Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
1972 (16 page)
If she were mine I'd dress her in silk and lace.
“You were reared in Cork?”
“You were reared in Cork?”
“In a house that used to belong to my grandparents. It's at the very top of the hill.” She sounded homesick.
Barry had a sudden, vivid image of her standing on a hill with her frock moulded against her slender body by the wind. “What brought you to Athlone, Miss MacNamara?”
“One of my father's sisters was married to the man who owned this shop. He died last autumn and she's still in mourning. They have no children to take over the shop, so I was sent to help out until my aunt decides what she wants to do.”
“What a coincidence!” Barry exclaimed with an enthusiasm the circumstances did not warrant. “I'm on my way home for my aunt's sake. Well, not really my aunt, she's my mother's aunt, but she's old and she hasn't been well. I'd like to take her some chocolates.”
“How kind,” the girl murmured. Raising her eyes. Meeting his full force. It was like an electric shock.
Barry purchased the most expensive chocolates on offer. He bought a large assortment of boiled sweets, two pounds of the toffee known as “yellow man,” and various other confections. He loathed liquorice but spent long minutes trying to decide between the red and the black. Taking an inordinate amount of time making his selections allowed him to linger in the shop until it closed. By then he and the lovely shopkeeper were on a first-name basis. When Barry offered to walk Claire home, a delicate blush rose up the slender column of her throat and flooded across her cheeks.
She's adorable,
thought Barry.
thought Barry.
“It's only fair to warn you that my aunt lives three miles out the Ballinasloe road.”
“I walk all the time,” Barry assured her. “Three miles is nothing to me.”
The dying day was turning cold. As they stepped outside, he
whipped off his scarf and wrapped it around her neck. Claire gave a delicious little shiver. The wool was still warm from his skin.
whipped off his scarf and wrapped it around her neck. Claire gave a delicious little shiver. The wool was still warm from his skin.
Peeping through net curtains, Miriam MacNamara Fogarty watched them come up the road. “Now who's that young man?” She had talked to herself ever since the late Declan Fogarty stopped listening to her early in their married life. “Like bees around the jam jar, young men are.” A cluck of the tongue. “And would you look at the clothes on her, you can see her legs almost to the knee. In my day the only one who saw a woman's ankles was her husband.” A disapproving shake of the head. “I'd best let her hems down straightaway.”
M
IRIAM opened the door and stepped outside so they could see her waiting. “You took your time,” she accused. Wrapped in a dark shawl, she loomed in front of them like a boulder in their path.
IRIAM opened the door and stepped outside so they could see her waiting. “You took your time,” she accused. Wrapped in a dark shawl, she loomed in front of them like a boulder in their path.
Claire went pink again.
I think I'm in love.
“I'm only after closing the shop, Aunt Miriam. This was my last customer, so he offered to walk me home.”
Miriam's face pleated into the familiar folds of a deep frown. “Just who is
he?”
he?”
“Oh, I'm sorry. Aunt Miriam, this is Finbar Halloran.”
Barry whipped off his cap and tucked it under his arm.
“And who's Finbar Halloran when he's at home?” the older woman demanded to know.
“I'm a photographer, Mrs. Fogarty. I live on the family farm, but I travel around the country taking pictures.”
“Thank you for your courtesy to my niece, Mr. Halloran. Now if you'll excuse us ⦔ Interposing her bulk between Claire and Barry, Miriam took the girl by the elbow and steered her toward the house.
At the door Claire turned and looked back. “Will I see you again?”
“I'll be in Athlone for several days,” he decided on the spur of the moment. “I have lots of things to photograph.”
“Hmmmph,” said Miriam Fogarty. She drew her niece into the house and slammed the door.
Barry was waiting for Claire the next morning when she opened the shop. He had been afraid her aunt might come with her, but she was alone. “Aunt Miriam doesn't leave the house yet,” Claire explained.
“She came outside last night.”
“Just onto the path; she won't come as far as the road. What would the neighbours think?”
Barry laughed. “âWhat would the neighbours think?' is an Irish obsession. My mother's the only woman I know who doesn't care.”
