A Son of Aran Page 10
‘I’m sure God will work things out for the best when the time comes,’ he replied.
‘I have another purpose in calling on you,’ Fr. Corley told him. ‘I thought it best if we talked in the privacy of your house rather than at the presbytery.’
He went on to relate the visit he had from the Spaniard, Carlos de Montmorency, about whom he suggested Peadar knew. He told how the man had displayed deep anguish on the tragic death of Saureen which he had learned about for the first time on that day. He admitted his complicity in the circumstances surrounding her demise and he would like to meet Peadar with a view to making amends to him and Eileen for the trauma and tribulation that he had been instrumental in bringing upon them.
‘I told him,’ the priest continued, ‘that this was a very sensitive situation. I said I would broach the matter to you in confidence but I could give no guarantee of compliance on your part. Having relayed his message to you, I leave the outcome in your hands. I don’t seek any explanations from you about your late wife’s association with this man. How you respond to him is entirely up to yourself. Having considered his gesture, if you feel I can be of help to you please do not hesitate to contact me. May the Lord direct you.’
After Fr. Corley had left, Peadar sat long and lonesome as he tried to come to terms with what the priest had relayed to him. The proposal made by Carlos resurrected all the unsavoury episodes of life with Saureen and jeopardised the peace and tranquillity that he and Eileen had begun to enjoy since her death.
‘The meddling, evil-minded man, now that he knows about Saureen’s death, can he not dissociate himself from Eileen and myself and leave us to get on with our lives? If I had only myself to think about I know how I would deal with the bastard. But there is Eileen to consider. In no way should I do anything that would expose the circumstances surrounding her birth; she must never know that there is any doubt about her being other than my daughter. A Mhuire, a mháthar Dé, guidhe orm (Mother of God pray for me)’ prayerfully, he pleaded.
‘The coloured woman is back, accompanied by the boy and a man I haven’t seen before,’ the old housekeeper announced to Carlos as he reclined languidly on a couch in the window alcove, and gazed forlornly across the rolling hills of his run down estate that stretched almost to the horizon. A slanting evening sun brightened the landscape but nothing out there helped to lift his depression.
‘What further indignation am I being called on to suffer?’ he muttered as he rose to meet his visitors.
The tall, slim, moderately bronzed and extremely agile, woman was accompanied by a man of towering height and heavy build, black as the proverbial ace of spades, with a thick pouting upper lip in which a lion’s tooth had been implanted. The boy was dark-skinned, rotund and tubby— much too obese for a teenager.
‘What can I do for you, madam?’ Carlos asked curtly. ‘My housekeeper has told me about your previous call and your urgent desire to meet with me. I do not know you? Can you tell me the purpose of your visit?’
The woman curtsied and pushed the boy forward.
‘This,’ she replied, ‘is the purpose of our visit.
You say you do not know me, yet you knew me very well nineteen years ago when for a whole weekend we romped together in the port town of Lagos while your ship’s cargo was being discharged. We had such a beautiful tender time together—how could you forget? You promised to return but you never did. You left me alone with our child to rear. It was not easy; I kept hoping that some day you would honour your pledge. I have now come to present you with your son—you will provide for him as a father is bound to do. My partner and I cannot afford to give him the things in life that he deserves. How would you like to see your own flesh and blood adrift in the world, penniless, and uneducated, when he should be living the life of a Spanish grandee? We leave the boy here—he is your responsibility; his true home is with you; this place is his inheritance.’
‘Madam, you appear to suffer from delusions—what you say makes no sense to me. In all my life I have no recollection of, as you say, romping with any female of your description in Nigeria or anywhere else for that matter. Never in the course of my career at sea have I traded into the port of Lagos—what you relate is therefore entirely impossible.’
‘I have much proof for the story I tell,’ replied the woman. ‘I have here the name of the ship of which you were captain—it is called The Sansander. It arrived in Lagos on 12th December 1933 to discharge a cargo of munitions for the Government of Nigeria. From records of the port authorities, I have verified the name of the ship and the date of its arrival. We met on the pier; you took me to your hotel where you wined and dined me. We stayed three nights. It was then the boy was conceived.’
