A Son of Aran Page 16

  ‘Who said farming was a doddle?’ Seosamh remarked to the fellow next him as he settled down in bed for the night.

  Indoor classes covered a range of farming activities, methods of cultivation, crop rotation, use of fertilisers, varieties of root crops and cereals, harvesting of grain crops, hay and silage, animal nutrition, diseases of livestock, dairying, dry stock husbandry, rearing and fattening of pigs, egg production, management of poultry flocks, cultivation of outdoor and indoor horticultural crops, fruit growing—to Seosamh, the list of subjects appeared endless.

  ‘I never knew that farming was such a complex business,’ he told Eileen when she visited him at the college on Sunday. ‘After I have come to grips with all that I’m being taught here, I still don’t know how much of the information is applicable to conditions in Spain.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ said Eileen, ‘I’m sure cultivation and planting techniques are pretty similar no matter where they are practiced. With a detailed knowledge of how things are done in Ireland, you will be able to compare notes with those you meet at Estat de Tirelle, and to discuss with them possible ways of improving their methods of production.’

  During his year in the agricultural college Seosamh became friendly with a fellow-student from County Offaly whose family owned a large estate near Clonmacnoise. Vincent, his pal, drove his own Volkswagen Beetle to visit home at weekends. Knowing that Seosamh was anxious to get as broad a view as possible of Irish farming, he brought him with him on occasions. The Coughlan family of three boys and two girls made him welcome. Gerald, the eldest son, showed him around the farm where harvesting of sugar beet and potatoes had begun; fields from which corn had earlier been cut, were being ploughed in preparation for the next year’s planting. Seosamh was impressed by the potato harvester drawn by a heavy tractor which lifted the crop onto a moving platform from where helpers removed stones and debris as the potatoes were filled into an accompanying trailer. This was a considerable improvement on the back-breaking method of gathering tubers off the ground that he had seen in county Galway. Sugar beet, lifted mechanically, superseded the older method of manual pulling and crowning. Seosamh intimated that he would like to learn how to drive a tractor and be able to participate in all the farm activities. Perhaps the family would allow him to work with them for a spell. Mr Coughlan considered his request and agreed that he could join the work force as a paid employee for a few months when he had completed his college course. The boys were overjoyed. Seosamh was a breath of new life into what they regarded as their mundane life style. The girls were excited at having a young man of their vintage residing with them. Maybe he would join them in rowing on the Shannon and accompany them to dances in Tullamore where they were sometimes permitted to go. Mary and Sheona were beautiful talented young women. Mary played the piano, while Sheona was an accomplished violinist—Seosamh felt that, given time, he might learn more than farming in the Coughlan homestead!

  ‘If only I were free,’ he sighed, ‘but I have made a commitment that I am not prepared to renounce.’

  Eileen was philosophical when he related his circumstances to her.

  ‘Follow your heart, Seosamh,’ she said. ‘If you become serious with someone else I will not stand in your way, but remember that forming a close relationship with a girl in whose house you live is fraught with danger for both par-ties—there are times when we all get carried away—after which there is no going back.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Eileen, I haven’t two-timed on you yet.’ he replied.

  Having completed his term in Athenry, Seosamh stayed with the Coughlan family until the following spring by which time he had learned to drive their biggest farm tractor with which he ploughed, tilled and sowed oats, wheat, barley, and sugar beet. Vincent allowed him to use his car around the farm until he became proficient at driving and secured a license. He then gave him use of the car whenever the girls went shopping in Tullamore or to dances. Both young women would have been willing to have a fling with Seosamh but, much as he would have liked to oblige them, his sights were fixed on a more distant horizon. He told them about Spain and his intention to emigrate to there if things worked out.

  ‘Will you two visit me when I get settled in?’ he teased. ‘I will be glad to take you on a tour of my hachiendo.’

  ‘We think you have more than one interest in Spain,’ Mary said. ‘Why don’t you tell us about the señorita that is waiting for you out there?’

