by Anne Doughty
I watched as he collected crockery from the dresser, lit a small spirit stove and melted a knob of butter in a flat, well-used pan. I suddenly thought of Bridget Doherty. ‘Shure how would I leave the boys and Da, there’s not one of them could make you a cup of tea.’
Sean poured the beaten egg into the pan and added snipped herb from a flourishing plant on his windowsill. He rocked the mixture gently to and fro. After a few moments, he slid the omelette deftly onto a warm plate, wiped the pan and repeated the operation. Sean would be about the same age as Bridget’s father. But then he had never left Ireland. While Sean had travelled the length and breadth of Europe, earning a living any way he could, with pick and shovel or his father’s trade of tailoring, later with his pen, his classmate Michael Doherty had stayed at home and gone no farther than the fair in Ennistymon.
We said little as we ate our omelettes with fresh wheaten bread. I was very hungry and the omelette was excellent. It was not till Sean made us coffee that I broke the easy silence that had come upon us.
‘It’s splendid coffee, Sean. Is it American?’
‘It is. Seamus brings me a supply from Boston when he comes in the summer and then I collect some more when I’m over in the winter.’
‘In Boston?’
I thought I had stopped being surprised at any detail of Sean’s most unusual life, but I had not.
He laughed cheerfully.
‘Indeed, my economic activities, whether with pen or needle, would hardly rise to such gallivantings, but Seamus is a very rich man. Bywater’s is the largest tailoring business on the East coast. He has no great joy of it, however. When his wife died some years ago, he wanted to come back and settle here, but his daughters protested. So he compromises. It is, you might say, a symbiotic relationship. Without me, Seamus could not maintain his link with Ireland and this house, which is as dear to him as it is to me. Without him, I should have little leisure to pursue my scholarly pleasures. Our relationship was tested in very limiting circumstances and it has served us well. Together, we transformed our lives and our thinking most radically. That makes a very powerful bond.’
He lit a cigarette, flicked ash into the glowing fire and looked at me directly.
‘Have you ever wondered, Elizabeth, what it is that makes people change the whole direction of their life?’
‘Yes, I have. Often.’
He blew smoke up into the dark cavern of the canopy and looked towards the patch of blue sky visible beyond the swirling smoke.
‘If anyone had told me at twenty that I would be leading the life I now lead, or think the thoughts I now think, I would have said it was pure fantasy. Yet, when I consider the matter closely, it is clear to me that the possibility was there. All that was required was the catalyst.’
He put down his coffee cup and leaned back in his chair.
‘The Troubles, as I told you, were a very strange experience for Seamus and me,’ he began. ‘There’s a book I’ll lend you by a friend of mine, Mike O’Donovan. You would know him, I expect, as Frank O’Connor. Mike gets the feel of the very mixed quality it all had. Passion and dreams and real heroism mixed up with sheer romanticising and total incompetence. The Troubles gave people what they wanted. If you wanted illusion, it was there. If you wanted disillusion, you could have that too. It was a matter of personal taste. What it did for Seamus and me was take us away from Lisara. It created an opportunity to test the facts of our life. You might say, for the first time in our lives we were confronted with a reality we had to interpret for ourselves.’
I nodded vigorously. I wished I could write down exactly what he was saying and keep it handy. In one sentence, he had told me why I had to come to Lisara. For the first time in my life, I was able to have experiences of my own and have to decide for myself what they might mean. There was no official hand-out thrust at me, no party line I was expected to toe. I was truly free to make up my own mind without the customary struggle against those who knew the answers I ought to get before I’d even asked the questions.
He dropped his cigarette butt into the fire and watched it flame briefly among the turves. ‘My own feeling, Elizabeth, is that the battles fought in the interior of one’s own skull are of more importance ultimately than the kind beloved of our countrymen.’
‘But what did happen after the Treaty, Sean? How did you and Seamus manage then? And who won that particular battle?’
‘Interesting questions, Elizabeth. To all of which there are a variety of answers, but to do them justice I think we must reserve them for our next meeting.’
