by John A. Ryan
‘Why did you never spend them, Rich?’
He looked a bit shocked. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t spend those. They were a present from Mrs Bannerman. She was a lovely lady. She said they were a thank you for bringing the family to so many lovely places and bringing them safe home again. And that was only a year before she died. And she was young. Her husband went off to his house in England after that and never came back to Ireland. Her little baby died the same time and they were buried together in the one grave.’
I wanted to ask him if those were really silver buttons on his waistcoat, and were they a uniform, and if they were, was it because he was a coachman, but just then he stood up, and said something about seeing to the horses and walked away from us. This was more information than we’d ever got, up to then, about Rich’s former life. We surmised that that might have been when he lost his job as coachman.
Joe said, ‘I think he’s sad talking about Mrs Bannerman and the baby.’
This strange man was completely dependent on my parents’ goodness of heart, and was very conscious and appreciative of that, yet with a gentle unassuming dignity and a pride in his skill and knowledge. He was just different, with an air about him of being part of a world beyond our experience, a suggestion of mystery and otherness. His influence did not depend on his having authority. He was simply Rich.
He hadn’t the skill or the strength for farm work, knew nothing about it, which was strange until we found that he never had worked on a farm and that his gifts were really in his dealings with the two plough-horses and the pony. Never had they been better cared for, never had they looked so well; he was happy to spend hours brushing and grooming them, talking quietly, whether to himself or to the horses we couldn’t tell, or whistling tunelessly; never had they been so petted and loved. In the coldest of the winter he slept in the centre stall in the stable, the horses in the two outer stalls, plenty of straw and hay, a blanket that Aunt Kate had found for him and patched, an old cast-off overcoat of Daddy’s. If he couldn’t sleep he talked to the horses. ‘No, it doesn’t disturb them. When they’re asleep they don’t hear me and if they’re awake they always agree with me.’
Some of our neighbours must have wondered at Mam taking in this stray. I overheard two women talking after Mass one Sunday, ‘Hasn’t she enough to do with that houseful, without takin’ in another. And a stranger, no kith or kin’ – but Mam didn’t think like that. If she stopped to think about it at all, it was probably, ‘Well, there’s fifteen in this house. One more won’t make much difference.’ Once I heard my cousin Tim’s mother saying that Mam took in Rich to fill the gaps in her life that her dead children had left. Another Joe – there were two Joes in our family, he was the second eldest boy – died the same year as Margaret who died as an infant, and Mam’s mother, our Granny, died the year after. Maybe Rich did fill some gap in a wounded heart.
There must have been many wet days but the fine sunny days are the ones I remember. On wet days, if the hay wasn’t in, we could play marbles in the hay-barn, or football if there was room, or we might be told by Daddy to clean out the stable or one of the calf-houses. We made things, toys and gadgets, in the car-shed, out of bits of iron or timber or whatever we could find. Anyone who had a penknife sharpened it on the stone, and carved things. I remember one wet day when we were perched on the two common cars in the car-shed, looking out at the rain and the puddles and the dripping trees, and Rich asked about the Old House. He wanted us to tell him again about it, as if the sadness of it troubled him, maybe with memories of his own.
But even on really cold wet days we could make ourselves cosy in the hay and listen to Rich talking. He told us about the coach-horses he used to drive for the Bannermans. The coach-horses had magic names, Prince and Beauty, Black Bob and Blazer, and there was a coach and four. The Bannermans were big people, with a house in England as well as in Ireland. But they were Irish, too, because one of the Bannermans had married an O’Moore lady, and he told us about the banshee that cried about the woods or on the turrets of the big house when one of the family was going to die. ‘The banshee follows the O’Moores,’ he told us. After that, any time I heard the voice of the snipe, the gabhairín reo, like a goat in the April twilight, I pretended it was the banshee. I half-believed it, and always hurried home. The marshy land by the stream at the bottom of Knockeen hill was where the snipe lived and where the dusk smelled of garlic in April. And wasn’t it strange that garlic was what kept you safe from banshees and other bad things like that, so Rich told us.
He told us about the forty-eight horses, the coach-horses that he loved best of all, hunters too, work-horses and polo ponies, and he explained how polo was played. I think we hardly believed him, yet if Rich said so, it must be true. There were fifty rooms in the big house and a hundred windows. But we boasted that our house was where the landlord lived before he went to live in one of his other houses, and that he had made big changes, for instance what we called the front door had once opened into the farmyard, but he put the farmyard around at the back and built all the stone and slated outhouses. And we emphasised to Rich that an Architect had been employed to see to all those changes. We thought he would be impressed to hear that, but he paid little heed to it and we were disappointed. It was difficult to interest him in other things, apart from horses.
I recall very vividly an incident that happened one October night when, just before bedtime, Rich called us, Mollie, Dan and me, Joe being away, and asked us if we’d like to see the Hunter’s Moon. We had never heard of it before, so of course we went with him, not sure what to expect. There wasn’t a cloud in the dark overhead; there wasn’t a breath of wind. He led us past the Grove and pointed to the gap between the two old pine-trees. One tree was in darkness, the other bright and shining, and out beyond, watching us from the unclouded sky was a great yellow bowl of creamy moon, smiling and calm. Rich said, ‘That’s the Hunter’s Moon’ and he said it proudly, as if he regarded it as his moon. Mollie put her arms around me and Dan and we gazed at it in an awed silence. Sometimes I think I can still see the three small children standing in the moonlight between the tall pines and gazing at the biggest, roundest, yellowest moon that ever was.