  ‘You’ll have to come and see for yourselves,’ Seosamh laughingly replied.

  ‘Eileen, Seosamh, and I are going to Spain in July?’ Peadar told Máirtín as they returned from a fishing trip. ‘We’d like if you would come with us.’

  The fishing had been good that year. Eileen had finished her course in the university and was awaiting results. Seosamh had completed his term at the agricultural college. The time was opportune for a little relaxation for all of them.

  ‘A spell in the sun will take some of the soup out of our bones,’ Peadar added. ‘Sure all wealthy people go to Spain for holidays—why shouldn’t we do the same?’

  ‘I’m grateful for the invitation,’ Máirtín replied. ‘With all the talk I have heard from Seosamh about the place on the night of the party, I’m dying to see it for myself. We’ll pull in the hooker for a few weeks, get Micilín and his companions to look after things here at home, and we can go with a clear conscience. I’m looking forward to the trip already.’

  ‘That’s where they ambushed the captain,’ Seosamh knowingly informed Máirtín as they passed the outer boundary of Estat de Tirelle, ‘and there’s where they carried him like a sack of potatoes up the avenue to his mansion.’ he added. ‘Twas a cowardly thing to do—to attack a man in that way as he rode alone—they hated him so much they showed no mercy.’

  ‘It’s the same as happened in Ireland during the land war,’ Máirtín replied. ‘It’s many a landlord got short shrift after he evicted poor tenants who were behind with their rent. There’s a limit to what flesh and blood can endure when people are treated badly. If the captain had shown more compassion for the small holders, he might be alive today.’

  Máirtín was astounded at the magnificence of the stately mansion. The grand entrance gates and winding avenue had been restored since the Irish group’s last visit. Staff from the social science department of Salamanca University were already preparing for setting up their research centre.

  ‘This place is like a palace,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet the Queen of England hasn’t a private residence that can compare with it. Eileen, I congratulate you on your inheritance. It’s an extraordinary twist of fate that brought you all the way from Aran. I must say I prefer that you have the place rather than the philandering captain that caused such trauma and tribulation to you and your parents. You are a very lucky young woman. May you enjoy many years of happiness here. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.’

  Smallholders, whose farms had been enlarged under the scheme initiated by Father Benedictus, were delighted to meet the Irish party again. They congratulated Eileen as the new owner of Castillo de Tirelle and its adjacent lands, wished her success in whatever use she put the place to, and offered to assist her in any way possible.

  ‘One question,’ she asked of their spokesman; ‘did Carlos have livestock on the estate at the time he died—whatever happened to the animals?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ the man told her. For years prior to his death, Carlos was in dispute with the local people. Time and again his sheep and goats were driven away at night into the mountains beyond from where they were never recovered. Rustling was common in those days—some were stolen, others died from starvation and disease during frost and snow in winter. He had horses also—two that he kept in the stables are still there, looked after by the housekeeper. The rest are running wild among the hills—it would take a gang of men several weeks to round them up and bring them back. If you wish to have this done, we will be pleased to arrange it befo
re winter sets in.’

  ‘I haven’t yet decided what I will do with the horses and stables,’ Eileen told him. ‘Meantime, I need a reliable hand to keep the place in shape and to look after the animals. Can you recommend someone for the job? My friend, Seosamh, has a qualification in agriculture from the Irish authorities. He is studying your language and hopefully, he will be in a position to take over running the farm some time in the future.’

  ‘Finding a helper will present no problem,’ the man replied. ‘I have a son, about the same age as your friend, who is available for work. I guarantee that he is dedicated, honest, and reliable. His name is Jago. If you see fit to employ him, he and your friend could work together so that he will become accustomed to our way of living. At the same time he will have an opportunity to speak our language.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Eileen told Peadar.

  ‘What do you think about that arrangement, Seosamh? How will you like living here on your own for months at a time, dealing with people whose language you only partly understand?’