“Does she not? That hardly seems possible.”
“You don't know my mother. Ursula specialises in the impossible.”
Since he could hardly spend the entire day in the shop, Barry wandered around Athlone. He had been there on several occasions but never explored it through the eye of the camera. Like all Irish towns, Athlone was scarred by long poverty. The first vestiges of change were creeping in, however. There were more motorcars in the streets than a year ago, and several abandoned shops were reopening.
Barry devoted part of the morning to photographing, from every angle, the bridge that spanned the Shannon. He found great beauty in its worn stones and graceful arches; in the lichens that clung to the mortar; in the pair of swans who, as indifferent to the weather as himself and Claire, sailed along the river's surface, admiring their mirrored images.
As they were sharing a lunch of brown bread and egg salad in the shop, Barry told Claire, “Speaking of coincidences, my middle name is Lewis. While I was exploring Athlone Bridge I learned about a legend concerning a namesake of mine.”
She clasped her hands together in a curiously childlike gesture. “Oh, do tell me!”
“There's an inscription carved on a stone tablet under one of the arches, relating to a man called Peter Lewys. He's said to have been an English monk who converted to Protestantism. He was sent by Sir Henry Sidney to supervise the building of the original bridge during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Mind you, at that time all the rats in Ireland were still Catholic.”
Barry had expected Claire to laugh. Instead she was watching him wide-eyed, totally credulous.
He began illustrating the story with gestures and grimaces. “An old Irish rat resolved to punish Lewys for being a turncoat and set out to haunt him. If he was trying to eat, it jumped on the table and dragged its long tail through his food. At night it crept onto his pillow and breathed its foul breath into his nostrils until he woke up.”
Claire gave a little shriek of revulsion.
“Lewys was invited to preach before a large congregation in St. Mary's, so the rat placed itself directly in his line of vision and mocked him with its glittering eyes. At last Lewys could stand no more. He snatched a soldier's pistol and tried to shoot his tormentor. But before he could fire, the clever rat leapt onto the pistol and gave the man's thumb such a savage bite that he died of lockjaw.”
3
3
“Oh, Barry, did he really?”
“I told you, it's a legend. But ⦔ he lowered his voice, “I personally believe there's a seed of truth in every legend.”
“I don't know any legends.”
“Surely you've heard of Cuchullain, or Fionn Mac Cumhaill?”
“They were pagans,” she said with distaste.
He gave her a pitying look. “Is that what your priest told you? I'm sure they were, but we were all pagans at one time. It's part of our history, Claire, part of what we are. And some of it was wonderful entirely. Let me tell you ⦔
He began spinning out stories he had known since childhood, recounting the great tales of heroes that were embedded in folk memory. Soon Claire was as caught up in them as Barry was. When customers came into the shop she tore herself away long enough to serve them, but almost shoved them out the door so that she could return to Barry. She was a wonderful audience, absorbing every word like blotting paper.
When he was with Claire, Barry could forget the terrible pictures imprinted on his brain. In her blue eyes the world was born fresh and new.
M
IRIAM Fogarty thoroughly disapproved of her niece's burgeoning friendship with the tall young man. It was not that she disliked Barry. She simply disliked the idea of Claire marrying anybody.
IRIAM Fogarty thoroughly disapproved of her niece's burgeoning friendship with the tall young man. It was not that she disliked Barry. She simply disliked the idea of Claire marrying anybody.
Marriage was the end of everything.
The man she had married was the proverbial “street angel, house devil.” His many male friends had known him as a jolly, generous individual, a regular attendee of Mass who would always loan a pal money or stand the bar to a round of drinks.
When his wife went to the market, she often wore an old felt cloche pulled down almost to her cheeks. The deep brim had helped to hide the bruises on her face.
A drunken husband who beat his wife was all too common amongst Miriam's acquaintances, but for most of the women there were compensations. God had not seen fit to bless her with the children she longed for, however. After Mr. Fogarty died she had only nieces and nephews to knit mufflers for at Christmas. The arrival of Claire on her doorstep had been the first happy event in years.
