by John A. Ryan
‘Oh they are, Golly. They came back along the lane. They’re in the kitchen.’ So, all accounted for. I relaxed.
They do wink. Why? Some of them, we are told, are still twinkling though they no longer exist, their light still on its way to us although the source of that light died long ago. Dead stars that shine brightly, just like Shakespeare or Rubens or Mozart.
He raised himself on his elbows. ‘Will Daddy and Mammy bring the new baby home tomorrow?’
‘They will of course.’ He jumped up. I got to my feet, too, but more slowly.
‘Golly, what will we call him?’
‘Mammy and Daddy will know. What would you like?’
‘Dan. Or maybe Billy. What would you like, Golly?’
‘Maimonides.’ He looked up, startled, and knew by my smile that I was joking. He repeated the big word carefully, pronouncing it as I had done. He already had an ear and a liking for words. ‘Anyway, whatever we call him, he will always be your pal.’
‘Yes,’ he said solemnly, ‘always.’ He had another question, ‘Who is Maimonides?’
‘He was a very clever Arab who lived long ago.’
‘A real Arab? Like the one on his camel, in my book?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, though with reservations.
‘Now it’s time for your supper. I must get your sisters’, too; it’s time you were all in bed.’
‘Can I have two bickies?’
‘Of course.’
I peeped in the open door of the girls’ room. Berry and Aileen lay on their stomachs on the carpet, propped on their elbows, kicking their heels, looking at a big book. Berry said, ‘See, they were quails.’ I think she was determined that they should be quail, maybe she liked the sound of the word.
I knocked. ‘Come along, girls. Time for supper. If your Mammy knew how late I let you stay up, she’d be cross.’
‘Can we watch TV, Golly? Please!’
I looked at my watch. ‘Well, all right. Twenty minutes, that’s all.’
‘Golly, can we make hot chocolate?’
‘Do you know how?’
‘Course we do,’ and I watched, fearful of accidents, but I needn’t have worried.
‘Now drink that while you watch the television.’
Colm was struggling into his nightclothes. I made him comfortable in his bed, read the story he wanted, about a young frog that couldn’t swim and had to have swimming lessons from a seal (it didn’t work out very well, the seal had never heard of legs). He was grappling with a serious question: ‘Can unicorns fly? Ber says they can.’ My answer had to be carefully considered. ‘Big sisters are usually right. I’ve never seen a unicorn that couldn’t fly,’ wondering if he would see the ambiguity in that, but it seemed to satisfy him. At any rate, he fell asleep almost at once.
They were still watching the TV. ‘Oh, you rascals! Switch that off. It’s long past bed-time.’
‘But, Golly, it’s not over yet. Another five minutes. Please?’
So what could I do? When the programme ended, ‘Now wash those cups and then bed.’
They seemed rather astonished at being expected to wash their cups, probably thinking, ‘What are dishwashers for?’ but did so without complaint.
When they had gone to their room, after a lengthy washing of teeth and a visit to the sitting room to see if the quail had returned, I was glad of my comfortable armchair again. Not wishing to read, I left the room in darkness, moved my chair closer to the window.
The garden gleamed faintly, lit by its million candles.
Why had Maimonides come to mind? In Córdoba we had stayed in the Hotel Maimonides; the name meant nothing to me then, but close by was the great mosque, and there our guide spoke of the noted philosopher. To simplify my story I had told the little boy that Maimonides was an Arab; it might have been more accurate to say a Moor or a Spaniard; yet most know him as Jewish. To me he seems to be simply Mediterranean, and I imagined our guide in the mosque to be another such, in fact not another but the same; I began to think of him, still think of him, as Maimonides, as a personification of the Mediterranean with its inextricable mixture of races. He was urbane, sardonic, dark, stocky in build, a southern head, brachycephalic, quite unlike the long-headed Celt. He spoke knowledgeably of the Goats and the Visigoats (Goths, we assumed). Speaking to us among many other groups of tourists, he had difficulty in making himself heard, and glanced several times with increasing exasperation at a loud-voiced guide nearby; he tried to continue, but eventually gave up, and, for that moment abandoning his civilized polish, turned towards the noisy one and snarled, ‘Shut up!’ The other paid not the slightest attention. Our man looked at us, shrugged elaborately and hissed, ‘Germans!’ I noticed in his lapel a small Star of David brooch. Was he, I wondered, thinking of the very different treatment of Jews by the Germans and by the notably tolerant Moors? Long memories, old grievances. (Or was that little scene between the two guides enacted for the entertainment of the tourists?)
