No Country: A Novel (6 page)

Three weeks past, we learnt with dismay the fate of O’Connell’s meeting and our leader haled to prison.

I could not wait to see Padraig back and to hear from his mouth tales of his travels, although he would be sorely downcast about O’Connell. But he had had his travel. For that I was elated for him, aye, and a trifle jealous, but my widow ma was so sickly and nervous that she would never hear of my going anywhere, though I already knew in my heart that I loved stories of far places more than the actual places themselves. My centre was my home, my gum to this earth. I understood the difference between bookish Brendan McCarthaigh and bold Padraig Aherne who had to touch everything, had to go everywhere, had to risk home and hearth—aye, and heart.

Mr. Rafferty had heard from someone passing through here to Donegal, who had seen Padraig in the great crowd heading towards Dublin, but had no other news besides. Mrs. Aherne was at her cottage door a hundred times, imagining Padraig’s tread,
restless with growing worry. By the post road, which was some distance from our village, returned another traveler on the fifth day of November.

It was Brigid, belly swollen, far gone in months.

Abandoning her usual composure, Padraig’s ma ran to Brigid, her red hair flying, and held her. ’Twas well she did, for Brigid was near to collapse with that much tiredness, and her weeping was dry and fearful, without tears. There was no Mr. Shaughnessy in sight.

Brigid held her belly beneath the thin dress, her legs seeming little more than bird-twigs. Mrs. Aherne led her in, then closed the shop door for the day.

•  •  •

W
HEN
M
R.
O’F
LAHERTY
heard the news, he sent me over every other day to help out Mrs. Aherne. I could see Brigid by the window behind the shop, the long afternoon beam catching her hair, her palms folded on her lap. Each day since her arrival, Brigid put on the apron to help Mrs. Aherne around the cottage, but by mid-morning she weakened, like the new November sun itself.

Padraig’s ma let me mind her store and coaxed Brigid to come sit with her. Brigid would crane her head at whoever passed the road, and lost interest when she saw it was not who her eyes sought. At night, Mrs. Aherne told me, she would cry in her sleep, whether from discomfort or the months when she lacked any affection and perhaps food too. She would take Brigid into her bed, under a large Galway quilt, and hum some song to her, or tell her stories as if she were a baby again. Mrs. Aherne had written to Mrs. Shaughnessy. Brigid was too weak to travel. Besides, Padraig
would be back any day, and he would marry his bride and put up another room right next to his mother’s.

So the days passed, and November grew colder. It would be a Christmas baby, Padraig’s ma told everyone, if asked. She gave Brigid some knitting, and herself fell to sewing quantities of little quilts, tiny clothes, socks and bright caps. But I noticed how Brigid’s hands would slacken, and the ball of wool lie on the floor beside her, untugged, her knitting needles forgotten on her little progress, her head, almost a burden on her thin neck, bent in shallow slumber.

Barely another week later, Mrs. Aherne told my ma she had woken to find Brigid moaning in her sleep. She held her until the pain abated. Brigid slept unwontedly late. Maire got ready for the day, setting up the breakfast milk jug and the bread and praties as silently as she could. When she gathered her nightdress to shake out in the sun that had come out, she noticed with alarm a large scar of brown, damp to the touch, that stood out on the Aran cloth, then rushed to the bed, knocking the washbowl with a crash to the floor, but Maire was oblivious of the sound, the spilt water, or the china fragments. Brigid had not stirred. Mrs. Aherne ran on bare feet to the bed and flung back the covers. Brigid’s gown had ridden up her legs and was gathered about her thigh in a tangle, and she lying like a broken plaything in a lap of blood.

Mrs. Aherne, her wild hair loose and voice frantic, called Brigid again and again. A thread of drool hung from Brigid’s mouth, and then Maire noticed a tear gathered under one eye. She was breathing, small and ragged. Maire reached into a low shelf in the cupboard and brought out a bottle of brandy, which she poured down Brigid’s sputtering throat. She hauled her up and sat her on the bed between pillows and pulled her dress above the waist. The
baby was very low on her thin pelvis. Maire felt for her pulse but could not seem to locate it. She let go of the wrist and held her thumb gently on the bluish neck. Ah, there it was: The slow tap of life. Brigid began to groan, wrenched out of her dead apathy.

Maire could tell the pains were coming. The thin knees were drawn up, her pale feet at the end of her narrow legs were jerking up and down unevenly. Brigid’s face was contorted, and she was saying something. Maire bent her head close.

“Padraig, Padraig,” she heard, “O Padraig, what will happen to us?”

