Torn Away (15 page)

“All the same . . . “ Declan sat down on a barnacle-covered rock, and pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck. “Will it stop you working if I sit a minute?”

“Not the bit.” Kate did not look at him. She was watching the curl of the waves as they crashed on the rocks. “You looking forward to Christmas?”

“I don't care about any of that stuff.”

“This will be our twelfth here in Canada.” She gave him a quick glance. “Best thing we ever did was to leave Northern Ireland.”

“Couldn't you have gone somewhere else—in Ireland, I mean?”

“Ah, the work was bad everywhere. In 1981 you could have a letter of introduction from the Holy Ghost and still find no work.” The wind blew her hair. That was the terrible year, 1981, the year your sister was born, and your da . . . “

“My da was butchered by the dirty Prods!”

Kate put down her brush. “Declan . . .” She stopped.

Declan waited for her to go on, but she picked out a pastel, and looked out to sea.

“It was the same year Bobby Sands of the IRA was elected Member of Parliament, and him in the Maze prison on a hunger strike against the British. Less than a month later he was dead. Sixty-six days without the bit of food. There were terrible riots for more than a week in Derry and Belfast. Then they stopped, but broke out again, and this time they spread to Dublin.” Kate shook her head. “The English sent six hundred more soldiers, making twelve hundred troops in the North. And more tanks. The fighting was terrible fierce. I never want to see the like of it ever
again.” Kate resumed sketching. “You were a child, Declan.” She smiled.

“What was my ma like then, in those days?”

“Your ma was always the lovely woman, God bless her! She'd give you her last penny if you needed it. But with the death of your da, and then the new baby coming . . . your poor ma was worried to distraction. Matthew had a friend who came out here, making good money in the logging, and he said there was plenty of work. We asked your ma to come with us, but she wouldn't. ‘I'll not leave the place where I was born and where Liam is buried, and drag two childer halfway across the world,' she said.”

Declan tried to imagine Matthew and Kate leaving Ireland, and leaving his ma and Declan and the baby behind. How would things have turned out if his ma had gone with them? Would they be alive today? Instead of lying in the cold ground of Milltown Cemetery?

Declan stood. “I'm chilled with the cold.” He turned to go.

Kate packed her things. “I'll walk back with you. The light is gone, and the wind is stronger.”

They walked home together into the wind on the strip of sand between the the sea and the shingle.

It rained on Christmas day.

Thomas burst into Declan's room and woke him up. “Merry Christmas, Declan!” he cried, his eyes wide with excitement.

Declan opened one eye and looked out the window at the rain. Then he looked at the clock by his bed: six. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head. “Go away, Thomas. Let me sleep.”

But Thomas would not let him sleep; he pulled at the covers until Declan finally surrendered after a brief but noisy wrestling bout.

Downstairs, everyone exchanged small gifts: books, sweaters, socks, pens, mints (for Matthew), bracelets and the like. Everyone, that is, except Declan who had no gifts to give anyone. Matthew and Kate made him a small regular allowance, but he was saving it for his return to Ireland. “I told you. I don't believe in Christmas. I want no gifts,” he declared.

“Don't fuss yourself, Declan love,” said
Kate. “The gifts are only small ones.”

For an answer, Declan took himself out and down the cliff to the beach where he sat alone on his usual rock and stared out to sea.

When he returned two hours later, they were all back from Mass. Kate and Matthew said nothing, for they were both busy in the kitchen; Ana and Thomas acted as though nothing had happened. Mr. Sawchuk from the general store and another man had come back from Mass with them and sat talking in the living room, glasses of Matthew's homemade elderberry wine in their fists.

“What is Bent Benny doing here?” Declan asked Ana. Bent Benny was a familiar figure. Bent and crippled, he pushed his cart full of empty bottles and cans around the village. Some of the kids made fun of him.

“Matthew and Kate usually have them over for Christmas dinner,” said Ana.

