by John A. Ryan
She locked the door and turned her back to it and stood on the worn step where all the silent feet had trod. The grass had been trimmed and the place looked cared for; old George Hillis, only employee now of the Ormsby Estate, spent most of the fine days in summer here, a slow-moving presence, so unobtrusive that there were days when Liz had been here and when she returned home would have been unable to say with certainty whether he had been working there or not. He seemed almost part of the place. Its colours, its decorum, its silence, were his. He would sit on a stone and take his sickle in one hand, his whetstone in the other. The dexterity of his immense oaken hands fascinated Liz. With deliberate strokes he would bring the shining curve of steel to its perfection of concentration, a sliver that sliced thinly through juicy stems with minimum effort. Patiently, as though he had all time, he coaxed the bright arc to its keenest focus. He never appeared to hurry but had time to watch the sky and the brass weathervane, to tell her when the first swallows came or to lean across the wall and beckon to her because a peacock butterfly was basking in the autumn sun among grey stones. Yet the work was done, and done well.
Beside the path a heavy iron railing protected three headstones, three parallel graves, Abraham Barrington 1965, Daniel aged 72, Esther, John. 1880. The day Thou gavest. The oldest stone, near the wall of the cemetery, had 1766 on it; there was no earlier date. Where were the graves of the earlier members of the family? Probably in Achaveen, unmarked. Where was that first Sergeant of Dragoons who had come marching over the hill and into history?
The swing gate brought her out on the main road. A familiar car drawing a horsebox slowed and turned off along the Clover Ponds road, Egans going home from the gymkhana. Maura waved to her through the rear window. Old George was fond of saying that if you stayed long enough at Barrington’s Cross you would see everyone in Ireland; he must have seen them twice over.
To her right the ground rose. There were the woods that surrounded the big house; beyond that was the higher land. Over that ridge they had come.
The horses stopped when they reached the top of the ridge. Did the riders involuntarily draw rein, as they almost certainly drew in a deep breath of admiration at what they saw. From the far western hills, woods and pastureland flanked the majestic river for many a mile, passed close in front of them, and faded in haze. The General looked sombrely into the east where lay the city he must take, and he looked also to the west where Carrickgriffon sat on its rock beside the river and shook behind its walls, the walls and rock and castle that he must have because they commanded the only bridge. The Colonel raised a hand, half turning in the saddle, and at once one of the horsemen that had come to a stop a short distance to the rear pushed his horse forward, his left hand gripping the reins while he leaned down with his right to unbuckle the holster and take out the heavy leather-and-brass covered glass which he passed to the Colonel. The Colonel grunted his thanks; Sergeant Barnton was a man who knew without being told; that was why he had been taken from the line. The General took the proferred glass and raised it to his eye, adjusting it delicately with his strong countryman’s fingers. It was one of those soundless days that come in late autumn, colours muted by haze, no song of bird, and the silence was hardly broken, but rather accentuated by the clink of a shaken chain, the stamp of a hoof. Soon, however, the Colonel could hear the confused noise made by the main body of horse as they laboured up the hill behind them. He watched intently the heavy face of the General but could read nothing there. The glass in any case would show little more on a day like this than the naked eye could discern. He looked again along that leafy, watered valley and he allowed himself for a moment to dream: This is my last campaign. Soldiering is for young men. The General’s voice broke in on his thought: ‘It is a land worth fighting for.’
‘Indeed yes,’ he answered with enthusiasm. Those large heavy-lidded eyes were on him, eyes that saw too much, eyes grown sick with gazing on terrible things. ‘We owe you much, Henry. Which will you have – to the left or to the right?’
‘The right, if you will, General.’
The General snapped shut the glass and handed it to Ormsby. ‘When Carrickgriffon is taken,’ he said, and shook his rein.
‘Thank you, sire. You are generous,’ and the Colonel nudged his horse and the two men started down the slope.
