Running on Empty (7 page)

‘Oh, I see’

A long pause followed as they walked along the street. Finally Ella spoke again, her voice cracked, full of emotion.

‘It was a boy’ she said, ‘a blond haired, blue eyed boy’.

‘How do you know?’

‘Someone told me. Laurice, a black girl who worked as a cleaner in the hospital. She told me. She said the nuns would fire her immediately if they found out she told, but in her eyes it’s wrong to keep such information from the mother if she needs to know. So, she told me’.

‘Oh’.

Another silence as they walked along.

‘Anyway’ Amelie continued, ‘I’ve spoken to your old boss at the café. He’s willing to take you back, so that’s good, isn’t it?’

‘I won’t be going back’ answered Ella.

‘What? Why? What are you going to do? I can understand how you may be upset right now, but give it some time before making a decision, another decision, which you may later regret’

‘I’m leaving Paris’ she answered.

‘But why, this is your home. This is where you belong’.

‘Not any more. You want me to stay in Paris? Do you not understand? If I see a blond haired boy here in Paris being walked in a push chair by his doting mother, what do you imagine is the question I’ll be asking? Is that my son that woman has, that’s what. Can you not understand how that would feel? Have you any idea how that would feel?’

‘But, where are you going to go?’

‘America’.

‘What? You’re not going looking for him are you?’

Ella gave a loud snort. ‘No, I’m not. America is a pretty big place, you know. It’s as big as Europe, with as many people too. Anyway, he was from the mid-west, and I’m going to the east coast, to New York. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it this last while, and that’s what I’ve decided.’

‘Why New York?’

‘It’s simple really. There’s plenty of work there at the moment, and it’s the furthest I can get away from Paris. I could go to Australia, I suppose, but the work isn’t as plentiful there, I hear’.

‘But, you don’t speak the language very well Ella, have you considered that?’

‘I speak it well enough. I spoke it well enough to get me into this mess in the first place, didn’t I?’

*****

Michael Fahey stood like the other young men who were present, with his back to the dancehall wall in Crossmaglen, South Armagh. He wore his dark blue three piece suit and black boots, which mirrored the lighting in the room. The conversation of the others mainly concerned local football rivalries, but tonight, Michael wasn’t listening. The young women all sat on the opposite side of the hall, chatting and giggling, and occasionally blushing as they cast furtive glances in the direction of the men. Michael elbowed his friend sharply in the ribs.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked simply, gesturing to the dark haired girl sitting across the room.

‘Who’s what?’

‘That girl, the one with the dark hair and white blouse and plaid skirt. I’ve never seen her around these parts before’.

‘Oh, I think she’s called Mary something, I heard she comes from Creggan’.

She had shoulder length dark wavy hair, eyes that twinkled and a smile that would light up any room.

As the music resumed, Michael strode purposefully across the hall until he came to a stop in front of Mary. The other girls nudged each other as he held out his hand.

‘My name is Michael Fahey, and I’d be honoured if you’d give me this dance’.

Eight months later Mary and Michael married in a small stone-built church on the edge of Creggan village, settling into married life with ease. Although having no official trade to his name, from a young age Michael could turn his hand to anything relating to building. When war ended in Europe, they agreed that the opportunities available for construction work as vast areas of London began the process of rebuilding was too good to turn down, so they uprooted and headed for England. Michael got a job on a building site north of Clapham, his hiring mainly due to the quality and speed of his block laying. So, he was earning good money, and everything was working out as hoped, except for one thing. What both he and Mary desired above all else was a child, but despite their best efforts, there was no sign of Mary becoming pregnant. The practice was good, Michael used to joke, but despite his best intentions of making light of the situation, it was something that began to lay heavily on both of them. Eventually they decided it was time to take the matter further, to see if there was something that could be done to alleviate the situation. On a cold January morning in 1951, they sat opposite a doctor, as he explained as best he could in layman’s terms where the problem lay.

‘Well Mr and Mrs Fahey, the problem seems to be a malfunction of the hypothalamus.’

They stared at him blankly.

‘I’m sorry, obviously I don’t imagine you’ve ever heard of this before, and why would you? Basically, there’s a portion of your brain Mrs Fahey, called the hypothalamus, responsible for sending signals to your pituitary gland to initiate egg maturation which isn’t functioning as it should. In other words, the part of the brain which tells the eggs to get ready isn’t telling them.’

‘Is there anything that can be done?’ she asked quietly.

‘I’m afraid not Mrs Fahey, not at the moment anyway. There is a lot of research being done in the whole area of human fertilization and reproduction at present, and I honestly think there’s going to be major advances in treating infertile couples in due course, so I’d remain optimistic for the future.’

‘So you’re saying, maybe someday but not now’

‘Yes, unfortunately as of now, that’s the situation. I’m sorry.

Michael headed back to the building site with a cloud hanging over him, still trying to digest the news that he was to remain fatherless. As he walked on site, the vision that greeted him didn’t lighten his mood.

