by Shane Dunphy
Marian smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s rescue him from Prudence.’
‘Can you crash at my gaff this evening?’
‘I kind of knew that was coming. Yeah. Run me by my flat, and I’ll pick up an overnight bag.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, I got you into this. It’s the least I can do.’
‘It is, really.’
‘Shane, don’t rub my nose in it.’
‘Okay. But in fairness, it is. You said this was an open-and-shut case. Have it wrapped up in no time, you said.’
‘Shut up, Shane.’
I put Patrick in the spare bedroom. Despite the fact that it was barely 7.30 when we got back to my apartment, he was exhausted by the emotional upheaval. I was shattered too, so I ordered a Chinese takeaway, and when we’d eaten, Patrick said he’d like to go to bed.
I checked in on him fifteen minutes later, and he was almost dozing off, Bunny nestled in beside him.
‘You all right, champ?’
He nodded, his eyes half shut. ‘This is a nice place,’ he said, his voice thick with sleep.
‘It keeps the rain off.’
‘How long am I staying here?’
‘Until we can find somewhere decent for you. A few days, anyway.’
‘Can we call Bethany tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
‘Night.’
‘Night, Patrick.’
Marian was sprawled out on my couch. I got her a beer from the fridge and put The Ink Spots on the stereo: If I didn’t care more than words can say; if I didn’t care would I feel this way? I sank into an armchair opposite her.
‘I like that music,’ she said. ‘How’s our boy?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘And what’s the plan for tomorrow?’
‘I’ll drop him to school in the morning. Ben’s checked, and they have an after-schools programme, so I can pick him up when I’ve finished work.’
‘You’ll catch hell for this from the rest of the team. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’
‘And I’m aware this has all been an elaborate ploy to get me into your lair, but I can’t stay here for ever. I’ll give you tonight, maybe tomorrow, but after that I’m going home.’
‘You know I have a partner, Marian. She’ll be joining me in a couple of months, work permitting. But I know what you mean. I appreciate your being here.’
We were quiet for a while, listening to Hoppy and his crew croon.
‘I really had no idea this case was going to be such a difficult one,’ Marian said, sounding sleepy herself now.
‘I know you didn’t. It’s okay.’
‘If I had, I wouldn’t have given it to you.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course not.’ Pause. ‘I’d have passed it on to Loretta.’
11
Johnny Curran was trying to tell me something. His face was screwed up, and his entire small frame was straining to get the words out. I waited patiently, knowing that trying to second guess him would only cause the boy to stop trying altogether, but none the less it was painful to watch. Eventually, in frustration, Johnny shook his head, limped over to a cupboard in the odd, rolling manner he had come to use, and pulled out a plastic base with a steering wheel and various coloured buttons embedded in it. He lurched back across the trailer, holding up the toy triumphantly.
‘You’d like to play with this?’ I asked him.
He nodded vigorously. ‘Okay, then. Where will we go for our drive?’
Johnny dragged himself up on to the seat beside me. His bandages were gone, and, while the bone structure in his face was slightly misshapen, the scar tissue had receded. He placed the steering wheel on his lap and pantomimed a serious, thinking expression that almost made me guffaw.
‘So, where are we off to?’ I asked again. ‘I’m not going unless you tell me where.’
‘D … D … Dublin,’ Johnny managed to say at last.
‘Great. Let’s go!’
The little boy turned the big orange plastic ignition key, and the tinny, electronic sound of a car engine came from the toy.
‘Hey, don’t drive so fast,’ I warned, causing him to squeal in mirth.
Johnny laughed a lot. It seemed that, regardless of the fact that he was physically disabled and was having to grapple with a severe speech impediment, life was just a wonderful thing to him. He approached every moment of each day with unfettered joy.
And it was infectious.
When I was with him, I found myself forgetting the worries and stresses of other cases and simply enjoying his company. I was not alone in this either. I had noticed a change in the whole Curran family. Of course, their release from the tyranny of domestic violence had been positive for their dynamic, but it was more than that. It was as if they were learning to be a unit again, and Johnny was the nucleus around which they were growing and developing.
Tilly spent several hours each day helping him with his walking. The physio had outlined a series of exercises that Johnny needed to go through daily, and his mother never failed to see that he did. I loved to watch this process, as each step was an accomplishment of which Johnny was delightedly proud, each inch of floor space a major battle won. We spent a lot of time cheering and congratulating him, and ourselves. His brothers and sisters treated him with gentle respect, and never failed to reward him with praise at every small victory the days presented them with.
‘I think I can see Dublin in the distance, driver,’ I said. Johnny was steering with a very serious expression, concentrating for all he was worth on the imaginary motorway down which we were travelling. He glanced at me and nodded.
‘So, where will we go when we get into Dublin? We’re coming to some junctions and flyovers now, so we should start to think about that.’
‘Z … z … zoo.’
‘You want to go to the zoo? Well, we need to go around by the park.’
