by Anne Doughty
I finished my tea, which was nearly cold.
‘I think; there would be some who would listen. But you are right, most people prefer the measurable. And the university world doesn’t seem much better than the business world on that score. Or what I know of it, at any rate. Here, let me give you another cup.
‘What exactly do you want to do?’ he asked quietly as he handed it back to me.
I began to explain. At first I felt very awkward and was sure I was talking nonsense, but whenever I paused, or couldn’t go on, he would ask a question, or sometimes a whole series of questions, and that got me going again. It was then I realised I had answers to some of the questions, but until he asked me I simply didn’t know that I had.
‘What really intrigues me is how customs and practices developed generations ago survive and go on being handed down, even in the face of all the evidence that they don’t work or aren’t true.’
He turned his head slightly and paused, his teacup in mid-air, a look of concentration on his face. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve noticed that what people say suggests they believe things that aren’t true. But if you question them carefully, it comes out that they don’t actually believe them, they just behave as if they did believe them, because everybody else does. But it means that things can’t change when perhaps they should.’
‘You mean a private disbelief is combined with a public declaration of faith?’
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. I wondered exactly what he was referring to. ‘Declaration of faith’ had reminded me Patrick was a Catholic and the very thought set going some old association: watch what you say, they’re very easy huffed. You just have to think twice and pass yourself. I recognised the script only too well, put it firmly out of mind and continued as I’d begun.
‘Take an example. The other day, I was talking to a farmer whose son wanted him to extend his house like Mary and Paddy have done, to have a room for visitors from America. The farmer told his son it couldn’t be done. The only place you could add on was beyond the existing bedroom and that was where the stable was. The son then says, “But what about the other side, the kitchen side?” And the father replies, “But you can’t do that, man. Shure isn’t that the west side.”’
From the way Patrick looked at me, I could see he knew just what I was talking about.
‘So I come home to Paddy and say “Paddy, why can’t you build on the west side of a house?”’
His face broke into a huge grin as he interrupted me, ‘And Paddy says, “Shure Elizabeth dear, isn’t there a fairy path runs down the west side of every house.”’
I nodded vigorously. ‘But then, I ask Paddy if Sean Own Mahoney believed in fairies, for that was who I’d had the story from, and Paddy said “No, not a bit of him. He’d be right angry if anybody thought that.” Now what do you make of that?’ I ended, as I swallowed the last of my scone.
He was still smiling, the kind of smile that said he’d been there too, had met just the same kind of contradictions and been defeated by them himself.
We were silent for a moment, looking into the fire. When he spoke his tone was light and easy.
‘But surely, Elizabeth, you don’t want these delightful people to lose their simplicity, their whimsical rural charm?’
‘Whimsical, my foot,’ I retorted sharply. ‘Paddy and Mary are the kindest, most generous people I have ever met, but they’re not typical. I’m not fool enough to think there are many like them. Most of the people I’ve talked to are so sure they know everything there is to know that they never question anything. Everything is fine so long as you agree with them, just like it is back home in Ulster, but try to say anything that doesn’t and that’s a different story. Even Paddy and Mary say things I just can’t take, things that are just not true. I never know whether it’s tact or lack of courage that makes me keep silent.’
I stopped abruptly. I was thinking of Mary, of her kind face and her responsiveness to anyone in need or distress. I felt overwhelmed by a sadness I could not understand. I put down my empty teacup and looked up to see Patrick Delargy’s face looking shadowed and sombre.
‘What would you say to a woman who has borne nine children in real poverty, who tells you that God never sent the mouth but He sent the bite to feed it, when you know that millions of children are starving, and not all of them in Asia, or Africa either?’
He nodded grimly and said nothing.
‘It’s simple all right, far too simple,’ I added, as I thought of Michael Brady and his attempts to provide himself with goods and services and a further increase in his labour supply.
‘Perhaps I thought you took the view of our friend Levin,’ he offered, nodding towards the book on the mantelpiece. ‘All virtue resides in the peasant.’
I shook my head firmly.
‘No. I liked Levin, because he felt like a real person who worried about things and tried to think them out. I couldn’t really decide when I read it whether I agreed with him or not. But now I disagree. Peasants can be cruel and pig-headed and take a pride in being so. That’s the dark side. Oh yes, there’s another side too and it appeals to me as much as anyone. But you’ve got to see both sides, haven’t you?’
A look of deep sadness passed over his face.
‘Perhaps I needed to be reminded, Elizabeth,’ he said with a sigh.
‘Of the dark side?’
‘No. Of the fact that I’m not the only one in the world that sees it. Sometimes I go for months without hearing a single reservation about the values of country people, the small farmers in particular. There’s an idea about that they and they alone remain in touch with what people call real values. You begin to feel as if you’re the only one out of step.’
I knew so well what he meant. I’d felt it myself so often. ‘Sometimes I wish I could change how I see things and hear things and just join the club,’ I agreed, wearily. ‘It would be so restful not to be out of step all the time, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would indeed. Though, if I may say so, I hardly think you’d much care for a restful life.’
