I sometimes think we could have taken the chance and gone home at least for a visit. Still, what would the point have been? Seven-eighths of my life has been here. I’m a Yank now and from Chicago, not Carraroe.
Dick Coyne and I both know that I’ll be dying soon and himself a doctor. I think me Monica knows too and herself a nurse, but she won’t admit it, poor dear woman. She’s the nicest of all my children, the most gentle, even more than poor Billy the bishop and himself conceived out of wedlock in the cottage in Connemara. Well, I never told him that, but maybe he’s guessed. He doesn’t miss much, that one.
Monica is more like my Liam than she is like me. Sometimes she’s so nice I want to scream at her, but that would hurt her feelings, so I try to keep me big mouth shut, which has never been easy.
Dick wants to call Dermot Michael home so he can be with me at the end. He knows what no one else will admit out loud: that Dermot is my favorite of all the children. And grandchildren. But I don’t want to disturb the poor lad while he’s wandering around Europe. He’s a good boy and he’ll be a great man if he gives himself a chance to dream and to think like he wants to.
I don’t know why I love him so much. He’s the spitting image of my Liam when he was a gosson—and Liam being the father of four children by the time he was Dermot’s age.
He’s not at all like Liam. Or like me. A lot of his mother in him. And some of Dick too. Not at all like that smooth-talking George who reminds me so much of the young priest back home. I mean in Carraroe. I’ll be calling George after I finish, to go to confession. I know that God loves me and that when I die I’ll be with Liam as soon as I do a bit of purgatory. Still, like I always says, there’s no reason to take unnecessary chances and myself living a pretty wild life in my day and with me terrible tongue too.
Anyway, Dermot Michael is a special young man and I knew it the first day Monica brought him home from the hospital. I’m glad they called him Michael for his middle name because he reminds me of Mick Collins whom I met so long ago on the lane in Carraroe. He doesn’t look like him at all. And, poor boy, he couldn’t lead a pack of guerrilla vampires to a blood bank. And he’s not an organizer or administrator at all at all. Him self as secretary of the treasury like the Mick was finance minister would a terrible disaster.
But he has the same glint in his green eyes, the same hint of divilment and charm and understanding of people and, well, I’ll use the word, genius.
Do I exaggerate because I love the poor little tyke so much?
I don’t know. Maybe it’s only an old woman’s fantasies. Yet I haven’t met anyone like Mick except him in all my life.
Poor Mick, dead and gone these seventy years. I wonder if I could have saved his life if I had warned Liam about O’Kelly. Probably not. He’d done his work and God wanted him home.
Anyway, after I find me Liam up in heaven, I’m going to look up Mick and Kitty and have a long talk with them.
And we’ll all be young again.
Or is it all a trick? Sometimes I think it may be. Not often and I believe the opposite, but I say to myself even if there’s nothing more I’m grateful for what I have.
So should I burn all the little books in this diary? Sometimes I think I should. Let the dead bury the dead, as the scripture says. Well, I think it’s the scripture anyway.
What does any of it matter anymore? They’re all dead now except me and I’ll be dead soon enough.
Or should I leave them? Maybe someday someone will find them and the truth will matter. Maybe Dermot Michael will find them and write a story about all of us and what it was like in Carraroe back in the time of the Troubles. Maybe he can decide whether it’s time to tell the truth.
Dermot Michael will be a great man, but only if meets the right woman. The good Lord knows how much I’ve prayed for that, and himself pursuing little chits that are not nearly good enough for him. Well, when I get up there, I’ll talk to Himself personally about the subject.
I’ll have to make up my mind about the diaries pretty soon now, won’t I?
And what about the man that gave the orders and paid the bills to O’Kelly? Will I see him in heaven?
Sure, that’s up to God, now isn’t it?
At first I didn’t put his name down because I was terrible scared of what would happen to me and my family if anyone ever found these little books. Then after he was dead I saw no point in it.
He didn’t change much through the years—loving the dramatic and the sensational. And his only morality was whether something was good or bad for England. If it was good, then he’d do it no matter how much it hurt other people. I guess now, after reading all his books, he was telling the truth that hot day so long ago. He felt that England had to have a secure base in Ireland and that if the Free State survived, it would take those bases away.
The Mick killed people too—for our side, but then killing is killing, isn’t it?
Well, let God judge him, as I say. ’Tis not up to me.
I wonder about the gold.
Somehow I think your man knew about it. I suppose it’s all gone now. Yet what if it isn’t? Has it been used to make trouble all these years, or is it still up there near the shrine in the Pass of the Birds?
I wonder.
I suppose it belongs to Ireland now if it belongs to anyone. I don’t figure I owe Ireland much. If there’s any debt it’s the other way around. Still, there’s all those poor kids with their college degrees and no work. Maybe the money would help some of them.
Well, if I don’t burn these little books and if Dermot Michael finds them and if he thinks it’s worth the effort to search for the gold and if some of it’s still there, I’ll leave it to him what to do with it.