There were seven of them around the kitchen table for dinner. Then Miss Ritter came downstairs, wearing a blue dress and silver earrings, and then there were eight. Bent Benny's real name, Declan discovered, was Benjamin Oberman. Matthew and Kate called him Mr. Oberman.

They ate dinner and there was a lot of talk.

Matthew was unusually talkative. He said, “Christmas always reminds me of when I first met Kate.”

“You met in Ireland, of course,” said Miss Ritter.

“It was at a ceilidh—an Irish dance,” said Kate, “a few days before Christmas.”

“She was the prettiest girl there,” said Matthew.

Kate smiled.

“It snowed that night,” said Matthew gloomily, “and the snow was general all over Ireland.”

Kate and Mr. Oberman laughed.

Declan recognized the famous line from James Joyce. It was the final line of “The Dead.” He remembered Miss Reardon, his literature teacher, explaining how snow had something to do with death, or the lack of love in the world, he couldn't remember exactly which. Right now he didn't care.

Mr. Sawchuk said, “When I was a young man in a logging camp up near Rupert, our Christmas dinner was eaten by a grizzly bear. It was a good dinner, like the one here
today, roast turkey with all the trimmin's. The bear must have been woke up outta his hibernation by the noise of the trucks and the saws, and smelled the food and come barrelin' in just as we were all sittin' down to eat. We got outta there pretty fast, you bet. Then some of the men wanted to shoot it, but most thought it'd be a bad thing to go killin' on Christmas Day, so we let it alone and we waited until it'd gone away. We ended up eatin' pancakes'n syrup for Christmas dinner.”

Everyone laughed.

Mr. Oberman started to tell about a Christmas in a prisoner-of-war camp. Declan got up. “Excuse me,” he said. He pushed back his chair and left the table and went outside and sat on the porch.

After a while, Kate came out and sat beside him. “Are you all right, Declan?”

“It's all the talk. Makes me restless, that's all.”

They sat together in silence.

After a while, Declan said, “Go back in. I'm all right.”

Kate nodded. “You're just restless. You're all right.”

“I think it's more than restless. I feel trapped here. You and Matthew and Ana and Thomas have me trapped. And Pender school and living here and all this Christmas stuff makes me feel like I'm in this huge steel cage like a . . . “ He clenched his fists.

Kate said nothing. She put her arm round his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Declan got up and walked down off the porch. Before he headed for the beach he turned to Kate and said, “I'm out of the cage in a week, Kate, remember that!”

Later that evening, Declan, Ana and Thomas were left alone with the last of the fire in the living room. It was late, almost time for bed. Matthew and Kate sat in their favorite spots in the family room-kitchen, talking and drinking tea.

Declan said, “I think I could guess why you ate none of the turkey, Ana.”

“I'm sure you could. I saw you noticing. Ever since Harper, I think of how we eat other animals.”

Declan gazed sleepily into the red centers of the burning logs.

“It's not as if we couldn't eat other things instead,” said Ana.

“I like turkey and stuffing,” said Thomas.

Ana laughed. “We know you do, Thomas. You had more than everyone else put together.” She made a circle in front of her stomach with her hands and arms and made her eyes pop.

Thomas laughed.

Declan was still gazing into the fire. “What are you thinking about?” said Ana.

Declan made no reply.

“You're thinking about next week. About going back, aren't you?”

Declan nodded. “That's right.” He was mesmerized by the fire.

“We were all praying you would stay. Prayers are not always answered.”

“You know I can't stay.”

“You don't care about us, do you?” Ana sounded angry.

Declan looked at her. “I do care about you. All of you.”

“Then why go back? You're happy here.”

“You know why.”

“Will you go back to your old house?”

Declan shook his head. “Somebody else will have it now. The rent hasn't been paid for months.”

“What about your things?”

He shrugged. “Mrs. O'Malley probably cleared everything out.”

“Then where will you go?”

“Matthew and Kate want me to go to Kate's sister. She's married and they have two kids. Her name is Bernadette McGuire. Lives in East Belfast, nice house and car.”