He stood up, crossed the room and picked out a well-thumbed volume from one of the two massive bookcases which stood on either side of the dresser. He leafed through a few pages. Finding what he wanted, he turned and read it to me.
‘Apparently the only proof one had of being alive was one’s readiness to die as soon as possible: dead was the great thing to be, and there was nothing to be said in favour of living except the innumerable possibilities it presented of dying in style.
‘One part of your answer to what happened after the Treaty lies there. Too many people have been obsessed with the delight of dying for Ireland. The Troubles did lead a few to think again, Seamus and myself included. Since those days, there have been some ready to live for a possible future rather than die for a glorious past. But their influence was not felt for a long time and they are still a minority as far as I can see.’
The phrase ‘glorious past’ struck me immediately. I heard again the batter of the drums, the tramp of marching feet, the succession of perspiring figures. True, they carried no guns, wore no military uniform, but weren’t the banners and the emblems just as potent? ‘No Surrender’ inscribed on fences and posts, and the gables of rows of terraced houses? Wasn’t the Orangeman’s determination to fight to the death rather than live to make a future, however difficult, just as potent and dangerous and misguided as the struggles of ‘the Other Side’ he so disparaged?
‘I think living with the problems of the present must be much harder work than planning to die for what has been, intellectually that is,’ I said sadly.
‘It is, Elizabeth, it is. But considerably more rewarding, as you will most certainly discover.’
He collected up my warm clothes from the drying rack by the fire and handed them to me. With a twinkle in his eye and a tone full of his usual irony, he said: ‘But “living” does have some great advantages, Elizabeth. It does put you in good company. Many of the martyrs I have known were very vulgar fellows, but the intellectuals are a much nicer type.’
My clothes were beautifully dry and smelt of turf smoke. I put them on quickly and spent a few moments more looking at the photographs on the walls of the bedroom. Next time I came I would ask Sean to tell me about each one of them. I felt sure that if I did I would do much more than improve my knowledge of Irish history.
Chapter 9
When I arrived in Patrick’s stockroom on Tuesday afternoon, a second armchair and a low table had appeared in the small space by the fire. It meant that sitting down was even more difficult than before but, once we’d managed to fit ourselves in, having tea itself was a good deal less hazardous.
Patrick wanted to know how the work was going so I promptly launched into an account of my adventure in the boghole. His face was quite horror-stricken when I began, but as it became obvious I was none the worse he began to relax. By the time I’d unfolded the full drama of my futile attempts to escape, he was laughing heartily and shaking his head.
‘I take it Prince won’t be auditioning for Lassie?’
‘No. Total disaster was Prince, except for the one thing.’
‘What was that?’
‘Barking. He nearly did for my eardrums while I was in the water and I kept trying to get him to stop, but that’s what Sean heard. He hopped up to his lookout with binoculars and saw me. So Prince has to get the credit after all.’
‘You know, Elizabeth, you do tell a good story. I don’t know whe
n I’ve laughed as much. Despite the fact it was not funny,’ he added, severely.
We began to talk about all sorts of things, but all through tea his words echoed in my mind: ‘You do tell a good story.’
It certainly wasn’t what George would say. Nor Adrienne either. Whenever the three of us meet up, George always addresses himself to Adrienne and finds some excuse to tease me. It wouldn’t be so bad if Adrienne and I were intimate friends, but we’re not. I’ve known Adrienne a long time, but she’s the sort of person who only uses me to fall back on when she’s fallen out with everyone else, something she does regularly. George knows this perfectly well but he still treats her as if we were bosom friends.
One occasion at the end of my second year sprang back into my mind, so vivid I could see myself sitting with them and the whole thing happening all over again.
‘And this smashing bit of stuff in a yashmak goes wiggling past these American soldiers,’ he began.
Our table in the union was packed full but he stood up, waved his long arms and wiggled his body just the same.
‘So, one of them follows her.’
He stuck out his chest, shaded the lower half of his face with his hand.
‘He points to himself and says “Me Bob”. And she turns round and says “Me thirty bob”.’