  ‘It will be a tough assignment but I’m willing to give it a try. It’s a good way to become familiar with the Spanish language. If I get too lonely I can always go home or maybe you will come to my rescue.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Seosamh. Most likely it is I who will become lonely, in which case I’ll be over to you faster than a bullet from a gun.’

  Seosamh remained in Spain after the others returned home. Thoughts of living alone in the stately mansion did not appeal to him. Although their home was scarcely large enough for parents and four siblings, Jago wanted to keep ‘Hose’ (the natives couldn’t pronounce Seosamh) close by his side until he became familiar with the ‘pueblo’—not everyone liked to have a foreigner living alone in their midst. Together they carried out whatever work was required at the mansion. Santa Clara, the housekeeper, kept them on their toes brushing and cleaning the yard, chopping timber for fuel, and looking after the horses. Having discovered a pair of saddles in the tack room, they took the horses out for exercise each day. Neither had experience of riding— initially they settled for a leisurely walking pace. As they became more familiar with their mounts, they broke into a gentle trot, raising and lowering their bodies on the saddles like riders that Seosamh had seen hunting with the Galway Blazers.

  ‘I feel like one of the jockeys we saw in Ballybrit on the day of the races,’ he told Eileen when he wrote to her the following week. Apart from horseback, there’s no practical means of travel. Jago has a bicycle which can carry only one person; his family keep two big Spanish asses and a jennet— who wants to ride a bucking jack ass or an obstinate mule? To travel any distance we need a motor of some sort. I have a driving license but no car to go with it! Maybe you’ll buy one the next time you come out—you’ll need a car too if you want to go to Salamanca or more distant places.’

  ‘Feeling isolated already!’ Eileen jokingly remarked, when she replied to his letter. ‘Don’t worry, Seosamh, help is on the way. Since we returned to Galway I have been taking driving lessons from a good friend of mine. I am eligible to hold a driving license which I will obtain in due course. Hopefully, by the time I get my wings, I will have become sufficiently proficient to take to the road. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you—the exam results came last week. I have been awarded honours in French and Spanish; I should be able to dialogue with your acquaintances and friends when I come back in November after conferring has taken place—you wouldn’t want me to miss that ceremony, would you? I’ll be all dressed up in my gown and mortar board. There will be celebrations afterwards; I’ll bring photographs of myself and my friends to show you. In the meantime don’t die from loneliness. We have lots of time to catch up. Love, Eileen. xxxx. xxxx.’

  Seosamh reverently kissed the perfumed notepaper.

  ‘It’s far removed from cutting hay with the scythe,’ Seosamh told his mother and Micilin when he wrote them a long letter. ‘There are vast expanses of land out here—fields with no fences between them, acres of wheat, maize, and crops that I still don’t know the names of. The wheat had already been harvested when we came this year; now they are cutting the maize—six feet tall and bowed down with large sized golden cobs. Soon they will start to plough the ground for next year’s crops. I hope to get an opportunity of driving one of their big tractors. My friend Jago and I ride far into the rough hill country where sheep, goats, and horses graze. By now we have got used to riding and we can gallop over level ground without falling off. Sometimes we have a race—there’s a great feeling of freedom in having a horse under you while the wind blows through your hair. I think I’m going to like it out here—when Eileen comes to stay, we’ll explore the countryside together. Her house is so big it would hold twenty people—maybe the two of you will come for a holiday! I hope that everything is well at home and that the fishing is good. Love to all, Seosamh.

  The sudden emergence of three dark-skinned figures from behind a big rock, on which they flaunted a scarlet muleta, startled the horses. As they bolted frantically, the badly shaken riders hung perilously to the reins before bringing them finally to a halt. The horses shivered nervously—no amount of persuasion would bring them to retrace their steps.

  ‘What is all this about?’ Jago shouted aloud as the coloured people attempted to approach. ‘Don’t come any closer. You have done enough mischief already. But for the grace of God we might have been killed. Do you realise that you are trespassing on private property? I demand that you leave immediately.’