Conroy, just what I need now,
he thought to himself. William Conroy was the Clark of Works on the site, the power he wielded on the compound second only to God, and there was no love lost between the two men. He was a staunch Protestant who hailed from the Falls road in East Belfast, and took exception to Irish Catholics taking up work here in the Queens country. He was standing beside a wall Michael had completed the previous day. Michael knew what was coming. Conroy had the power to examine any work being done on site, and if he deemed it to be substandard, demand that it be torn down and redone, which would also have a detrimental effect on the worker’s wages. It irritated him that Michaels block laying could be done with such speed, yet without flaws.

‘And where have you been, Paddy. Do you have working hours that are special?’

‘No sir. I got permission off the site foreman Mr Conroy, and the names Michael by the way sir. I had an appointment in the hospital’.

‘And what seems to be the trouble Paddy, you look healthy enough to me’.

‘It’s ah, a private matter sir’.

‘I see. Private matters and hand-picked work hours, you seem to have a special set of rules, Paddy rules no doubt. Anyway, let’s take a look at this so called wall of yours’.

He held a spirit level in his hand, and proceeded to place it at various different angles as he moved along the wall, checking. Then he produced a plumb line from his pocket, and again checked the wall, from a ladder this time. Eventually he climbed down, and turned to Michael.

‘I’m afraid this wall will have to be redone Paddy, tear it down’.

‘But, this wall is perfect Mr Conroy, I checked it was plumb and level with each course of blocks. It couldn’t be off’.

‘Are you calling me a liar Paddy? This wall is at least two degrees off. Now two degrees off might be fine for your mud huts over in Ireland, but here in London we like to build things right. Now, tear it down, or start walking Paddy’.

It took Conroy some moments for his eyes to focus properly as he lay on the ground, finally realizing it was Michael he was staring up at.

‘The only thing that’s two degrees off around here is your jaw Conroy’ said Michael as he began to walk away. ‘Oh by the way’ he continued over his shoulder, ‘Paddy never did a thing to you. It was Michael who laid you on your back. Maybe you’ll remember the name now, seeing as how it was Michael Fahey who broke your jaw you arrogant Orange bastard’.

‘I lost my job Mary’

‘What? Why, how did that happen?’

‘Well, there was a bit of a dispute over two degrees, which kind of escalated into ninety degrees’.

‘I don’t understand’.

‘I decked the Clark of Works today’.

‘You what? So what are we going to do now?’

‘Ah, sure the work is beginning to dry up here anyway. I was thinking maybe it’s time we moved on.’

‘Move on to where?’

‘I heard there’s loads of work up for grabs in Paris.’

‘Paris? But, neither of us can speak French.’

‘Ah, sure we’ll get by. Just nod or shake your head or point to something until we get the hang of it. It can’t be that difficult to learn can it? Anyway, it’s time for me to go out on my own, work for myself like. I’m sick of working for monkeys, getting paid buttons when I do all the work. We’ll be fine.’

‘Yes, but Paris?’

Michael Fahey sat on the chimney of a three storey building on Rue Jean de la Fontaine, taking a break from re-roofing as he ate a sandwich. Although he had four people working for him now, he still liked to get his hands dirty, the more difficult or precarious the job the better he liked it. He noticed a snake-like convoy winding its way through the street below, and it took him a few moments to register what he was looking at, a line of children being led back to Fondation d’Auteuil, the convent and orphanage a few buildings away.

‘Why don’t we adopt?’ was the first thing he uttered on arriving home.

‘What? Have you lost your mind, Michael Fahey?’

‘Probably, but sure isn’t that why you love me?’

So, six months later, with the help of a locally requited solicitor, Mary stood on the steps of the orphanage holding a baby, with Michael by her side.

‘Well, this is it’ he said, beaming into the bundle. ‘Who would have thought we’d end up with a Parisian baby with blonde hair and blue eyes, eh?’

‘Who indeed’ said Mary.

‘Have you settled on a name yet?’

‘I told you, if I ever had a son, I’d want him called Sean, after my father’ said Mary.

‘I suppose Sean Fahey has a good ring to it. Ok, it’s Sean then, that’s settled. You do realise this means we’ll be leaving Paris, don’t you?’

‘Why Michael? We’re doing so well here, with your work and everything.’

‘Ah sure the work is starting to dry up here anyhow. But you know me Mary, I’ll make a fist of it anywhere’.

‘And, where are you thinking of dragging us next?’

‘I hear there’s a fair bit of work in Ireland at the moment. Anyway, little Sean here has to learn to swing a hurley stick, and there’s no chance of him doing that in France’.

Mary said nothing, just emitted a long sigh.

Fairfield Cemetery, Boston.

Tom Feeney peered through the misty rain as the coffin was lowered, oblivious to the fine pearls of moisture which shimmered on his black overcoat. At six two, and one-seventy pounds or so, he cut a striking figure as he stood amongst his family. The dark suit he wore matched his tight-cropped black hair. He gave the impression of someone who might maybe work out a little, but he didn’t, just one of those people who had the look without the effort.

Why does it always seem to rain at funerals?
he pondered.

Every burial he’d ever seen in the movies or on t.v. took place in wet, oppressive weather under leaden skies. Done to create a mood obviously, but why did reality have to follow suit?

The old man had been fighting a losing battle for quite a while now,
he thought,
like a salmon swimming upstream, defying the current
.

Tom’s focus shifted to his own mortality. Thirty years old and in his prime, he began to mull over who he was, what he was, and where he was headed in this life.