Tilly was preparing dinner at the other end of the room and must have been listening to our game, because suddenly, in a clear, strong voice, she began to sing: ‘Mama’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow; Mama’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow, we can stay all day …’
Johnny and I stopped to listen. Tilly, not noticing we’d gone quiet, continued her song. She sang in the old traveller style, with a clear lilt to her voice and the notes drawn out in a melancholic manner. On the final chorus, I scooped up Johnny and danced over to her, singing as we went and encouraging the child to join in – he tried his best, making a rhythmic, chugging sound: ‘We’re goin’ to the zoo, zoo, zoo; how about you, you, you? You can come too, too, too. We’re goin’ to the zoo, zoo, zoo.’
Johnny howled with laughter at Tilly’s obvious embarrassment. She flushed and turned back abruptly to peeling her potatoes. ‘I didn’t know ye were listening to me,’ she said. ‘You have me scarlet now.’
‘You’re really good, Tilly. I didn’t know you could sing.’
I put Johnny on my shoulders, and jogged him up and down.
‘Oh, we always had music about when I was growing up. Me mammy is a well-known singer among our people. She plays the banjo too, you know. I used to love to hear her when I was a lackin. I’d sit on the floor in the evenin’s, when the men had gone out lampin’, and she’d sing all the old songs. That banjo, with its long neck – I always thought it looked like a part of her. She’s got the longest fingers I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’d love to hear her.’
‘She’s very old now. She doesn’t get out much, any more, but she enjoys a session when she gets the chance. My brothers both play the pipes too.’
‘Do they? God, I love the pipes. I’m from Wexford, and we’ve great pipers there.’
‘Didn’t Felix and Johnny Doran come from Wexford?’
‘They were from Wicklow, I think, but their grandfather, John Cash, was a Wexford man, and he was the first of the really celebrated travell
ing pipers.’
Tilly stopped peeling for a moment and turned to look at me. ‘You know an awful lot about travellers for a settled fella.’
I laughed. It was strange that this conversation had never happened before. I was reminded of the gulf that still existed between Tilly and me.
‘I grew up on a big corporation housing estate. There were lots of travelling families living around and about us – some in houses and some who came and went seasonally in trailers. It was probably the last time that a lot of travellers still moved around the country in that way. It hadn’t been made as difficult, back then.’
‘It was hard, even when I was young. No one was ever glad to see us coming,’ Tilly said.
‘The travellers were always a part of my community. I won’t say that it was all plain sailing between them and us, but I learned that they were people, just like anyone else. I also picked up on the fact that they had a culture and history that kind of ran parallel to the settled community’s, and that they’d been given a tough time, over the years. When I started playing music, I always paid attention when I came across travelling musicians. They had a style like no one else’s I’d heard.’
‘You play?’
‘A bit.’
‘What do you play?’
‘This and that. I like traditional stuff.’
She picked up a potato and continued peeling. Johnny kicked his legs against my chest, to remind me he was there, and I jogged off around the trailer again, singing Tom Paxton’s old song: ‘Mama’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow …’
An hour later I was putting on my coat to leave, when Tilly approached me shyly. The caravan was dense with the smell of cooking; steam from the potatoes, now boiling on the hob, trickled down the windowpanes.
‘Shane, I’d like to ask you something.’
‘Shoot.’
‘We’re having a kind of a party tonight – sorta to bless the trailer and sorta for Christmas, and sorta ’cause Johnny’s doin’ so well now. Me mammy’ll be here, and me brothers, and there’ll be some playin’. I was wonderin’ if you’d like to come?’
To my great surprise, I was embarrassed. I believed that Tilly, while by no means resenting me in the way she had done before, still only put up with me because she had to. I had been so caught up in what was going on with Patrick that I hadn’t noticed her tentative steps towards friendship.
‘I’d really love to come, Tilly. But I’ve got a kid staying with me for a few days, and I wouldn’t like to leave him with anyone else just now.’
‘Sure, there’ll be all my wains here. He’d be very welcome.’
I grinned. ‘Well, in that case, I’d be delighted. What time?’
Tilly laughed. ‘If you really know anythin’ about travellers, you know that there is no time. Come later on, when you feel like it.’
Patrick seemed a bit anxious at the news we’d be going out. I thought it would do him good, though. A party and music session, held in a trailer parked near a footpath beside the River Torc was so alien to any experience he had ever had while living with Gertrude, I figured it would take his mind off his problems, for a few hours at least. In my innocence I totally forgot about the kind of prejudices he was likely to have picked up, not just living with the Bassetts but through attending a mainstream Irish school. It was not until we were unloading my instruments from the boot that he finally aired his views.
‘Shane, I’m really not sure about this,’ he said, eyeing the missile-shaped trailer with genuine distaste.
‘Why not? It’ll be fun, trust me.’
‘But, Shane, these people …’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re … well, they’re knackers.’
I stopped dead. There it was. I could have kicked myself for not expecting such sentiments, but I had somehow believed, as a child in care from a poor background, that he would be more open-minded. I had to make an effort to stop myself from snapping at him for using that word: ‘knacker’ is like an Irish form of ‘nigger’. It is a hate word, used to deride members of the travelling community, many of whom make their living trading in horses.
‘Patrick, these people are my friends. Please don’t use that word around me. And, frankly, show some respect, for others as much as yourself, and don’t ever use it again.’
