He scrabbled for his fob-pocket and dragged out his watch, that fine, solid turnip of a timepiece that had accompanied him through thick and thicker in London all those years in exile. The very feel of it steadied him. He clasped its bulk between strong fingers, raised up his face, and in a cold colourless voice rasped to the faceless houses, ‘Where are ye, ye useless liúdramáns? If ye’re in it answer me now or ye’ll regret it!’
No answer.
‘All right.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘If that’s the way ’tis with ye, we’ll see who’s the man around here.’
Only echoes answered him, mocking echoes of his own words.
‘I’m telling ye now’ – and he snapped open the watch – ‘if ye’re not out here in front o’ me in two minutes, ye’re fired, ye bastúns.’
Still the windows gaped blankly back at him. But nothing stirred, though from the corner of each and every one his smallest movements were being closely observed.
The seconds ticked relentlessly by. Seán looked around him one last time.
Nothing.
He snapped the watch shut.
‘That’s my last word to ye, boys,’ he snarled. ‘Stay there, then, an’ be damned to ye for a flock o’ cowardly oul’ women.’
‘Oho, you pagan, you, an’ maybe ’tis yourself that’ll be damned,’ they muttered.
Seán whipped around savagely, strode to the boat and clattered aboard. But he was no more than there when he began to calm down and assess his position. Without a crew he was in trouble. He could not sail her alone, yet if he remained in harbour now, after the commotion of the last few minutes, all his authority would be gone. Those cowardly fools would know that he was in their power whenever they chose to put a squeeze on him.
But where was he going to get five or six men at such short notice, capable men, too?
He was still standing, hands in his pockets, trying to think, when a deep rumble of a voice at his elbow made him jump almost out of his boots: ‘What’s keeping a fine boat the like o’ this idle here, Seán, a bhuachaill, an’ the pollock – rakes of ’em – out there waiting to be caught?’
‘Wh – who in the name o’ Heaven are you, an’ where’d you come from?’ spluttered Seán, rattled. ‘An’ how d’you know my name? I never in my life laid eyes on you before.’
The man he was looking at was relaxed, smiling and big. Very big. So big, in fact, that he towered head and shoulders above him, and Seán was no dwarf!
‘How d’you know my name, I’m asking you?’ repeated Seán, a little less jumpy now, though no less amazed.
‘Yhera, Seán, doesn’t everyone know you, the man that fishes the seven days o’ the week, even a day like this?’ and his eyes glittered above his huge toothy smile.
Seán was not smiling.
‘Well, I won’t be fishing this Friday, an’ that’s for sure.’
‘Why so, my poor man?’
Seán was too taken up with his own problem to notice the tone of that voice.
‘Them cowardly bastúns I have for a crew, they won’t stir outside their doors, bad cess to ’em.’
The big man smiled more broadly than before and scratched a large brown paw up and down his cheek.
‘Well, well! Isn’t that the pity o’ the world, now? But, look, I wouldn’t worry too much about ’em if I was you.’
‘That’s very easy said when you’re not me, but you don’t know the trouble that this day’s work is going to make for me ...’
‘Heh! Heh!’ The big man laughed, and it was more than just a laugh. It held promise of something ... something unto-ward, even unwanted. ‘Look, Seán, my boy, I wouldn’t let that come between myself an’ whatever it was I had to do. Everything can be got around, if the price is right.’
His tone was genial, helpful, in the manner of a cattle-jobber, but Seán had ears only for the hint it offered of a solution to his dilemma.
‘How d’you mean? Amn’t I telling you that they won’t stir?’
‘Don’t mind that crowd.’ The big man’s hand swept a contemptuous arc downward and away behind him. ‘They don’t matter any more. What would you want with ’em when you have a new crew all ready to go?’
Seán paused. New crew? He looked about him but could see no one. No one except the big man. And he was smiling now more broadly than ever, his hands on his hips, waiting.
‘I don’t ...’
‘Look, Seán,’ continued the stranger, ‘I have a question for you. An’ ’tis this. What’ll you give me if I do the work of your seven men? Will you pay me seven men’s wages?’
