A Son of Aran Page 11

  Carlos Montmorency de Tirelle

  School year ended, exams had finished; in high glee the girls packed their things and, with tearful farewells, departed to their respective destinations. Eileen accompanied Chrissie to her parents’ home in Galway where they had invited her to stay until she found alternative accommodation. Parking their suitcases, the two girls quickly headed for the city centre. Eileen’s first call was to Folans’ news agency.

  ‘I’ll pay a surprise visit to Seosamh,’ she said, ‘catch him off guard, and test his reaction.’ To her disappointment he wasn’t there. A hastily written note handed to her by Miss Folan, read:

  Eileen, sorry I’ll be absent when you arrive. I’ve gone to Aran where my father is seriously ill. Can’t say when I’ll be back; I will let you know more in due course. Seosamh

  Tears welled in Eileen’s eyes as she handed the note to Chrissie to read.

  ‘Curt and cold,’ she remarked between sobs. ‘No hint of endearment, no manifestation of eternal love and devotion—something is amiss; this is not the Seosamh I parted with a few months ago.’

  Chrissie tried to comfort her. Putting her arms around Eileen’s neck she drew her close.

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, love. His father’s illness has undoubtedly upset him greatly. Wait until you hear the full story. I know you are terribly disappointed but crying is futile at this stage. Come with me across the street to the GBC. You’ll feel better when we’ve had a cup of coffee and a chat.’

  Days that followed brought no news. Early every morning the girls called at the shop to ask Miss Folan if she had heard from Seosamh but to no avail. As they browsed through magazines one morning they overheard a young woman at the counter ask in a shrill voice: ‘Miss Folan, have you got any news of Joseph? Do you know if his father has recovered? When is he likely to return to Galway?’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ whispered Eileen.

  Picking up a glossy edition, they turned casually around to observe a tall, slim, young woman with auburn hair, dressed in short skirt and jacket, cream shirt and red tie, painted finger nails, and gold ear rings. She carried a brown, brass-buckled leather brief case with the letters T.M. etched in gold on the front.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Moylan, we’ve had no news of Joseph since he left for Aran a week ago. If I hear anything you will be the first to know.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Miss Folan,’ the young woman said as she departed.

  ‘That’s the girl we were told about—that’s her for sure,’ Eileen said as they left the shop. ‘It’s true then; the way she spoke you’d think she owned him. And did you hear her call him Joseph? She’s even changed his name. The dirty rat! I’ll call him more than Joseph when I meet him. If he has thrown me over for that painted hussy, I’ll tear his eyes out. You wait and see.’

  Eileen stayed with Chrissie’s parents while she hunted for a summer job in one of the city hotels.

  ‘Sorry, miss, we don’t have any vacancies at present; there aren’t very many visitors yet. Call back in a couple of weeks when the season starts.’

  Everywhere she tried, the story was the same. Finally she was successful.

  ‘Can you speak a foreign language?’ the manager of the Warwick asked.

  ‘Yes, I have learned French,’ Eileen answered, ‘I would be willing to do a crash course in Spanish also if you wish and, of course, tá sár Gaelige agam (I speak excellent Irish).’

  ‘I’ll give you a trial,’ said the manager. ‘If you are prepared to work for three pounds a week, all found, you can start on the first week of July.’

  ‘The Matriculation exam doesn’t take place until the last days of June,’ Eileen said, as she related her findings to Chrissie. ‘I’ll be able to make a quick dash to Aran before then. I’d like to visit Peadar—maybe I’ll meet Seosamh too.

  You have always said you’d like to visit the island. Will you come with me for a day or two? I’ll show you around the place, we’ll swim in the sea, and have a go at fishing with my father in the hooker. With the current preference for boyfriends from Aran that we have observed, you might even find one there!’

  Seosamh was busily engaged in building a cock of hay; he didn’t see Eileen until she tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He turned towards her, sheepishly extending a hand in welcome.

  ‘Eileen, where did you come from? I never expected to meet you here. How are you?’ he asked, showing no trace of his usual display of affection.

  ‘Hold your peace, Eileen O’Flaherty!’ she counselled herself. ‘Much as you feel like flying in his face, nothing is to be gained from confrontation. A reprimand would result only in deeper division. In the light of our long association, I would be loath to let his diminished love come between us. I’m fine, Seosamh,’ she replied, ‘I’ve just made a quick dash home to see everybody before I sit the next exams in Galway. I start work in the Warwick Hotel on the first day of July; I’ll not have a similar opportunity for some time. Tell me, how is your father—I was sorry to learn that he has been taken ill. I notice you working alone at the hay—is there nobody in the family to help you? Give me hold of a fork— it’s a long time since I saved hay but I can still try. I’m sure Peadar would lend a hand too if you asked him. Isn’t that what neighbours and friends are for. What do you think, Seosamh?’ she said as she raised a pike-full of hay onto the cock. ‘Am I the same girl you remember when we romped and played here in Aran before we went our separate ways? Why did we not embrace or kiss just now like we used to do? Has separation during this past year dulled your affection? I remember when we both proclaimed eternal love for each other; I haven’t changed. You are still the Seosamh I knew, the same Seosamh who saved me from drowning that evening long ago. What about you? Do you still care about me in the same way? Will we be seeing each other again when we are both in Galway?’