He lowered his eyes, knowing he’d annoyed me. ‘I’m sorry, but these are not good friends to have. We shouldn’t be here.’
‘Why not? What makes them bad people?’
‘Jesus, Shane. They’re dirty and they rob things and they don’t live in houses. You can’t trust them.’
I hefted my heavy banjo case from the boot and put it on the frozen ground. ‘All the things you’ve said are true of many people I’ve known in the settled community. Now’ – I passed my mandocello over to him – ‘we’ve been kindly invited to a party here, and I’m looking forward to it. These people don’t even know you, but they’re prepared to open their doors to you. If you get in there and still feel this way, we won’t stay long. But at least try to enjoy yourself, eh?’
Patrick, looking suitably chastised, nodded, and, carrying the cases, we ascended the steps.
The night that followed will be for ever etched in my memory as one of those magical evenings that we are granted all too rarely. My arrival seemed to signal the beginning of the music, and Tilly’s two brothers, Bill and Tom, began to play a hornpipe called ‘The Golden Eagle’. The trailer was very hot and crowded, as the six Curran children, Tom’s wife and five kids (Bill was fifteen, and not yet married) and Maggie, Tilly’s mother, were all present. Bottles of Guinness and cans of cider were available for consumption, but as I was driving I stuck with tea. Crisps, sweets and soft drinks were there for the children. Patrick was very reticent at first, but the sheer exuberance of the gathered youngsters soon won him over, and they chatted, played Yu-Gi-Oh! and sang along with great gusto.
Maggie Connors was undoubtedly the matriarch of the clan. She was the only one who was formally introduced to me, and she immediately asked me to play her a song. She was a haggard-looking woman, with a huge beak of a nose and a mop of dishwater-coloured hair, her face weather-beaten and lined like a walnut. She had a massive bosom, and her ancient five-string banjo sat perched on her knees precariously, fighting for room.
As a member of the settled community, and a care worker to boot, I was expected to prove myself. Tilly may have vouched for me, but her mother and brothers would want to make up their own minds.
I took the mandocello from its case, and, once sure I was in tune, played a song I hoped would win their favour, the great traveller love ballad, ‘One Starry Night’.
One starry night, as I lay dreaming
One starry night, as I lay in bed
I dreamed I heard wagon wheels a-turning
When I awoke, my own true love had fled
Maggie sat and listened respectfully, as did Bill and Tom (the children showed no such grace, and continued to laugh and talk raucously throughout). The song probably dates back to the medieval period, and is a simple tale of lost love, told to the backdrop of the restless travelling lifestyle. I always find it deeply evocative, and can see the protagonist in my mind’s eye, a young man, barely out of his teens, desperately searching for his missing sweetheart, roaming the length and breadth of Ireland on a horse-drawn cart, sleeping at night in an old, patched tent, never giving up hope.
I’ve searched the highways, likewise the byways.
I’ve searched the bo’reens; the camping places too.
I have enquired of all our people
Have they tithe or tidings, or any sign of you?
Maggie joined in with me on the final verse, her voice deeper and richer than her daughter’s. When her fingers, gnarled and dexterous, hit the banjo strings, they reminded me of the branches of the willow in the garden of Prudence’s house.
I bid farewell, love, to you for ever
I may ne’er see you, in this world again
But cailín bán a stóirín, it was only lent.
We played the last sequence of chords, and the song finished. Maggie looked at me fully for the first time, and nodded.
‘You played that well, sir.’
‘Thank you. You play very well too.’
She nodded her assent. ‘Let’s see how you fare with a few reels.’
Using a thimble, which she had on her thumb, as a plectrum, she began to pick a fast tune, ‘The Tarbolton’. I put down the mandocello, picked up my guitar and fell in with a driving, rhythmic backing. Bill joined with a countermelody on the pipes, and Tom produced a tin whistle.
Traditional tunes are usually played in sets, and ‘The Tarbolton’ is often joined to two other tunes: ‘The Longford Collector’ and ‘The Sailor’s Bonnet’. These three are referred to as ‘The Sligo Tunes’ by many musicians, after the great fiddle player Michael Coleman, a Sligoman who initially recorded them in America in the early years of the twentieth century. Therefore I was expecting the changes when they came and was able to move from tune to tune easily enough, slipping from the key of E minor to D and then to G as the reels required it. Maggie noticed my familiarity with the material, and seemed pleased. I had passed another test.
We had just started the second part of ‘The Longford Collector’ when I looked up, and to my surprise saw that Johnny was dancing in the centre of the floor. I almost lost my place in the tune, so surprised was I. Bill saw it too, and whooped joyously. ‘Go on there, Johnny boy! Show us what you can do.’
Johnny’s movements were hardly graceful. They were not by any means the standard steps used by Irish dancers when attempting to express the reel in physical form. In fact, I was more reminded of the young Forrest Gump, from the eponymous movie, dancing to Elvis’s ‘Hound Dog’, than to anything choreo–graphed by Michael Flatley. Yet neither I, nor any of the other witnesses to the strange gyrations, felt moved to laugh. In fact, I can scarcely recall ever seeing anything so marvellous.