Not a very good way to end an account of a wild life, is it now?
What more can I say?
I don’t mind dying. I miss Liam too much.
I love them all.
Bill, I know you’re near. I can almost hear you coming as I did at my window in Carraroe so long ago!
Come quickly!
–– 66 ––
“RASPBERRY PRESERVES, is it?” said the president of Ireland as she offered me a plate of scones.
“’Tis, Ms. President,” I agreed.
I wasn’t sure whether that was the proper title. However, if it would do for the chief executive of our battered but durable republic beyond the sea, should we ever manage to have a woman president, it would surely suffice here in Phoenix Park for the an’tUachtairan ne h’Eireann.
Here in her official residence, aras an’tUachtairan, the Uachtairan (chief cattleherd) had just placed around our necks two medals suspended from green, white, and orange ribbons. Then she poured the tea for us.
I felt terrible, even worse than when I was in the hospital. My head ached. I had wild dreams at night. I was drifting around in a fog as if I were in a prolonged hangover. When I finally got home I’d ask my father to check me out. I was not about to trust my health to an Irish doctor.
“The statue of O’Kelly has already been removed”—the president sighed—“and work on the statue of your grandparents has begun. It should be in place by spring.”
“I would be happy to defray some of the expenses, Ms. President.”
“Not at all, Dermot, not at all. It’s little enough this nation can do for two brave people, or should I say four.”
“Maybe three.”
“And, if I may say so”—she ignored my self-deprecation—“it was a stroke of genius to reveal the story of the treasure at the same time as the story of the murder of Michael Collins by a traitor. Ten million pounds for education today is more important in this country just now than a killing long ago. We wish to do all we can to protect our Anglo-Irish peace initiative.”
“It may have been a stroke of genius, Ms. President, but it was Ms. McGrail’s stroke, not mine.”
“Speaking of which”—the Uachtairan turned to her—“Bishop Hayes has promised us that you would sing a song or two.
I would be so happy if you would. . . .” She gestured toward the Celtic harp in the corner of the drawing room.
I had noted that (a) the president of Ireland and Nuala had exchanged a few sentences in Irish at the beginning of our visit (I was sure they were talking about me) and (b) the former’s West of Ireland accent (and herself a Mayo woman) became progressively thicker as she spoke with us.
Naturally Nuala would sing for us. Still playing the shy Gaeltacht lass that had been her persona through the publicity, Nuala tuned the harp and then, with Ed Hayes proudly humming, she sang the Gaelic lullaby I had first heard in O’Neill’s pub at the beginning of our story.
We all applauded, discreetly and politely—raucous noise was inappropriate in the official home of the president in Phoenix Park.
Then with the barest hint of a glance at me she began again.
“In Dublin’s fair city,
Where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes
On sweet Molly Malone.
She wheeled her wheelbarrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“Alive, alive oh!
Alive, alive oh!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“She was a fishmonger,
But sure ’twas no wonder,
For so was her father and mother before.
And they both wheeled their barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“Alive, alive oh!
Alive, alive oh!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“She died of a fever
And no one could relieve her,
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels Alive, alive oh!
“Alive, alive oh!
Alive, alive oh!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!”
I am not proud of my behavior towards Nuala during the days between our escape and my return to America. In my defense I plead that I had a headache most of the time, that I was a physical wreck, that my body was sore from the lumps I had taken, and that I frequently saw double—not one Nuala but two. Two scheming connivers instead of one. Moreover, as I can see now, my male ego had been injured because she had solved the mystery before I had. But, as valid as these excuses are (especially the headaches), the simple truth is that I was now terrified of the woman.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I had asked her two nights after the fight in the monastery. I had been released from the hospital and ensconced in Ashford Castle for a few days’ recuperation away from the Irish media—though I felt sicker when I left Ashford than when I left the hospital. Bishop Ed’s doctors wanted to keep an eye on me to make sure that my ribs were properly taped and that I was not suffering from serious internal injuries.
Ashford is one of the great hotels in all the world (built around a real medieval castle) and only five miles away from the ancestral home of the Coynes (all of whom had long since left).
It had intimidated Nuala when she came to visit me for the first time since I was carted off to the Galway Hospital.
“’Tis truly a fancy hotel,” she acknowledged with reverential awe. “A fine place for a honeymoon, wouldn’t it be? When I marry, ten years or so from now, maybe I’ll come here.”
“I said, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew you were thinking of asking Bishop Hayes for help.” Her eyes were wide with concern for me. “And yourself being so tired from the long ride and so hurt from the accident that you might put it off for a day or two. I wasn’t sure you heard the shots that destroyed our tire. When you didn’t tell him that night at the house, I thought I’d better do it for you that morning at breakfast before you came down. Then I rang him from the store in Carraroe when we were sure where the gold was. Sure, I just anticipated you by a day or two.”