  Without looking directly at her, Seosamh muttered in a low voice, ‘Of course we’ll be meeting in Galway. Sure we couldn’t miss; Galway isn’t that big a place altogether; we’ll be running into one another all the time.’

  ‘Seosamh, you know that’s not what I mean. Will we date and go to pictures and dances like we did that week we spent in the city last year? Don’t mess with me—tell me the truth. I know you have found another girl in my absence. I have seen her although she doesn’t know that. She seems very sophisticated—no doubt she has more to offer than I have. I love you dearly, Seosamh. I would hate if anyone should come between us. Rejection is hard to swallow—will it be her or me? It’s up to you to decide’

  ‘Eileen, maintaining a relationship has been difficult while we were apart for such long spells. I admit I have been seeing another girl; I’m helping her with lessons that are held in the Irish Centre in Dominic Street. Sometimes there’s céilidhe dancing after the class. She lives in Salthill; I walk home with her. There’s nothing more than that between us. You can see for yourself when I go back to Galway. My father is still not very well. I don’t know when I’ll be returning.’

  ‘How about a walk on the beach this evening then for old time sake? My friend Chrissie is with me for a day or two. The three of us could walk together. This is her first visit to Aran; I would like to show her some of the sights. Come on, Seosamh; say you will; the walk will help to take your mind off your father’s illness.’

  ‘Well done, Eileen,’ said Chrissie, when she told her of the meeting with Seosamh. ‘You may not have won him over, but at least you avoided confrontation and you have kept the lines of communication open. We’ll see what happens this evening when we walk together.’

  ‘What will I do about this letter from the Spaniard?’ Peadar asked himself. ‘Eileen is now a young woman; I must discuss the situation with her very soon. She’ll be living in Galway very shortly. If the social mob there gets to know that she is Saureen’s daughter she is liable to hear stories about her mother. People have long memories and sharp tongues. I’ll cross check with Dr Pearson on first opportunity in regard to the statement made by Carlos
that Eileen’s birth was premature. If that is true, a great load will be lifted off my mind. Maybe I was wrong when I took Saureen to task about the early arrival of the baby. If I had listened to her explanation at that time, events might not have turned out as they did. Go ndéana Dia maitheamhnas dom (May God forgive me).’

  ‘Seosamh, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your father is not going to get better,’ his mother confided. ‘The doctor saw him again yesterday. He said that he hasn’t many more weeks to live. He could go at any time. If he dies I’ll not be able to carry on here on my own. Micilín is too young to be of any use on the land. I’m afraid, Seosamh, you’ll have to stay with me until I work things out. Maybe one of the yanks will come back to live with me. Even then, we wouldn’t be able to look after the cattle, plant potatoes, or save hay for the beasts in winter. I’ll need a man to go with the neighbours to Connemara for turf, and to partner Eoinín O’Shea and Manus Clafferty on the bád mór. You’ll have to give up your job in Galway for a while and stay here with me. It might be better if you wrote to Miss Folan and her sister and tell them so they can get someone else to run the shop for them.’

  ‘Blast this bloody island and all that’s tieing me to it,’ Seosamh exclaimed angrily, when the trio set out to walk to fort Dun Aengus that evening. ‘I thought I had my heels out of here when I got the job in Galway. Now it looks like I’ll have to stay for years to come. If I had my way, I’d sell all we own and emigrate lock, stock, and barrel; my mother has other ideas.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry for you, Seosamh,’ Eileen said, with a look of deep concern on her face. ‘Isn’t it ironic,’ she added, ‘you champing at the bit to get away from Aran while there’s no place on earth I’d rather live. I would gladly pass up all educational opportunities and city attractions if I could be sure of making a living here. My ambition would be to qualify as a teacher and come back to teach school here whenever a vacancy arises.’

  ‘It’s fine for you to talk like that,’ Seosamh sullenly replied. ‘You have a career in front of you—I’m qualified only to dig, sow, reap and mow, and be a farmer boy as the saying goes.’

  ‘Don’t be despondent, Seosamh, there are worse situations in life. Near to the earth is near to God. Think of our ancestors who lived on this island all their lives; they hadn’t much of the world’s goods but they trusted in God and, by and large, they were content. Think of your own parents; they never went hungry; they worked together on the land; they reared you and your brothers and they were happy. Your poor mother is heartbroken at the prospects of your father’s passing. Happiness is a state of mind; contentment with our lot is the greatest blessing we can obtain. For what it’s worth, Seosamh, you have my sympathy and support.’

  Seosamh was silent as they walked. While they ascended the rugged path to Fort Dun Aengus, she felt his hand slip quietly into hers. ‘Thanks, Eileen,’ he whispered.

  As they sat by the hearth fire on the night before Eileen was due to return to Galway, Peadar introduced the subject that had weighed heavily on his mind for many months. He couldn’t attempt to broach the topic while she was at school in Carna. Now that her secondary education had ended and they were together again in Aran, the timing seemed appropriate.