That face and head could have been that of Alexander, or of Cosimo, who may have been Etruscan, or of ‘that talkative bald-headed seaman’ returning to Ithaca by devious ways from Troy. It could have been that of a Pharaoh, or of Hannibal, or of any one individual in the teeming seaports of Marseilles, Venice, Istanbul. Or might not Vasco have had such a face, or Cristobal Colon, or Marco Polo who found a way of linking the two great seedbeds of modern civilization, that of India and China in the far east, separated by seas, mountains and deserts from the other, the Fertile Crescent and the fringes of the Mediterranean. The Golden Road, that one thin silken thread that tied East to West, no road at all but a series of migration trails made by wild horses, ancestors of all our horses, as they searched for grazing and water. Imagine the thunder of hooves and the flying manes as they drove in their thousands through the passes of the Tien Shan. Imagine the hardihood and daring of those ‘Merchant Princes of Baghdad’, braving deserts, snow-capped mountains, robbers, flood drought and storm, hunger and thirst, to bring back the riches of the fabulous Orient, those masters of the long caravans laden with silk and spices, porcelain and lapis lazuli, more precious than gold, while somewhere in one of those bales, smuggled out of China, were silkworms, hidden in a bamboo tube. And all that fierce activity and enterprise to serve the needs and wants of the brilliant civilizations bordering the Mediterranean, civilizations that reached upriver along the Nile and the Danube, east to the Euphrates and Persia, north and west to the islands of the western sea.
Europe has left us far behind in the waves and mists of the Atlantic, fighting stubbornly for our lives, for our very survival as the last Celtic civilization on earth, and as a result of that long struggle with our nearest neighbour we have only a slight acquaintance with European culture.
The chiming clock on the mantelpiece brought me back from my wandering. It was time to call Jim on his mobile for his latest news. He was in his room at Hale’s, had just arrived from the hospital. ‘All well, wonderfully well, both asleep before I left. Home early afternoon tomorrow. I’ll ring before we start.’ Jim is a good fellow; I could smile now remembering our doubts – Marie’s and mine – when Grace and he had first met; not unusual, I suppose, for parents to think that no man is good enough for their daughter. I went then to see the children. They were sound asleep. I watched them for a long moment, listened to their quiet breathing. ‘Trailing clouds of glory do we come.’
The carton of chocolate was still on the kitchen table. I read the instructions, which seemed to be quite simple, so following them carefully I succeeded in making my first mug of drinking chocolate. It looked and smelled delicious. Very proud, I carried the steaming mug to my chair near the garden window.
But as I went to sit down, something – a movement, a change in the light – caught my attention. Very slowly and quietly I reached for the binoculars on the window-ledge. Yes, they were back, I could make out two of th
em, and as far as my limited knowledge went, quail, so Berry had been right. What had attracted them there? After being startled away from it earlier? My guess was the coiled spring-loaded seed-pods of cyclamen under the birch trees. They are not night-birds. But had this exceptional night, gleaming like jewel, tempted them?
They were busy, heads down, intent, untroubled by any sense of danger, unaware of being observed, unaware of the privilege they had granted me. For a long time I stood watching, and I thought how unimportant are material things compared with the simple priceless gifts of life: the sky and its wonders, the in-offensive small creatures of the wilderness under the starlit night. The innocence of children, and sleep, and dream.
Long Odds
Ours is a small office, but interesting things happen there. That Tuesday, for instance, I believe it was the week before Fairyhouse …
Viney saw him first, and immediately disappeared. She couldn’t stand him, couldn’t stand the sight of him. Viney, you understand, was like that; there were very few people she could stand the sight of, and besides, the first sight of Johnny Bourke that Tuesday clearly said trouble.