She was not about to surrender the girl to a fate like her own.
B
ARRY spent several days in Athlone. He waited at the shop every morning for Claire, but when the first customer appeared he made himself scarce. In this way he became well acquainted with the laneways of the town.
ARRY spent several days in Athlone. He waited at the shop every morning for Claire, but when the first customer appeared he made himself scarce. In this way he became well acquainted with the laneways of the town.
They all led back to Claire.
She was a quiet girl, too shy to say much. Barry, who had schooled himself to be quiet, was forced to carry the bulk of the conversation while she listened with flattering attention. He never mentioned the Army. Instead he talked about growing up
on the farm, about his mother and Eileen and the Ryan brothers, about horses and cows and boyish exploits. When he described his trip to America, Claire was fascinated. From the questions she asked, Barry realised that her knowledge of America was even less than the Americans' knowledge of Ireland.
on the farm, about his mother and Eileen and the Ryan brothers, about horses and cows and boyish exploits. When he described his trip to America, Claire was fascinated. From the questions she asked, Barry realised that her knowledge of America was even less than the Americans' knowledge of Ireland.
He walked the girl home every evening, bravely confronting the frozen face of the aunt on the doorstep. Then he went back to the Prince of Wales Hotel to spend a restless night. Tossing and turning. Trying not to think about Claire
that way
and inevitably thinking about Claire
that way,
until desire became a torment. Against the demands of his body he had little defence. The heat that enflamed his groin spread upward and outward until it reached his brain and usurped all thought. Demanding relief.
that way
and inevitably thinking about Claire
that way,
until desire became a torment. Against the demands of his body he had little defence. The heat that enflamed his groin spread upward and outward until it reached his brain and usurped all thought. Demanding relief.
H
OWEVER, Claire was a nice girl, a devout Catholic girl, with all that implied. Nothing short of marriage would unlock her virginity. And Barry could not imagine ever wanting anyone else.
OWEVER, Claire was a nice girl, a devout Catholic girl, with all that implied. Nothing short of marriage would unlock her virginity. And Barry could not imagine ever wanting anyone else.
In April I'll be twenty-one, and someday I'll inherit the farm. But until then ⦠I'd need something else to offer a wife. To offer Claire if she'll have me.
Suppose she won't?
A girl would be crazy to marry me, given the life I live.
He had not yet told her about being a Volunteer; there never seemed to be the right moment.
He had not yet told her about being a Volunteer; there never seemed to be the right moment.
She's from the Rebel County but that doesn't mean she's a republican. Maybe her people are Fine Gael. Maybe they hate republicans. She might ask me to give up the Army.
Or suppose she accepts my proposal but Ursula doesn't like her? They certainly have nothing in common. Where would we live if not on the farm? I'd have to buy a place for us, and that would mean asking Ursula for help. She'd give me the rough side of her tongue, but would she give me the money?
His biggest problem had been to avoid killing while remaining true to the oath he had taken. Then he had wandered into a shop in Athlone ⦠and found a whole new set of problems. Sleepless nights, vivid imaginings. While he grappled with them the fire within him raged and burned.
A
T last he had to tell Claire, “I have to go home, I've put it off as long as I can. It'll only be for a few days, though. I promise I'll be back soon.”
T last he had to tell Claire, “I have to go home, I've put it off as long as I can. It'll only be for a few days, though. I promise I'll be back soon.”
“To take more photographs?” she asked innocently.
Barry cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up toward his. It was the first time he had touched her. “You know that's not the reason, Claire.”
The sudden blush and the lowered eyelids were already familiar. And inexpressibly dear. “Is it not?”
“No.”
“I'd best kiss you good-bye, then,” she said. Standing on tiptoe, she brushed his cheek with her lips.
B
ARRY made his way to the farm with a light heart, hitching rides most of the time, but walking in between. His feet not touching the ground. He could not say if it rained or the sun shone. He whistled, he hummed. He even touched his cap to a passing garda patrol car.