‘Oh George, you are naughty,’ laughed Adrienne.
‘Me thirty bob,’ George repeated loudly. ‘Get it, Elizabeth?’
‘Oh, Elizabeth, you are the limit. Don’t tell us you haven’t caught on yet?’ Adrienne screeched, before I’d even opened my mouth.
Then they talked about me as if I wasn’t there. I had no sense of humour. I could never see a joke, and I certainly couldn’t tell one. As they wanned to their task, a deep silence descended upon me. I grew more and more depressed. Was I really the kind of humourless person they were describing?
Patrick laughed again and I was suddenly aware of his eyes, a rich, dark brown, bright and mobile. Their gaze only left my face to follow the movements and gestures of my hands. If I could make a man like Patrick laugh, could I be so lacking in a sense of humour after all?
The more I thought about it, the more I felt making Patrick laugh might be quite an achievement Although this meeting was as happy and easy as the others we’d had, I’d seen a shadow pass across his face which made him look both old and grim. It was such a momentary thing, but when it flickered I felt sure some deep unhappiness had marked him.
‘My goodness, it’s six o’clock already,’ I said as I caught sight of my watch.
He stood up immediately and manoeuvred towards his desk. I followed him cautiously and looked at the pile of books he had brought for me.
‘What lovely illustrations.’
‘They are good, aren’t they? That one’s very rare now,’ he said, looking over my shoulder at a spotted orchid. ‘But we still have some in the Burren. Thank God.’
‘I shall have to read this,’ I replied. ‘I’m not very good on plants. Can I have the Charlesworth too? I did pack mine but then I couldn’t lift my suitcase. I had to leave most of my books behind.’
‘Of course, have anything you want.’
It was not until we were driving along the Lisara road in the bright sunshine that he spoke again.
‘I’m afraid I have to go to Dublin for a few days, Elizabeth. I’ve been putting it off. But I shall have to go on Thursday.’
My heart sank and I could think of nothing to say. I told myself it was quite ridiculous to feel so disappointed. He’d been friendly and helpful and now he had to go. So why on earth should I be upset?
‘When will you be back?’ I asked as steadily as I could, afraid my voice might give me away.
‘Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. As soon as I can get away. You won’t be gone, will you?’
‘I’m not sure, Patrick. Some friends may come down to collect me and I can’t really refuse if they do. But I’d like to stay on till the end of next week. I had planned for three weeks if things went well.’
For a moment, he concentrated on the road, then he nodded and said, ‘I have some calls to do tomorrow, mostly around Ballyvaughan. It’s interesting country. I think you’d like it. Will you come and let me show you the Burren?’
Relief poured over me. And delight. I had to work hard not to let my feelings show too obviously. ‘Yes. I’d love to come, if you’re sure I won’t be in the way.’
‘Of course you won’t. How could you be? I’ll pick you up when I get my desk clear and Mrs Brannigan will pack some lunch for us. We may even get another day like today,’ he added, as he drew up outside the cottage where Prince was sleeping in the sun.
‘That would be lovely. Do you think you could also arrange for Mr Feely to be touring in the opposite direction?’
‘I thought we might go in disguise.’
‘I’d like to see this car disguised as a Mini,’ I countered, as he handed me Mary’s shopping and my carrier bag full of books.
‘Aren’t you the lucky one, Elizabeth? Shure I don’t know when we had weather like it. The sun has hardly stopped shinin’ since that mornin’ you went to Ballyvore and got hailstoned.’
Paddy stood at the gate as I came out of the house, my arms bare, my feet clad in some summer sandals Mary’s daughter had left behind. It was hot already. The islands were so clear against the perfect blue sky that we could see the white shapes of the houses on Inishmore and the dark shadows of the stone walls that surrounded the tiny fields.
We stood by the hydrangea and looked out over the familiar acres of Lisara, Paddy pointing out details with the stem of his pipe, until the sun glanced off a small, moving object on the far ridge.