She crossed the road to look at the Lady’s Well; she knew George had been working at it. Dead leaves and duckweed banished, it was possible to see down to the grey sand-bed where the water pulsed upwards. But the roots of the tall tree that so long had sheltered the well had gripped and squeezed so that here and there the careful ashlar leaned out of line, and there was nothing George could do about that. The commemorative stone had suffered most. ‘This well was cleaned and covered for the benefit of the people of Derryglass by Lady Winifred Ormsby in 1871.’ A muscular root had flexed itself and pushed and split the stone in two; a thin green line of moss grew in the slanting crevice. And still the indifferent bubbles formed like magic among the pebbles and hurried to the top, just as they had done before ever Lady Winifred’s improving eye had lighted on them. Would it sadden the Gracious Lady if she could know how little used or regarded her Good Works were now?
But a much more immediate question occupied Liz’s thoughts as she walked home along the lane: what should she wear tonight to the Parochial Hall? She was tempted to wear a skirt and her black poloneck. She knew she would look well in it. But she was undecided; the other girls would probably be in jeans, and she didn’t really want to be the odd one out.
Men of the World
Parochial House
Bawnarinka
12th April, ’76
Mr WP Webster
c/o Severn and Dobson
The Book People
London
Dear Mr WP Webster
I was reading your book and I started to think about the church business, His Lordship will be sure to mention it again at Confirmation. No I can’t find it, Ellie must have tidied it away, she’s a terrible woman about tidying things but I mustn’t say a word she’s a good cook plain but good and that suits me because I like what I’m used to and I was brought up on plain cooking there was nothing fancy in that line in my young days. I hope you can read this, I mislaid my glasses looking for your book, it’s Churches in Ireland since the Earliest Times or something like that. I have to hold the letter a long way from me or I can’t read it I only hope you can. Now PJ, I think, has made a bit of a mess of that church of his but don’t say that to him whatever you do. No, I can’t manage I must go look for my glasses – that didn’t take me long did it? they were on the hall-table, I should do what Ellie says and get a chain and put them around my neck. Now what does her note say? Ah yes she’s gone over to Kelly’s for a few eggs for the tea, will a poached egg be all right? Why wouldn’t it it was alright yesterday, or was it scrambled? and when I want to say something to her I leave a note on the kitchen table. It is better than shouting at her, she’s as deaf as a beetle but she won’t let on. Where was I? oh yes – I only said to him it was a bit gaudy and he scowled and muttered, you know the way he goes on, but I’m used to him and anyway if a body can’t offer a word of advice to his brother ’tis a queer thing, but you don’t know him, of course you don’t know me either and I don’t know you but your book tells me you like churches and you like old churches to stay old the way they were meant. Now it occurred to me you’re living in Ireland and not far away from me. I’d drive over myself only they’ve taken away my insurance. Sometimes I drive as far as the church sure it’s only half a mile. He’s unfortunate to have those nuns there anyway under his feet night and day and cooking for him, that Reverend Mother has him addled with her notions, side altars, petit foors did you ever hear anything like it? Plain cooking is what he was brought up on and far from petit foors. Ballymurphy in when 1906 was it? He’s four years younger than I am. It was potatoes and butter, brown bread and home-mad
e jam, and still we did alright, guinea-hen’s eggs fried in butter not creamery butter either but real butter. Did you ever taste guinea-hen’s eggs fried in butter? with some pepper. Or fresh trout. PJ and I used to tickle trout in Srool, and the mother would cook them over the open fire. Ah dear!