ARRY made his way to the farm with a light heart, hitching rides most of the time, but walking in between. His feet not touching the ground. He could not say if it rained or the sun shone. He whistled, he hummed. He even touched his cap to a passing garda patrol car.
The
United Irishman
was waiting for him when he got home. A veritable blizzard of notes fell out when he riffled through the pages.
United Irishman
was waiting for him when he got home. A veritable blizzard of notes fell out when he riffled through the pages.
Barry spent the evening composing a letter to Claire. Revising, crossing out, starting again. And again. The words simply would not come right. He sounded either too stiff or, when he went the other way, too soppy. Before he settled on a final draft the floor was littered with paper snowballs.
“My very dear Claire,
“I'm sorry to tell you that I can't come back to Athlone right away. For the next few weeks I shall be fully occupied with business.” He did not specify the nature of the business. “I hope you're as disappointed as I am. Just know that you are very much in my thoughts, and you will see me again soon. In the meantime we can write to each other. No matter where I am, my postal address will be the farm.”
He was eager to receive a letter from her. Perhaps on paper Claire would be able to express feelings she had been too shy to say to his face.
I wonder what sort of letters SÃle wrote to Ned Halloran.
That night Barry dreamed not of Claire but of a woman with slanted eyes and a voluptuous mouth.
O
N active service somewhere in Northern Ireland, Barry Halloran caught himself looking at his hands. Really looking at them. He always watched his hands when he was working with explosives, aware that the slightest mistake could be fatal, but now he observed them as if for the first time. Long, nimble fingers bent a tiny wire and fitted it into place with a precision that bordered on artistry. Those fingers could accomplish anything he chose. With training they could even design buildings.
N active service somewhere in Northern Ireland, Barry Halloran caught himself looking at his hands. Really looking at them. He always watched his hands when he was working with explosives, aware that the slightest mistake could be fatal, but now he observed them as if for the first time. Long, nimble fingers bent a tiny wire and fitted it into place with a precision that bordered on artistry. Those fingers could accomplish anything he chose. With training they could even design buildings.
Instead â¦
“Do you have any idea what a bomb can do?” Ursula had asked.
His gorge rose as his imagination presented him with explicit images of ordinary men and women ⦠and pretty girls ⦠and soldiers and constables and even loyalist thugs who might be caught up in the dreadful result of his work.
The nameless man on the nameless street of his nightmare.
“Do you have any idea what a bomb can do?” Ursula had asked. “Your own father ⦔
T
WILIGHT. His mother just coming out of the milking parlour. Wearing an old red jumper and corduroy trousers too large for her slight frame, and raking her fingers through her short hair. When she saw him Ursula smiled the rare and dazzling smile that made her beautiful. “Barry! What a pleasant surprise.”
WILIGHT. His mother just coming out of the milking parlour. Wearing an old red jumper and corduroy trousers too large for her slight frame, and raking her fingers through her short hair. When she saw him Ursula smiled the rare and dazzling smile that made her beautiful. “Barry! What a pleasant surprise.”
“There's something I have to ask you.”
“Certainly. But next week's your birthday, can you stay until then? I don't have a present for you yet but twenty-one's a milestone. Perhaps there's something special you'd like?”
“The answer to my question.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it, Ursula. No evasions.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You're serious, aren't you?”
“More serious than I've ever been in my life.”
“Shall we go in the house and talk?”
“Afterwards. First answer me. Here and now.”
Ursula knew that unyielding tone. She gave a slight sigh. “Very well, what do you want to know?”
“Was my father killed by a bomb?”
She stared at him.
“Just yes or no, Ursula. Was he?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “A German bomb that was dropped on Dublin's North Strand during World War Two.”
There was so much pain in her eyes that Barry asked no more questions.
But as they were having dinner he reached across the bowl of roasted potatoes and covered her hand with his. “There is a special present you can give me for my birthday, Ursula. I'd like to go to Trinity.”
She blinked. “Sorry? I'm not sure I heard you.”
“I said I'd like to go to Trinity.”
“What about the Army? I thought being a Volunteer was so important to you.”