‘See ye enjoy yourself, Elizabeth. I must away and dig potatoes for Mary.’
I smiled to myself as I got into the car. I couldn’t decide whether his rapid exit was a form of tact or merely due to the fact that his chin was bristling with the stubble accumulated since his last visit to Considine’s.
‘Don’t you ever get thoroughly fed up driving through this place?’ I asked sympathetically, as we wove our way through Lisdoonvarna.
‘Ah, shure haven’t I the patience of old age,’ Patrick replied, his mimicry quite perfect.
‘I hope you’ve got your wheelchair in the boot,’ I retorted.
He grinned, but did not take his eyes off the road. Having pulled round a turf cart, we were now faced by three bullocks. Despite the efforts of a panting sheepdog and a man with a stick, they stared at us, paralysed. Patrick put on the handbrake and leaned against the steering wheel.
‘Well then, what age do you think I am?’ he said, his tone light but challenging nevertheless. ‘Surely you have a page on me in that green file of yours.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I confessed. ‘I only write down what I think I might forget.’
Without any warning, one of the animals lunged forward between my side of the car and a parked vehicle. Its horn caught the open window and its huge eyes rolled as it passed. I moved away so fast I almost fell into Patrick’s lap. He put an arm round my shoulders and steadied me as the other two creatures followed in a headlong dive.
‘Nasty creatures, I don’t like them either,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Perhaps it’s their capacity for uncoordinated action.’
‘Mmmm. Like some people,’ I said as I straightened up. ‘They can’t help hurting you. It’s not intention, it’s just how they are.’
Patrick accelerated sharply and within moments we were clear of the town, bowling along an empty road between sunlit fields where the cattle stood in dappled shade and the hedgerows were bright with a second blossoming of wild-flowers.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
For a moment I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about. I was absorbed in the countryside, its rich greenness and the distant glimpses of the Hills of Burren.
‘Er . . . let me see,’ I began.
He stuck out his chin, pursed his lips and tapped the
cheek nearest to me. ‘That’s my best side.’
The mood was light and easy and yet I sensed my reply was important. At home, everyone jokes about how touchy women are over their age, but I’d found the men of the family every bit as easy to upset.
‘I should think a well-preserved fifty,’ I said firmly.
‘Wretch! I shall abandon you and make you walk home.’
We had been climbing steadily since we left town and had just breasted a very steep rise. At the highest point the verge widened to make a viewpoint. He pulled over and stopped.
‘I’m thirty-five,’ he said as we got out. ‘Does that seem entirely ancient?’
‘No, not entirely.’
I wasn’t sure how to react. He was much older than any of my friends and yet it seemed to make no difference to our friendship. At the same time, I was grateful he had not said forty. Forty would have been a shock, a blow. Thirty-five, I could manage. But what did I mean by that? Why should his age be of any significance to me?
The view spread out below us was quite magnificent. We leaned against the bonnet and gazed over the vast panorama.
‘Age is a funny thing,’ I said abruptly, when I realised how silent I had been. ‘When I was ten I knew a girl who was fourteen and I just couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be fourteen. But when I got to fourteen, I felt I was still me. I’ve never felt any different because I’m a year older. I did once expect to, but I still haven’t. When I get to thirty-five, I’m sure I’ll still feel I’m the same Elizabeth.’
He nodded and moved forward to the very edge of the lay-by, gave me his hand so I could climb up on the low stone wall.
‘Corkscrew Hill. Now what does a human geographer make of that?’
Although the drop was only a few hundred feet, the road turned back on itself in a far more extraordinary manner than any of the famous Alpine passes I’d seen on film. No wonder busloads of tourists stopped just here to take their pictures. But it was not just the extraordinary contortions of the road that held me, it was the luxuriant landscape, every detail of hedgerow and stone wall, pasture and woodland, pin sharp, fresh and clear in the morning sun. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, I felt as if I had always known and loved this place, as if I were merely returning to it after a long absence rather than coming to it for the first time. I felt a surge of joy rise up in me, bringing tears to my eyes, but I couldn’t say why.