The years went by, and I grew taller, and so did Joe and Mollie and Dan. Everyone else seemed to stay the same. Rich, anyway, didn’t change: Daddy tried to get him to whitewash the house and the lawn-piers, but he wasn’t good at it, and splashed the whitewash onto the windows and the sills. He had that one great gift, he could talk to horses. I think Daddy was a bit cross with him, but he was never cross for long, and Mam said, ‘Everybody has one gift, and you can’t expect more.’ The upshot of it was that it was left like that: anything to do with horses or transport, but little else, was Rich’s business. Other farmers around took to calling to ask his advice about sick horses or other animals, and we were proud of his reputation.
It was a big change when Joe went away to boarding school. I remember that year well because it was the year Frances died. She was only seventeen, a pale quiet girl who seldom came out to join in our games, but helped Aunt Kate in the house. She didn’t talk much, ever, but at times she would surprise you with a sudden shy smile that lighted up her face and that vanished again as quickly as it came. I can’t explain how I felt when she died, why I didn’t grieve more. I was more confused than sad. Our house was full of weeping. One day I came on Mamie and Jo with their arms around each other, crying, not saying anything, just crying, and I could not join in their grief. What I remember most is how small and still and white she looked in the big bed where she was waked. And the white roses, I remember that. And the way the candle flames jumped when someone knelt down to say a prayer at her bed. Now I watched the grave, still face on the pillow, the face that was, and was not, my sister; I knew that that face would never again light up with her little fugitive smile.
Though I was only twelve, I began then to understand that the one who had died had indeed
gone to where there was no more sorrow, leaving us to cope with the absence and loss. It was my first encounter with the great mystery. There was a queer empty feeling about the house after she was gone, and a silence. Rich behaved very strangely; he would not go to the funeral but sulked and gloomed for a long while afterwards and then he took to going to her grave and staying there for ages, just thinking or saying his prayers. Or was he telling her he was sorry for not being there to say goodbye for the last time? Or explaining that he could not bear to see her put down into the wet clay? Then he came to Mam and Daddy and asked to be forgiven for his behaviour. Of course he was forgiven; they knew he loved all of us children, but that Frances was the one he had loved best.
One life had ended, and, it seemed for just a little while, so had ours; but life went on, as always. Slowly, with reluctance almost, but inevitably. Duties forced us to think of other things.
On Pattern Day every year all the family went to the churchyard; we tidied the graves and put flowers on them. Rich was left at home in charge; he was pleased and proud at being trusted and depended on. In the long summer days Mam and Daddy often went out after the evening meal; they gathered a bunch of roses from the orchard hedge and we knew where they were going. It was important that the bridge be held between the living and the dead.
The corn was always brought to Mullenbeg to be ground. I often went there and I knew it well. Especially I remember the last time Rich and I went. He and I set off, down the hill, along the New Road and so down the leafy lane till we reached the mill, shady under the trees. Rich, as he always did, sat up very straight and held the reins high as I suppose he had held them when he drove Bannerman’s horses. When the meal was ready and loaded, Rich handed me the reins. I was delighted. I was well able to manage our horses – I was sixteen then – but Rich had never before allowed me to drive if he was with me. So I held the reins high, like him, and said, ‘Ho, hup, there, Dick,’ in imitation.
I hoped Rich would praise my driving, but he didn’t; in fact I remember now that he was very quiet on the way home, though I didn’t notice at the time. When we got home, we lifted out the sacks together and I helped him to unyoke the horse. But as he and I lifted the heavy collar up onto the wooden peg on the stable wall, he stumbled, fell against the wall and to my consternation slid slowly down till he lay in a funny shape on the straw and cobbles.
I ran to the house and Mam came back with me. ‘Get Lar and Jim. They’re in the hay-barn.’ When the three of us got back, Mam and Aunt Kate had put Rich sitting against the stable wall and he had come to. He insisted he was better and asked to be carried up to his bed over the stable. Aunt Kate prepared hot milk and goody and I was told to look out for him and make sure he was all right and to get him anything he wanted. He didn’t complain, but he seemed very weak and all the fight had gone out of him. The priest came to see him next day, and afterwards he conferred with Mam and Daddy and I heard some of what he said: ‘He’s very weak and resigned … it’s as if he knew … he’s all prepared to go anyway … maybe the doctor … but I don’t know … said I was to thank you for … he was very anxious that I’d tell you that.’ I didn’t like hearing them talk like that, I didn’t want to believe he was very sick.