‘Madam, as I have already told you, I was not in Lagos at the time you say. You may be correct in stating that The Sansander was in port at that time but, if it was, I was not its captain. Right ship, perhaps, but wrong captain; I suggest that you take your paternity charge elsewhere. Now if you will be good enough to vacate my drawing room I have urgent business to attend to.’
The woman’s partner approached in a menacing manner.
‘What the woman say is true,’ he shouted noisily, as he clenched his fist in Carlos face. ‘We do not believe your story. You keep the boy and look after him. If you refuse I will invoke a spell on you and those close to you. My spell always work—I have friends in the African jungle who help me make it. Your crops will fail, your animals will die, and you will have a violent death. This boy will inherit everything when you go to an early grave. Be warned—heed what I say.’
‘I have no fear of your threats or your mumbo-jumbo. If you don’t immediately leave my estate I shall have no alternative but to call the police to restrain you. Meanwhile I have a right to defend my home and my property. I will not hesitate to resort to the use of firearms to achieve this. Good day to you.’
As the trio sullenly turned and left, Carlos reached for a bottle and poured himself a stiff cognac.
‘What a dreadful series of events have overtaken me these past months! Where is it all going to end? Saureen has gone from my life, never to return; her child, living somewhere in Ireland, is not available to me. Peadar O’Flaherty has not responded to my proposal for a meeting; local farmers have appropriated half my estate, and now this African woman somehow thinks she has a case against me as the father of her child.’ Jumping astride his favourite bay, he tore through the parkland at full gallop clearing mounds and banks as he went. How he wished he had not been born into the dissolute lifestyle of an estate owner! He thought of the simple people of Aran who had so little of the world’s goods yet appeared to be happy in their comparative poverty. What had the guide said to him when he marvelled at their life style?
‘When God made Aran, he created a race of people who are strong and healthy, who don’t expect too much from life, and are happy to live the existence you see. They have great trust in God and are confident that He will look after them.’
‘Should I dispose of my assets and live as a hermit in some lonely outpost on the western edge of the continent! Relieved of worldly distractions I might find there the peace I so much desire.’
‘There’s a young lady to see you,’ his employer, Miss Folan, called to Seosamh who was re-arranging books in the library shelves at the rear of the shop. He tried to maintain the titles in alphabetical order to facilitate finding a particular book at short notice—it wasn’t an easy task. Borrowers rarely replaced a book in its proper position when they rummaged through shelves looking for something to read but had no specific title in mind. He waited until he had finished his arrangement before coming to the counter.
‘Treasa,’ he exclaimed, ‘How nice to see you again, what can I do for you?’
‘I am attending a Gaelic class in Dominic Street tonight,’ she said. ‘I wondered if you would be interested in coming along. Being from Aran, you don’t need tuition in the Irish language; as a beginner I would appreciate your assistance. Af
ter class ends there will be céilidhe music, seannós singing, and dancing. We could shake a leg together in the Siege of Ennis if you like that.’
Seosamh was overwhelmed at the invitation. He felt complimented that Treasa should want to associate with him. She was, after all, a doctor’s daughter—her class moved in more sophisticated circles. He thought it unusual that she should show an interest in learning Irish when people like him who had grown up in a native speaking environment, thought so little of the language and made so little effort to speak it.
‘Let me think,’ he stalled. ‘I was going to watch a hurling match in the South Park but I could forego that. Yes, I will come to the Gaelic Centre instead. What time did you say?’
‘Class starts at eight,’ she replied. ‘You might come a little earlier if you can so that, with your help, I will have a chance to read over tonight’s lesson before the class commences. I appreciate very much that you are going to assist me. See you then around half past seven.’