He said it so lightly it could be taken as no more than a pleasant compliment. But I felt it was much more than that. Without quite knowing how it had happened, we’d discovered what was really important to each of us. It put us together on the same side of an invisible line and made us friends.
‘It’s McClennan from Limerick, sur.’
Neither of us had heard the soft knock at the door, nor saw the young barman till he was halfway into the room.
‘Good God, is that the time?’
I stood up and put my jacket on quickly, but Patrick was not to be hurried.
‘Mickey, tell him I’ll be with him shortly. Take him into the bar and cast your eye down the list yourself. See what you think we need. Let him make out the order with the numbers blank till we check what’s in here. I won’t be too long. Send round for sandwiches and coffee, but don’t for any sakes let him start drinking free samples with you till he’s had something to eat.’
The young man smiled shyly and retreated.
‘I’m so sorry I’ve kept you late, the time just seemed to go,’ I said apologetically.
‘I’m not sorry at all, but I’d better take you home now, unless of course you could stay and have supper with me,’ he added hopefully.
I realised how disappointed I was that our meeting had come to such a sudden end. I’d have loved to stay for supper. ‘Mary will be expecting me. She might worry.’
‘Of course she would. Did Kathleen take your bag?’
I had forgotten the bag completely. I turned to speak to him and promptly tripped on the rolled up carpet. He caught my shoulder and steadied me.
‘All right?’
‘Serves me right,’ I laughed. ‘I wasn’t paying attention.’
We moved together towards the door, his hand still resting lightly on my shoulder. I felt sorry to leave the room. Our seats by the dying fire looked so inviting, cramped a
s they were into the small firelit space, the tea tray still perched on the stool, the mantelpiece decorated with a glass, a plate and a copy of Anna Karenina.
‘Patrick, are those your car keys?’
‘What did you say?’
The look on his face was so strange that for a split second I thought he was angry. I had spoken without thinking. I had called him by his Christian name. But I could hardly call him Mr Delargy, could I?
‘I just asked if those were your car keys,’ I said uneasily, nodding towards the desk. ‘I noticed them as I looked back.’
‘But before that,’ he insisted. He looked me full in the face as if it were of the utmost importance.
‘Just your name, just. . . Patrick.’
The strange look disappeared instantly and he grinned, tightened his grip on my shoulder momentarily and stepped back over the carpet to pick up the keys. He twirled them round his finger and returned to me, smiling.
‘It’s a long time since a woman called me Patrick. . . in that way . . . with that accent,’ he confessed.
I looked at him, wondering if he would explain.
He laughed and put his hand back on my shoulder as he opened the door. ‘Come along, young lady,’ he said severely, as we went out into the corridor, ‘before you find out any more of my secrets.’
Once out of town he accelerated. The broad brown and purple expanses of bog which had seemed interminable from the lurching turf cart flickered past like the brief locating shots of a documentary film. We’ll be there in no time, I thought sadly.
I turned to look at the islands lying on the horizon, beyond the falling slopes of the fields to the west of the road. The car slowed. This was the point where we had stopped two days earlier when Patrick had driven me back to Lisara after our first meeting. Surely he wouldn’t stop today when he was already late for an appointment. For a moment, he didn’t notice my puzzled look as he concentrated on drawing the car off the road.
As he put the handbrake on, I realised why he had stopped. The road was narrow at this point. About half a mile away, a large, black taxi proceeded towards us in the middle of the strip of tarmacadam. Or rather, it was in the middle to begin with. As we watched, we saw it weave gently from side to side as if the driver were just a little drunk.
The driver was pointing out the islands to his passengers. It was Feely. Sometimes with one hand, and occasionally with two, he was directing their observations while the car oscillated its way up the hill towards us.
Patrick shook his head resignedly and finally pressed the horn. It was a funny little pip squeak of a thing, quite out of keeping with the size of the car, but the effect on Feely was remarkable. He gripped the steering wheel and looked towards us in amazement as if the last thing he expected on this road was to meet another car. His passengers glared. Drawing level with us, with only inches between the two vehicles, Feely recognised us. He straightened up like an infantry man coming to attention, raised his ancient green hat and bowed over the wheel. He was so close I could see the whites of his light blue eyes.
Patrick raised a hand in salute. I waved. As the taxi passed, its four occupants turned their heads to stare at us, like a section of the crowd at Wimbledon, perfectly synchronised. They were dressed identically in black and white, for they were all priests.
‘What a man,’ said Patrick, ‘I wonder how he survives.’
‘He’d never have spotted us if you hadn’t tooted,’ I said, laughing.
Patrick eased the car off the uneven verge and began to drive slowly towards Lisara. I wondered if he were expecting any more Feely-like drivers. But after a moment he spoke.
‘I’m afraid that meeting may have been unfortunate, Elizabeth.’
‘You mean the way Feely jumps to confusions?’
He smiled momentarily, but remained serious. His face looked almost grim. Surely he wasn’t worried about gossip. Why, he himself had joked about the natives having us married off when he last drove me to Lisara. Besides, there could never be anything between us, he a Catholic, me a Protestant, and he was so much older. They were bound to see he would never think of such a thing.
