woman would be an easy target for phonies.
What, me jealous?
Besides, hadn’t she demonstrated the truth of her assertion that she could take care of herself?
Then, as I was finishing the roast beef, the minister turned to me. “What are your plans, Dermot Coyne? Are they quite as firm as Nuala’s?”
“Just the opposite, I’m afraid.” I tried to make my laugh sound casual as I groped for a response and settled on truth, most of the truth anyway.
“Oh?”
“I plan to fly home to Chicago sometime in the middle of next week. I’ve absorbed as much as I can on this visit. I suppose I’ll settle down and try to write some stories this winter.”
Did I note palpable relief in his darting eyes?
“Surely you’ll return to Ireland?”
“I would think so. However, I’ve been away from home for almost two years. I’ve wandered enough for the present.”
“So this is a first and last look at the West of Ireland? Pity the weather is so bad.”
“It could improve tomorrow. My mother’s family came from Galway, your district, in fact. I hope to visit the places where they grew up, which happen to be where Nuala’s family lives, so we’re combining two projects this weekend.”
“Soak up atmosphere there, eh?” He drummed his fingers on the table as the waitress removed our plates.
“And take some pictures. My grandparents never returned, as I think I mentioned the other night. While my parents and all of my siblings have been in Ireland at one time or another, none of them ever went to Connemara, as far as I know. So we need a few photos for the family archives.”
“Commendable, commendable.” He rubbed his hands together. I noted that he wore too many rings. “I certainly hope you have good weather tomorrow and Sunday.”
“I do too.”
“I would like to ask you a very great personal favor.” He continued to rub his hands. “Do you expect to publish any stories as a result of your visit here?”
“I hope to.”
“Would you send me offprints of them when they are published? I think it is important to circulate them in this country. Irish Americans, I note, are quite relaxed about the Irish influence on their cultural works. Here there is a tendency to resent that influence, as if the Irish Americans have no right to be Irish, if you take me meaning. I consider that most unfortunate. We are indeed planning a prize of some sort to be given by Ireland to Irish-American artists and writers. Nothing very large financially, yet the spirit would be there. I hope you wouldn’t find it offensive if we submitted your work?”
“Not at all.”
He insisted on picking up the tab for lunch. “Ministerial budget. You can pay when I visit you in Chicago.”
I didn’t fight it.
In the car Nuala spat out, “Gobshite! I know I’m breaking my rule and I won’t ever do it again till we return to Dublin, but the man is a gobshite.”
“Did I fool him?”
“You were wonderful, Dermot, and you saying I’m the great actress. I’m thinking you reassured him, but he’s so anxious that no one could completely reassure him. . . . Now give me a few more minutes and I’ll be finishing this translation of herself’s entry on the boat. We’ll see if she tells us who the man in the car is.”
–– 55 ––
October 4, 1922
I’m as sick as I’ve ever been in all me life.
The boat is rolling something terrible and the tiny cabin in which Liam and I are staying smells of coal and vomit (mine and his) and all kinds of other smells I’d not like to think about.
I’m sick from the ocean and I’m sick from me poor baby and I’m sick with loneliness for Ireland.
I’ve told Liam about the gold bar. He was surprised but not angry at me at all, at all. He laughed as I raved on about what the young priest said and he took me in his arms and whispered, “Don’t ever be afraid, Nell Pat, to do what you think you should do. I’ll never disapprove of it or resent that you’re so much smarter than I am.”
Wasn’t that wonderful!
“I’m not, Liam Tomas, not at all, at all. Wasn’t my poor da saying that you were the smartest young man in the County Galway?”
“That’s as may be, Nell Pat, but I’m still not as smart as you are; and that makes me happy and grateful to God and Himself sending me such a fine wife and herself a beauty too.”
“I’m already starting to get fat,” I moan.
“You’ll always be beautiful,” he says, kissing me.
I’m also in tears at the mention of me da whom I’ll probably never see again. And me ma and Moire and me cute little godchild, who may never meet her cousin.
And ourselves knowing now that we have no choice but to leave Ireland and that we’d be putting our lives in danger if we ever come back.