Our only other customer that slack morning (customer is not quite the right word, but let it be) was little Miss Gabard, who calls at least once every day, and, no, she doesn’t have an account with us but just likes to be sure that we are all well. Seeing the gathering storm-clouds, she thought it best to go, as quietly as she had come, to await a more opportune time. I walked with her to the door and thanked her for calling. ‘Perhaps a later time,’ I suggested. She adjusted her spectacles and blinked up at me. ‘You are very kind, Mr Widger. I am glad to see you looking so well,’ and left, no doubt to attend to other pressing business.
Poll Hamilton, tiny, quiet, and afraid of no one, was left to face the storm. He demanded, loudly and luridly, to see the manager, the assistant manager, the cashier, the half-eejit responsible for dishonouring his cheque, all of whose antecedents he appeared to hold in very low esteem. He stopped short of calling for heads on platters, but he did convey his opinions with impressive eloquence. I must say I was proud of him.
Poll tried to explain, and her explanation involved the word Reconciliation, a word everyone knows, but bankers have their own specialized meaning for it. Johnny wasn’t having any: ‘Reconciliation my arse, there’ll be no reconciliation here,’ whacked the counter with his stick, and left. He did his best to slam the door behind him. The door, however, was fastened to the wall by a hook; he pulled the hook out of the wall and a strip of timber with it. There was a tearing, splintering noise that was drowned by the crash of the door closing.
After which, a breathless silence.
Someone went to re-open the door, while the manager wrung his hands and Dermot said darkly, ‘Bygod he wouldn’t do that in my office,’ Viney disapproved icily of everything and everyone, while Poll and the new girl, Claire, rolled on the cubicle floor, crying down salt tears of pure happiness and trying to pull lumps out of the carpet. The only practical thing I could think of was to switch off the alarm and then ring the Garda Barrack to explain. Big Jim Mullins answered the phone and I told him all was well, just some slight collateral damage and no fatalities. He inquired especially about Viney’s well-being. I think he fancied her, the attraction of the iceberg for the Titanic. Well, she’s a fine girl, even if a bit on the far side of distant.
And wouldn’t you guess? Johnny was back later in the day with smiles and chocolates, and a shady story for Dermot which he told at the top of his voice so that everyone could enjoy it. There were free passes, too, for the next meeting at the Junction. He slapped a round brown parcel on the counter in front of Poll Hamilton. ‘I got it in Jimmy Sheridan’s. It’s for you. He hadn’t any flowers.’ It was a big yellow melon. Viney, coming back from the post office, was caught in the open near the manager’s room. Johnny whirled on her and gave her a smack on the rump that nearly lifted her onto the counter, then drew himself up and said, ‘All friends here!’ smiled his big smile and left all of us smiling too. All except Viney, of course.
That was Tuesday, a slow day. Maybe you thought banking was a boring job?
The day of Johnny’s wedding brought us all together again. Many changes in the meantime. Mr Widger, our manager then, now retired, looked so well that I hardly knew him; he looked as if the weight of half a century had been lifted from his shoulders. Dermot, now manager somewhere in North Tipp, was thinner than I remembered; too much golf, and bridge, and trying to keep the bosses happy. He confided in me that he had chronic indigestion. Poll Hamilton brought her bright face from Head Office, but she looked more serious, less bubbly; Head Office is no laughing matter and doesn’t encourage bubbly. Claire had married and brought her new husband along. Johnny, slightly rounder, slightly redder, welcomed us all and seemed rather surprised but certainly delighted that all of us had turned up. I was officially at that time assistant manager, but in fact I was running the place. I’m one of those awkward employees who don’t want promotion but can’t be done without (though sometimes I suspect they’d be glad to get rid of me). I never applied for promotion but I know more about the job than all the rest of them put together, and especially more than poor Hayden who has been manager here for twelve months and still knows none of the customers; he’s not over-bright, though a nice poor fellow.