“Will you go there?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I can take care of myself. Mrs. O'Malley will give me a bed if I need one.”

Ana and Thomas went upstairs to bed. Declan threw another small alder log on the fire and sat, watching it burn away to nothing.

The morning after Christmas Day was gray and cold.

Declan slept late. When he got up, Kate was sitting in the kitchen alone, reading a magazine, a cup of tea on the table beside her. “Ana and Thomas have gone into town to the indoor swimming pool,” she said. “I didn't let them wake you. They waited for you until it was time for the nine-thirty bus. Make yourself some breakfast.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Then help yourself to tea or juice.”

Declan poured himself a cup of tea. “Where's Matthew?”

“Working. He's behind on his TV repairs. Maybe you could take him a mug of tea when you've finished your own.”

Declan found him with his head in the back of a TV. “Kate sent tea.”

Matthew heaved a sigh and put down his soldering iron. He took the tea. “Thanks.”

Declan turned to go.

“Would you sit with me for a minute or two, Declan? There's something I need to tell you.”

Declan sat up on the bench and waited while Matthew settled himself beside the electric heater with his tea.

“You'll soon be on your way back to Ireland.”

Declan nodded. “That's right.”

“You're still bent on leaving us then?”

“Yes, Matthew, I am. That was the deal.”

His uncle nodded thoughtfully and stirred his tea.

“About your return ticket.”

Declan said nothing.

“I booked your flight for Tuesday the
fifth. Midweek is cheaper. That okay?”

“That's fine.” He waited. Then: “What do you want to tell me?”

“It's a terrible hard thing for me to talk about.”

Declan waited.

“I want to tell you about Liam.”

“My da? What about him?”

“I want to tell you about the time . . . “ Matthew paused and started again. “Liam was two years older than me. When he died, he was only thirty-five. That may seem old to you, but your da died a young man. He died the year your sister Mairead was born, leaving Mary, your ma, with a newborn baby and yourself. It was 1981.” Matthew paused and sipped his tea.

Declan said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

“Your da was a member of the Provos, the IRA. So was I.”

“You? In the IRA? I don't believe it,” Declan said with a sneer.

Matthew's face was tense. The hand holding the mug of tea trembled.”Well, you'd
better
believe it,” he said, with a quiet, unaccustomed force.

Declan watched his uncle for a few moments, in silence, and then he said quietly, “I know about my da. He was IRA. My da was a hero. Shot by a gang of filthy Protestant militants. An Irish martyr.”

“Your da was shot, that's right. But it wasn't the Protestants who shot him.”

“Then it must have been the English!”

Matthew shook his head. “We were national liberation fighters. IRA! The Irish Republican Army! We were proud. Your da held rank: he was the second-in-command under the Chief himself. Me? I was a nobody in the bomb squad.” Matthew looked up at Declan as though waiting for him to make a sneering remark. When Declan said nothing, Matthew said, “The police found explosives and mercury tilt switches in a laundry hamper in the laundry room shared by several houses on your da's block. Nobody knows how they got there; I think the police probably planted them. We'll never know. Your da and your ma were picked up for questioning—'lifted' as we used to say.”

“It's still lifted,” said Declan quietly.

Matthew stared at the mug in his hand. “Your ma was pregnant with Mairead, and she
was never the strong woman in those days. She suffered from headaches, and a weakness would come over her, and she'd have to lie down, and your da would feed her soup and talk to her. He was a good husband. He did the best he could.

“When your da and your ma were picked up by the police, your da begged them to let your poor mother go: she wasn't strong, she could suffer a miscarriage. You understand what I'm talking about, Declan?”

Declan nodded.

“But the police kept her. You were only three years old. Kate and I took care of you while your da and ma were in the police cells.

“After a couple of days the police came into your da in his cell and told him your mother had confessed about the explosives. She had done no such thing, of course, but Liam believed the lies the police told him, that she'd broken down under the questioning. He begged them again to let her go.”

Matthew put down his mug on the bench. “The possession of explosives is an automatic life sentence in Ireland.”