The girls at school in Carna were preparing for their final examinations which were due to start on the first week in June. Study time had been extended by two hours each evening in an all out effort to have revision completed ahead of time. The last week before the exams was left free for other activities. Warm, humid days gave way to cool, balmy evenings when the sun went down in a blaze of radiant red in the western sky. The girls played tennis and camogie or went for long walks to Cashel, Mweenish, and Kilkieran. Conversation centred around the summer ahead, home vacations, holidays away, outings with family members and boyfriends. Eileen talked about Seosamh and how she was going to get a summer job in Galway so that they could be together.
‘Does your fellow work in a newspaper shop in Eyre Square?’ asked a girl from the city who frequently vied with Eileen in class.
‘That’s correct,’ replied Eileen, ‘he works for the Miss Folans. The owners are going to retire soon and Seosamh will have charge of the shop. We knew one another in Aran before I came to Carna.’
‘My sister’s friend, Treasa, knows him too. They go to Irish classes together, and when the class is over they have music and dancing. Treasa seems to think a lot of him.’
Eileen fell silent; she was devastated at what she had just heard.
‘Her Seosamh taking up with another girl in Galway— there must be some mistake! He had never mentioned anything about Irish classes or céilidhe music in his letters. It must be some other boy of the same name—the girl who told her might be setting her up. She would soon find out!’
When the group returned to the convent that night she re-read Seosamh’s last letter. No, there was no hint of any other attraction; he had said nothing about Irish classes. Still she was worried. She sought the girl who brought her the unwelcome news and questioned her further.
‘Yes,’ the girl told her, ‘I’ve been hearing about this relationship from my sister for the past month. I never realised the man in question was your boyfriend. It seems they have been seeing a lot of each other, dancing in the Hanger, and swimming at Blackrock. I am sorry to have upset you with the story, especially with the exams so near.’
Chrissie, her close friend, slept next to Eileen. She was awakened that night by muffled sobbing from the adjoining cubicle. Pulling on a dressing gown, she went to investigate. With her head covered beneath the bedclothes, Eileen was weeping uncontrollably.
‘What is the matter, Eileen? Are you in pain? Should I call Sister?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, no, don’t alert anyone,’ Eileen sobbed, ‘it’s something I have to get over myself.’
‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ Chrissie pursued, ‘that’s what friends are for.’
Tearfully Eileen related what she had heard.
‘I can’t believe,’ she said, ‘that after years of going out together, Seosamh would take up with another girl without even letting me know. We planned that I would come to him in Galway when the Leaving Cert. exam was over. We were to do all sort of things together before I sit the Matriculation a week later. Now my whole world has been turned upside down—I don’t think I’ll do the exams at all. What’s the point? I don’t want to go to university. How could I live in Galway and watch Seosamh cavorting with another girl? I would be the laughing stock of everyone who knows me.’
‘Hold on, Eileen, don’t do anything precipitate. The story you have heard may or may not be entirely true. It might be a malicious rumour designed to disrupt your concentration in the exams; not everyone in the class is your friend, you know; jealousy is a common preoccupation. Dry your eyes and try to get some sleep—we’ll talk more about this tomorrow; night is not the best time for taking decisions. Come on now, pull yourself together—life is not over for you yet. Not a word about this to anybody else.’
Wiping Eileen’s tear-strewn face and tucking her into bed, Chrissie gave her a great big hug before returning to her own cubicle.
‘Feeling better this morning?’ Chrissie asked as they walked together along the road to Mweenish. ‘There’s nothing like a good night’s rest to soothe the mind. I know a little about that. Back home in Galway when I was fifteen, I was going out with this fellow who was four years older than me. We went everywhere together—pictures in the Town Hall, swimming in the sea at Salthill, riding in the bumper cars, climbing rocks—you name it, we did it. My parents didn’t like him; they seemed to know more about his family than I did, but I was madly in love with him. At one stage we planned to run away together and go to Dublin, but my father got to hear of our plans. He put his foot down and forbade me to have any more contact with the boy. In order to keep me away from him, my parents sent me to school here in Carna. I was desolate; I watched for an opportunity to escape but the nuns, having been told the circumstances, kept a close eye on me. He never sent me a letter or a message of any kind. My mother wrote every week to keep me posted. A long solitary month went by. I cried my eyes out every night before I went to sleep. Then I got news that he had fallen for a young actress from an American circus that came to Claddagh Park. When the troupe left town he joined them and went off with her. The dirty rat—that put an end to my yearning for him. Now I’m glad that it’s over?’