  ‘It is you who are the trespassers,’ the older man retorted. ‘This young man here and his mother are the rightful owners of these lands. He is the son of Carlos de Montmorency who lived here before he was killed in a fall from his horse. It was I who put the curse on him. He would not listen when we visited. Now that he has gone, I demand that the boy be reinstated as the rightful owner of his property. We leave now but I warn you we will be back. If you do not do as I say I put curse on you too and on those who have taken possession of our land.’

  Still shaken from the episode, the boys related their experience to Jago’s parents.

  ‘Stupid fools,’ his father said laughingly. ‘It’s not the first time they played that card. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows that Carlos was incapable of fathering a child. A curse that was put on the Montmorency family implied that none of their line would inherit Estat de Tirelle. People say that Carlos himself was not a true blood descendent. He brought many women friends to his home but much as he may have tried, none of them bore him a child. In desperation he had himself checked medically by an eminent doctor in Madrid who confirmed that he was infertile. You needn’t have any fears of those coloured people or their curse. If they continue to pester the new owner, I’ll put Captain Barlenda and the insurgents on their trail. They will be given short notice to disappear or suffer the consequences. People here will not tolerate any disturbance of the arrangement entered into for sharing the estate.’

  ‘We’re going to sleep in the big house,’ Eileen announced when she and Chrissie arrived unexpectedly at the estate one afternoon in late November. ‘If Jago doesn’t mind parting with you, Seosamh, I’d like if you would join us there. On our way I purchased some fresh bed linen and blankets—the beds haven’t been slept in for a long period. Señora Santa Clara has done her best to make the place livable. She has set fires in order that the rooms will be warm, but she says the work is too much for one person now that she is getting old. Chrissie and I will help in doing the cooking while we are here. Jago and you might find enough fuel to keep the fires and stove going. Tomorrow we will go to Salamanca to see what we can do about a car. I have already looked at some models in an agent’s showroom in San Sabastian but I need your expert advice before making a final choice. Father Benedictus, who meets us, will put me in touch with a reliable dealer. When we make our purchase I want you to do the driving until I become accustomed to Spanish roads—only for a short while mind—I want to get behind that wheel myself
as soon as possible.’

  ‘España, here I come,’ Seosamh shouted gleefully as, with Eileen on his right in the front seat and Chrissie in the rear, he drove through one of the many gateways in Salamanca’s city walls and set out for Estat de Tirelle. Despite his busy role at the university, Father Benedictus had given of his time to show them some of the salient sights of the city— stately old buildings fronting on the massive central square, two cathedrals with ornate frescoes and paintings, the only remaining Jesuit College, the Dominican and Augustinian convent buildings, and the bridge of twenty seven arches that spanned the River Douro. He introduced the group to a motor dealer and left them to make their choice of vehicle and negotiate a purchase price. After much deliberation Eileen settled for a flashy red Taurus with matching leather upholstery.

  ‘You had better be careful with it, Seosamh,’ she admonished, ‘don’t forget they drive on the right over here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Eileen,’ he replied. ‘I’ve driven my friend Vincent’s Beetle through pot-holed boreens and ploughed fields in County Offaly. I could drive a tank at this stage let alone your beautiful new car.’

  The weeks that followed sparkled with adventure. Despite the harshness of winter the trio travelled far into the hinterland of the fertile Douro Valley as far afield as Zamora, Logron, and the region of Tordesillas where tributaries from the Cantabrian mountains to the north and the Guadaramma range to the south, added to the already copious flow of the Douro.

  ‘Is it any wonder it takes twenty seven arches to carry the flood waters through Salamanca,’ Seosamh remarked as they gazed in wonder at the volume of water rushing downstream towards the Atlantic Ocean. ‘I wonder what the flow will be like in summer,’ he added. ‘There’s bound to be fish in those rivers if one could get near enough to cast a line.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait to find out. You will have no opportunity for fishing this evening in any case,’ Eileen suggested. ‘Step on the gas, Seosamh, and get us home before dark.’