“If I knew he knew”—my head hurt terribly—“we wouldn’t have climbed up the cave and they wouldn’t have come after us.”
“But they didn’t know we were in the cave, remember, Dermot Michael? They would have come after us just the same. Sure, your man Patrick would have saved us anyway, but wasn’t it a good thing we scared them at the end?”
We, huh?
“You could have been killed.”
“Aren’t you hurt worse than I?”
“Where did you find the picture of Churchill?”
“Sure, wasn’t it in one of those crates? And wasn’t I searching them to make sure we had all the diary books when I found it?”
“Ransacking them, you mean?”
“Well.” She paused, determined not to lie. “I thought there might be the odd bit of clue that you’d missed.”
“You should have told me, Nuala, you should have told me everything.”
“I wanted to, Dermot”—she lifted her folded hands in a woebegone gesture—“but like herself with your granda, I didn’t know how to do it.”
“Did I ever complain when you told me anything about this mystery? Did I seem to resent that you were quicker and smarter than I was?”
“I didn’t want to spoil the puzzle for you and yourself so close to the solution.”
“I don’t need to solve puzzles, Nuala,” I snapped irritably.
“You’re a grand man, Dermot Michael Coyne, the most wonderful man in the world. I never expected to meet another man as kind or as good or as gentle. But, sure, you’re such a mystery.”
“I’m no mystery, you are.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m just a lass from the West of Ireland and you’re from the big world, but you have so many different moods that I never could figure out how to talk to you, and myself trying as hard as I could. I’d say to myself, Which Dermot will he be today and how should I act with him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Nuala.” I was annoyed with her now. “You’re the one who wears the thousand masks.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want to argue with you, Dermot, and yourself just out of hospital, but, sure, I’m being transparent compared to yourself.”
“I’m tired, Nuala, and my heard hurts and I ache all over. Would you mind leaving me alone?”
She nodded silently and stood up. Her heart was breaking, I knew, but good enough for her. Besides, it would be easier for her to forget me.
“You saw the rock fall?” She turned at the door, her face of mask of sadness.
“I did. How did it happen? Did you make it fall?”
“I did not.”
“Who did?”
“Wasn’t it himself, coming back for his final victory?”
“Wasn’t it who?”
“Sure, the Big Fella, who else?”
My headache grew worse. “Please, Nuala, I can’t take any more tonight.”
She left.
That was that.
Happy Feast of the Holy Souls, Dermot Michael Coyne.
“Angela Smythe here, Dermot, calling from Washington.”
“Good afternoon, Angela.”
I was in my suite at Jury’s beginning to pack for my return to American and still feeling like a truck had run over my chest.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on the award and on how cleverly you protected Winston from publicity. It has to come out eventually that he was behind Collins’s death, but if you had revealed it now, it would have been a savage blow to the agreement.”
“Thank you, Angela. To tell the truth, it was Ms. McGrail’s idea, not mine.”
“I’m sure it was both your idea. Do give me a ring when you are in Washington.”
She told me her real name.
After I had hung up, I pondered the new puzzle. Nuala had solved the myster
y and saved the day. She was the one who had appeared with calm dignity on RTE that night to tell the carefully sanitized story of what had happened. Yet I was getting all the credit.
She had been asked, after her calm recitation of the facts (but not all the facts), whether she and the injured hero were lovers.
“Ah, no,” she said with a modest smile. “I’m only the translator of his gram’s diaries.”
She did not, thank God, add, “Worse luck for me.”
“A strange story for you, Mr. Coyne.” The bright young man from the Foreign Office looked out at St. Stephen’s Green as he paused in his attempt to explain the Irish Civil War to me. “The children of Kevin O’Higgins and the grandchildren of the man who killed him go to the same Mass once a year that is offered for both men.”
It was another gray, drizzly day. I wanted to go home. My chest hurt now more than my head. Yet I had to listen to a few more Irish stories before my hosts would feel they had done their duty by me.
“That’s nice.”
“You see, they weren’t sure they killed your man. So they walked over to where he was lying and prepared to shoot him again. They saw he was dying. He opens his eyes, recognizes them and smiles. ‘Sure, ’tis all right,’ he says. ‘I understand why you had to do it. Don’t worry about it. I forgive you.’ Then he dies.”
“Like Gandhi.”
The young man glanced at me in surprise. “You’d expect it of your man, wouldn’t you now? But not of O’Higgins.”
“Why not? He was Irish, wasn’t he?”
And so was the story and the rain and the green and my headache and my sore chest. The Irish were too much for me. Too much altogether.
“I had no idea that there had been any violence,” Lord Longwood-Jones murmured. “I begged Brendan not to tolerate it. I’m afraid that he was more unstable than I realized.”
Martin and I were sipping port in his club on FitzWilliam Street and watching the implacable rain pound away at Dublin’s fair city.
“Ambitious.” My breathing somehow seemed to have become more labored rather than less.
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