‘What do you think I should do about Seosamh?’ Eileen asked. ‘Should I write and accuse him of what I have heard, ask him to explain and, if the story is true, tell him I never want to see him again? That would set him back on his heels.’
‘I suggest that you shouldn’t be precipitate,’ Chrissie advised. ‘This may be his way of amusing himself in your absence—there may not be any more to it than that. If he loves you he will come back to you like a shot when you meet in Galway in three weeks time. He can’t have forgotten you so easily after your close association since early teens. If he has ceased to love you and chooses to consort with this girl we heard about, then you’re well rid of him. There are better fish in the sea.’
‘And how will I react in the meantime—we correspond every week?’ Eileen asked, a tear running down her cheek.
‘You should write to him in the normal way, say nothing about this girl, and tell him you’re looking forward to seeing him in three weeks. In the meantime, sit your exam as if none of this had happened. If the story is malicious or exaggerated, your detractors will have nothing to gloat about—victory will still be yours. Come on, write that letter and we’ll put it in the mail box.’
Her letter reached Seosamh two days later:
Dearest Seosamh,
You will be pleased to know that my school days in Carna end on 21st June. After that I will be free as a bird for at least three months. I am coming to Galway on the following day (June 22nd). I intend to look for a summer job in one of the hotels. If you have any acquaintances in that business you might put in a word for me—a number of my friends will be on the same trail. It will be great to be near one another again! We’ll be able to do the things that we always wanted. It’ll be just you and me—no others. Write to me soon and tell me all your news.’
Eileen.
xxxx. PS. If you’re good, I’ll have a present for you when we meet.
Carlos de Montmorency’s patience with Peadar began to wear thin. Had Fr Corley delivered his message? Why had neither of them responded during these past months? Acting on impulse, he put pen to paper and wrote a personal letter to Peadar. Not knowing his address he sent the letter in care of the priest and asked him to transmit it:
Dear Mr O’Flaherty,
Please do not think me presumptuous in communicating with you in this manner. I do so with the best intentions. Father Corley has, I hope, already told you of my discussion with him some time ago and my desire to make amends for the trauma and tribulation which I have brought on you and your family. Firstly, let me offer my heartfelt condolence on the tragic death of my dear friend, your wife—news of which reached me on my recent visit to Aran. Having regard to our earlier association, I can appreciate how difficult it must be for you to discuss this matter. I believe there are, however, aspects of our relationship that need to be set straight. At this stage I assure you that, apart from the close bond of friendship established with your late wife, I have no ulterior motive in intruding on your private life. Saureen and I knew one another for some years prior to her marriage; we were intimate on more than one occasion. I loved your wife very dearly and hoped that she and I would settle down together in my native country. After you married, out of concern for her welfare, I continued to visit her during her difficult pregnancy. At my instigation she had regular consultations with the same physician who tended her in hospital and provided vital post-natal treatment following the birth of her baby. Were it not for his care and attention, it is possible that your daughter would not now be alive. Having never personally experienced the joys of fatherhood, I deluded myself into thinking that my contribution to the girl’s birth gave me a moral right to appropriate both her mother and herself, which gave rise to my abortive attempt to abduct them. I loved your wife dearly—in death I still love her. I want to make it clear to you that I am not the father of her baby. To my knowledge, you are the natural father of the child born prematurely to your wife. I renounce any claims which at the time of the baby’s birth I foolishly thought were valid. If you see fit to meet me, I will outline a proposal which I trust will atone to some extent for my indiscretions and for my trespass on your marital harmony. Should you decide to spurn my advances, I will remain in my native Spain and leave you in peace. I await your esteemed response.