Seán looked at him suspiciously. Was the fellow mad? He certainly seemed sane enough. And strong enough. But the work of seven men? Was there a man alive in Galway – or in Ireland – who could do it?
He glanced at the boat, still idle and swaying gently at its moorings, then at the houses. Still no sign of life. He shrugged. Better to humour him. Sure, there was nothing to be lost since the day was lost anyway. And he had always liked a challenge.
‘All right. Let you prove to me that you can do it an’ I’ll pay you what you’re worth.’
‘Oh, don’t have no fears about me. What I say I’ll do. Get your stuff an’ we’ll go, so. Now!’ And he rubbed his hands together gleefully. It sounded too like an order for Seán to be wholly comfortable, but it was too good an offer to refuse, a chance to teach his idiot crew a lesson.
‘You’re hired,’ he smiled. ‘Go on aboard an’ make ready. I have to go back to the house an’ tell herself I’m going out. I won’t be long.’
‘Don’t!’ and he turned smartly and tramped off towards the quayside.
Seán hurried home, a new spring in every step. The old woman met him at the door. He clapped his hands on her shoulders, then broke the good news.
‘You’d never believe what happened me below there, a mháthair!’
She did not reply. Obviously she was not at all curious to hear his story, whatever it might be. He crushed in past her, still smiling, and went about collecting together his various bits and pieces. In a little heap at the door he piled them, then straightened up ... and only then noticed her standing stock-still where he had left her.
‘Look, mother,’ he said breezily, ‘while you’re standing there doin’ nothing else wouldn’t it be the one thing for you to make a drop o’ tea for me before I go?’
The words seemed to have a magical effect on her, for she came to life of a start.
‘Go? You’ll go no place today,’ she screeched. ‘Not a step more from this house will you take. On Good Friday? Are you out o’ your mind, or what?’
‘Look, mother,’ he replied wearily, ‘I heard all this before. I’m going out fishing, an’ that’s that. Will you make the tea, for God’s sake, or will I have to do it myself?’
‘I’ll make no tea for a pagan. If you want a drink, go down an’ throw yourself into the harbour. That’ll bring you to your senses.’
He sighed, eyes to heaven. Mothers! Was this the only reason they were put in the world, to stand in the way of their sons? Yet, he could not let her words go without reply.
‘I won’t say no more to you now, woman. But I never broke my word yet. Once I have a bargain made I’ll keep it, whatever else, so stand out o’ the way if you’re going to be no help to me.’
‘What bargain, you amadán? What’re you after doing? Tell me!’
She was becoming more agitated by the moment, spurred on, perhaps, by the sound of her own voice rising. But he was no longer listening. Instead he grabbed her.
‘Come here!’ he snapped, dragging her roughly to the door.
‘D’you see that man below, sittin’ on the boat?’
She tried to focus, but for all her squinting she could not make him out, and well Seán knew it.
‘What about him? Who is he?’
‘I don’t know his name, an’ I don’t care. But he’s the one I made my bargain with an’ we’ll be sailing once I have the tea drank an’ that stuff ther
e at the door loaded.’
At that moment Cóilín’s head appeared around the jamb of the room door, but before he could say a word Seán got in a quick gibe: ‘Oh? An’ you’re up, are you? Well, Cóilín, boy, you can go back to sleep now. I have someone got that’ll do what you wouldn’t. An’ you can tell the same thing to the rest of ’em when you meet ’em.’
His voice was anything but brotherly and the fact was not lost on Cóilín, for he merely scowled, disappeared for a few moments, then emerged, pulling on his trousers as he came.
‘I don’t know where you think you’re goin’, boy, but ’tisn’t with me you’re travelling, anyway,’ said Seán harshly.
Cóilín did not reply, only struggled to the door and peered long and intently towards the harbour. When he turned again to Seán there was an odd look on his face, as if he had seen some wonder. He shook his head; then, hand to his forehead, he looked out again.
Seán watched him and smiled, a grim smile. ‘Faith, Cóil, if you think you’re goin’ to work any of your oul’ tricks on me with the way you’re actin’ ...’
‘Come here, quick’, whispered Cóilín, ‘an’ tell me am I seein’ things. What in the name o’ Heaven’s door is that thing below?’