  ‘Eileen,’ he commenced, ‘I’ll be lonely when you leave but I don’t wish to stand in your way. You are a grown woman and you have your own life to live. There are a few things I should say to you however before you go to work in Galway. It was there your mother and I first met a few years before you were born. I worked for a time in MacDonacha’s fertiliser factory; we met regularly every week right up to the time we married. I loved your mother very dearly; I believe she loved me too. We were happy together. Before we met, your mother socialised a lot and she had many friends and acquaintances most of whom I never got to know. One close associate was a Spanish captain whose ship arrived in Galway every month with cargo for MacDonacha’s factory. I never met this man face to face, but I frequently saw him coming and going on board while the ship was in dock. He was tall, swarthy and good looking, well dressed, sported a tall hat, and carried a silver mounted walking stick. He continued to call on your mother after our marriage—purely he proclaims for reasons of mutual friendship. It appears he knew that Saureen had pregnancy problems and, without any reference to me, he took it on himself to arrange medical care for her. In its own way this was provident; your birth was premature; she had to receive urgent hospital treatment afterwards. I’m afraid I wasn’t very conversant with female ailments at that stage of my life. I had no sister of my own, my mother was dead, and I had no close contact with other women. With regard to Carlos (that was the captain’s name), inquiries made for me in his native place in Spain reveal that the man is eccentric; he owns a vast estate, lives alone in a stately mansion, and incurs the hatred of smallholders who want to acquire some of his lands in order to create better living conditions for themselves and their families. He has firmly resisted their pleas in this regard. Because of his friendship with your mother and his role in assisting her at the time of your birth, he recklessly plotted to take both of you away on his ship to live with him in Spain. Fortunately I got to know of the plan; I was able to upstage them and take you with me to Aran. In his rage at being thwarted he dismissed your mother. By virtue of his action and the resultant break up of our marriage, although until now he was unaware of it, he was indirectly responsible for her death. Last year he came to Aran in the hope of renewing their relationship. It was only then he learned the details of her tragic death. Torn with regret, he now says he wants to make amends for his misdeeds. He wishes to be forgiven and to initiate close ties of friendship with us. He proposes to distribute some of his wealth for our benefit. He wrote a letter to me in this regard—to date I have not responded. How I should react to this gentleman is a matter of mutual concern to you and me. I have related the background details to you briefly. When you have time to come to terms with these revelations, we’ll talk more about the whole affair. I’m sure you’ll have questions to ask; I’m sorry to drop all this on your lap tonight; I felt you should be aware of it before you encounter the gossip world of Galway, and all that goes with it, next week. I love you dearly, Eileen; you are all that I have; together we’ll work this through whatever the outcome.’

  ‘Packed already? You’re up very early,’ Peadar remarked to Eileen on the following morning—’the ferry doesn’t leave until three o’clock.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep very well, Dad. I tossed and turned, thinking, firstly about a break that has arisen in my relationship with Seosamh, and secondly what you told me last night about my mother and that Spanish fellow. Coming at one and the same time, those events have left me shattered. Will you tell me, Dad, what kind of person was my mother? It would appear from what you said that she was very much a woman about town. Did she have an affair with this Spaniard? Is he by any chance my father? It is important that I should know the full story.’

  ‘Eileen, I have no desire to withhold from you any information that I am party to. When I first came to Galway, I had no knowledge of the sort of lives people lived there. Apart from accompanying your mother to the public house for an occasional drink or to a dance in Salthill, I didn’t get to know many people and I didn’t hear much gossip. My friends were the people I worked with in MacDonacha’s, and some Claddagh fishermen that I got to know when we lived on the Long Walk, as it was then called. I led a very simple life—any comments or information that I acquired came to me through your mother. She had a wide circle of friends; she visited them frequently, especially at night. She had men friends but she was guarded about her relationship with them. She told me she had a commission from the customs authorities to monitor shipping coming into the bay, and to report any suspicious activities taking place with smaller craft—something to do with smuggling or evasion of customs duties. I assumed that some of the men who accompanied her home at night were part of that service.’

  ‘What about the Spaniard—did you kno
w him?’ asked Eileen.

  ‘He was captain of a ship that came into Galway regularly. I never met him personally but, when I worked on the docks unloading cargo for MacDonacha’s, I often saw him leaving the ship, dressed to the knocker in a long coat and tall hat, a gold chain across his breast, and a silver mounted walking stick in his hand. I had no evidence that he was seeing your mother but, in his recent letter to me, he admits that they were lovers before we married. After that, he says, they had a platonic association. He was aware of her pregnancy and your birth. It was fortuitous that when I called unexpectedly to the house on Long Walk, I overheard him making arrangements to spirit yourself and your mother away to Spain. That was when I took you with me to Aran to get you out of their way. In his letter which I will show you, the Spaniard states emphatically that he is not your father. I have checked with the doctor who cared for your mother during pregnancy and who tended her after your birth. He confirmed that you arrived prematurely in the seventh month of pregnancy. This verdict places the time of your conception in the first month of our marriage which is a source of much consolation to me. You need have no doubts about your origin; you are my daughter and I love you dearly.’