“I am here, child,” soothed Maire Aherne, even as it dawned on her that it was still far to Christmas, a good six weeks, and this clotted blood and the ooze that had wet the bed so early was not a good portent. “Aye, so ’tis an early baby,” she muttered, then to cheer Brigid up, she said aloud, “The baby’s in a hurry, like his da, who is always so.”

Brigid looked at her, uncomprehending, then slowly as the pain subsided, she understood. She smiled tentatively at Maire and asked, “Is the boy born yet?”

Mrs. Aherne laughed in sheer relief. “And how did you know that it is a boy?”

“ ’Tis a girl then?” asked Brigid.

“Ah, child,” she said, “birthing is not that easy. It’s the first wave of the good pain. We will not know if a mad boy it is or a wild girl, until some hours now.”

Brigid’s face fell.

“Now save your strength, my girl, and don’t push yet. I will tell you when ’tis time.”

•  •  •

’T
WAS NOT TILL
much later that I came to know about all this. It was the tenth of November. I had gone as usual up to Mr. O’Flaherty’s school. More and more these days, it was I who taught school while Mr. O’Flaherty would sit on his chair under the tree in front and enjoy a bit of sun on the odd day, puffing on his pipe. I could tell he was enjoying my telling all the stories he used to tell us, when we were children.

Ever since he decided to teach me all the Latin he knew, he gave me half a dozen books in that tongue. After my teaching of the young ones was over, I would stay on for my Latin lessons, which ran into the evening, and he would offer me some of his simple dinner, embered potatoes, buttermilk, an egg—if his birds had laid. I would be that tired by then, my head full with all the good talk and smoking a twist of his tobacco. I would often take his offer of a straw pallet in the corner of his hut. But this day black clouds had swept up from the Atlantic. Once the thick sea-blown rain started, the roads would be impassable for the next few days. Already the prow of Ben Bulben looked hazy in the light as I walked home quickly.

As I was turned the bend on the sloping road into the village, I saw a clump of folks standing in front of Padraig’s cottage.
Ah, he has returned,
I thought and, throwing my bag of books over my back, ran until I was nigh out of breath at his front yard, when something odd struck me.

In the way they stood about, the neighbours seemed shaken, and there was no talk, nothing lively.
What is it?
I thought,
Whatever could it be with Padraig?
There was a bit of struggle of some kind at the front door. I could see the corduroy of strained backs, for they seemed to be pulling something out—and it was surely a bad fit. Then they did get through. What they were grappling out of the cottage was a coffin. I shuddered involuntarily and stood still.

The women had broken into a high-pitched keen but Padraig’s mother stepped out, pale and gaunt, and spoke urgently. “ ’Twill fright and wake the baby,” she said. The women became silent, wrapping their black shawls about themselves. Then all began to follow the coffin box. Father Conlon was there, his head bowed, holding his little black Bible in his left hand, the rosary hanging from it, each bead small as an autumn blackberry ruined by frost.

’Twas a small enough procession that was headed for the cemetery. I followed, numb. We reached in no time, walking through the stone gate on which leant its rusty Celtic cross. The cloud seemed lower now. The hard rain would be upon us in an hour, I feared, with the Atlantic gusts skirling overhead. The keening had started again. The women had all known Brigid from when she was born, and the rocking and the bitter cries rose from their hearts. Mrs. Aherne stood, a little apart from Father Conlon, her grief carved on her sleepless face. She had a look of helplessness. That was the last word I would have thought of, ever, to describe Padraig’s ma.

Father Conlon stepped up to her. “I am that sorry, Maire, for my hard words. Where is Padraig . . .” His voice trailed off. I was amazed to see this, but Padraig’s ma put her head down on his shoulder. She did not weep. Then she stood back and faced the coffin on the ground. The grave had already been dug. After the prayers, the coffin was lowered. Padraig’s ma moved aside and the priest came and stood by her.

“The child’s early, Father, much too early.”

“You are there to take good care of it. I have faith, Maire, you will pull her through, God grant that.”

“ ’Tis hard, Father, for she won’t feed. We tried giving her milk, but her wee face is puffed and broken in a rash. She is too tiny to keep it down and is fast sinking, I fear”—her voice quavered—“and
no one here just now to give her pap. Someone heard of a woman beyond Collooney. She has also birthed, but then, even if she agrees, the weather’s turning so, it would take two days at least.”

We could hear the neighbours drop handfuls of sod where they fell with a hollow sound on Brigid’s coffin. The wind was rising.