Now who have I forgotten? Viney of course. Dear Viney! She didn’t look as if she enjoyed crowds, but she did her best; at some time that day I actually saw her smile. But then the bride is expected to smile. Oh yes! Did I forget to tell you? Viney and Johnny. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Twelve months ago who in his sober senses would have bet on a Bourke-Viney double? Even though at that time the odds would have been more than generous. But there you are – the Glorious Uncertainty.
And I was largely responsible. I’ve been here so long that I know everyone within thirty miles of this town – everyone. And their parents, and their children, and all belonging to them. I’ve told you I think that Viney didn’t care much for people. But she loves horses. And Johnny Bourke owns horses. One day at Gowran Park I happened on her in the crowd and asked her if she’d like to meet some of the owners. She was only thrilled. Things moved on rapidly from there until in April Johnny told her that he had a horse running at Punchestown, that he and Ted Faulkner and Edie were driving up and would Viney like to come. It was an invitation she found impossible to refuse. So she had the hair done and bought herself a fancy hat, put on her finery, went to Punchestown and had a ball, rubbing shoulders, elbows, hips even (dare I mention thighs?) with owners and breeders and trainers and jockeys, and decided there and then that she had at last found her proper environment. Johnny’s horse didn’t win, but Johnny did.
Viney got home from Punchestown very late, very happy, more than a little tipsy, a bit vague about some of the day’s happenings but convinced of one thing: this was the life she had known to be her destiny and her due, ever since her schooldays and those classes at Miss McCool’s Equestrian Academy. Her father had been appalled at the cost, but now it began to look as if the classes had been a bargain.
Everyone will have an opinion on the matter. Was it a match made in heaven? If it wasn’t it was pretty close, it was a match made at the races, and for many people that’s as near to heaven as makes no odds.
In the middle of all the connubiality of Johnny and Viney’s big day, I was occupied with an idea, prompted I daresay by my part in bringing them together: banking is not as sound and secure a profession as it used to be, and I’m still half-thinking of setting up a Lonely Hearts agency somewhere in this locality. Just as a side-line. It seems to have possibilities, even in hard times.
A Night Bird
Among our summer bird visitors is one that few people in Ireland have heard and fewer have seen. Yet in those times when country people knew more about their surroundings, this bird had a part in their knowledge and their folklore, and they knew it well enough t
o have given it several names, some accurately descriptive, one bordering on defamatory. Its most usual name is Nightjar or Nightchurr, an attempt to describe its strange call. It is a bird of the dusk, like the owl, and indeed one of its old names in England is Fern-owl. Another is Dor-hawk. It is, however, neither owl nor hawk but is kin to the swift. The Irish name is Túirne Lín, meaning Spinning-wheel or Flax-wheel, again a reference to its voice. This little-known and rather mysterious bird is also called Goatsucker, though it has nothing to do with goats, in spite of its Latin name Caprimulgus, its food being moths and other insects of the night.
In 1943, when Irish roads had little tarmac on them and less wheeled traffic, I bought a second-hand Raleigh bicycle for £10. I needed it for my work. Provided I could get an occasional tyre and tube and an inch or two of valve rubber, I was king of the road. Even on my seventy-mile round trip to my parents’ home at weekends, I seldom saw a car or lorry or tractor.
Cycling one summer’s night along a level road that I knew well, through an area of marshy fields with tussocks of rushes, royal fern and dwarf willows, I heard a sound I had never heard before but that I recognized at once. If I had turned my bicycle upside down on the handlebars and saddle (which I often had to do because of punctures), then given the front wheel a brisk turn and held a twig against the spokes, the sound produced would have been reminiscent of the sound I heard from the marshland, a continuous whirring that suggested a mechanical rather than a natural origin.
Leaving my bicycle against a gate, I climbed over and began to make my way towards the sound. I had been cycling for nearly half an hour and my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and though there was neither moon nor stars I could find my way without too much difficulty. I went slowly and as quietly as I could, avoiding clumps, pools and bushes. Knowing that the Nightjar may sing in flight I sometimes scanned the sky but without seeing any bird. The voice in any case seemed to come always from the same spot and I went in that general direction. My progress was steady if slow. Once I looked back but could not see gate or bicycle or road.