“It is important to me; I have no intention of resigning. But I've been told by someone I respect that the Army needs educated men, so I'm asking you to help me go to university.”
Ursula's beautiful smile returned like a rainbow after a storm.
Next morning as soon as the milking was done she wrote to the registrar of Trinity College Dublin, requesting an admissions application. The oldest university in Ireland, Trinity had been founded by Queen Elizabeth in 1591. Until 1873 the school was limited to members of the “established Church,” i.e., Anglicans. In that year religious requirements officially were dropped. The majority of the student body were still Protestants of various denominations. However, there also were some Jewish students, a few agnostics, and a small number of Roman Catholicsâmostly the sons and daughters of landowners and professional people.
Yet Trinity remained fixed in Irish minds as a bastion of the old Ascendancy.
When the long brown envelope arrived Ursula opened it herself. She hung over Barry's shoulder while he read the application
form. “Are you planning to ride on the crossbar of my bicycle when I take this to the post office?” he snapped.
form. “Are you planning to ride on the crossbar of my bicycle when I take this to the post office?” he snapped.
She drew back. “There's no need to be sarcastic, I was merely interested.”
Barry carried the prospectus to his room where he could pore over it in peace.
If I'm doing the studying, I'm going to choose what I study.
He spent a long time reading the array of courses, imagining himself taking almost every one. So many possibilities! More than a man could learn in a lifetime. It was an embarrassment of riches.
If I'm doing the studying, I'm going to choose what I study.
He spent a long time reading the array of courses, imagining himself taking almost every one. So many possibilities! More than a man could learn in a lifetime. It was an embarrassment of riches.
He completed the application in every detail before approaching his mother for the cheque which must accompany it. “Are you sure you got everything right?” she enquired. “Would you not like me to look it over before you send it off?”
“I've checked it twice and it's fine. But thanks for your offer of help.” Barry smiled to take the sting out of his rebuff.
When the reply to his application arrived Barry made certain to get to it first. With thumping heart, he read that he was to present himself at Trinity the following week for interviews.
Now it begins! Now the rest of my life truly begins!
Now it begins! Now the rest of my life truly begins!
Ursula purchased two train tickets to Dublin. Barry objected. “You're the most independent person I know,” he told her. “Why deny me the same privilege?”
“This has nothing to do with independence. In Ireland everything comes down to a matter of who you know, and I have some connections in Dublin which might be useful. If I go with you I can introduce you to them. There's no harm in having references from a few prominent people.”
They caught the early train to Dublin, arriving in a sudden rainstorm that abated as quickly as it began. The shabby old city, having survived a thousand years and innumerable power struggles, glistened with a misty glamour and smelled of the river. Ursula took Barry to a small hotel off Dame Street, her usual accommodation when visiting Dublin.
While they were settling in Ursula kept up a running monologue. “Don't mention the IRA, and there's no need to make any reference to your grandfather, either. You come from a strong farming family and that's all they need to know. I doubt if anyone will be so ill-bred as to enquire about your politics,
but if they do, plead indifference. It's a common enough attitude these days.”
but if they do, plead indifference. It's a common enough attitude these days.”
Barry was not expected at Trinity until the following morning. Ursula devoted the rest of the day to visiting old friends and introducing her son to men and women whose names he knew only from the history books. She also called on several politicians who remembered her from her time with Radio Ãireann. The name of Halloran opened many doors, Barry observed. But it slammed others. The divide left by the Civil War was as deep as ever.
W
HEN he approached Trinity for the first time Barry half expected to be refused entry. Through those gates passed fresh young scholars and mature intellectual.
I don't belong in either category. I've fought in a war and killed a man.
HEN he approached Trinity for the first time Barry half expected to be refused entry. Through those gates passed fresh young scholars and mature intellectual.
I don't belong in either category. I've fought in a war and killed a man.
His head came up; he strode forward. A brief moment under the shadow of the archway, and he was inside.
A helpful undergraduate gave Barry directions to his first interview. Her hair was white blond; her accent, she explained, was Finnish, and her name unpronounceable. But she did not seem like an outsider. She was clearly at home here.
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