“ ’Tis just as well,” says me man, “after everything that’s happened, Nell Pat. I don’t think I’d ever want to come back. We’ll have to close the door on that part of our lives.”
“Aye.” I agree with him because I know it’s true, especially after our talk with General Mulcahy.
He’s not at all like Mick Collins. He’s slim and kind of short and wears his hair slicked back and has sort of an altar-boy face. At first you think he’s a little brat pretending to be a general in his dark green uniform with big black boots and a thick Sam Browne belt and his big pistol and the red tabs on the collar and a riding crop just like a British officer. Or a toy soldier come to life. He’s also sort of stiff and formal, not casual like our Mick was.
However, you change your mind after you’ve talked to him for a few minutes. He’s smart and determined, and he believes in Ireland and peace just the way General Collins did.
“None of us will ever get over what happened last August.” He sighs, slapping the fancy black boot of his uniform with his fancy riding crop. “But we’d be false to Mick if we let his dream die with him. The men who have caused this civil war are desperately misguided, but they’re Irishmen and our former comrades. We must make peace with them as soon as we can.”
We’re sitting in a hotel room in Galway. The Free Staters occupy the city now, and there’s not much conflict to the north, though the eejits in Clare are still making trouble and that Dev’s own district.
“And poor Kit Kiernan?”
“Mick told you about Kit?” He shook his head. “Poor woman! She’s bright and pretty and great fun. But her health is poor, something that seems to run in her family. Mick worried a lot about her. When she feels poorly she’s a bit unstable, though Mick loved her with all his heart. She’s still inconsolable, but I think, poor health and all, she’ll recover. General Felix Cronin is looking after her and himself a very able man. Eventually she’ll be all right. She’ll never forget Mick, however, not as long as she lives.”
“Poor dear woman.”
“We’ll make his dream come true, Mrs. O’Riada, never fear. It won’t be as bright as he would have made it. It won’t be as joyous, but, please God and the Blessed Mother, it will be his dream. He did not die in vain.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” says me man.
“I wonder if you two comprehend how enormously important your contribution has been to the realization of Mick Collins’s dream?”
Me and Liam look at one another. “We do not,” says he.
“Not at all, at all,” says I.
“This picture”—he taps it with his riding crop—“and the story you’ve told me will bring the Civil War to an end soon. I’ve been afraid it would drag on for years. You see, the National Army is poorly armed and equipped and trained. We can occupy the cities and those parts of
the countryside that support the treaty. We don’t have the guns and the bullets to bring our rule to the whole country. The Republican Irregulars have relatively little in the way of equipment, but they know we’re not much better off. Therefore, they can continue with their occasional ambushes and thereby control much of Ireland. We simply cannot expect to assume our place in the family of nations without internal peace. Moreover, there are elements in England that are still hoping for an excuse to reoccupy Ireland. Those elements ordered Mick’s death because they believed he was the only person standing between Ireland and permanent chaos.”
“They were wrong,” says me man.
“I fervently hope so, Captain.” He sighs and swats his boot again with his riding crop. “They have been wrong about the-Irish many times in our mutual history. But they’ve always won. Some of them are not convinced that they won’t win again.”
I’m thinking to myself that I hope Ireland is finally free but that I want to live somewhere else where there isn’t so much killing in the name of freedom.
“You have to control the countryside then?” Liam says, a soldier for a moment again.
“That we do, not all of the countryside but enough to persuade the more moderate of the Republicans, Dev for example—we’ll never persuade poor Liam Lynch—that the sentiment of the country is in favor of the treaty and that they can’t win ever. Mick’s skirmish strategy, you see, works only in a very limited set of circumstances, and he himself telling everyone that and they not listening.”
“You need more guns and bullets?” I says.
“Precisely, Mrs. O’Riada, and while we have the American money to pay for them—though not as much as we used to have—we can get them only from across the Irish Sea. Until now they have not been forthcoming. I think that will change shortly. . . . Curiously enough, the very fact that we will have the guns will preclude the need to use them.”
“And why would you think that you’ll get the guns now, General?” Liam asks.
“Because of this picture”—he taps it with his riding crop—“and the story you’ve been telling me.”
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