But never mind. Would you ever come over next weekend on Saturday or Sunday, or we could put you in Ellie’s room, she wouldn’t mind moving into the attic. You see I don’t want the church changed but His Lordship keeps on – no don’t come next weekend I’ve remembered we have Confirmation. I’ll go and make sure. Yes I’m afraid Confirmation is next weekend. Now isn’t it a wonder I’d forget it? but of course the young man is doing a lot of the work. I hope he doesn’t forget anything His Lordship likes things to go smoothly, he’s not bad as curates go nowadays, a lot of strange new ideas but fairly dependable. You couldn’t possibly come over this coming week could you? I’m always here, so then I could tell His Lordship that I’ve consulted an architect – you are an architect? I’m sure you must be to know so much about churches and all those technical terms – clerestory, isn’t that a fine word? – though I think you have Killeany spelt wrong and he wasn’t Canon but Father Michael Molloy. I know this because he was a relation of my mother’s who was a Hanrahan of Grangemore but sure you know that. Her grandmother was a widow woman when she married Peter Hanrahan and Father Michael was her second son by her first marriage. Tom the other son stayed in the home place and never married. He was the only PP of Leccan parish that wasn’t made a Canon. He died sudden when he was only sixty at the races at Killone Park he died. The parishioners wanted Canon put on his tombstone for fear it would look bad beside all the other Canons if they didn’t. They were fond of him you know although he was a cranky old – but I mustn’t take up your time tracing old things, don’t mind me correcting you, you’re a young man. A lovely book, a lovely book, I got it from the library van they come around every month on the first Wednesday no the first no Wednesday it is, and if I think of it I go out to them. Tony kept it for me he thought I might like it and I did. There’s Ellie coming in now, the whole house shakes when she shuts the front door but it would get His Lordship off my back ever since I came here it can’t be that long could it? Well you can see His Lordship has of course PJ’s church is very sound now and all that, but he used a lot of coloured paint and I don’t like it. If you and I could just see that the roof is all right and do some little things like that. I’d like your opinion, it’s asking a lot of you I know but I can see you are enthusiastic about churches. You know it’s a Whesson church so it says on the corner and the date is on it too but I don’t – could it be 1844? no it couldn’t be as old as that and it was your book that answered a question. I often wondered why Whesson spent so much of his time designing churches in Ireland when he was a Welshman but you say he had a – well, well, human nature, you and I are men of the world, God works in strange ways, he often visited Ireland to see her. I suppose a man could design a church in atonement. Whesson designed a lot of churches in Ireland I’m sure he’s gone to heaven. What about a quick little visit this week or a letter I haven’t the telephone never got used to them and not being very sharp of hearing and Ellie is as deaf as a post but I mustn’t complain there’s many a priest has no housekeeper. No don’t ring the curate, leave him out of this, he’d want a microphone, and come the weekend after next I’ll be expecting you. Come on Sunday it’s a quiet day once Mass is over. Last Mass is at eleven, you could go to that and look at the church, but be in time or you’ll have to stand at the back and you won’t see it properly under the gallery, and come up to the house then and I’ll be waiting for you. He crows about it all the time you know, very hard to have to sit and listen to him and he even got a booklet out and one line in it about when it was built and who built it and four pages about the re-decorating and who did that, and I still think he made it far too bright and gaudy the way he went on and on and His Lordship licking it all up and the rest of them just sitting there and I knew Philly McCarthy was as smug as anything because he has raised £25,000 to do his church and his house and faith the house will be done first and poor Tom Kelly looking as small as he could so His Lordship wouldn’t see him if he happened to look around. The whole roof will have to be taken down they say. I’ll talk to Ellie and we’ll have something nice for the dinner a nice bit of mutton and maybe turnips and white sauce. What about – do you like a drop of wine? that’s quite all right, I don’t object at all, in fact I used sometimes have a glass myself at Lahinch, and there’s always a drop of Paddy here, very good if I get a cold, hot you know with sugar and cloves. White, we’ll have a white bottle and a red bottle. I’ll talk to Ellie though I never cared much for the red now that’s settled. Have I forgotten anything? Pity about the Confirmation really. You see I can tell by your book you’re a man of taste and you won’t make too many changes and I don’t want the church changed at all but I told you that didn’t I? and I must be brief and not take up your time. God bless you and send you safe here and safe home again. I’m looking forward to your visit.