The old woman was first to his side, Seán sidling over more slowly. He still suspected Cóilín of some kind of trickery, but the look on his mother’s face now told him that something was not as it should be.
His boat! His precious boat! Was ..? The thought cata-pulted him to where they stood gaping, his mother clutching tightly at Cóilín’s arm.
But ... there was nothing! All was as he had left it: harbour, boat, and the new man smoking peacefully by the rail.
He wheeled on them.
‘What oul’ codology are ye going on with this time?’ he snarled. ‘Is it tryin’ to put the heart crossways in me ye are?’
His mother turned. In her eyes was fear, and a cold grey look on her face. Cóilín, likewise, was ashen. A bony old hand scrabbled for Seán and in a cracked voice she stammered out: ‘God in Heaven preserve us, but don’t tell me you sold yourself to that fellow, to the Dark Lad himself!’ Her fingers were trembling.
As if he were dealing with some type of simpleton, Seán gaped, then snatched his hand away.
‘Enough o’ this ráiméis. I’m off, fishin’. This cursed place is gone stone mad.’
‘Can’t you open your eyes an’ see what’s there below waitin’ for you? Look at the cloud o’ black smoke around him, an’ the big hairy tail he has, an’ the horns!’
There was pity in Seán’s voice as he answered her.
‘Mother, ’tis time you got glasses. I’ll take you to the doctor above on Taylor’s Hill when I come back from this trip. An’ maybe I’ll get a pair for you, too, Cóil,’ he sniggered, and was gone, snatching up his belongings as he went.
‘Wait, Seán! Wait,’ she screamed, dashing after him. ‘Don’t go. I never asked you to do much for me before now, but if you’ll only stop in today, an’ keep away from the water, I’ll never again put a word in your way.’
‘I have talking enough done for one day, mother. My man below won’t wait forever, so stand back now an’ don’t be botherin’ me.’
Like a faithful old dog unwilling to be ordered back home, she followed him, begging, pleading, praying, always glancing furtively and in growing panic towards the quay.
When she saw at last that his ears were closed to all her pleas she clasped his arm and attempted to drag him around to face her.
‘Seán! Seán! Listen to me. Only one word ...’
He shrugged her off, never slackening his stride.
‘Seán, d’you remember that day at the station when you were goin’ to England?’
He paused, then glanced down at her.
‘What about it?’
‘D’you remember the advice I gave you that day?’
He still walked on, but this time he made no reply.
‘Seán, I wouldn’t put the bad word on you. All I want is for you to come back safe, an’ if you go out today you won’t do that. The lad below, he’ll be the finish o’ you. Of that I’m sure an’ certain.’
Maybe the memory of that distant day’s parting, or a stab of guilt at never seeing his father alive again, struck him now. Whatever it was, he saw before him a frail old woman, bent and wrinkled, he knew, at least partly by his negligence. He owed her much. That was obvious. But what could he do about it now? Yet his pace slowed. And she was still speaking, begging.
‘... an’ if you’d only take this with you, at least, maybe we might see you again on dry land.’
He stopped. Her left hand was raised almost to his face, and clasped between the cracked and pitted nails was her crucifix, the rest of the rosary-beads out of sight, hidden in her fist.
‘Will you take this with you, at least? Your father – God rest his soul – he gave it to me the day we were married, an’ it won’t bring you any bad luck.’
‘All right, mother,’ he sighed. ‘If it’ll keep you happy,’ then silently, ‘an’ let me get on with my business.’
With a smiling face but yet with shaking hands she draped the beads over his head and round his neck, then tucked the crucifix down inside his shirt.
‘Keep a tight hold o’ that when trouble comes, a chroí, an’ you won’t go far astray.’
‘I will, I will, o’ course, mother,’ he soothed, anxious to be off. ‘But I must go on, now. Keep the dinner hot for me, will you? I won’t be too late.’
And he planted a little kiss on her forehead, disentangled himself deftly from her grasp and skipped off towards the boat, blowing more kisses behind him as he went, the very picture of a happy man.
He dashed aboard and flung a curt order to the ‘crew’: ‘Cast off as fast as you can, an’ take your stations!’