“Whatever shall we do then?” said Father Conlon. His distress for the doomed baby was written all over his unshaven face. His Adam’s apple moved up and down, and he was close to tears. This was not a Father Conlon I had known either. “Where’s the baby now?”

“Mrs. Hanrahan down the lane is sitting with her, by my fire, till I return.” Mrs. Aherne clutched at Father Conlon’s sleeve. “Will you . . . will you come and give her the last words, Father?”

But before anyone could say a word, there was a wild despairing cry. Startled, I looked and saw an older woman, black shawl fluttering, hobble and run, her mouth open. Her hands were flailing, but her progress was slower than her flinging arms made it look. Padraig’s ma ran towards her, screaming, “Where’s the baby, where? Oh Mrs. Hanrahan, where is my baby?”

The old woman collapsed on the road, panting, words choked in her breathless throat, just pointing back at the direction of the cottage whence she had come. “Aaah, aah,” she panted, bent fingers clawing at her throat. “Aaah . . .” A faint welt, as from a hard blow, was beginning to form on her face.

Mrs. Aherne stood transfixed for a moment, then took off. She was a tall, strong woman, and two nights of sleepless vigil could not slow her. Holding her wide skirts up with both hands, she ran, her feet flying over the stones, and everyone else followed, the men, Father Conlon grunting with effort, the women, and I. But ahead of all of us was the desperate speed of Maire Aherne.

She raced into the dark door of her cottage, her skirts trailing up a swirl of dust from the yard. Motes whirled in the doorway, and then the crowd burst in, jostling to get inside. I stood packed with others.

In the silence of the room with its low red fire, we saw Padraig’s ma on one side of the bed. Then on the bed, as our eyes became used to the gloom, we saw the baby, held in grimy hands, its tiny mouth suckling the nipple of half-naked Odd Madgy Finn, whose eyes were closed in bliss.

As I walked into the unknown city, I realized how one could lose one’s identity here. One could wear any face in its hurrying crowds.

Even such a wondrous variety of bridges to cross the Liffey every few streets amazed and consternated my head. I drank in the sight of the many manners of houses, arches, painted doors, and the variety of colourful awnings.

I spied a tall column with a figure at its very top, solitary at that great height. I read the name: Lord Nelson. Aye, I thought, that’s very like the English to put their hero on a huge height without the benefit of a ladder or even a skimpy rope so he could, of a misty day, fetch himself a nourishing pint!

I walked aimlessly, crossing street after street until I came across a fair building with grand pillars and grounds like a carpet around it. I read the sign in front: So this was the great Trinity College our Mr. O’Flaherty had told me about. It had been the All Hallows Monastery, before it had been snatched by Elizabeth.
How welcome are Catholics here?
I thought, my heart sore at our humiliation. But
another thought struck me. In County Sligo where I was raised, I could name those who were not Catholics on my finger: the landlord’s agent and some of his henchmen. But here, in Dublin, there must reside such great numbers that could fill such a vast college as this. It stopped me short. I looked about me, at all the crowds that flowed past. I could not tell for certain between Catholic or otherwise. The thought also struck me: neither could they.

Nearby, I came across another mighty building. On its gate was a brass plate, shiny enough that I could see myself leaning forward: Bank of Ireland. So this was where they gather our monies before they take it all away.

People loitered before gleaming shop-windows, staring at lavish displays of merchandise, ladies’ dresses in many colours on shiny mannequins, large as folk. Men puffed cigars and pipes, with fine hats and thin canes, not the stout blackthorns of the rural counties. Every part of all the walls that was within reach was plastered with bills and notices. Such a strange world with so much to sell! I thought of my mother’s modest shop, its simple, almost severe, merchandise.

This Grafton Street was fairyland itself. There was a large sign,
Jaeger,
on a coloured glass above, and within the thick wide panes, jewels and dazzling silver. A little farther, on a sloping awning, simply the word
Johnson
proclaimed the name of another rich merchant. Fine carriages rolled by so silently that I marveled. Then I understood: Grafton Street was paved with blocks of pine! I thought of the sod thatches and the one-room cottages that dot our counties, whitewashed or weatherbeaten, floors packed with dirt, as were most homes and Mr. O’Flaherty’s school. And we Irish leave our footprints wherever we go, I thought wryly, for we live barefoot on dirt floors, and few can afford to lay boards upon
their floors. Here the roads—or at least one—might not be paved with gold, but it was paved with that precious wood itself, so no slush marred the dainty ladies who might, from the looks of some, not be as immaculate as their dresses.