Your old friend
James Fitzgerald PP
PS Or a duck would be nice wouldn’t it. I’ll talk to Ellie.
PS again maybe you’re not, it’s just occurred to me that you might already have been at church that Sunday? In that case come straight to my house and we’ll look at the church later. It’s really in very good shape except for that bit of a leak in the far corner and the floor boards near the font. Mrs Ronan put her foot through it she’s an enormous big woman and Martin patched it up and it’s a bit shabby I suppose. There’s something wrong with the other wall too Martin says it’s out of plumb but I wouldn’t mind Martin he’s not always seeing too well and it would be a good thing if we could get the heating working again before the winter. You haven’t any idea what an architect would charge for that kind of job have you? there’s that little job to be done in the sacristy too. I must give this to Ellie it’s nearly post time. I didn’t realize it was so late it’s nearly ten to five.
Later. I was going to send you this at your book-people’s address in London but I’ve changed my mind and I’ll send it to your address in Ireland. I see you’ve written more books too good man keep at it. I’ve just found the book again it was on my desk all the time. You’d be a man knowledgeable about such things, – what – you wouldn’t I suppose know what it would cost to get out a small booklet. Or come on Saturday and stay the night, with maybe a couple of pictures? I must close this, she’s standing in the door with her hat and coat on and when that door is open there’s a cold draught. I’ll be expecting you. Stay two days till Monday I’d like that. We’ll make a job of it and show them whatever Glenade can do Bawnarinka can do too and better maybe.
No we’ll have a bit of bacon and cabbage Ellie says it’s hard to get cabbage this time of year but maybe we’d manage, – the best dinner of all. We could have the dinner late if you’d sooner that, about seven I mean, I’ll talk to Ellie – in haste, best wishes.
JF
A Wild Goose
I hate that Rosslare-Fishguard run. When the weather is rough it’s a nightmare of sea and sick, and even at its best it’s a miserable business. You leave Rosslare as day is falling and reach Fishguard in the thin dawn-time, the time when it’s easiest to die, and you still have to face that long journey Clackety Clackety, Clack, Clackety Clack all the way across England and the south of Wales. There are two antidotes, sleeping and drinking. I’ve tried both and neither works.
In October the crowds are less. I found a quiet place to sit, comfortable enough, and thought I might sleep. I tried not to think of why I was going, time enough to worry about that when I reached London. So I lay back and closed my eyes, but that uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away. They try to start the engines discreetly so that at first you don’t notice but soon the whole world is throbbing to that dull pulse that beats against your brain and your stomach. I don’t get sic
k, not physically, I just go crazy and can’t stay still in one place.
In the bar I happened on a fellow called Connery from Clonmel. He played the tin whistle and we sang. There was also a North of Ireland fellow named Shaw and a young woman with him. Connery was young and worked in a hospital somewhere on the outskirts of London. He was full of fun and music and porter, and he was on his way back after a holiday at home and maybe the fun and music and porter were only to keep his heart up. ‘Buachaill ón Éirne’ was one of the songs.
Trouble and sorrow are brewing for me in the glen
More bitter by far than the black malt brewing of men
No shelter from pain but the leaf of the green bough above
And a twist in my heart is to see in the distance my love.
They have a pipers’ club in Camden Town, I think he said Camden Town. He explained in earnest detail how to get to it; I’d be welcome there any time. Well, it’s some place to go, when Cluain Gheal Meala is far away.
We were last to leave the bar. The boat had docked and then Connery couldn’t find his luggage. He didn’t look to me to be the kind of fellow would have luggage, but he had. We searched the whole place, deserted by this time, and there didn’t seem much chance, but we found it, a hold-all kind of thing, biggish and awkward, with a zip and two handles on top. The zip was open, but this didn’t seem to put him out at all, and when I picked the thing up, it clinked. He told me what was in it – large bottles – wrapped and not very well wrapped in old newspapers. And – I’m not making this up – spare ribs. God! Sad songs and large bottles and spare ribs – Ireland.