But perhaps the problem was just being seen with a Protestant. I didn’t have to be reminded how angry people got in my family when Catholics and Protestants were seen together. There was sure to be a furious outburst from my mother if ever she saw the girls from the grammar school talking to boys from the local Christian Brothers School at the bus stop.
‘But, Mum, they were only talking.’
‘Only talking, indeed. There’s no knowing where talking will get you.’
She was as outraged by their ‘only talking’ as if she’d surprised the offending couple in the act of making love.
‘You won’t get excommunicated or anything will you?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
‘No, I’m not worried about them,’ he said firmly. ‘The priesthood gave me up as a bad job a long time ago. No, I’m more concerned about you. I don’t want you running into trouble with your work. One can’t predict what kind of prejudice might be generated.’
He paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t really need to tell you that, do I? You know it very well yourself. But I am concerned. You could meet a totally irrational response. On the other hand, you might not. It is all quite unpredictable and there’s not a lot either of us can do about it.’
It was then I remembered my former tutor’s dire warnings about the reticence I might meet, because I was a Protestant and a Northerner. I hadn’t thought about it since I arrived. Along with the many other unhappy aspects of my life in Belfast, I had put it out of mind. Now, here it was again come to spoil the unexpected pleasure of my meeting with Patrick.
‘It’s so ridiculous, isn’t it?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It would be funny, if it wasn’t so awful.’
He nodded and turned towards me as we stopped outside the cottage.
‘I’d be very sorry if you couldn’t come to see me again, Elizabeth. But I’d quite understand.’
His face was grave, his eyes shadowed. The lonely look had returned, clear and unambiguous. I knew he meant exactly what he said. I also knew I would be more than sorry not to see him again.
‘I’d like to come,’ I said quietly. ‘But you’re the one that has to live here. “Strangers in closed communities are usually of low status and little significance,”’ I quoted from one of my text books.
‘Good,’ he said, sounding pleased and relieved. ‘When shall I see you then?’
‘Tuesday?’
‘Splendid. I have some books I think might help over the Land Commission and one or two other things.’
He opened the boot of the car and picked out Mary’s shopping. ‘Don’t worry about me, Elizabeth,’ he said quietly. ‘I have had long experience with the natives.’
There was a firmness in his tone I had not heard before. I glanced up at him and realised he was angry, just as angry as I had been, time and time again when I was forced to listen to the prejudice and bigotry that surrounded me at home.
‘You’ll have to apologise for me,’ he continued, smiling once more. ‘Tell Paddy and Mary I’ll come and see them on Tuesday, will you?’
‘No,’ I replied, taking the shopping bag he handed me. ‘I’ll tell them you asked after them both. Do you want poor Paddy to spend the weekend redecorating the house?’
He clicked his fingers and laughed, and the warmth of his smile blew away the last of the shadows that had hovered around us since the untimely meeting with Feely.
‘Thank you for tea, and for bringing me home,’ I said quickly. ‘I hope your man’s not tight by the time you get back.’
‘Not the same one, he’s had too much practice. It was a pleasure, a great pleasure. Take care, won’t you. Till Tuesday.’
‘Till Tuesday,’ I repeated as he drove off.
I stood watching for the car to reappear on the far hillside, a shiny, metallic object catching the light as it moved against the
backdrop of rock outcrops and smooth green fields. Separate, self-contained, independent, it moved at speed on its ribbon of road. I watched until it was out of sight.
Chapter 8
The wind caught me as I stopped for breath on the edge of the ridge that rose steeply behind the cottages of Ballyvore. My eyes were streaming and I had a drip at the end of my nose. The map attached to my clipboard flapped noisily as I dug in my pocket for my hanky. All I could see of Ballyvore was one well-mended roof set a little higher than its neighbours. Beyond the rutted track I had walked half an hour ago, a Dinky toy of a van spun merrily along the main road, a dark shape against the dazzle of Liscannor Bay.
I moved the rubber bands on my board to stop the racket my map was making and turned my back on the sea. Ahead lay a broad expanse of upland bog and moorland rich with long, seeding grasses and broken by peat hags topped with purple heather. Here and there, the bleached skeleton of a long-dead tree stood out like animal bones in the desert.
I set off along the path Paddy told me I would find at the end of my scramble up the rough track behind the last house. After only a minute’s walk, the stiff breeze disappeared and I felt the sudden warmth of the sun on my face. I was so surprised, I walked back to the edge of the ridge to make sure I hadn’t been imagining things. The sea breeze caught me once again and I was glad to hurry back the way I’d come.
The sun poured down from a large patch of blue sky and in the quiet I could hear the urgent murmurings of bumble bees swinging in the heather. In this light, everything looked wonderful, even the tattered remnants of the bog cotton and the dying bracken. The grasses were lush, some still green, some bleached to shades of gold and beige. I had seldom been in a place that delighted me more. I looked around for any sign of human habitation, but there was none. But for Paddy’s dog, Prince, I was quite alone in this empty, sundrenched landscape.
‘Prince, here boy, good dog,’ I called, as he dashed off, pursuing some irresistible scent. He ignored me and bounced on as if he was swimming through the tall grasses, only the white tip of his tail waving like a giant bog cotton.