In ones and twos we went to see him. He smiled and shook hands with everyone, and thanked us over and over, and in an old-fashioned way he kissed Mam’s and Aunt Kate’s hands. I couldn’t believe but that he would be well in a day or two. No matter what I was doing, I remembered to go to see if he needed anything; I’d go to the middle rung of the stairs and from there I could see his bed, and if he was asleep I wouldn’t disturb him. Aunt Kate made hot drinks for him, and food that she thought he might like, but he ate very little. When I did speak to him, he took my hand, and spoke about ‘all the adventures’. His voice was weak and he stopped often as if to get his breath.
Late on the day after the priest’s visit, I went to check on him as usual. I went halfway up the stairs and looked across at his bed. He seemed to be sleeping. I turned to go down again, when a noise made me look back, and I saw him suddenly sit up very straight. He held up his two hands in that way he had of holding the reins and in a loud clear voice said, ‘Ho, hup, there! Pick’em up, boy! Hup, you beauty!’ and shook the reins and flicked his long whip, and then fell back on his pillow, and I knew he was dead. Don’t ask me how, but I knew. And even stranger than that, I wasn’t afraid, though I had never before seen anyone die. I think the reason I wasn’t afraid was that he looked so happy, as if his last journey had brought him to a place of shining peace.
Flight
The great sea-loch was dark and silent under a clouded sky. It was not, however, empty of human presence and activity. Near the loch’s outlet to the sea, in the black shadow of the hills, a ship tugged at its anchor, in an ebbing sea and a faint offshore breeze. There were muted noises and whispered words as the oarsmen took their places in the longboat at the ship’s side, pushed away, and quickly settled to a steady rhythm.
The steersman made for the slack water in the lee of the headland. Progress there was quicker, but all his skill was needed to avoid hazards of rocks and shallows, even with the aid of the sharp eyes of the boy sitting in the bow. It was the first of the many journeys they must make from their vessel to the jetty on the western shore; experience gained from this first attempt would make later crossings easier, but while caution and silence were necessary, no time must be lost if their ship with its full complement on board was to clear the harbour-mouth before the turn of the tide.
A seabird, startled from its night-roost, flew up suddenly and wheeled away in raucous protest. At once the oarsmen lowered their hands, thus lifting the blades out of the water, and all waited in tense silence. Waited while the bird’s desolate cry faded into the night. No word was said, and for minutes they remained so, silent and motionless, while the water slapped against the bow and slow drops fell from the oars.
But the longboat lost way, swinging towards the land, and when their keel scraped on a hidden rock they were obliged to resume rowing. The tension ended only when the helmsman saw with relief the raised arm of his lookout-boy gesturing shoreward; his keen young eyes had found the one tiny light in that wilderness of dark.
The watcher by the pier, eyes grown accustomed to the dim light, could see the track that began at the water’s edge and straggled up and around the cluster of houses, the track by which he and the others had come; he could hear the lap of water against stone, the distant bark of a dog, the nearer whinny of one of their tired horses, stabled behind the houses; he could see in imagination the dark hull and the bare masts and yards of the ship that lurked near the mouth of the loch.
Then a new sound, of oars dipped quietly by practised hands, a long-awaited welcome sound. He went to the door of the nearest house and knocked softly. The candle in the window at once was quenched, the door opened and the first group made their cautious way down towards the jetty.
To this ignominy the great princes had come, forced to skulk furtively under cover of night, in the land where once they ruled.
At midnight the vessel slipped away on the last of the ebb, rounding Fanad to face the anger of the Atlantic, and the fugitives began their long journey into exile.
All the Spangled Host
‘Come quick, Golly! Quails! On the lawn! Quick.’ The urgency in Berry’s voice roused me at once from my chair. I saw with surprise that it was growing dark – how long had I been dozing?
There was no sign of the girls but Colm stood looking out through the bars of the fence into Finneran’s field. ‘Where are Berry and Aileen?’
‘In the field. They ran after the birds.’
He came skipping across the lawn and took my hand. ‘The stars are coming out, Golly. Look!’ He flopped down on his back. ‘This is where you see them best. Come and look,’ so we lay side by side on the grass and watched and wondered. Above us the glittering heaven. What was Mi
lton’s word to describe the starry sky? We’ve named some of the stars and galaxies, tamed them as we think, although if we tamed ten thousand more the percentage of known in the total would still be zero. Illimitable! ‘Spangled!’ – that was Milton’s word.
The sky slowly darkened, and as the stars’ cold heat burned off the shreds of mist and cloud, so the stars themselves burned brighter. Infinity! We know so little; the Greeks knew as much. The Arabs, too, studied the stars, brilliant men such as Maimonides. Aldebaran sounds Arabic. The Egyptians, the Sumerians. And even the nameless people who built long before the pyramids but had no means of passing on their knowledge other than their great stone monument on the Boyne. All these came, learned and went, their knowledge often lost to succeeding times. So why that odd assumption that man is on an inevitably upward path towards understanding, wisdom, betterment? We are now so sure that we know it all, arrogant in our mastery of technology. But wisdom?
‘Why do they wink?’ he interrupted my thoughts, and I was unable to tell him.
‘Maybe,’ I suggested, ‘they are little young stars, like you; they know you are watching them, so they wink at you.’ He seemed to like that idea.
I had been neglecting my duties. ‘We must see if the two girls are back.’