The words were out before he saw the ridiculousness of them. But he was used to ordering several men; the habit was an old one. Yet, as never before, his order was obeyed now, for the big man had not to be commanded twice. With one furious wrench on the hawser he dragged with him not only the iron mooring-ring but also the huge limestone block to which it was attached. He grinned as it plunged into the water, but Seán was not so amused.
‘Blast it,’ he growled, ‘is it so you want us to try sailin’ with that thing tied to us, hah?’
The big man cocked his head, looked sideways at Seán, then in two swift steps was at the bow, had grasped the rope and ... bit it in two! He allowed the weighted end to coil over the side, held up the frayed remainder and leered.
‘Well, cap’n, are you satisfied now?’
He went about his duties then, leaving Seán to stare after him open-mouthed and wondering. His mother’s words whispered in his mind and his fingers wandered uneasily to her beads. But the big man’s work thereafter dulled his unease somewhat for he went about his tasks with an enthusiasm that was frightening in its efficiency but at the same time positively fascinating to Seán. In a flurry of hauling, heaving and grunting, he did all that the eight previous crewmen had done, and did it more tastefully, far more thoroughly.
‘Holy God,’ thought Seán, ‘who’d be without a man like that? Isn’t he a wonder entirely?’
The long and short of the story was that for the first time in his fishing career Seán did not lift a finger on the voyage out of Claddagh. For once he could stand and observe all the landmarks of the bay on this most delightful of mornings – Tawin Island and Kilcolgan Point, Finavarra and Aughinish further south, and away in the distance Black Head.
He felt faintly guilty, felt almost like one of those odd useless fellows who had been seen of late in Galway on their way to the west, to learn Irish, talk about times gone by to toothless old relics, or something equally senseless. But there was nothing for him to do. The big man was in complete control, moving here and there with an ease that was all-too-obviously practised.
‘Who’d he work for before this? If he’s so good, why isn’t h
e his own boss? Begod, maybe the poor man has a drink problem, or trouble with the wife – if he has one. Or he could be ...’
A hundred such notions passing through his mind kept Seán occupied until at last the man stepped up, tapped him on the shoulder and offered: ‘We’re here, cap’n. The best fishing-ground in all Galway Bay, you’ll find – I think.’
Seán blinked, glanced around. ‘Hah? Oh, yes, yes! Well ... we better let down the nets, so. Wouldn’t it be as well?’
‘Oh, whatever you say, cap’n, a chroí,’ and as he spoke he was already bundling them over the side at a speed which left Seán breathless. Not a word passed his lips while the work was a-doing, and even less was he inclined to talk as they waited for the fatal meshes to do their silent work.
But their wait was an incredibly short one, for in the space of a few minutes there was a trembling of all the plank-work, as if some great hand had them in its grasp, then a sharp yaw to starboard. Seán came alive of a flash.
‘God almighty, it must be a whale that has us. Cut the nets, there, quick’ – and he tossed his long-bladed knife to the big man, who caught it, looked at it an instant and then let it clatter to the deck.
‘I’m surprised at that kind o’ talk from a man o’ the Duinníns. Cut the nets! There’s a change in the world, surely, since I was here last,’ and without more explanation he began to haul the nets aboard, mesh over mesh. And hardly a single one of all that multitude of cords came up without a fish. Seán watched, transfixed as the greatest catch he had ever seen unfolded itself before him, dragged aboard by those muscular arms. Hundreds there must be, thousands even. His eyes danced and in his mind clinked the money he would earn from this mighty day’s work.
Soon the deck was awash with a glittering mass of flap-ping fins and tails. Seán waded through them to the tiller, chuckling, his mind completely immersed now. Mechanically he went through the routines of swinging the boat around to prepare for the trip back, hardly noticing that the big man was no longer here, there and everywhere. The sluggishness of the weighted-down craft was what alerted him to some subtle change. He looked about, and there, sitting at the point of the stern, was his friend, hands spread out along the rail at either side of him and a cigarette, no less, dangling from the corner of his mouth. But it was his attitude of defiant insolence that sobered Seán.
The Devil is an Irishman Page 14